I once left a church in a bit of a ruckus, having had dogma issues that had me feeling as a lost puzzle piece from another picture. Eva sidestepped the land mines around me, ignoring the condemnation and gossip, and began to visit me every Sunday, where we would discuss her day at Mervyns before finishing off the evening watching Masterpiece Theater. We were both addicted to a Nigel Havers series called “The Charmer,” a bit of a 30’s era mystery of a playboy who made his living by scamming women.
Watching the series gave birth to a mutual interest in English things. We bought English biscuits that became our television time snack and experimented with homemade Shepherd’s Pie. Eventually, the opportunity arose for us to bid on tickets to become part of Virgin America’s inaugural flight from Los Angeles to London. We each placed a $100 bid and were rewarded for our efforts with round trip tickets.
Since the trip was so last minute, however, we could only go for three days. Eva and I complied a list of places we wanted to see, and we carefully planned each detail of our trip. We made reservations at a reasonably priced B&B at Paddington Station, partially based on its similarity to “Paddington Bear”, purchased a map and travel books on London and booked a return flight to San Francisco on the day after we would return to Los Angeles in consideration of a potential flight delay. As a gift to Eva, who so loved musicals, I bought a pair of tickets to see the new “Miss Saigon”.
Our flight to London was delayed for four hours, and we landed in Gatwick some time in the late afternoon. We boarded a train that rushed past remarkably green countryside, rows of homes and Cadbury trucks. We giggled at the soccer fans clustered in groups on different train platforms, their faces and bodies painted team colors. With so many new things to view from the train window, the discomfort of a long and tiring trip disappeared as the train made its way into the London.
Upon disembarking our train at Victoria Station, we found ourselves in the middle of a bona fide soccer riot. Following my sister and her roommates, who were also on the same flight, we pulled our luggage through a mass of screaming, jumping people who seemed to ebb and flow as ocean waves until our group reached a wall. Mixed in with the smell of beer and vomit was confusion and the reality that we had discovered another, more unwelcome vision of England, although none of us really understood what was happening.
Somehow, two German men grabbed and ran us from the station as we held onto each other. The driver piled us into his BMW, then maneuvered through traffic in his BMW as if we were in some James Bond movie by accelerating his vehicle to great speeds in between stop lights, only to slam on the brakes at the last minute. Eva laughed in my ear through the entire ride as we looked out the window. Away from the jumble of soccer rioting, we were returned to a more restrained, calmer view of British life. Eva was enthralled by the black gates and colorful garden flowers that bloomed above garden walls. Once we were safely able to travel about, we made our way to a pub in Hammersmith to meet my sister’s friends. Along the way, we took photos of more gardens, though most seem very small and portable, then squished into a pub where Eva and I drank our first Bitter and ate various snacks that seemed to be more like Greek food.
We soon broke away from the group and went to Piccadilly Square. From here, we became true tourists to London, taking in the sites, snapping photos at every opportunity, marveling at statues and eating at every restaurant that did not feature British food. For Eva, it also became a long shopping trip where she purchased metal replicas of London’s double-decker buses and other touristy items for her large and loveable family.
Eva was far more of an Anglophile than I was. While I still had far too much Irish Catholic breeding in me to fully appreciate England beyond a Masterpiece Theater television show and Daniel Day Lewis (who was still being British back then), Eva really enjoyed the pomp and magnificence of the royalty. We made our way through Westminster Abbey and to the gates of Buckingham Palace, then to St. Paul’s Cathedral so that Eva could marvel at what displays remained of the Prince Charles/Princess Diana wedding. For Eva, however, it was more than a long train, a bright wedding ring and the royal lineage that attracted her to such things.
Eva was the most romantic minded person I knew. While the world of woman who surrounded her might have gone on an anti-male tangent from time to time, Eva was never afraid to ask us not to look at the bad side of men. She defended the idea of the romantic man, and vehemently once requested that none of us ever destroy this particular illusion for her. How could we, her friends who loved Eva’s gentility and optimism, not do what she asked? She firmly believed in romance and love, always believing in the possibility of it. Here in England, where she was presented with so many illusions of royal romance, Eva still powered past the negative reports of marital turbulence and spent time inside the cathedral studying the signatures from the wedding book.
