Day 3- London
At seven o’ clock in the morning, still disoriented and
tired, I faced one of the hardest choices one makes in their first days in England. Do I have my
bagel with coffee, what I’m used to, or tea, what should I be drinking? It is no easy decision.
I could have a 40 minute conversation arguing both sides. But there was no time
for that and as much as I had become fond of tea, by force and overabundance, I
stuck to coffee for the extra boost of energy this long day would require.
Pardon, Britain.
Outside of the hotel, the group was guided to the tube, only
a block away. There were still many unfamiliar faces and everyone was slowly
integrating. But while we all still didn’t know each other’s
names, the language made sure no one would
get lost. It’s hard to find an additional Puerto Rican in England at this time
that wasn’t part of our group.
We were scheduled for a bus tour through London but we had
no idea what that entailed. And to my eternal disappointment, it was not a
double-decker bus.
We drove around the city with our cameras in hand ready for
any landmark while feeling weird about being on the wrong side of the road.
Every turn seemed like a car crash waiting to happen.
Everyone took pictures as our tour guide pointed out all the
big names- Westminster Abbey, Tower Bridge, London Eye and Parliament. With
every landmark, he would add a bit of historic information that kept it
colorful.
As much as I understand the practicality of a tour bus and
how it’s a helpful introduction for the tourist, there is always something odd
about it. Here we are, newcomers to this place, eager and curious, yet we are
forced to admire it from inside a capsule of metal and glass. Look, but don’t go near
it. Admire it, but only for a second and then forever with a photograph. You
could go through every street of a city and never set foot in it.
However, I understood it was what we signed up for and if
you want to see 11 cities in 30 days, you better pick up the pace.
Our first stop was back at St. Paul’s Cathedral, my
favorite. I’m not sure why I love it more than Westminster. I think it’s
because Westminster Abbey reminds me of royalty, of blue blood weddings and
funerals, and St. Paul’s will always remind me of Mary Poppins and ‘Feed the
Birds’…tuppence a bag.
Yet we didn’t stay for long, to my disappointment, because
it was almost 11:30 and it was time to head over to Buckingham Palace for the Changing of the Guards.
I’ve seen it at least four times in the past 6 years, yet it
never fails to impress me. It’s fascinating; the magnificent palace behind
them, their discipline and coordination has become a performance for all
tourists.
Changing the Guard is simply the process that involves the
new guard exchanging duty with the old guard at Buckingham Palace and Windsor
Castle. The handover is accompanied by the Guard’s band and they play
traditional military marches.
Observers and first timers gather around Queen Victoria’s
statue that faces the palace while the rest line up along the main road where the new
shift will march in. Everyone is looking for the perfect spot to photograph the
Queen’s guards in their flawless formation with bright red coats and the iconic
bearskins. Their discipline and grasp for tradition made me feel like I was
suddenly in another time, a few centuries ago, as the marched to the beat of a
drum and the melody of trumpets.
It goes by faster than you’d think, so it is always smart to
arrive 15 to 30 minutes early.
Once it was over, we made our way back to the bus for the
second part of the tour, which included passing by Hyde Park, historic
buildings and a quick peek of Covent Garden.
We finished the day once again by the South Bank, this time
with a closer and ample view of Tower Bridge, decorated with the five Olympic
rings that signalled the games would soon start.
Dinner was scheduled at Wagamama and you could have anything
you wanted, as long as it was a heaped bowl of noodles with chicken and a ginger sauce.
A rumour soon spread that we weren’t really eating chicken
thighs but iguana meat. When the rumour made its way to my table, I paused a
mouthful of noodles and mysterious meat still intact in my mouth. I really
couldn’t back down now. That would be too much of a scene. Instead, I braved it
and chewed slowly and carefully, waiting for the foreign meat to hit my taste
buds. And in the end, it was actually pretty good.
After dinner, everyone was saying it was really a joke and
no iguanas had been injured in order to prepare our meal. But even now, years
later, I always tell people I had iguana for the very first time in London. And
it tasted just like chicken.
No comments:
Post a Comment