A Yankee in Queen Mia's Court
Updated: Aug 23
Or, a short blog for a short 48 hour detour en route to Denmark
I stumbled off my Boeing 787 Dreamliner into Heathrow with the posture and elegance of a pack mule. Let me set the scene. It’s rush hour. It’s 95 degrees in London (equivalent to a natural disaster). I have about 100 pounds of luggage and have had 2 hours of sleep in the last 36 hours. Sisyphus had his mountain, I have the London Underground, and damn it if I’m not going to push that boulder to the top.
The next hour of the commute went about exactly as you’d expect. Every time I changed a train (which seemed cruelly often) I’d yard-sale the entire contents of my backpack into the onslaught of finance bros on their morning commute. When I’d kneel to pick up a water bottle or toothbrush that fell out of my backpack my other luggage would start rolling away from me at a violent speed down the length of the tube. Sweating prodigiously. I nearly fell into my cousin's arms when she picked me up on the Kilburn platform, and immediately took the most rewarding shower of my life.
The eldest of my three blond, lovely and vivacious cousins, Mia is one of my favorite humans. She is a citizen of the United Kingdom. She cooked me porridge every morning I stayed with her. She's incredibly fashionable. She’s in training for employment at a hotshot London law firm, and works on the 64th floor in a glass skyscraper. She graciously let me sleep in her flat for two nights, an adorable building with a front door you need to throw your whole weight on and break a few nails to open, bay windows, and a balcony overlooking blackberry brambles on the ballast of the overland rail line. We always have a whole bunch of fun together, and though we are usually separated by the continental United States and the Atlantic Ocean, when we are in the same country it is magical.
Mia took me all over London, by tube, train, and foot. It was unspeakably hot both days I was there. The heat in London almost felt like an entity, a third party in your conversations, your seatmate on the tube. It was a clinging beast. Me, Mia, and the heat walked from coffee shop to boutiques and through bookstores. My favorite, most notable spots were Dishoom for dinner (I know, touristy, but genuinely one of the best meals ever), Nagare Coffee, and Watchhouse Coffee. The architecture of the Barbican was pretty trippy too, but it was somehow impregnable and we walked around for 30 minutes trying to find the front door.
I am used to seeing the downtowns and financial hearts of cities being desolate and unoccupied save maybe a newspaper tumbleweed and a stray and scared looking tech bro and a tweaker or two, or something like that. I was shocked to see how alive and young the downtown of London was. Attractive, healthy-looking corporate youngsters roved in packs everywhere I went—all ruddy cheeks, linen, and the King’s English.
Most of the Brits I encountered looked at me like I was nuts when I smiled to them in passing like a Californian idiot, and then were utterly aghast when I opened my mouth and my Americanness spilled forth. I was standing in line to buy a shirt and asked the lady standing in front of me if she was in the queue. When she heard my accent she whipped around pleadingly and asked if I was American. She then engaged me in a twenty minute conversation saying she was so glad to finally be able to speak to another American as most Brits she talked to shunned her when she tried to converse, on the grounds that Americans abroad right now are about as popular as chewed gum stuck to a shoe sole.
Not to say that Brits are frigid though–quite the opposite. On the train to Gatwick as I write this, I am sandwiched between two large groups of friends ribbing each other at a volume normally reserved for sports stadiums or areas with high wind speeds, and am watching a pair of men cycle between an argument with accusations and gesticulations so wild it looks like a cracked out shadow puppet show, and slapping each other on the back with boyish friendliness. The Londoners at large I interacted with were chic and just generally cool. My cousin’s friends are all brilliant, funny, and posh, navigating corporate London in their first years out of college. (Uni if you will). Though my tongue and wit felt like molasses around them, and they thoroughly trounced me in a pub round of monopoly deal, I loved every second I got to spend with them. London thoroughly enchanted me, and I hope to be back soon. I was there for 48 hours, and I'm not sure if I can draw any witty or novel conclusions, so I will leave you with some words from the American expat Brit by choice king of travel writing Bill Bryson.
Excerpt from Notes From a Small Island by Bill Bryson
“What a wondrous place this was – crazy as f–, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bee and Farleigh Wallop, or a game like cricket that goes on for three days and never seems to start? Who else would think it not the least odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, compel the Lord Chancellor to sit on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a naval hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? ('Please, Hardy, full on the lips, with just a bit of tongue.') What other nation in the world could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, the Open University, Gardeners' Question Time and the chocolate digestive biscuit? None, of course.
How easily we lose sight of all this. What an enigma Britain will seem to historians when they look back on the second half of the twentieth century. Here is a country that fought and won a noble war, dismantled a mighty empire in a generally benign and enlightened way, created a far-seeing welfare state in short, did nearly everything right and then spent the rest of the century looking on itself as a chronic failure. The fact is that this is still the best place in the world for most things to post a letter, go for a walk, watch television, buy a book, venture out for a drink, go to a museum, use the bank, get lost, seek help, or stand on a hillside and take in a view.
All of this came to me in the space of a lingering moment. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you. And then I turned from the gate and got in the car and knew without doubt that I would be back.”
Spritz + monopoly is next level! Keep having fun!
My dear you are such an incredible, beautiful writer!