London

Posted by Marci on Dec 2, 2010 in | 0 comments

I stood on the Empire balcony in Leicester Square. Below me, people strolled through the park under umbrellas while the unprotected ran from the drizzling rain into the closest pub. I thought about the prior days of my trip: I’d seen Les Miserable in the theater; walked through the National Art Gallery staring at Van Gogh’s Sunflowers; I learned about beheadings at the Tower of London; and saw the Crown Jewels. I’d spent hours walking through the gardens of St. James and Kensington parks where the purple crocuses and daffodils had just opened their petals to the warm weather. From across the Thames River, I watched lights illuminate Big Ben and the House of Parliament.

In Covent Garden, I listened to two opera performers sing about love so deep it hurt to experience it all at once. I sipped my tea, ate a decadent chocolate cupcake, as I watched the shoppers peruse the craft carts in the open market. In St. Paul’s Church, I enjoyed a master’s piano concert. Actually, the woman wore sweats and a baseball cap as she practiced a piece on an old piano. As I closed my eyes and listened, it seemed impossible for two hands to create the music that filled the place of worship.

London reminded me of Boston except for a few differences. First, I had trouble looking in the right direction when I crossed the road even though signs marked which way to turn my head at every crossing. I’d come close to being run over by a bus, a car, and a cyclist in the first few hours of being on the streets.

Second, the language, though the same, had different meanings for the same words. I was told that I looked rather homely. Now in America that would mean I was hideous to look upon, but in London it meant I was the cookie-baking type who enjoyed homemaking. (I guess my looks are rather deceiving – anyone who knows me doesn’t want me in a kitchen.) Also, while in a pub enjoying the company of two gentlemen, I stated that I hated the fanny packs some Americans wore while traveling. The men laughed as they schooled me in the local language that a “fanny” in America is not a “fanny” in London. One is a bottom, the other a woman’s privates. I flushed with embarrassment as they teased me that I shouldn’t walk around speaking about American fanny packs.

The drizzle turned into a downpour and I moved under the umbrellas of the balcony as my companion for the evening handed me a glass of champagne. “To a life of making your dreams come true,” he said. We clinked our glasses and sipped at the sweet bubbles. “Too many people dream about one life and then find themselves living another. I think it’s incredible that you’re pursuing your dreams.”

I looked over the square and thought, so do I.