On Wednesday, August 26, 2009, at approximately 1:00 PM, Becky Boop realized a daydream – to see the place with so much history, a site of religious pilgrimage for Christians everywhere, that had been established in 1090. But it is not so much the spirituality of the Abbey that appealed to me, though there’s no denying the awesome beauty of the accoutrements of this house of worship. No, what really quickened my pulse all this years was the sheer weight of the historical and literary importance of the site: the burial place of countless kings, queens and other important government persons, scientific figures, as well as scholarly geniuses by the dozens.

It was a stereotypically rainy and cool London day. Jessica and I rose at the Park Plaza Victoria and prepared to check out and swap locations. Eddie had been kind enough to book us a last evening’s stay at the Marriott London County Hall, a 5-star palace of a place inches away from the London Eye, and a few short paces from Big Ben and the Abbey. My husband is a Platinum Marriott Rewards member, one of the few benefits of all his weekly traveling, so the ostentation in which we found ourselves was absolutely free. Both Jessica and I grew up relatively lower middle class, so try as we might, we could hardly contain ourselves when the benefits of our Platinum stay were listed for us: turndown service, evening chocolates, access to the spa and the 4th floor executive lounge, where we were able to get snacks, drinks and frothy hot chocolate 24 hours a day. The hotel, as the name might imply, is a former seat of government in the City, and a breathtaking piece of architecture, inside and out.

Once we were able to subdue our joy in our new surroundings (sated by a cup of the aforementioned hot chocolate), we regrouped to head toward the Abbey. I had not yet recovered from my keen disappointment in missing it the day before, and I would not be denied again.

I knew in advance that touring Westminster Abbey was likely to be the highlight of my London visit, and yet, even I was surprised as I found myself getting choked up before we even reached the ticket counter. No sooner did I cross the threshold than I was greeted with monuments as far as the eye could travel in either direction. The weight of the importance of the place began instantly to impress itself upon me. Jessica looked at me as I prepared to pay our entrance fees and asked, “Are you crying?” There was no denying that I was, but I collected myself quickly as we headed toward the booth to pickup our audio guides.

I cannot do justice in describing the feast for the eyes that awaits a visitor to the Abbey, whatever your religion, or even if you have none at all. In America, where nearly everything is less than 100 years old, we simply have no frame of reference for a Millennium’s worth of figures, events, coronations, decrees, bombings and wars. It’s everywhere, in every pore of the site, and to walk through the Abbey, it is impossible not to feel the presence of all those who walked the halls and chapels before. I was reverent and subdued as I listened intently to all that was described in my headphones. I lost another tear or two when I happened upon the graves of Queen Elizabeth I, a figure who reigned during many of Shakespeare’s greatest years, as well as King Henry V, the subject of one of the Bard’s plays, and a personal favorite of mine. But these silent tears were subtle, few and easily wiped away.

Finally, we made our way over to Poet’s Corner, the famed burial and monument section of so many great literary figures. I started to feel an adrenaline rush as we moved that direction, but my heart, quite literally, burst as at last I stood on top and in front of the tangible evidence of centuries of authorial greatness: the Bronte sisters, Keats, Shelley, Blake, Jane Austen, and so many others. Curiously enough, it was the realization that I stood atop Charles Dickens that finally triggered my breakdown. I started crying copiously, actually having to make an effort to choke back my own sobs. Again folks, I am not writing this for dramatic effect. It is, I assure you, quite accurate. Just ask Jessica who I noticed inching away from me subtly as my breakdown continued. I am sure I looked either a) crazy or b) as though I were having a truly miserable time. I may be nuts, but the latter half of that presumption could not be further from the truth. I was overwhelmed with awe and joy on a level I have never experienced to this point in my life. Even if I wanted to put an end to my display, I couldn’t. Heavy loads of pain and disappointment I know how to compartmentalize, but obviously, a large rush of elation was a shock to my jaded system. I may have been embarrassed myself if I were not so engrossed.

