LONDON: Act II

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March 5, 2017

THE WANDERER'S SECOND day in London began with a scrumptious breakfast of hot cocoa and a blueberry muffin at a cafe, and would end with murder and revenge—at the Globe Theatre.
The sun had risen much before the wanderer, who was still sleeping off the remnants of her jet-lag. But, eventually, the wanderer rose, fresh as a fairy, ready and excited for what the day would bring.




After breakfast it was off to the Portrait Gallery, a museum which, for the wanderer, was like walking through a Hall of Familiar British Faces. She met her dear old friend Jane Austen (whose teeny-tiny likeness was made by her sister Cassandra), Winston Churchill, Vera Britain, the Bard himself (of course), Bonnie Prince Charlie, Queen Victoria . . . It was like some sort of strange reunion for the wanderer, whose knowledge of history was rooted largely in historical fiction. In the months before her trip, for instance, she became acquainted with Winston Churchill through Netflix's The Crown and with Queen Victoria through the drama Victoria on PBS. Discovering that Queen Victoria's bust in the museum wore her hair in the same way as she did on the TV series completely delighted the wanderer.


Outside, it was a typical cloudy, drizzly, Londony day. The wanderer bought a bowl of soup to fill her belly and warm her up as she navigated her way through London. London was like no other city she had ever been to before. It was old and full of history, like the beautiful, centuries-old buildings that lined the streets, like Big Ben and the Thames. It was new and shiny, like the big red buses that trundled on nearly every street, like the Eye and the yellow daffodils peeking up from the grass. It was an amalgamation of oldness and newness, the past and the present. It was a city that transcended time.




And it was full of delicious food. The wanderer ate humus and bread for dinner, and her stomach was happy indeed. In the evening, she arrived at the Globe for his very first play in London, The White Devil (which the wanderer would like to rename The Strumpet) by one of Shakespeare's contemporaries, John Webster. Stepping into the theater was like stepping back in time: Candles filled the wooden room with a warm golden glow. The wanderer and her companion stood behind the railing on the second story of the theatre, watching as a tale of love and murder and revenge unfolded below them. For the latter half of the play they were even able to sit down on the bench that the couple sitting in front of them had vacated, sighing in content at the chance to rest their weary legs, which had wandered much that day. In the candlelight, in the Globe, the wanderer watched the play. She had never heard the word strumpet so many times in her life.
She quite liked it.

End of Act II.


 

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