My British Gwag – Pt. 2

Posted by Tilia

Continued from My British Gwag – Pt. 1

So, after about four hours of happy sleep, following our little pub crawl/play reading evening, I was awakened by Jane bursting back into the flat we were staying in, tossing things into her bag and preparing to depart for the airport, whereupon she would be returning to America.

Her departure was oddly anti-climactic, involving just me standing at the head of the stairs and saying, “K, then.  Um … see you in the States.”  And her responding, “Yep, bye.  Don’t forget to make the bed.”

Somehow, despite the strong affection and cross continental nature of my friendship with Jane, we’re not huggy friends.  I guess we both just knew we’d be hanging out again soon, and we were, so it was all good.  Kind of like a few weeks ago, when I saw her for the last time before her move.  It was kinda like, “Thanks for the book … um … see you in London.”  ”K, bye.”

Since I was up, and I only had two days left in the country, I figured I might as well shower and go about my day.  I ended up taking a train to Kensington where I checked out Hyde Park for a few hours and then went over to the Victoria and Albert museum and wandered around in contented bliss for a few more.

However, I have to admit that I was watching the time with taut anticipation.  Around 1, I got back on a train to Queensway, and made my way down to a shady little internet cafe with phones in the bottom corridor.  It’s worth mentioning that I didn’t have a working cell phone while I was in England, and that this was a constant cause of upset for me.

When Royce answered the phone, I immediately understood what Jane had been going on about concerning his phone voice.  Very sexy.  Even after the fact that he has a hot accent, it was a sexy phone voice.  He asked me if I’d eaten yet, and I said no, and he asked me if I wanted to go ahead and meet up then.

“Can you meet me at London Bridge?” he asked.

… Okay, come on.  Really?  

Yes.  Yes, for God’s sake, I will meet you at London Bridge.

He went on to tell me it was quite a big station and that I should find him in front of the Burroughs Market.

Lucky for me, none of the people at London Bridge Station spoke English, and I had to find the market on my own.  I was a bit concerned that I wouldn’t recognize Royce, since I’d only met him briefly, and like I said, he wasn’t remarkably eye catching (though not unattractive).  

I found myself making eye contact with every shortish, blonde British guy who looked my way, which actually put me in a pretty compromise-able situation.  In fact, one of the guys was a clipboard-carrying solicitor for something like fair wage in Africa.  I went along with him until he needed my mailing address, then I told him I lived in Florida, and he gave me a button and went on his way.

Slightly amused, and carrying my button, I spotted Royce across the way, being accosted by another clipboard carryer, and looking rather annoyed by it.  I was strangely thrilled that I recognized him, and waved, rushing over.  

Royce snapped to the guy, “See! I told you she was coming,” then quickly grabbed my elbow and steered me into the market.  

Chuckling to myself, I affixed the “Save Africa” pin to the bottom of my sweater as he, rather cordially, began the tour, telling me about the history of the giant farmer’s market we were passing through.

Since I wasn’t fully attracted to the guy yet, and was just so damn excited to have a new friend to talk at, I got him from cordial to chatty pretty fast, and as we exited the market onto the bank of the Thames, we were fast friends, talking about everything from the publishing world to what the American South is really like and even Royce’s stance on Jane’s drama with Grey (which, by the way, he’s deeply invested in seeing realized).

At some point, we’d reached the bottom of the Millennium Bridge.  He shot me a sly look and said, “You know … I’ve never walked across it before.”

“Well, come to it, neither have I,” I said, with a grin.  ”Shall we?”

Now, aware of how absurdly romantic this already felt, when we got up onto the platform and a gypsy woman, in a long, red skirt was playing violin, and I noticed the sun was setting in a smoky haze of pink and silver, the only reaction to the absurdly piled-on nature of the thing I could muster was a laugh.

Later, I would refuse to explain to him what was funny, but he didn’t feel moved to ask right away, as we walked across, experiencing mutual silence for the first and only time during the two days we’d spend together.  In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion he was laughing too, but only to himself, as not to disturb the rhythmic lapping of water serving as a metronome for the gypsy violinist we slowly moved away from.