I have called myself a writer for awhile now, but it wasn’t until this moment that I truly realized how much I love reading, and my utmost worship for those who have the gift of the pen. I am adequate at times, but my smallness was never more apparent than it was standing before figures I have adored all my life, the people who have entertained, inspired and kept me company as I grew and matured. It was at that moment, as the tears rushed from my eyes, that I swore to rededicate myself to the craft. After a rough summer, it was the kick in the pants I sorely needed, a refocusing of purpose.

As I tried to compose myself, Jessica rejoined me in front of the Abbey’s museum. Tears continued to fall though, and even I began to find it a bit much, but there was nothing to be done. As I looked at some of the funeral effigies of deceased monarchs, Jessica sneaked off to purchase me a souvenir: a book entitled Kings, Queens, Bones and Bastards, a shorthand guide to the history of the British monarchy. Touched by my friend’s tremendous thoughtfulness, even after the humiliation I had just put her through in Poet’s Corner, I told her I couldn’t look inside the bag until after we left, or I might possibly die.

We finished the tour and departed the building at last, but my heart continued to pound and for hours after the visit. I couldn’t think or speak of it without welling up again. I am not sure I will ever be able to describe what I saw and felt without tearing up. Although Jessica declared me “the biggest nerd” she had ever seen, and took several photos of my puffy and streaked face as we walked out of the Abbey, she was nonetheless completely understood that I had just had what amounted to a religious experience for me.

The day continued with a walk along the Thames where we saw street performers, gambling, families, beaches and stalls of old books we had the pleasure of rifling through. In the evening, I had dinner at a fabulous Cuban restaurant in Islington with Jessica and her adorable husband Nick. Afterward, we met some old friends, Kedda and Tiade, choirmates of mine and Jessica’s from our high school days, for drinks. I hadn’t seen these gals in 13 years and in moments, we were laughing and remembering as old chums do.

It was a perfect day. I know I am cynical and tend to spread a fair amount of pessimism and gloom on this blog. But yesterday was one of the happiest days I have ever known. The frustrations and disappointments of Tuesday were utterly forgotten. Had I gone through this experience with a lesser friend, I might have felt shame. But as it was, I felt so comfortable with Jess, I was able to laugh at myself, just let go for once and stop being a control freak.

I am to fly home today. In a few short hours, I will hop the Tube for the ride back to Heathrow. I am not ready to go, even if I miss my husband, cats and home. But I will be back. London and I are one. I am not sure how I know this, but I do, and I know it somewhere deep inside. We are not finished with each other yet.

Today definitely did not go as planned, but I am trying to regroup and move forward. After a somewhat raucous night of drinking with Jessica until 3 AM that culminated with yours truly relieving herself in a public park in Piccadilly Square, the morning came on like a cruel blow to the head. I am not as young as I used to be and I really ought to learn to remember that. We enjoyed the companionship of a 33 year-old German dude and two 18 year-olds in a band from Belgium. The five of us ended up at a lame club that Jessica said reminded her of the opening scene in Blade, minus all the vampires, but with an equally urgent smell of death. We hung out with these guys for four hours and do not recall their names whatsoever. We were wrecks.

Jessica managed to hoist herself up at about 9:30, but I lay in a painful semi-coma until around 10:45. The problem is that we were due to get to Buckingham Palace to see the changing of the guard, by 11:00 AM. This is done only every other day in August, and since I fly home on Thursday, I have missed my shot this time around. Seriously a pity, but all my own fault.

We dragged our dehydrated and exhausted carcasses to a nearby restaurant for a meal of fish and chips and then went to pick up the Big Bus Tour in front of Victoria Station. After a long wait, we boarded the bus. I wanted to see at least the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace. These were quite a few stops away, so we settled into our seats snugly to listen to the audio tour of places we passed. The problem is that the big Bus Tour Company does not have their act together. First we were told there would be a two hour wait to get into the Tower of London, so that was scratched. The employees are rude and disorganized. It seemed every stop we reached, we were asked to disembark and switch buses so our current driver could go on break. Then there was the pouring rain and the bad traffic. These constant interruptions in our sightseeing momentum finlly took their toll on our weary bodies, and right in front of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, we both fell into a post-lunch salt coma that lasted at least 30 minutes.

