Yesterday, Dad and I did a lot of wandering around Covent Garden and went to our first proper pub, Nell Gywn of Old Drury, with one of my dad's friends. (If I'm not in the 18th century, it seems I'm stuck in a Charles II rut...) They were talking about computer and programming whatnot the entire time while I, not understanding a single word they were saying, just drank my pint of Guinness.
Today was my dad's last day in London. Mom gets in around 10 tomorrow morning, and then Dad leaves for the airport at noon. So, for our last day of galavanting, we decided to hit Piccadilly and Buckingham Palace. And, being "the Navigator," I insisted on passing Trafalgar Square to get there. Because reasons.
Heartbreaking Story of My Life #1: Nelson will never know how much I love him.
Piccadilly had an abundance of our favorite stores, as well as the classiest grocery I've ever been to--Fortnum and Mason. The amount of tea there was dizzying. We also found an old book and print store that, unfortunately, wasn't open on Sundays. So I suppose I will have to go back with my mom. In the window display, though, they had a 1726 French translation of Andrea Palladio's Four Books on Architecture. I don't even want to guess the price, but I wouldn't think twice about giving my left arm for it. Actually, I'd even give my right arm, too, if that's what it took.
Ain't no building like a Palladian building because a Palladian building is awesome.
There were also stores with some gems that even I, in my wildest dreams, couldn't have imagined: every color of velvet coats with tails, waistcoats, high collars, silk pheasant-stitched smoking jackets... I felt like I was shopping in the Edwardian era. It was both offensive and fantastic at the same time.
Dream on, plebs.
Upon finding a statue of a man named Beau Brummell (Ha! Beau is a name, and I will use it for a future child!), I jokingly told my dad that I had found my new boyfriend. So he commented, in all seriousness, "You know, Gab, you do get along really well with statues and dead men..." And then he cackled to himself. What even? Was I just burned by my father??? Whatever. At least I have good taste when it comes to men of the statue and dead varieties.
"To be truly elegant one should not be noticed...which isn't hard when you're dead." –Beau Brummell
After more wandering, we made it to Buckingham Palace. So, here's an obligatory picture of my dad. Yes, his eyes are closed. No, I didn't tell him then, and I still haven't told him. And I'll probably never tell him.
That's what you get for making fun of dead men.
On our walk down the mall and St. James Park, I also found a statue of Captain James Cook. The 18th century naval madness continues!
Look at those shapely calves.
We had lunch at Jamie Oliver's restaurant in Covent Garden, Union Jack's. The Woodman pizza was delicious, if anyone ever goes, and I highly recommend the Gwynt y Ddraig Welsh Cider. (Any guesses on how to say that?) For dinner, we went to The Sherlock Holmes right across from Scotland Yard and ordered two pints of the Holmes Ale, since Foursquare told us to. The entire place was decked out in Holmes-related decor, including a fake basset hound head mounted on the wall. In all honesty, I couldn't look at it for very long, so I tried to find traces of The Great Mouse Detective. There weren't any.
No comments:
Post a Comment