After the bridge, he suddenly was very keen to show me the sights I hadn’t seen yet.  We went to an art museum that featured Louise Bourgeois’s giant spider statue outside.  I rotated under it in total awe (absolutely brilliant), and he was clearly intrigued by a female who thought that a giant spider was a thing of beauty, and let me tell you, it was.

He also took me to Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, though it was locked up for a production.  All the while, we chatted continuously, and in fact, in retrospect, I said things to him that I’d never, ever say to a guy I’m trying to woo, because I was still trying to convince myself that he was friend material.  

After all, he has a girlfriend.  And according to Jane, she’s just awesome.

</bitterness>

Anyway.  

As it was rapidly getting dark, we’d begun to walk in the direction of the pub where we were meeting his friends for their comedy show.  I still have no idea where this pub was or how the hell we got there.  The magic clouded my vision, but I was already dreading the inevitability of having to meet the Girlfriend, and having the spell broken.

“So, what’s your favorite thing about London, so far?” he asked me, snapping me out of my neurotic obsessing about his faceless, yet somehow uber hot girlfriend.

“The Cathedrals,” I answered immediately.  I’ve always loved cathedrals.  I love the history behind them, I love their decadence, and the very irony of their existence.  I love the Romanesque and Gothic ones the most.

This clearly surprised him.  ”Are you very religious?” he asked, with a hint of trepidation.

“No!  God, no,” I answered, laughing.  ”They’re just so beautiful,” I explained, and then gave him a minor overview of my obsession.  ”We don’t have anything like that in Florida,” I explained.  ”It’s all beach condos and Mickey Mouse.”

“Well, which ones have you been in, then?” He asked, visibly relaxing.

“Oh, none.  I did want to go into Westminster, thou-.”

I was cut off by him demanding to know why I hadn’t gone into one.  ”Churches are, after all, public property,” he said.  I honestly hadn’t even considered that.

He picked us a chapel off of St. Paul’s, a beautiful Romanesque structure with latticed doors, and ushered me up the stairs and inside, even as I protested to the discomfort of just going in.  My arguments fell silent as soon as I saw the inside, though.

It was all marble and stone, lit with candles all along giant curved arches.  We walked slowly through, him watching me, and me watching the church, completely overtaken by the whole thing.  Our footsteps were absorbed by the creamy Italian marble as we weaved our way through the fold out chairs left out for a mass or a wedding.

“Go to the alter,” he said, softly.

“Why?” I asked, managing to tear my eyes away from the church to look at him.  When I did, I felt real attraction for the first time.  Just a flutter, in my stomach, but the way he was looking at me was intense and involved.  

“Trust me,” he said.  And I did.

I left him with a glance over my shoulder to move through the empty pews, past the silly fold out chairs, onto the alter, elevated ever so slightly under a dome.  Once standing there, I looked at him expectantly.

“Now look up,” he said, or mouthed at me.  I seem to remember us not speaking very loudly at all.

There was a fresco in the dome, a scene from Exodus, somehow managing to be ominous and comforting, a reassuring glow in the terror of a Flood.  I still think it was a strange choice for a church alter, but it was clearly very old, and there’s no telling how the decision was made.  Regardless, it was incredibly beautiful.

I was startled back to reality by voices.  I glanced at him, but he clearly hadn’t heard them.  He was watching me, still.

I walked quickly over to him and said, “Is something starting?” motioning to the people filing in.

“Oh, I dunno,” he said, coming back to his senses.

“Maybe we should go,” I said, motioning to the door, “So we don’t get stuck in a three hour mass.”

He laughed and agreed, and we walked out of the church and the warm shroud of unreality that we’d encountered inside.  We didn’t talk about the cathedral while we walked the rest of the way to the pub, but I’m pretty sure we were both thinking about it.

 

~ by Shannon on July 22, 2008.