Wednesday, December 3, 2008
London & Harrow

There are a few lines of an English nursery rhyme that I learned as a kid and have never forgotten. They go:

Pussycat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to see the Queen…”

And that’s what I did. I became that feline this morning–I went to London to see the Queen. You see, BBC’s Breakfast Show informed me at 8 am that today was a critical day in the Royal Calendar—The State Opening of Parliament. In an interesting feature that explained the coalescence of historical events, tradition, pomp and circumstance, the reporter took us from Buckingham Palace at the point where the Queen leaves her residence and along the track known as the Royal Route to Parliament Square and the entrance to the House of Lords. The country pulls out all the stops in order to make this occasion special. Parliament is officially declared Open for the year and the Queen makes an annual speech, addressing the Members of Parliament and commenting on the affairs of state—a British version, if you like, of the American State of the Union Address.

I watched fascinated, the Anglophile in me surfacing immediately and I figured, since I am free today and Parliament Square is not twenty minutes away and I will probably never have an opportunity like this to rub shoulders with royalty, why not go and take a peek at the pageantry for which British tradition is so reputed? Every American loves a parade and I am no exception—so off I went to witness one of Great Britain’s most important annual parades!

So I showered, stepped briefly into my Holborn Public Library to pick up some Travel books on Ireland for my forthcoming weekend trip to Belfast, got on the Tube and sped off. I arrived at Westminster Embankment to find the entire area cordoned off with metal barriers, dozens of policemen and women in their spiffy uniforms (love those bobby helmets and those smart black and white checked pillbox hats!) and security personnel in those fluorescent green vests that have become a permanent feature of all public celebrations. I inquired of a policewoman as to the best vantage point for viewing the parade. She told me (duh!) to stand where the crowd was thickest!!! I decided to do no such thing. For one thing, I do not have height working to my advantage. For another, I had my trusty camera and intended to take pictures of items more interesting that a bunch of heads in front of me! Thirdly, while I did want to be a part of it, I didn’t intend to be right in the thick of it!

So, I found myself a spot right on the fringes of the crowd and there I stood awaiting the arrival of the Monarch and her entourage. It was 11. 10 am and the royal procession was expected to arrive at 11. 20 as the Queen’s speech to the House of Lords was scheduled for 11. 25. It wasn’t long before the pageantry began. Two tall riders wearing shiny gold helmets and breastplates and carrying sabers rode on black horses from Whitehall towards Parliament Square. A large cohort of about fifty riders, similarly uniformed, on black horses, followed them. Two more cohorts of fifty horses each followed. I had never seen so many black horses in my life and it was a rather strange sight–so many horses on tarred city streets. The carriages then followed—the first one, a closed carriage—black all over and lavishly decorated with gold. It was pulled by six white horses and in it, as clear as crystal, I saw the Queen wearing an off-white hat and an off-white coat, her well-coiffeured curls matching her outfit. Then, within five seconds, the carriage and the Queen disappeared from my view. I had, of course, readied my camera and my telephoto lens to get what I thought was the best shot with the towers of Westminster Abbey in the background. (Oh, I almost forgot to mention that the bells of Westminster seemed to have gone crazy. All morning, they rang out merrily and provided magnificent sound effects to accompany the glorious visuals.) Several other carriages followed, each one more striking than the next—some open, some closed. They carried people whom it was too difficult to recognize. Some were attired in what looked like military uniforms, others wore elaborate hats. More cohorts of horses followed, more orders were shouted, more pomp and ceremony followed though the crowd remained quiet and courteous. The Save Iraq, Save Iraqis Brigade of protestors were in their usual spot right opposite the Tower of Big Ben, but even they remained quiet as the Queen’s carriages passed by. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared out of sight. From the chinks in the railing that separate the street from the courtyard of the Houses of Parliament below, I could see the frenzied, if very organized movements of men and animals.

Most of the crowd had started to leave, by that point, but a thought suddenly struck me. If the procession had passed along the route at the beginning of the pageantry that marks the State Opening of Parliament, then surely it would have to go along the same route to return to Buckingham Palace, wouldn’t it? So there would yet another opportunity to see royalty pass before me.

I asked a policeman standing nearby what time the procession would return to the Palace. “By mid-day”, he said, glancing up at Big Ben. I wondered, for a few minutes, whether I wanted to stand for a half hour (could my feet take it?) braving the cold on what was another frigid day. Then, I decided, what the heck? I’m right here now and with the crowd diminishing, I found a spot far ahead of where I was, not fifty feet from the intersection where Whitehall meets Parliament Square. I decided to stand there and edit the pictures in my camera as I had only a few shots left.

