Sisterchicks Go Brit! Page 12

  “I can’t eat another bite,” Kellie said.

  “I can’t believe how many carbs we’ve devoured since we’ve been here. Not that I’m complaining, because I’m loving all the bread.”

  “Tomorrow I think I’m going to order the fruit and yogurt plate.” Kellie pushed back from the table. “That was exceptionally delicious, though. What time do you think we should plan to leave here?”

  “The sooner the better. We have a lot of ground to cover before we indulge in all this good stuff again at three o’clock at the Ritz.”

  “Don’t you mean we have a lot of underground to cover?”

  I smiled. She was starting the puns already this morning. It was going to be a good day.

  We found our way to the tube station about twenty minutes later. The Holborn Station was located only a few blocks from our hotel.

  I was amazed at how many people were out on the street on a weekday morning. Traffic was bumper to bumper, and it felt as if nearly that many bodies were moving up and down the street. We were a bit discombobulated because the pedestrians kept to the left side of the sidewalk while our inclination was to keep to the right.

  “Did you see me crash into that poor guy?” Kellie asked as we stepped into the entrance of the tube station. “I guess they walk in the same direction they drive. I didn’t see his turn signal.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t try to pick your pocket?” I was conscious that we had moved out of the friendly countryside and were in the middle of a bustling metropolis. It was comparable to walking out of a scene from Jane Austen’s lilting Emma and stepping into a Dickens street scene with David Copperfield on our heels.

  Kellie did a quick check. Her passport and wallet were securely in place. “No, the collision was my fault.”

  After picking what looked like the shortest line, or queue, we stepped up to the machine against the wall and tried to figure out how to use it. The system looked similar to ATMs, and the instructions were clear. Kellie’s debit card didn’t work, so we used my Visa and purchased one-way tickets to the station closest to the Tower of London.

  “We could probably save money with one of these other options,” I said.

  “We can figure out the details later. We have what we need for now.”

  Commuters in a much greater hurry than we were brushed by as we figured out how to put our small paper tickets through the machine that let us into the gate area. We followed the crowds and stepped onto the steepest escalator I’ve ever seen. The moving stairs in the well-lit area took us farther and farther down. Along the walls poster after poster advertised the current plays on in London.

  “What do you think?” Kellie turned to look at me from the escalator step directly below mine.

  “I think this is the opposite of yesterday when we were going up in the balloon. Now we’re going down. Really down. Does this freak you out?”

  “Not really. When I asked what you thought, I was referring to all these ads for the theater. I wanted to know which play you thought we should see.”

  “Oh. Any of them would be fine with me.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Les Misérables,” Kellie said. “What do you think?”

  “Oui, oui! Les Misérables it is.”

  The escalator deposited us into a well-lit passageway where more steps led us down a tile-lined corridor and onto a landing. Dozens of people stood on the long stretch of cement. Across from the narrow area where the lowered tracks carried the subway cars was a curved wall covered with large advertisements for popular brands of clothing and perfume.

  In a funny way I appreciated the billboards and the bright lights because it took away the sensation that we were standing deep beneath the city of London. I didn’t have time to decide if that should make me uncomfortable, because our train arrived with a whoosh of air. Kellie and I pressed in with the other travelers. No seats were available, so we stood and held on to the poles as the train pulled forward swiftly and smoothly.

  Our airport in Orlando has a small monorail that transports passengers a short distance on an elevated track. It feels more like an amusement ride than a means of transportation. This subway gave me the feeling I was in a big city.

  A map near the door showed the underground line we were on with each stop clearly marked. I liked looking at the faces of all the people seated and standing as we were spirited through the belly of London. The nationalities in our car were diverse. Some travelers were on their way to work. Others looked weary, as if they were headed home. Young students were easy to identify because of their uniforms. One woman wearing earphones leaned back and closed her eyes. The man beside her held a cell phone and seemed to be scrolling through his messages. His shirt was buttoned lopsided with two empty buttonholes at the neck. I wondered if he would discover his dressing error before he arrived at his destination.

  Our exit from the tube was a repeat of our getting on, only in reverse. Another steep escalator lifted us back to street level where our tickets were once again inserted into an automatic gate.

  When we were outside, we followed the signs to the Tower of London and were both awed at the size of the medieval fortress that sits on the river’s edge. The tall stone wall that surrounds the tower was intimidating and more massive than we had expected.

  “William the Conqueror began building this medieval fortress in …” Kellie paused, looking at one of the many travel brochures we had cherry-picked from the assortment available at our hotel. “Are you ready for this? Almost a thousand years ago. The year was 1078. Can you even begin to grasp that?”

  “No. We just don’t know what old is, do we?”

  She read on. “Inside these eighteen acres the sovereigns of England have housed a prison, a palace, chapels, a museum, and an execution site.”

  “And the Crown Jewels, right?”

  “Right. If we don’t want to go on a tour, we can go directly to the Waterloo Barracks to see the Crown Jewels.”

  I liked the idea of being on our own time schedule, but Kellie was hesitant about our winging it. “I don’t know,” she said. “We won’t have any information on what we’re seeing. All we have is this brochure. We’re going to miss a lot of interesting details if we don’t go on a tour.”

