The Wayfarer: London Calling Once...

Do you ever think these are
just for tourists?

Having cancelled two trips to Virginia and one to Russia due to Alex’s untimely cancer diagnosis, I jumped at the opportunity when my favorite travel blogger, ThePointsGuy, posted that Delta was offering half-priced award redemptions on flights to Europe throughout winter. Checking my balance and discovering I had just enough points for two tickets, I began weighing destinations. Amsterdam, Paris, London, Dublin, and Munich - the options weren’t nearly as varied the schedules. Italy and Spain were discounted, but remained beyond my reach. As I glanced over at Alex slouching in a chair, fixated on intravenous vitamin C dripping down the clear tubing into the port nestled between his skin and thoracic wall, a sneaky scheme suddenly began forming. Alex has always knowingly or unknowingly thwarted every attempt I’ve made to surprise him. Utterly helpless in his current state (don’t judge me), I saw an opportunity to plot my revenge. Click. Click. Enter - a trip was born.

Regardless of Alex’s overt helplessness, I knew he’d still figure me out – 28 “heterosexual” years together was 27 “heterosexual” years MORE than he'd ever need to know when I was up to something. (Gay relationships, in my most humble opinion, are like dog years – 1 year for Gay couples is equivalent to 7 years for Straight couples). Being necessary for him to obtain a British visa, my only chance to successfully conceal my true intentions from the ‘cheeky little bastard’ was to utilize a combination of strategic failures and top-secret alliances across fourteen time zones and three continents.

The Journey is half the fun

Isambard Kingdom
Brunel

For those on the ground, a polar vortex can unleash frigid misery; for an eastern bound airliner, its wind drive a jetliner near the sound barrier. Having already completed eight transatlantic crossings, our flight from JFK to Heathrow shattered my previous record by ninety minutes (relatively speaking). A whopping 215 mph tailwind rocketed us across the Atlantic in under five hours. Having been experienced enough to snatch a middle seat flanked on either side by ‘preferred’ seats requiring additional payment, I was able to stretch across the whole row for a relatively comfortable, albeit short, slumber. We arrived to a bright sunny day, barely a cloud in the sky.

Disembarking our train at St. Pancras Stations, a peculiar statue caught my attention as I walked along the platform. Instantly recognizing the person, I signaled Alex to stop a moment for me to capture the above photo. It pains me to think most people never stop to admire this great man whom is considered perhaps the greatest British industrialist of the 19th century. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was a Da Vinvi-esque structural and mechanical engineer whose landmarks and railways across Britain (many still standing) are still considered engineerings feats. A father to all industrial revolutionary pioneers, his genius and vision paved the way for his most renowned accomplishment - the first transatlantic steamships.

St. Pancras Railway Station

Oh, there's No. 12 Grimmaud Place

Alex's valiant effort to locate the proper bus stop outside S. Pancras resulted in a laborious back and forth in every direction less the correct one. We passed the stop several times before finally realizing it. For once I held my tongue, allowing him to maintain the lead without interference; see, I can be nice without also being an a-hole. Seated at last on the upper deck of my first London bus ride, I solemnly gazed out the window at London's bustling pedestrian traffic passing by.

At one point, we passed a row of houses adjacent to a small park surrounded by a wrought iron fence - strikingly similar to a scene from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Lo and behold it was the ruddy filming location: Claremont Square in Islington, Sirius Black's family home turned HQ for the Order. Bobs your uncle (Rick), at long last I couldn't be accused of sleeping at the switch.

Alighting the bus at Newington Green, Alex redeemed his navigational skills, reaching his friend’s quaint London flat without incident in the up-and-coming, hipster area of Stoke Newington. Aware that the weather could turn for the worse at any moment, we dropped our bags and quickly headed to Westminster to take photographic advantage of the sights. As any Britain will tell you, “If you don’t like the weather, wait 5 minutes.” Our effort proved triumphant. Emerging from the Underground, we mosey along Westminster Bridge snapping pictures of Elizabeth Tower, listening as Big Ben’s massive chimes ring out over the city.

Our present geographic location necessitates two quintessential London photo-ops, one featuring Westminster Palace and opposite, the London Eye, both elegantly filling the background.

Insert 'Expletive' HERE

I insisted we visit Westminster Abbey, reluctantly forking over 20 GBP each for admission (quite ridiculous for visiting a House of God – WWJD?) Though a steep price, I told Alex it’s something you only do once and never have to repeat (unless you’re bringing a loved one along who hasn’t).

Westminster Abbey

Just as my first visit 9 years earlier, I was nauseated by the absolute waste of money and energy glorifying self-righteous twats whom even in death continue to have a pissing contest with the world, showing off their wealth and influence by being buried in elaborate tombs, the cost of which no doubt could have fed a village or town for years. King here, Queen there, Sir Isaac, Chaucer, and oh my – there’s my family crest (again). This time I knew where to find it, but saw no need to risk taking a photo, subjecting myself (again) to admonishment by some supercilious minister, frightful I would infringe on the church’s sacred copyright.

The Phoenix, a delightful little bistro pub I visited on my last trip, was a good place to grab a late lunch. A short walk around the corner, we arrived at Buckingham Palace. The Royal Standard flying mightily atop the central pavilion signaled Her Majesty Elizabeth II was in residence (though apparently she didn’t get my self-invitation to join her for afternoon tea). My mother was very upset to hear this, and promised to bring it up at the next meeting of the Magna Carta Dames. In the meantime, I resolved to procure Alex’s photographs of the palace for later use on a Zillow listing. Unfortunately, those tricky censors flagged my listing before it could be posted. To think, they could have [purchased] Buckingham Palace for a cool million – quite a bargain considering that just days before writing this article, parliament announced that the palace would be undergoing a 10-year, $450 MILLION dollar renovation courtesy of the English taxpayers!

