England Day 6
England Day Six
Notting Hill brimmed with charm, filled with little shops and street hawkers. The neighborhood felt straight out of a movie I’d recently been encouraged to watch—though the title escaped me.
I was on a mission: find old, pointless, beat-up-looking bar signs. After 20 stores and zero success, we stumbled upon a gold mine. Wooden signs with British sayings lined the walls—phrases I could read but not comprehend. Overwhelmed by options, I bought nothing. My wife, however, spotted an 1800s map of Germany, our honeymoon destination. It was perfect. We didn’t buy that either.
Next stop was a random pub rumored to serve beer. The one I wanted was kicked. My wife’s long-standing curse—kicking kegs wherever we go—persisted. This phenomenon likely dates back centuries. We Ubered back to the hotel and then to lunch. Our chosen restaurant was so high-end, the server greeted us with the disdain reserved for peasants. That’s how you know you’ve made it: when servers throw shade. I ordered the burger, despite my issues with fancy restaurant cheeseburgers. By definition, cheeseburgers need grease and amateur cooking; these were crafted for royalty. Still, I ordered one—because I’m a princess.
My wife allocated three hours to travel to the Harry Potter set. We arrived in 30 minutes. I established base camp at a bar near the shuttle buses, a strategic move that looked a lot like me drinking beer in a pub. We agreed to have dinner here later. Before heading to HP, I had to change into my Harry Potter shirt—an exact match to one I’d seen on a 14-year-old girl. Same shirt? Same size? Who wore it better? Debatable. After 15 minutes of struggling to put it on, I emerged to find we’d missed the shuttle. Chaos ensued—just kidding. We caught the next bus and were on time. Then we met The Rival Couple.
There was no ticket line, but they pushed past us anyway, sprinting inside to… nothing. They stood idly, along with the rest of humanity and us. Our first stop was Platform 9¾ for a photo. A massive line had formed. Guess who we were behind? Mrs. Rival set her purse down, removed her jacket, passed her camera, fixed her hair, corrected her husband’s angles, and debated lighting. Tasks for the line, not the platform. My wife, fed up, sprinted into the frame, struck a quick pose, and peaced out while Mrs. Rival continued barking orders. We heard her yell, “Excuse me?” as we rode off into the sunset—to The Great Hall.
Inside, mannequins donned movie costumes, fulfilling my wife’s dream and cementing my nightmare. A sign warned of animatronic spiders in the Forbidden Forest—a definite “no” for me. Before I could opt out, I powered through, like a hero… without beer. The butterbeer line was long, but we got one. Excited, we made for the Hogwarts Bridge, envisioning the perfect photo. Cue heartbreak: butterbeer was banned on the bridge. One employee’s sole job was policing joy. Despite this, we managed decent photos. I read every factoid in the exhibit—retaining about 1% of the information. My biggest gripe? Denied my Quidditch experience, I vowed never to forget.
The day ended at O’Neill’s, a pub bustling with patrons. Their horizontal queuing system baffled me, a lifelong practitioner of vertical lines. Bartenders kept asking, “Twenty?”, and I panicked every time. Was I supposed to pay 20 pounds? Was it a code? Desperation kicked in, and I blurted, “Burger.” Success! The bartender placed my order. I returned for another beer. “Twenty?” Tears. Google offered no clarity. Whatever “twenty” meant, I’m convinced it translated to, “What do you want?”
I want to take my butterbeer on that bridge.