  “Well, maybe they have short tours.” I didn’t want to be the impatient tourist since this spot was on Kellie’s top-five list. I also knew that if she and I were going to end up having any squabbles on this trip, it would be over details like this. I liked having a glimpse of the big picture, finding my favorites of the moment, and then moving on. Kellie liked to pause and ponder.

  I thought about how she could have lingered much longer when she found the Morris tapestry along with the Tolkien bust at Exeter Chapel. I had a feeling she picked up the pace and slid out when she did not only because of the organist stopping in midrehearsal but also because I was already out the door.

  The solution, I decided, was for me to be sensitive to what would be most enjoyable for her, especially at the locales that were on her list and not on mine. An extra hour gazing at a rug or relic wouldn’t kill me. This was London! The Tower of London, to be precise. I’d waited most of my life to come and see all this. So what was my hurry? It was time to stop and smell the history of this place.

  When we paid our admission fee for the Tower of London, we found we could rent portable recordings that corresponded with points of interest. If we wanted to pass up one part of the grounds but stop to view another, all we had to do was press the number that was posted on the marker of the site we were standing in front of. This was the kind of tour that made both of us happy.

  Our first stop was on the fortress’s waterside. We climbed up to the top of a walkway that allowed us to look out at the wide, murky River Thames and to take some fantastic photographs of the Tower Bridge. I thought we were looking at the famous London Bridge until another tourist with an American accent corrected me.

  “The London Bridge is in Arizona,” he said. “At Lake
Havasu City. We’ve been there to see it. I heard the bridge was bought for two and a half million and was shipped over, stone by stone, because it was falling down from all the traffic here. The Tower Bridge you’re looking at is much more interesting. Trust me.”

  We nodded our appreciation for his opinions and took a few more pictures of the impressive suspension bridge before the sun dipped behind an incoming army of clouds. The two towers on the bridge reminded me of gigantic chess pieces with their spires and turrets sticking up in the sky and threatening to puncture any cloud that came too close.

  As we made our way to the Waterloo Barracks, four Beefeaters passed in front of us. We quickly pulled out our cameras to join many other tourists in the picture-taking fest. These traditional guards wore regal blue dress uniforms with bright red trim. On their heads were tall, black-brimmed hats circled with more red trim. Everyone stopped to watch them pass.

  Next came two Beefeaters in the more elaborate traditional scarlet uniforms trimmed in gold with lots of emblems across the front of the uniforms, including a gold crown. Their black hats were much more impressive with red, white, and blue bows that gave the appearance of a halo of bright flowers. At their necks, intricately pleated lace stuck out like a white circular collar. They wore scarlet knee socks and black cobbler-style shoes. The pageantry of their appearance was stunning.

  “Did you know that the lace used by royalty and probably for these royal guards was once made in Olney?” Kellie asked.

  “What number are you listening to?” I held up my audio wand.

  “That’s not on the recorded tour. Don’t you remember when Opal told us that Olney was a lace-making town? Or was it Rose? Anyway, it just seems interesting now to see a traditional costume and how much lace they used.”

  We kept walking, listening to the description of the various buildings on the large grounds.

  “Did you listen to the explanation of why they’re called Beefeaters?” Kellie asked.

  I nodded. “Nice benefit working for royalty. You get to eat well.”

  “Right, but did you hear what the recording said about how the name Beefeater was a derogatory term?”

  “I’m sure all the guards who weren’t getting their share of the beef were the ones who started the nickname. They were jealous of the fat guys in the fancy uniforms, I would guess.”

  “And what was that part about the ravens?” Kellie asked as we stopped to look at a map. “Had you ever heard that before? The part about the ancient prophecy that as long as the ravens resided in the Tower of London, the kingdom wouldn’t fall.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that before. I think it’s kind of funny that to help fulfill the prophecy, eight ravens with clipped wings—to keep them from flying away—reside here. We can go see them if you want.”

  Kellie raised her chin like an eager child. “How about if we see the jewels first?”

  “Diamonds before ravens. Fine with me.”

  We meandered through a museum of historic lore before entering a dark, high-security room where the royal crowns and scepter are kept under glass and guard. A slow-moving conveyor belt advances viewers past the dazzling display.

  In front of us was a group of schoolchildren on a tour. My favorite moment was when three little princesses-in-the-making stood between the display and us. The girls in their blue school uniforms and pigtails drew in a collective “Oohhh!” as they viewed the crown that held a diamond nearly as large as one of their fists.

  “Imagine that on your head,” one of the little dreamers said.

  “You would have to marry the prince to wear that,” another said.

  “Then I would be the queen.”

  “If you were the queen, you would have to live in Buckingham Palace.”

  “If I lived in Buckingham Palace, I’d have my own horse. And I would eat ice cream every day.”

  “If I were the queen,” the third one said, “I would have a unicorn, and I would make a crown just like that one for my unicorn to wear.”

  “Me too. I would have two unicorns, if I were the queen.”

  Kellie and I smiled at each other as the schoolgirls stepped off the moving walkway and, joining hands, hurried to catch up with the rest of their group.

