Anne of Cleves, London, Day 126. Parents In
London!
I woke up with clear vision. Then I felt the
burn of the contact lenses. My feet touched the floor as strangers, making me
wonder if I hadn’t had gravity in my dream.
Writing
a love letter. I felt an enchanted sense of focus, and when I look back, I don’t
know how I did all I did in just two hours. Cooking eggs, eating cereal,
packing, cleaning, and then as the hour of eleven struck, I had to run to my
parents. And then run all the way back to the room. Forgot my passport. (I just
realized this type of detail is the sort Greg (skype, Day 120) teased me
about).
Taxi
to Rail Station. Norwich to London Liverpool Street Station. I got to hear
about the kitties on the train—so our ‘scaredy cat’ Roscoe fell in the lake
back home, but made it out just fine. Meanwhile, our older cat Rex bugs my
brother just as he used to bug me—that overaffectionate appeal for the sake of
food (and love). In other news, I showed my parents the Olympic Stadium on our
right as we passed Stratford (an outlier of London), and otherwise we talked of
my experience abroad. Well, yes, they knew about it from this blog, but at the
deeper level. It was funny, thinking now about two days ago when my parents
went into my flat’s kitchen the first day and recognized a few of my flatmates’
faces and names. (That is the eerie yet convenient side of writing a travel blog.)
 |
| It may be hard to tell but yes, my face is saying 'Dadddd...' |
Once
in London, we Oyster Card’ed (yeah, verbified) through the Tube and arrived just
outside the Tower of London. I carried my mom’s bag and wouldn’t ya know, the
wheels broke. A breeze through the park became a Herculean feat. And then I
realized it was the outer layer of the wheel. I tore it off and the wheels were
even again.
We
finally arrived at the flat my parents rented for a week. After a short run
through the house and enjoying its ridiculous location (almost in sight of
Tower Bridge), we went out to The Dickens Inn for dinner. Another philosophical
discussion ensued. The habit of the British waiters bringing out food when it’s
ready (instead of when all the meals at the table are ready) bugged my parents,
but the food was good. Right after, we headed to the supermarket nearby and I
bought a Union Jack-clad Gingerbread Man, along with this odd biscuit cereal
that my mom called ‘petrified [poo]’ from the looks of it. I wanted more of an
Englishness to my shopping cart—ahem, trolley.
On
the way home, I felt clever with this joke: ‘Do I like to ask questions?’ And
such were the types of jokes my mom and I tossed back and forth while my dad
figured out how on earth we were to get back.
After
returning, my dad became best friends with the landlord Dave, an older fellow
who really got into explaining how everything worked, how this monitor in the
wall somehow connects to keeping mice away, and how the washer worked
(weirdly). For the television: ‘So now if we push the display…now we can see
it.’ Yes, that is what he said. My dad asked about an iPod stereo and he didn’t
know what that was. My favourite part in this was Mom’s impression she
recounted after: for ‘mouse’ she heard ‘mask’ at first, from his accent, so she
assumed he was referring to a robber. Then she heard ‘mouse’, so the robber was
suddenly spoken of as a mouse. It was great. Then I ate my gingerbread man.
(Just one of those things that felt good to mention.)
The
night I spent at home, catching up on blogging while my parents explored
London. My dad bought an indie pianist’s CD at some bar and they ran into this
community dinner area where strangers give each other crap—friendly now—and
then dance. They only stayed for a bit. They returned enchanted from their
first night out in London.
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