My first trip to London was a whirlwind, haphazard affair.
I was studying abroad in France that year, and two weeks before Armistice Day, one of my Oregon friends asked me and a few other girls if we wanted to go to London for our upcoming four-day weekend. I jumped at the chance as the prices were good, and I wanted to see as much of Europe as I could. London was one of those cities I had always dreamed of seeing, as I have always had a fascination with British culture.
The night before my friends and I left for London, I called home and spoke with my grandmother, who told me to say hello to the queen for her. Little did I know how close I would come to that during my short trip.
Our first morning in London was Armistice Day. We strolled about the town after a meager breakfast of toast and a petroleum-like jelly. The trees were lovely shades of gold and auburn, and the early November air was crisp. Lucky for us, the sky was bright blue. It was still early, and none of the stores was open, so we walked along a boulevard lined by red trees.
At the end was some fancy building — was it Buckingham Palace? No, it couldn’t be. We didn’t go up close to it — perhaps it was the South African Embassy.
But as we walked up through the neighboring park and read a map, we had indeed bypassed the Buckingham Palace. I had apparently been more interested in gas lamps than the queen’s London residence.
Fateful compromise
We soon made our way to wait in line for the National Gallery. I had a deep interest in art history, and therefore, I could not leave London without seeing some of the most important paintings in Western Europe.
While waiting for the museum to open, we were chatting quite loudly and the gentleman behind us joined in. He informed us that there was to be a service at Westminster Abbey and that the queen was to be in attendance. My friends jumped on this bit of information and asked me if we could perhaps go to Westminster Abbey instead. I was rather adamant about seeing my art, but we compromised — we would return to the museum as soon as we were done at Westminster Abbey.
To get to the grounds of Westminster Abbey, we had to pass through security. I was terrified that someone would find us out — just a couple of silly American girls trespassing where they were not invited. Of course, it was a breeze to pass through, but we were unprepared for what came next.
All along the walkways were miniature memorials to all of the fallen soldiers, each soldier given a tiny cross with a red poppy (red poppies were everywhere that day). Old servicemen stood by in uniform, honoring their fallen comrades. It was moving to see that although these soldiers had died long ago, their memory lived on.
Eventually, a voice came over the loudspeaker, asking everyone to back away from the walkways. Everyone cleared the paths, and the place became very still. Trumpets signaled a moment of silence. Then the queen entered the grounds.
I was standing very near to the door of Westminster Abbey, as close to the front of the pack as I could manage. The queen made her way around the path, paying her respects at each memorial. My heart nearly stopped with every step she took nearer to where I stood.
Finally, she stopped about 10 feet in front of me — 10 feet! Never in my life had I thought I would ever be within 10 feet of the queen of England! The older British women next to me couldn’t believe it either. I felt foolish and privileged all at once. How could three silly Americans who could not recognize Buckingham Palace come so close to the queen of England?
The rest of our trip was filled with more walking and sightseeing (though not as much as I’d hoped). I did see my art, and how marvelous it was. I fell in love with a John Constable painting and was thoroughly intrigued by a depiction of Lady Jane Grey just before her execution.
It is true that in London you cannot escape history and royalty, and in that first trip I enjoyed my encounters with both.
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