During the waiting period, I began a conversation with a couple that had missed the first parade and hoped to catch a glimpse of the Queen on her way out. They turned out to be from Belfast on vacation in London for a few days. Of course, I then told them that I would be in Belfast this coming weekend and obtained wonderful insider tips from them on where to go and what to do (the Christmas fair in the City Hall is a must, they said, as is the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum). The Giant’s Causeway and the Coastal Route, they said, was also something I should not miss—but I had intended to make a trip there anyway.

And then it was close to noon and the first couple of horses passed us by, indicating that it would not be long before the procession of carriages would begin on its return journey. This time, I was so close to the front that I had a clear view and, of course, my excitement mounted. Who would have thought that in three months, I would see the Queen three times? Llew and I had been not more than three feet away from the entire Royal Family when we were at Balmoral in Scotland in the month of August. At that time, we had both thought it was a unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! And now here I was, three months later, looking upon the royal visage of the Queen twice on the same day! It was truly unbelievable!

And while all these thoughts went through my mind, her carriage passed by again—a closed carriage, thankfully, for the cold would have frozen the most stoic of monarchs. Since the policeman had informed the crowd that she is always in the first carriage, they knew what to expect. There was their Queen, the longest reigning monarch in British history, sailing majestically by, seated besides her husband Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh, to the accompaniment of carillon bells from Westminster, and a battalion of horses and riders, footmen and attendants. Before me appeared a scene, like an illustration in a fairy story, whose characters had names like Snow White and Cinderella. As each carriage passed by, the shutter clicked on my camera. Then followed the large troupes of bear-skin hatted guards, looking very different from the pictures one sees of them in tourist brochures—for they were all clad in gray overcoats to combat the cold and seemed to have arrived in London via the Kremlin! It was the stuff that television drama is made of and I was as excited as a kid in a candy shop as I took it all in. I could not resist calling Llew, despite the fact that it was only 8 am in New York, to tell him that I had been to Parliament to see the Queen. Of course, he exclaimed and I giggled and gushed, and then it was all over and I had another adventure to write home about.

The nursery rhyme continues:
“Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under her chair”.

I did not, of course, frighten any mice under her chair, but I could visualize it clearly—the chair, I mean, which is, in fact, an opulent gilded throne, for Llew and I had visited the House of Lords only a couple of weeks ago and in the sanctum sanctorum of the British government, we had sat in the “Stranger’s Gallery” on the third floor and watched at local MPs debated the hottest issues of the day. Having been there, having done that, and now having seen the Queen three times in my life, I felt like a veteran Londoner to the core.

Then, I was on the Tube hastening off to Harrow to spend the afternoon with my classmate and dear friend Bina Samel Ullal. I had not visited her since I arrived in London in September and I was keen to see her kids Alisha and Dhiren and her husband Navin. I had told her that I would arrive there around 1. 30 pm and from the Circle line at Westminster, I changed to the Bakerloo line at Paddington, then took the 186 bus to her place from Harrow and Wealdstone Tube station (she had told me that her stop is called the Belmont Health Center and I am now so familiar with the use of buses that I can hop on and off them without batting an eyelid).

Within an hour, I was seated on the sofa in her living room watching events unfold in Bombay in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks as Bina gets NDTV coverage directly from India. Naturally, we spent a long time discussing the awful destruction of our beloved city and its people before we broke for lunch. Bina had cooked an Indian meal that morning—Chicken Curry with Peppers and Potatoes with Aubergine. With a delicious salad and naans, we had ourselves a delicious lunch with a mince pie to follow for dessert.

So there it was, another first for me–my first mince pie of the festive season. This is a British holiday delicacy of which Americans are unaware—tiny pies, each baked individually in a muffin pan. The pastry is almost like a cookie—it is sweet and crumbly and delicious and the inside is filled with a mixture of dried fruit soaked in rum and flavored with orange rind. Served with single cream, it was simply scrumptious and I enjoyed every crumb.

By 3. 30pm., we got into Bina’s car so that she could pick up her son, Dhiren, from school. I had the chance then to meet Sheila, one of Bina’s friends, who had visited me together with Bina, in Southport, Connecticut, a few years ago. We chatted for a while before Dhiren joined us and then drove back to her place at Beverley Gardens. Navin had left work early to keep a dentist’s appointment and I had a chance to greet him briefly before he left. A few minutes later, Alisha, her daughter, returned from junior college and we spent the next half hour in amiable conversation. It was a lovely evening and I was delighted to have seen the kids—all grown up now and fun to be with. Of course, I told them all about my encounter with royalty that morning and I know I will get a great deal of mileage out of this adventure as the week goes by.

Then, I was on the Tube, headed home to Holborn. I spent the evening catching up on email as my server is playing up and I was unable to access the Web this morning. I spent a while on my blog before I called it a night, ready to awake tomorrow to teach my last two classes of the semester. Where, oh where, has the time gone?