When we came to, we were in front of Westminster Abbey. Well great! We got off the bus and headed toward the building. It was only 3:30 in the afternoon and I finally felt somewhat alert. We made our way to the entrance of the magnificent facility and were greeted with locked doors. Guess what time Westminster closed? Yep – 3:30. Jessica got a great candid shot of me (which I do not condone) wearing the face of crushing disappointment.

She had to tell me to get over it for the next 30 minutes, because there was time enough to fit it in after we swap hotels tomorrow at noon. Boop hates itinerary changes, but she hates the idea of missing Westminster even more. So we walked over to Buckingham Palace to have a look, see the guards and do a little souvenir shopping. That made me feel better, as did the scrumptious smoked salmon sandwich I ate from Pret-A-Manger, my new favorite chain restaurant (otherwise, the rumors you hear about sucky British food are, sadly, mostly true).

Upon our return to the hotel, there was a message waiting for me from Premium Tours, the company that is hosting the Jack the Ripper crime tour we had tickets for tomorrow evening. Naturally, the tour has been cancelled due to low attendance. The good natured customer service rep. graciously offerred to reschedule me, but tomorrow is my last evening in London. This, my friends, is truly a devastating blow. Even the ever blase Jessica took it hard. Ever since reading Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper – Case Closed by Patricia Cornwell a few years back, I have been obsessed. This situation cannot be salvaged and I must console myself with the idea that at least I have plenty of time now for Westminster Abbey tomorrow, the Globe Theater, and a ride on the London Eye. Seriously though, no Jack the Ripper sucks big time.

I am definitely not having any pints tonight, and am on my way to the gym in an effort to feel less like I have nothing to show for Day 3 in London. Well, that couldn’t be true anyway. A stronger bond and a lot of laughs with an old, dear friend in a fabulous world city ought to be gift enough, right?

I slept hard through the night last night, only waking up for a few brief minutes to talk to Jessica. It is quiet around my hotel and I was so bloody exhausted from my movie marathon on the plane, it was all I could do to make it to 9 PM. In the end, it seems my entertainment gluttony en route was a blessing in diguise.

I thought I’d start the day off right with a workout in the hotel gym, which would involve getting up around 7 AM. I wanted to leave plenty of time to catch the Tube to Temple Station, where my planned Shakespeare walking tour would depart. However, as I looked about my hotel room, I couldn’t seem to find an alarm clock. Strange. So I had two options. The first was setting up a wakeup call with the front desk. However, these are notoriously unreliable, and I hate talking to strangers on the phone when I am drowsy. My voice sounds mannish. My second option was to use my cell phone, which has an alarm.

I set the alarm for 7 AM, but in my sleepiness, I forgot an important issue: my need to adjust for the time difference. My cell phone plan is not set up for international calling and therefore, I get no service. The clock on the phone is still on Chicago time. D’oh! Somehow, I woke on my own around 8:45 AM. Not enough time for the gym, but just the moment to shower, dress and make a dash for the Victoria Station. Do you like how I name drop different Tube stations now as though I were a seasoned expert?

One of many things I adore about British English: you know how when you take a CTA train, each stop has a recorded message along the lines of, “This is Belmont. Transfer to Red, Brown and Purple Line trains at Belmont?” Well in London, you get that too, but you also receive tourist minded recommendations that let you know points of interest just outside each locale. Here’s the part that really tickles me. Instead of saying “Get off here to see ___” as we might in the USA with our lazy English, the Brits ask you to “alight” at a various stop to see a particular place of note. I am quite sure that 95% of Americans don’t even know what “alight” means and yet, it is common parlance here. That sigh you just heard is Boop’s involuntary reaction of pleasure from hearing “proper” English spoken with familiarity.

