Letters From M

I knew that it would happen. Even though I told myself it couldn’t, despite the idea that it’s preposterous to think you could have that soul mate, butterfly, heart tripping feeling about a whole country.

It’s like I lived and died both vividly, both throughly, both feelings occurring simultaneously in the crisp autumn air of the Thames.

I was with my housemate. Two wide eyed innocents taking on the whole of England with girlish giggles, the only thing on our mind was the bookish shenanigans we might find ourselves in.

In all honesty we were husband hunting for her, we’ll call her E, my housemate, like regency era twits. We’re both Austen fans so it’s no surprise that Pride and Prejudice plots were rampaging through our minds.

We spent our first glorious night tucked away in a Notting Hill flat, second story up a perfectly quaint staircase, complete with a modest chandelier, retro tea pot and toaster, and of course a wall of all the classic books a girl could want. However, my favorite part was the bed.

I’m a bit of a “Princess and the Pea” type, so judging a good bed is as natural to me as Sherlock referring to Watson as “my dear”. This bed was an exceptional example of all my dreams and desires for a bed. I’ll do my best to spare you what may seem like trivial details but to say I slept well would be an understatement. I slept the sleep of Aurora and a 100 years.

The second night we traveled to Vauxhall Station and settled in a garden room on Fentiman Road. By all accounts it was a posh neighborhood and while this set of beds were somewhat lacking, the garden provided us with a rather provincial feeling of homeiness and gave us a view of many foxes and squirrels. Which for two farm town American girls...wildlife shouldn’t be a great novelty but everything in and about England is a novelty.

We spent the first several days of our trip pub hoping from one historical pub to the next (namely The Hoop and Grapes and Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese) as well as touring the town (Tate Britain Museum amongst other things). Our grand galavant led us to a gala at Royal Albert Hall.

For me Albert Hall was at the emotional height of my experience as a whole. Queen Victoria holds a deep and meaningful place in my heart for being a headstrong girl and formidable woman, if a little controlling in the grappling sort of way. She was my coming of age story, both watch on big screen and read over and over.

We almost missed the call time, tube line being on strike, and had to walk miles across London’s cobblestone sidewalks in pinching high heels. It’s not as if we were really going to meet the Queen but we certainly dressed for it. We arrived during the National Anthem, and had to tiptoe to the top tier of the circle so as not to set off any loyalists with our disrespectful assent. We settled in for the show of our lives, or my life rather...because I’m a romantic and E is most decidedly not. What followed the show was a very British encore, complete with red white and blue lights ricochetting of the great mushroom acoustic keepers, and the red velvet chairs snapping with relief as we all stood to applauded a great conductor and a chior that seemed to have a thousand voices.

With the train strikes we tutted home to Vauxhall on a bus with some new friends, an elderly snowy haired woman and her younger salt and pepper haired sister. We discovered that they too loved Royal Albert Hall and just happened to shop at the corner grocers as us.

We hopped off at our stop, bidding a good night to all, and as soon as our dresses were tossed off and dressing gowns tossed on we ordered pizza. Because no girl can be truly glamorous without pizza.