My dearest London, England ...
My dearest London,
I woke at 6 AM to make the most of the January daylight hours. The generous buffet breakfast at The Chilworth London Paddington was enough to tempt me to take a nap, but instead I bundled up in gloves, beanie, and scarf to brave the brisk English morning. The rising sun's rays glistened blissfully over the waters of the Italian gardens at Hyde Park, creating the perfect start to my day. Spurred by my desire to blend in with the locals, I decided to join them on their early morning run. It was easy to jog there, like I'd been using the park all my life – I hadn't, but the dogs certainly had. I've never seen such adorable pooches roaming the royal gardens like the bison once had on the great American plains. Well, not exactly, but they sure had a lot of space to get in trouble!
Their loving owners certainly didn’t seem to mind them getting mud all over their recently manicured paws, nor wading in the lake next to the sign that read "No bathing, fishing, or dogs permitted in this lake.” It was impossible to get mad at these little ones, each pup cuter than the next. The grand prize, however, went to the midsize white poodle sporting a one-piece puffer jumpsuit. Even Donna Summer had never looked so good!
There I was, running past centuries of English history, tipping my beanie at the most famous of English Kings and Queens – well, their statues at least – saying “Top of the morning to ya!” I snapped a few photos, broke out in a sweat, and finished my run. It was 9:30 am and I felt beyond accomplished.
On my continued quest to be a local, I made a special trip to the post office. Mailing anything from the states to Europe costs a small fortune these days, so I brought my mail, stopped at a mini mart to purchase packaging tape, and marched myself into the Royal Mail Post Office. I had nothing to cut the packaging tape with other than my teeth. I’m sure looked barbaric snapping the tape with my canines, but the $200 savings was certainly worth the tape fragments I swallowed! The grouchy postal worker reminded me of the ones back home. She had the most annoyed look on her face when she realized my packages were going to Spain and thus required customs forms. She begrudgingly asked if all of them were going to Spain. By the sound of her voice, I may as well have told her I was mailing them to Mars. I was as nice as I could be, reminding myself the money I saved was going to be used to enjoy my trip.
With my packages safely en route, I made a pit stop at an Internet café. I was surprised to see they still existed, although the ages of the people using them were much greater than I remember. I didn’t have much time to fiddle with the computer as my friend Danny was coming to see me from Manchester, so I left to make my way to Victoria Coach Station. I got lost, so Danny and his cousin Mike waited for me at Traveller’s Tavern. I found it to be quite pleasant, but both agreed that it wasn’t a real English pub – not that I would know the difference.
We still had several hours before I left by coach and ferry to Paris, so they took me to a going away party for a coworker at the Viandas Restaurant where Danny’s cousin worked. He treated us to some of the best ham and cheese bocadillos that I’ve had in a long time. I still remember the look on my dad’s face when I ate an entire baguette sandwich with Spanish ham while on the Camino in Spain. “I’ve never seen you eat so much!” My response was, “I don’t know when I’ll have it again.” Famous last words, COVID happened and that was more than four years ago. I ate the bocadillo Mark gave us as if it were my last. I was slightly aghast at myself for scarfing down the appetizers, but I couldn’t help myself – they were tasty!
Mike and his staff closed the shop, and I incorrectly assumed the party was over. I forgot for a moment that I was in Europe, and the party just moved to The New Moon Pub & Restaurant a few meters away. Pints swished, glasses broke, and the crowd buzzed. I had an absolute blast that night and everyone there partied like it was 1999. The beers kept on coming and their alcohol tolerance never ceased to amaze me.
Danny and Mike saw me off at the bus station. I was excited to cross the English Channel. The bus driver kept a tight ship. It was my first time crossing the Channel on a ferry, and I somehow had the erroneous idea that I would have a chance to see the water. The last time I took a bus on a ferry in Southern France, we had the opportunity to get off the bus and walk around the deck, but not here. The driver steered the bus into the windowless belly of the ferry. Bus after bus lined up neatly back-to-back in standing room only quarters. The onboarding procedures were precise and the ride over was so smooth, I didn’t even realize where I was until we were nearly halfway there. Next thing I knew I was in Paris – so much for a leisurely evening cruise!
I spent a few days in Paris before continuing my journey to Manchester, Liverpool, Windemere, and Scarborough, but I returned to London for one more day. I dumped my belongings at the hotel and headed over to the Natural History Museum. I wasn’t going for the fossils, dinosaurs, collection of rare rocks or minerals – I was going there to meet the explorers, the pioneers who braved freezing temperatures, crossed unchartered oceans, and canvassed the deepest jungles in the name of science. How I envied their bravery, their discoveries, and their adventures! These explorers navigated the globe with the simplest of instruments, the most basic tools, and at best subpar equipment. And here I was, in one of the most sophisticated cities in the world, with full use of the internet and Google maps and I took the wrong train more than once. How embarrassing!
I thought that by getting to know these explorers they would in some way guide me to my next adventure. After reading all about them I realized, however, that things haven’t changed much. Most of these explorers had something I don’t: unlimited funds. So, in the meantime, I settled for rediscovering finds of centuries past and crossed the street to tour the Victoria and Albert Museum. During that last hour I took in as many statues and crown jewels as I could before being kindly ushered out the front door. I had just enough time for one last escapade, and I gave myself a choice between live theatre and a nice meal.
Starving it was!
Pretty Woman, Mamma Mia, and a Shakespeare play were all either sold out, too expensive or too far from my hotel, so I opted for Back to the Future: the Musical. I happened to have a close connection the film: the house they used for Doc Brown’s was less than a handful of blocks from where I live, and the shooting scene was filmed at the mall where I spent many weekends as a teenager. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I figured at least the music would be good. I must admit, it was outstanding! I haven’t given such a heartfelt standing ovation at the theatre in 20 years. The music, comedy routines, choreography, acting, special effects, costumes, props – all were phenomenal. I’m probably going to receive a lot of backlash for what I’m going to say, but theatre in California has become such a bore; everything from the avant garde minimalistic stage props, to producers tying themselves up in a pretzel to send some subliminal and sometimes obvious political message. Here’s an idea – how about just putting on a show!
Well, that’s exactly what the cast, crew, and producers of Back to the Future: the Musical did. Everyone had a blast. The audience cheered, sang, and danced – no one had to guess the ending, nor end the evening with a politically charged discussion, nor leave feeling like they had to get up and fight for a cause the next morning. The only cause I was supporting the following day was my own and that was to get in the last bit of sightseeing.
I jumped on the train, came out at Westminster Station where I gave Big Ben a high five, I waved hello at Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi and took a quick selfie in front of Westminster Abbey. This was my fifth or sixth failed attempt to visit the interior of Westminster Abbey. This missed opportunity is usually due to bad planning, closures or, as in this case, I just ran out of time. Just as Cinderella’s time runs out when the clock strikes midnight, so did mine when Big Ben’s thunderous strikes sounded at 10:00 am. That was my cue to hop back on the tube. Upon exiting I took one last brisk walk at Kensington Gardens, taking a moment to admire the beautiful swans and toy boats in the pond.
At the airport, I did what I always do: last-minute overpriced souvenir shopping. And with that, my dearest London there is never enough time to see everything you have to offer and yet I am delighted to have gotten to know you a little bit better.
Love always,
Susana Porras
