The London Lass: Day 4

Ah, my first Saturday in London! What better to do than hop on a coach bus with a sassy tour guide and tourist our way around the city? I couldn’t think of anything, so that’s what I did! The CAPA program sponsored a four-hour tour of London, with Kodak moments allowed at the Tower Bridge. Did you know the Tower Bridge is the one that goes on the postcards? The London Bridge – which, I might say, is not falling down – is just a bridge like any other just a moment away from the picturesque Tower Bridge.

Anyhow, the bus I rode was driven by a man called James. I’m not kidding. The bus driver’s name was James. As soon as this was announced, I declared the trip the best I’d ever taken.

Our tour led us around places like the Natural History Museum, Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, the “Wobbly Bridge,” and Big Ben. Seeing the city and its many neighborhoods was interesting, but I was more amazed by the fact that not one of them was a place I would not want to be. I wanted to explore every entrance to every building in every neighborhood we came across. There were no slums, no dirty or smelly districts, no sketchy feelings to be experienced. I mean, I’m sure these do exist in London, but the fact we could drive around a city for three hours, never crossing the same path twice, and not see any one absolutely thrilled me.

Things I learned from our tour guide: 1. English people do not like being called British. They are English people with English accents. 2. Old people are “crumbly.” 3. “Potty fees” were quite the industry after the first public toilets opened in London in 1852. 4. English people do not say “awkward.” They simply sing “Kumbaya.” I still can’t decide if this is real life or if the tour guide was just trying to persuade forty American students who overuse the word awkward to wander the streets of London perpetually singing old hymns. 5. Christian the Lion was purchased at London’s Harrods. 6. “Pants” refers to underwear here. Apparently the English are always confused by Americans. They see two Americans say to one another, “I like your pants!” and the English people think, “But how do they know?” 7. The National Gallery in London contains “all the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” (used in reference to their classical names such as Leonardo and Donatello).

There were some other winning bits and pieces from our wonderful tour guide, including his tales of a “crumbly” Canadian man he’d taken around the city the previous week. Our tour guide went on and on about this man and his ridiculous name for two hours before he finally disclosed the man’s name was Randy. Apparently, in the UK, “randy” is the US version of “horny.” The poor old man went around telling people, “Hello. I’m Randy,” not knowing anything about the implications of the word here. He got some mixed reactions from the locals.

My favorite part of the tour was, by far, Postman’s Park. In the park, which used to be a cemetery of sorts, is the Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice. It’s essentially a wall of plaques in memory of people, from all ages and walks of life, who died trying to save others. There I met Richard Ferris, who jumped into a river to rescue a woman trying to drown herself. I couldn’t help but wonder: Did he love her? Did he even know her? I also met 11-year-old Soloman Galaman, who pushed his younger brother out of the way of traffic but could not get himself out of the street in time. Did he and his brother bicker? Were they close? Was he old enough to know how wonderful siblings are, what good mates they make? Does his brother remember that day? Did he live a life to help others, the way Soloman had helped him?

My pondering mind was fed even more Saturday afternoon, when I had the remarkable opportunity to attend the Paralympic Wheelchair Basketball game, Turkey vs. Poland. Sitting in an Olympic stadium surrounded by people of all nations was moving, but nothing touched my heart more strongly than the amazing athletes on the court. As a former basketball player and a generally all-too competitive person, I immediately sided with Poland’s plight and commenced cheering obnoxiously. However, some time into the game, I started to really notice the strength of the men I saw in front of me. Obviously, as Olympians, they were physically strong. But their spirits were just that much stronger.

Imagine being an athlete. Imagine defining yourself as an athlete. Imagine building your life around this, making it your identity, and then seemingly having that ripped from you by a car accident or a misstep on the stairs. Imagine being born into that life, never having the opportunity to play soccer and football with your friends on Sunday afternoons because of a fractional twist of fate. The strength of character and will to succeed I saw displayed on that court on Saturday was far beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. The tips of my fingers tingled with inspiration as they carried on, doing what they loved despite any and every obstacle.

I had a great deal to process, to digest, after my big Saturday in London. Saturday night happened to be the first night of the annual Mayor’s Thames Festival, so I decided to venture forth on my own. While battling the massive amount of people, I got in some quality thinking time, sampled English frozen yogurt, and saw a women’s choir and young men’s drumming group perform a spectacular piece on the HMS Belfast, which was pulled into the harbor for the festival. While I was there, I learned that thinking is better done in parks, I immensely enjoy English frozen yogurt, and Londoners really like festivals. Feeling the city’s size for the first time since I’d arrived, I left early and called it a night.