  “Adorable,” Kellie said. “I hope one of my married sons has a baby soon. I would love to have a granddaughter to spoil.”

  Was part of England’s allure the marvel of the long-lasting monarchy? For young subjects with pigtails, a mystique as sweet as the dream of unicorns circled around the thought that they could grow up one day to be the queen of England.

  We concluded the tour in the gift shop, where we bought a few postcards and then headed for the Beauchamp Tower. In this very old tower, prisoners who had nothing but time on their hands had etched a sort of medieval graffiti into the walls. Some simply carved their names. Others did elaborate carvings including crosses, their family coat of arms, dates, circumstances of their imprisonment, and even poems.

  One of the names we lingered over was “Jane.” We pressed the corresponding number on our audio tour and heard that this bold carving possibly was etched by the imprisoned husband of Lady Jane Grey. In 1553, at the age of sixteen, Lady Jane Grey was named successor to the throne only to be overthrown nine days later and beheaded.

  The mysteries of the monarchy probably are lost on those of us who have known only democracy. But the tour made me consider how unique Great Britain is. Five hundred years ago a young woman could lose her head for being crowned queen, while today a young girl can dream of having the royal crown placed on her head.

  Kellie and I put together our unaffected heads and studied the map. Our speedy, self-guided tour allowed us to see everything we were most interested in at the Tower of London and still leave us almost four hours before our three o’clock teatime at the Ritz.

  “What do you think about going to Harrods next?” Kellie asked. “And maybe the Victoria and Albert Museum. They’re not especially close to where we are now, but the underground is so fast I think we could get there and back to this side of town for the Ritz easily enough.”

  “We can give it a try. If we have to adjust along the way, we’ll adjust.”

  “Ebb and Flo,” Kellie said.

  I nodded. “Ebb and Flo.”

  “I just want to make sure I’m not getting too bossy and only going after the sights that I added to the list. I want to make sure this is something you want to do as well.”

  I smiled. “You don’t have to worry about me. I want to do and see everything while we’re here.”

  I was still smiling when Kellie and I stepped into Harrods, the most elaborately decorated department store either of us had ever been in. The founder of Harrods was credited as once saying customers could buy anything from a “pin to an elephant.” One brazen customer supposedly went to the pet department and asked to order an elephant. The response from the clerk was, “African or Indian? Male or female?”

  I relayed that bit of trivia to Kellie as we entered the store, and she said, “I definitely don’t want to buy an elephant. I wouldn’t mind finding the ladies’ washroom, though.”

  We found the immaculate facilities easily enough but weren’t prepared for the pinkness of it all, nor did we understand the procedure of paying the maid for the use of the rest room. She wore a proper maid’s uniform with an apron and offered us towels to dry our hands. On a corner end table was a china dish where we watched another customer deposit a few coins before putting aside her used towel.

  “Call me pessimistic …” I said as we exited the rest room.

  “You? Pessimistic? Never.”

  “I’m just thinking that if the rest of this retail theme park is anything like that bathroom, I won’t be able to afford a pair of jeans here, and that was the one item I needed to shop for.”

  “Then do you mind if we start in the stationery department? I’ve been wanting a purse-sized notebook since I didn’t bring one with me. I’ve wanted to take notes about
so many things, and I’m afraid I’ve graffitied all your information pages.”

  “First stop, stationery.” Taking a short escalator, we followed signs to the stationery department and browsed table after table of stacked leather-bound notebooks. We saw daily planner–style calendars advertised as “diaries” and lots of address books. I found a blank notebook I liked and willingly paid the high price because it was so nicely made. Kellie found another style for half the price and decided to buy it.

  “Do you want to try looking for jeans?” Kellie asked after the journal was tucked into my shoulder bag.

  “Not yet. Why don’t we just keep exploring? This place is fascinating.”

  “I know. It’s so organized.”

  I smiled. Leave it to Kellie to admire the organizational features of one of the world’s most prestigious department stores.

  We navigated our way through the store to an amazing food court that was nothing like any food court I had ever seen. This area was more like an archipelago of food stations, each different in personality and offerings. The food islands seemed to stay afloat in a sea of humans, all sniffing the air, looking right and left at the options. A feeding frenzy was about to take place.

  I almost regretted that neither of us was hungry yet. It would have been fascinating to try some of the specialties prepared at the individual stations. We ambled along and ended up in an area devoted to tea, chocolate, and coffee.

  The aroma was magnificent. An employee with a tray offered us samples of a specialty drinking chocolate that she said came from an ancient Aztec recipe. We sipped the treasured drink from tiny white paper cups and with wide-eyed agreement stood in line to buy a decorative tin of the chocolate pearls that she said would dissolve in hot water or hot milk.

  I loved the carnival atmosphere in that department. It felt exotic, like a Mediterranean spice market. These goods had come from the four corners of the earth, and here they were, gathered in one well-stocked department, waiting for eager pilgrims to sample a taste. My theatrical thoughts might have had something to do with the Italian salami and provolone we had just sampled. Or it could be I was having one of those moments when I realized I wasn’t in “Kansas anymore.” We had nice stores in Florida but nothing like this all under one roof.