Anywhoo, it turns out I was the only one to book a ticket for the Shakespeare Walking Tour today. Lucky me! I had the guide, a fast-walking, poetry slinging, tiny Irish guy named Declan, to myself. This gentleman knew his shit and since I was the only customer, I could ask him as many questions as I could think of, which was quite a few. This tour was not your standard Globe Theater, etc. cliche. Instead, this was a 90-minute excusrion designed to show you the secrets: where Bill lived and worked, his friends, his lovers, out of the way, but important monuments that no longer exist.

Do I even need to say that I loved it? I had about 4 inches on Declan, but had to run to keep up with him, figuratively and literally. I let him know right off the bat that I had a Master’s in English Lit. (of course), but ended up wishing I hadn’t been so quick to toot my own horn. The sheer amount of things I never knew was simply embarassing. For example, I have always bought into the oft-repeated legend of Shakespeare as a starving artist. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although he never earned much for the writing of his plays, and there was no modern copyright law to ensure the payment of future royalties, William made a killing at each and every performance, being a 1/8 owner of the Globe, and a 1/6 owner of the Black Friars ‘theater, a second location where plays were performed for the titled and wealthy (never knew this either). So then, as now with modern rock stars, all the money was in the tour, the show, the performance. Shakespeare was one of the richest and most famous laymen of his day, at a time when London only had 300,000 residents.

Other secrets exposed: Shakespeare was a secret Catholic, he was bisexual (this I knew from reading his sonnets during undergrad), that famous line, “Neither a borrower, nor a lender be” was taken from his own life experience as a creditor to many friends and associates.

Declan delivered three monologues during the course of the tour, with plenty of emotion and expression – to my utter delight. I am on the verge of an epileptic fit of joy. Jessica should arrive shortly bearing store bought alcohol (the price of a pint in the pub can be insane, but I’ll get around to that anyway – how could I not?). Let’s see if my plans to run on the treadmill later hold up.

• The Hangover (sick and twisted in the best way and how much more do I now love Ed Helms?)
• Grey Gardens (both Drew Barrymorer and Jessica Lange were something fierce, and who knew Daniel Baldwin actually still worked as an “actor?”)
• Easy Virtue (so-so, but I typically hate Jessica Biel, and did not in this one)
• The Proposal (What can I say? I am a sucker for Sandy Bullock, not to mention Ryan Reynolds is smokin’.)

I was in a state of semi-remorse for my childish refusal to turn off the TV and go to sleep by the time the flight landed. But somehow I found my second wind when turning to the business of getting myself some GBP (that’s British pounds for you layfolk) and figuring out how the hell to get to my first hotel via the Tube. Boop did not come here for taxis, y’all and I was determined to do this the way Londoners do. Except…

1. Taking the Heathrow Express train and connecting to the Tube cost me 20 GBP, or roughly $30. Wow! I was warned that London was pricey, but seriously? The Heathrow Express is sort of like the Metra and the Tube reminscent of the CTA. Who in God’s name would spend $30 to take the CTA? How do blue collar Londoners afford the commute?

2. If anyone ever thought getting around the various CTA rail lines was a challenge, please see the map of London’s system above. I am proud that I got to my destination in one piece and without any obvious wrong turns, but that is only because I swallowed my little tourist pride and asked for help – more than once.

3. Access for the disabled on the Tube – just doesn’t exist, at least not on the Circle Line, the one I took to Victoria Station. No escalators or elevators, just old fashioned stone steps. Boop did not have energy for the gym today, but after lugging 45 pounds of crap and two jackets all over town for over an hour, I think I am good.

So tomorrow is the Shakespeare walking tour at 11 AM. One good sleep, a workout in the hotel gym, and I am ready! And are you all behaving yourselves Stateside?