A piece of paper entitled “London Itinerary” is nicely folded in the front pocket of my backpack, but I don’t reach for it when we emerge from our first tube station. Instead my eyes are fixated on the mesmerizing structure before me, Big Ben. Up close the clock is intimidating against my generously measured 5’5″ frame. I don’t even notice that my feet have stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my jaw dropped in awe, until I almost loose my balance from the knocking of passing pedestrians. It doesn’t feel real, being here, after seeing scenes of this city in movies and pictures. It’s almost as if I have been dropped onto the soundstage of a movie, unknowingly being tricked into the belief that I am actually in England when I haven’t so much as left the country. I walk aimlessly around the structure, capturing photographs from every angle, each time thinking this view is better than the last.

My eyes squint when I peer toward the water to my left. I can see the picturesque bridge stretching across the steady flow of the river. On the other side of the gap sits The Eye, an extraordinary piece of engineering. The glass-encased bubbles of the Ferris wheel appear almost motionless from afar. Heavy clouds fill the sky above, predicting rain for the coming afternoon.

I find myself turning in circles as I cross the bridge, unsure of which direction to look. Even on an overcast day the buildings shimmer in the twinkle of rays peaking through the clouds like a game of hide and go seek. I let my eyes wonder effortlessly around, capturing the image for my memory. And for the first time since my arrival it sinks in, I’m actually in London! Amazing!

Map-less and hungry for our first London adventure we cross through the bustling streets, entering Hyde Park. As the Central Park of London it transports walkers into a forest of trees and colorful, blooming plants, full of open hills of grass perfect for picnics, and complete with a steady river and pool inhabited by silky white swans. Boathouses sit by the water’s edge adding a flawless accent of architecture to the surrounding natural allure of the area. I would happily get lost walking along the dirt paths and through the exceptional gardens for hours.

A rusty green colored sculpture of a swan towers confidently into the clearing sky on the opposite side of the water from me. Its strength can’t be missed even though it is partially camouflaged by a small patch of trees to one side.  Behind it lays a subtle black iron fence housing the Princess Diana Memorial. I enter the gate silently, paying my respects as I observe the simplicity of the fountain. Low to the ground and made from what appears to be granite; it’s almost as if the shallow floor turns to bright marble under the timid flow of the clear water. I walk further and harsh waves instantaneously form from the previously still liquid. Mountains have been carved out, leaving trepid falls below the water. My speed is constant, but the incline of an upcoming curve sends the waves into a race as if there was a toddler splashing down a flowing water slide. Then the water brings your emotions full circle, culminating in the very pool in which the flow began.

The next morning we join a mix of locals and tourists alike, moving like a pack of wolves down the crowded streets of Portobello Road, all searching to uncover something brilliant. Known as Portobello Market, this strip of land is full of life even this early on a Saturday morning. The buildings are painted in an array of dim shades, one no more overpowering than the next. Doors to shops are held open by warn rocks, merchandise filling tables outside, enticing passersby to stop. Up above on the next corner I see a fire engine red building, the front door carved out of the streamline curve of the building’s corner. Alice’s is written four feet wide and hand painted on the building above the door. The sight attracts my attention, my feet unconsciously moving in its direction with purpose faster than when they’re searching for the relief of cool water after walking across the hot coals of sand on a excruciatingly hot summer day at the beach.

The charming shop is full of antiques arbitrarily stacked and hung from ever crevice, the walls barely visible behind the lure of the objects.  There are glass cabinets full of tea sets and dated cameras, wooden airplane models hang above as if they are midflight, and stacks of old fashioned suitcases fitted with broken locks sit in the corner. A few steps down bring me to another room plastered just as thoroughly in objects as the last. The sun sifting in from an open door casts shadows on a replica sailboat perched atop an aged and dented brown trunk. 

I move on, walking throughout the store searching every inch with my eyes as if I’m looking for buried treasure in a sunken ship. The store is a clutter of happiness and stories. I imagine each piece of furniture taking home in someone’s life, piecing the room together in my mind as if I am an HGTV designer. After making my purchases I walk out the storefront, claiming the clutter of this eclectic mix of items my favorite store thus far in London and deeply professing my love for Portobello Market.

Next we stroll past the remaining stores and make our way to a recommended caf�. After both deciding on a chicken and avocado BLT we decide to celebrate London in the first way that comes to mind. We order a piece of triple chocolate cake visible in the glass case from our table. There’s just one catch, “we would like that cake first, please.” I ask the waitress. Surprisingly she doesn’t find that the slightest bit weird and simply cuts it from the full cake sitting in a nearby cooler and delivers it to our table. Spoil our meal or not, we devour its entirety within minutes.

Though not the traditional fish n’ ships one may expect to be out first real meal in England it was none the less as delicious as previously predicted from the language of the menu, including a warm homemade roll to encase the fresh ingredients.

Next, with our stomachs full, we head toward The Eye. I enter the glass room via a moving conveyer belt and they slide back the door locking twenty strangers in a glass oval. If it weren’t for the amazing sights that come into view while perched atop the moving wheel it would have been like getting stuck in an elevator for a half hour. However instead of forced small talk and uneasiness there are only polite offerings to take pictures for one another.

The sun is setting, turning the heavy cloud covering into brilliant shades of pink and orange as if I was watching a watercolorist paint the sky before me. When we lift higher into the London sky the buildings below become more and more unrecognizable. Only the distinct face of one side of Big Ben’s clock can be seen from the highest point. I watch it move as I take a seat on the handrail that projects out over the edge, beyond the solid floor below. Surprisingly, neither the height nor the possibility of a seemingly fatal drop to my death brings fear to me. Instead I simply peer out into the skyline, enjoying the view, wanting to circle to the top once again when only the lights of the city are visible. 

March 3rd-5th

Location: London, England