I originally planned to write about London’s memorials, particularly those for other nations and foreign dignitaries, and their relation to soft power and the United Kingdom’s relationship with its lost colonies. Honestly, I probably still will because I think it’s interesting and worth at least two hundred words, but something else is more important now.
Let me set the scene. Six of us – Ellie, Sydney, Autumn, Patrick, Jack, and I – had just left Winston Churchill’s War Rooms and were wandering St. James’ Park. The sky was overcast, but that almost seemed to make the park greener. Ducks were swimming in the pond, children playing in the grass, and we were content. Or, at least mostly content. Yes, the park was beautiful, but the six of us had no idea how to spend the rest of our free. There’s so much to London, and we only have so much time to see everything. Autumn suggested we take the Eye, that way we could at least see all of the city since we couldn’t experience it all. We were debating the merits of her idea when our storybook fairy godmother appeared. Jogging past us, she said, “Do the top of the Tate instead. Same views, but without the cost,” and then, after being asked about the museums hours, “It’s Date Night at the Tate, so it’ll be open late.” It was a brilliant idea. We turned to thank her, but she had vanished, presumably flitting away to help another poor tourist somewhere else in the world with her rock solid advice.