England Day 7
England Day Seven
We squeezed every last drop of fun from London and then fermented it—because, why not? Yum?
The day started at the Natural History Museum. I couldn’t wait to see the dinosaurs because, deep down, I’m still a kid. I played the role of “Walking Encyclopedia,” reading every sign and reciting them to my wife so she’d think I’m a genius. Spoiler: it’s not working. Staring at those fossils, I flip-flopped between “Why can’t we coexist?” and “I’ll see you in my nightmares.”
We stumbled upon a stuffed polar bear, which naturally reminded us of the one tied to a “long rope” so it could fish in the Thames—one of the royal pets we’d learned about during our Tower of London tour. Let’s just say they don’t make rope like they used to. Then, we came across the anglerfish display, which hit close to home. They had a normal-looking one, and right next to it, another captioned, “Anglerfish after a meal,” complete with a giant food baby. All I could think of was the “Lesser Flamingos” sign at Busch Gardens Tampa. Don’t let them label you! You’re just as good as the regular flamingos.
Next up: Harrods. I had no idea what Harrods was, so I went in blind. Turns out, it’s the world’s most expensive shopping mall. Forget Aeropostale and Auntie Anne’s—this place had Tiffany’s, Louis Vuitton, and a wine bar. Naturally, we headed straight to the wine bar. But, as suspected, we got ignored because we didn’t look rich enough—fair. I suggested my wife wave her engagement ring around to signal, “Hey, we’re fancy too!” It didn’t work. When they finally handed us a menu, we realized we couldn’t even afford the air. We ordered a glass of wine each, got corrected on our pronunciation, and soaked in the humiliation. Ah, the Harrods experience.
Lunchtime arrived, and with it, the eternal question: warm flat beer? The American nightmare. The bartender at our lunch spot tried to explain why British people love it, but I tuned him out. Not happening. I ordered fish and chips for the fourth time this trip—zero regrets. Could I get a beer that wasn’t flat? No. Did anyone else work here? Moving on…
Destination: Buckingham Palace. Apparently, you can only see it when the Queen’s out of town. She’d been in Scotland, dodging work—an art form I respect deeply. Fun fact: she’s been passing off responsibilities as she gets older. Relatable. Word on the street is she eats fish and chips for lunch four times a week. Soulmates? Twins?
Inspired by this royal connection, we headed to Buckingham’s art collection, the largest private one in the world. Here’s the thing: 1) I have zero opinions on art, and 2) I really had to pee. This was a no-brainer… until I realized this palace wasn’t set up for tourists. Bathrooms? Only available after the tour. Challenge accepted. Or not. I tried distracting myself with the audio guide, but I skipped ahead and got lost. “And on your left is an original Rembrandt…” Nope, don’t care, gotta pee. I speed-walked through the rest of the tour, dashed outside, and faced the staff’s wrath for taking the audio guide to the bathroom. Whatever. Keep it.
Dinner required “fancy clothes.” Translation: sleeves. Begrudgingly, I wore something sleeved to Bob Bob Ricard. They had a “Press for Champagne” button. The waiter greeted us and promptly disappeared, triggering my restaurant anxiety. When he returned, he apologized for the delay, saying he’d been giving us a chance to press the button.
“I’m not pressing random buttons,” I said. “Haven’t you seen a movie? Never push the big red button.”
We ordered the Beef Wellington, recommended for two. My wife suggested we split it. “Of course, darling, but what are you eating?” We settled on a 2/3 - 1/3 split. Top five meals of my life. Dessert? Lemon cake. My wife hates lemon, which meant it was safe from her fork… or so I thought. She ate half. I call this betrayal “The Lemon Defense.”
This was our last night in London. My legs were mutinying, and I realized something: I hadn’t seen the moon the entire trip. Time to head back to the U.S., where we at least have one moon.