"Once in a lifetime opportunity to own this magnificent 18th century home.
Continuously occupied by the same family for over 150 years."

The Easter Rising Exhibition at Photographer’s Gallery on Oxford Street wasn’t my cup of tea for two reasons: first, I was tired as hell; second, I’m fairly certain Sean Sexton either purchased or procured a box of old pictures, randomly devised backstories for them to fit his theme, then like a snake oil salesman convinced the curator it was “art”. Perhaps the former, I nevertheless found the exhibit dull and tiresome; I wasn’t surprised in the least reading that the “eighty rarely seen photos” shed new light on the period from [wait for it…] the 1840s to 1930s!!! Was the fact that the Easter Rising only occurred over a six-day period an oversight? They hadn’t been seen the photos because they captured the most meaningless, boring day-to-day shit imaginable.

Dancing in the Wind

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, for my closing argument, I simply ask you to consider Mr. Sexton's stated exhibit description. Reflect upon his theme. I am confident ye shall conclude unanimously that the exhibit was (in my best Shakespearean insult) an "artless folly-fallen canker blossom!" More than likely, I missed the point entirely and have now offended the memories of all 485 victims and countless survivors during this armed 1916 Irish insurrection, in addition to the actual people pictured - whoever they were. But seriously, why wait on queue to visit museums or galleries when an abundance of art can be seen from London's streets? I suppose the saying is true: "people rarely see what is right in front of them."

Magic is Might

Muggles in their rightful place

"Lemon drop"

Barely able to stay awake, I stood out of necessity as our train pulled out of Euston Station. While Alex was dozing off in his seat, I mustered outward excitement as we barreled down the tracks towards Watford Junction, gateway to the magically enchanting, muggle-built home of Harry Potter Studios. People were standing on queue just outside the station. One could sense a telepathic connection dripping feelings of mass excitement as a themed double-decker pulled up to the bus platform.

N.B., Warner Bros should invest in a triple decker called the "Knight Bus" to bring fans to the studios.

Patiently awaiting our turn, nothing prepared me for what happened next: the driver refused to let us board. Apparently, I did not have the correct email receipt to access the studio tour; furthermore, I couldn’t connect to any Wi-Fi to refresh my email – even though the bus PROVIDES free Wi-Fi service (while moving). To no avail I tried explaining our situation to the driver, transitioning into quite a scuffle (in my head, at least) imagining Professor McGonagall joining the Green Street Hooligans in bashing this babbling, bumbling buffoon’s head in.

Better than the Oval

I was approaching the point of tears when my eyes caught sight of a pub across the street. Determined to find a wi-fi signal, I marched in and convinced the barkeep to let me hop online for just a moment, promising that failure to find my receipt would result in a 5 quid convenience gratuity; miraculously it loaded in a sub-folder. Back on queue for the bus, the next driver was much friendlier than the last. We arrived at the studios within three minutes of our scheduled start, subsequently herded into a small auditorium as the lights began dimming. Ron, Hermione, and Harry welcomed us to their beloved childhood ‘playground’ and encouraged us to ‘follow’ them inside. The central auditorium wall parted, revealing the iconic 20ft high doorway to the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

There are so many fantastic things to see and find: silver plates and goblets lined up perfectly on the table, as if waiting for us to sit down and feast. Dark, faceless mannequins wearing original costumes and wigs stood beneath towering leaded windows; at the front, a figure of Dumbledore in full regalia stands at his podium to welcome students to another year at Hogwarts. I later found out that the studio actually hosted a Valentine's Dinner a few nights later in the Great Hall open to the general public. DAMMMMNITTT

From here, we walked through a side door into a museum of full scale sets completely adorned with their original props. Dumbledore's mighty office; the cozy Gryffindor Common Room; the classroom belonging to the Potions Master; even sections from the Ministry of Magic with its iconic green glazed tiles - we were standing mere inches from them all. Smaller sets depicted scenes from the hall in Malfoy Manor or a cut away of Hagrid's hut. Some people struggled to contain their excitement when we turned to walk down Diagon Alley. It was all quite mesmerizing strolling past Ollivander's wand shop, Gringotts Bank, and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. We finally reached Platform 9¾, walking straight up to board the real Hogwarts Express. I secretly kept waiting for the train to depart, desperately hoping the stories were true. Rounding out the tour, we came to a gargantuan model of Hogwarts used for filming closeups. I can't imagine how long it took to construct nor the painstaking process of hand painting it.

The indoor studio tour conveniently ended at a cafeteria; too tired to risk sitting long, we grabbed a Butterbeer and a small cup of frozen Butterbeer yogurt (pronounced "yaw-gurt") to give our bodies a final sugary boost to finish the night. I enjoy the taste of butterscotch, but this drink was rich enough to kill a bear; I suggest sticking with just the yogurt.

Located just outside the cafeteria is the back lot with many of the larger sets on display. Hagrid's flying motorcycle, the Knight Bus (*ehem, COUGH), and Mr. Weasley's flying car were all parked in front of the Dudley residence on Privot Drive. Hands down, my absolute favorite was the Potter family's partially destroyed home in Godrick's Hollow - which by the way is without question the most kick-ass sounding name for a township.