We continued to move through London on train, getting lost a few times but making our way past office buildings and strange alleys to find George Handel’s home for Eva, who adored the composer’s music. From there, we went to visit the British Museum to spend hours pouring over original manuscript to music and writing excerpts that we adored. We only exited the museum after finding ourselves in a maze of mummies, which managed to half frighten us.
On our final evening in London, Eva delighted in “Miss Saigon”. Although I was rather disappointed by the whole modern Madam Butterfly take, Eva loved the experience of sitting in an old and historic theater, where we fell into plush seats and bought snacks from a roving vendor as if we were at a sporting event. During the intermission, Eva applauded the performance of both Lea Salonga and Jonathan Pryce, and we both loved the helicopter scene, though for different reasons.
Once the performance was over, we spilled onto well-lit, cobbled streets in the Chelsea district. We walked into a restaurant to experience the post-theater excitement, dove into our desserts and made our spirited walk to the tube station. Our small trip, however, was sidelined as we hid beneath the darkened doorway of a home as a legions of soccer fans came running in our direction. We remained hidden as we heard the scream of sirens and the shouts from a bullhorn, heard the sound of shattering glass and listened to the scraping of bones against pavements as people struggled to run away from the authorities.
Eva managed to stifle her giggles during this entire ordeal. We had no idea what was going on, but we knew better than to walk in the middle of it, especially after someone told us to hide. In the back of my mind, I began to wonder if the British just liked to do this random rioting thing, which seemed so contrary to their public persona as the well-dressed gentleman with the stiff upper lift. Year later, my friend Conrad would tell me about a book called “Among the Thugs,” which would aptly describe the sort of violent, aggressive of soccer rioting that surrounded Eva and I on our little trip.
Once we were able to escape the mayhem, we made our way to a tube station where a few skinheads were becoming far too racial, verbally abusing some very tall, handsome gentlemen of East Asian descent. As they screamed “Paki!!!!!” and other expletives, Eva had her fingers planted firmly onto my arm as she begged me not to say anything. I was ready to defend these gentlemen, who silently bore this injustice by ignoring the troublemakers. I could not do the same, and only held off firing off some salvos because of Eva.
Perhaps she saved me from being tossed onto the third rail.
Nonetheless, we spent our last day eating a horrible meal of greasy fish & chips before setting out to secure a set of Prince Andrew/Princess Sarah plates for Eva to bring home. We took our time perusing through gift shops, finally finding the proper gifts before making our way to the airport where the plane was delayed for over six hours.
It was like Eva to find delight in every situation, no matter how bad things got. Despite plane delays, soccer madness, map mishaps and finding myself in situations where the British populace treated me as if I were Tojo, Eva laughed and made me laugh during the entire trip. While we both had never stepped foot on European soil, it was Eva who was the more bright eyed optimist who delighted in every single experience. While England gave me a glimpse of how much I might like France, from the way its people kept introducing themselves to me at every turn, Eva wrapped herself up in the British experience as if she were going to bring it home with her. England seemed too American cousin for me to really like, but I loved England because of Eva.
In the end, Eva did leave much of her spirit in England, having listed her final residence on Facebook as London, UK. Despite all the religious beliefs that have our Eva going to heaven and meeting relatives, there is a part of me that wants so much to know that she also made a trip to parts of England she long wanted to see. There were yellow hills blooming with rapeseeds that beckoned, along with the swans that surrounded the palace in York. She spoke of her desire to see Canterbury Cathedral and the white cliffs of Dover. I saw all of these sites on later trips taken without her, but I never got that special thrill from the experience that I might have had with Eva. England was her special place, and she told me not too long ago that she wanted to return for a visit.
I hope she saw these things on the way home.
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