I feel, dare I say, a sense of optimism this morning. It’s a gloomy day in Britain, but my flight arrives on time at Heathrow Airport, and despite endless stories of endless lines at immigration due to budget cuts, there is no waiting at all. I meet my driver from Exclusive Airports and fall into a comfortable nap in the car, all the way into the city and the Rubens at the Palace Hotel on Buckingham Palace Road, where a festive silver crown and the number sixty are enmeshed in a carpet of fresh greens just above the entrance. Despite the early hour, room 438 with its soft pillows and gray felt walls is ready and waiting for me, and it feels good to crash upon the bed. In the simple act of arrival, there is relief. It has been a triumph of efficiency. So far, so good.
I walk around the corner to a Pret a Manger near Victoria Station and buy an Edam cheese sandwich and a bag of chips for an impromptu picnic on the grass in Grosvenor Gardens. I’m tired already, with some combination of jet lag and residual illness, but now that I am here I’m determined to keep moving. I walk down the road and buy a ticket for an exhibit of Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical drawings at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace, and afterwards stroll through the Royal Mews, across the street from my hotel. I see the stables in which the monarch’s famous Windsor Grays are kept, and the Gold State Coach that carried a young Queen Elizabeth to her coronation in 1953. By the time I’m through, I’m ready to lay down for a bit before the 5:00 PM evensong service at Westminster Abbey. This has been my one great determination of the day and it’s as glorious as I remember inside, with its vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows and the most heavenly sounds coming from the cathedral choir, but honestly, I can barely keep my eyes open.
For dinner, I am sensible and I opt to stay in for the night and head down to the Old Master’s Carvery restaurant at the Rubens. From the buffet, I select slices of beef and pork, roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. It’s not an earth shattering meal, but it’s hearty and warm and the traditional fare reminds me that I am in England.
At long last, I am a traveler again.
The Independent Traveler 