minestrone, will solace, zero to hero

Read some more of Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Wilson this morning while sitting by the window downstairs of our AirBNB. They’ve set up this nice cushion on the windowsill, and with the morning light, it makes a perfectly pleasant place to read. But this day’s set up to be a real scorcher, and it’s already incredibly warm, which hurts the experience a bit. We trudge on anyway.

Another stop at Pocket Coffee this morning, where I try chai. I think it was very catered towards the Western palate, because it was chockful of cinnamon and overly sweet. So I’d like to try it again when it doesn’t feel like I’m drinking a liquid snickerdoodle at nine in the morning. After, Abby and I take the Tube down to Buckingham Palace, where we arrive just in time to get another vanilla soft serve before the changing of the guards. I knew there would be hoards of people, but not to this scale—I can’t believe the masses that have shown up to watch these guards march down the road.

I must admit, while watching the guards, I sort of couldn’t believe this is still in practice. I understand England is a land of tradition, but it just all seems sort of unnecessary. We walk towards the palace with them, quickening our strides to keep up. The palace is nice, but again, so crowded we see no incentive in lingering.

We walk towards Central London with the final goal of heading to the House of Mina Lima. I’ve realized it’s a good idea to just not tell Abby how long/far we’ll be walking—she doesn’t really seem to notice when we’ve been walking for half an hour if I don’t tell her. Piccadilly Circus is akin to Times Square, albeit much more lame looking. I think if you’re going to have an area of theaters and advertisements, you need to really commit. We eventually make it to the store, which is exactly how one might imagine it—whimsical and slightly eccentric, filled to the brim with bookish merch, but mostly Harry Potter. I deliberate for ages over various souvenirs for family.

We’re nearing our slot for the British Museum by the time we finish with Mina Lima. So we start walking over, and come across an antiquean bookstore, which might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in ages. Unfortunately, Abby and I couldn’t buy any books, hindered by price and anxieties over getting it back safely. But I see the most beautiful copy of Villette by Charlotte Brönte, and I do believe I’ll be thinking of it until the day I die. We’re charmed by the cashier shouting to the back to check if certain books are in stock, and her logbook of purchases as opposed to an electronic system.

Lunch afterwards—we walk a few blocks inward from the museum to avoid obvious tourist traps and end up at this Italian restaurant owned by this friendly group of pals. We’re the only ones in there, so I was a bit worried. But we both ordered minestrone for cheap, and it was fantastic. Keep this in mind; it’ll come back later.

After lunch, we head into the British Museum (the Land of Stolen Objects). The first exhibit we check out is the tribute to the 250th anniversary of the United States, which is incredibly interesting. Firstly, the British refer to the Revolutionary War as the American War of Independence. Secondly, most of the exhibit was tokens of appreciation from Native Americans to the British.

We actually have less time in the museum than originally planned—they’re closing early tonight for an event, so we have three hours. But by this point in the trip, we both sort of have museum fatigue, so we don’t even mind much. We check out the Egyptian section before Abby decides she’d prefer to look at the Greek stuff (for more references to Nico DiAngelo and Will Solace). It’s genuine insanity how much stuff they have for all these different cultures. As we head to the Asian sections, this feeling only amplifies—it feels odd that people travel so far from their home countries to see objects from them. Also, why is the British Museum SO hot? I know it’s ninety degrees, so perhaps I can’t actually criticize too much. But it feels like walking through a thick, swampy sauna. With all their donors, is there not one that would be alright investing in a few more fans?

The gift shop is even warmer and far too big to properly explore in the thirty minutes we’ve allotted for it. I can’t even find a wall of postcards, which seems completely ridiculous to me. I also believe it to be completely ridiculous how people think they can just block crowded walkways.

Leaving the British Museum, we decide to go check out the bookstore we saw earlier—London Review of Books. I get two more books—they have the Booker Prize longlist novels out on display! So I get Helen of Nowhere by Makenna Goodman and The Director by Daniel Kehlmann, translated by Ross Benjamin. That one was shortlisted for the international list recently, but I wasn’t able to get to it back then. Then we go to the stationery shop next door called Present & Correct, which is wonderfully curated and even more beautifully organized. Abby, to use her recent favorite phrase, “drops a dime” there.

Back across the street to the Italian restaurant. They seem quite pleased to see us again, recognizing us from earlier. We get pasta—their carbonara is actually quite good, and we make plans to go back a third time. I have a hunch the two owners are somewhat involved romantically.

After dinner, we walk towards the theater—we’re on our way to go see Hercules! Anyone who knew me in middle school knows I used to watch this and eat dry Crispix every time I felt sad. Try it, it’s a great method.

It’s a good show, very theatrical and a clear spectacle. In front of us, however, was a family who seemed to have never been in public before—they were shifting about in their seats, talking to each other, and grooving to the music. Like hello. I also saw both girls go on Instagram during the show! Anyways, I thought the show was quite nice—I wish they didn’t have to change the plot so much, especially the ending, which is the best part, but I understand why it was necessary.

The Tube takes forever to get to the station, but we eventually get on. I’m reading The Director, which I’m enjoying so far. Five stops before our own, Abby exits the train; I look up from my book, and she’s no longer there. I sprint out of the car and pull her back inside. Sort of gave me a heart attack, but she promises not to do that anymore, so I’ll move on.