I spent some time down at the Occupy London protest, and walked along South Bank and across the Millennium Bridge. Don’t worry, though – I still managed to waste that sunshine by spending plenty of time indoors, too, wandering through museums and shopping. Here are some of my favorite snapshots from the trip.

1. One-Eyed Falcon, The British Museum.
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   Wanna know how it happened, kids? I'll tell ya. It was a Red Ryder BB gun, with a compass and this thing that tells time.

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2. Bashful Aphrodite, The British Museum.
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   Oh, please, stop acting so surprised. You obviously posed for this.

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3. Occupy London poster.
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   Remember, remember ... that David Lloyd probably doesn't make any money off of this.

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4. Invisible Man, performing near the Millennium Bridge.
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   I don't know why he's giving me that dirty look.

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5. London Fruit Exchange sign, Spitalfields Market.
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   Oh, thank heavens. I've been wondering where I could exchange my fruit.

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6. The art of conversation, Occupy London encampment, St. Marks.
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   What? Just because a gentleman is dressed like a militant cow does not mean he can't engage in civilized conversation.

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7. Filmstrip playing in the Turbine Hall, Tate Modern.
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   While I do appreciate modern art, every black and white filmstrip playing in a museum is exactly the same to me.

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8. Kate Middleton Halloween mask, Spitalfields Market.
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   Why, yes, I DO regret not buying it! How did you know?

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9. Textured ceiling, British Museum.
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   How many triangles can you count? Nevermind. That's an awful game.

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10. Couple walking together, Millennium Bridge.
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    Me and Rand: the later years.

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I visited Occupy London on an unseasonably warm and sunny day in late October. In a paradox that is no doubt indicative of who I am, I stopped off at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Occupy protesters were gathered, before heading off to Spitalfields (the famed shopping district).

It seemed wise not to advertise that I was going shopping right after.

The air was light and jovial – people were milling about and talking. I meandered through, snapping photos, as did a number of other people, but felt too shy to actually engage in conversation with anyone. Ask me to talk about the weather, and I’ll happy oblige. Ask me to talk politics, and I’ll suddenly get timid, and start talking about the weather. Though I did have this exchange with a drunk Russian man:

Him: (smiling at me from ear to ear) …

Me: It’s a nice day …

Him: THIS IS EDEN.

Me: (sincerely) That’s a nice thought.

Him: It’s real. It’s the future.

Me: Sun … shine.

And I spoke to a confused German couple, who wanted to know if St. Paul’s was closed, and for how long (Yes, I told them. Though the protesters are still there, it seems to be open again.)

Still, it's pretty from the outside.

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The only other person I chatted with was one of the police officers on duty. He explained to me that they were just there to keep the peace, and make sure no one did anything illegal. He and his colleagues calmly stood around, occasionally posing for photos with tourists.

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They were letting the kids try on their hats. It was quite sweet.

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They seemed incredibly gracious, and all the interactions I saw between them and the protesters were quite calm and respectful.

Just having a cup of tea and discussing the political climate.

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This was all nearly two months ago. It sounds as though the mood has changed somewhat – the protesters have since been served with eviction papers, and unless they appeal, they will be required to leave by the end of the month. But when I was there, it was, really like a walk in the park. Since shyness and a tendency to talk about the chance of rain compromised whatever traces of journalistic integrity I possess, I have only photos, and little else to share. But I’d like to think they tell enough of a story on their own.

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If we can write it on a neon green piece of paper and pin it to a clothesline, we can achieve it!

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These gentlemen kept yelling, "We are Anonymous!" I wanted to shout back, "No, you really aren't."

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There were tents everywhere. Some had specific functions (a first aid tent, a mess hall, a place of worship) but most were simply housing for the activists who now inhabited the square.

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Heh.

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I regretted not talking to more folks, but really, there are others who are far better interviewers than I. Notice how, unlike me, they approach people with microphones, instead of half-eaten ice cream cones.

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Besides, I’m not sure what more could be said about this scene. It’s simply magical:

These two were talking the whole time I was there. They seemed to get on well.

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And yes, the gentleman at left is wearing the lower-half of a cow costume.

Maybe Occupy London will prove to be fruitless. Maybe the protesters will get evicted, and will all have simply been a huge waste of everyone’s time and money. But I’d like to think that if those two gentlemen found common ground, then it wasn’t all for naught. And maybe that drunk Russian wasn’t so off-base after all.

Except I’m pretty sure Eden smells better.

This is a story about one such argument.

I don’t remember how it began. Few great battles in history have marked beginnings. We say it was the assassination of Ferdinand, we suggest that it may have been the killing of Crispus Attucks and four others on a chilly night in Boston, but we are only guessing – trying to add sense and order to a situation where there likely isn’t one. Where there is only chaos and conflict.

I can tell you this: we were in London, and the turbulence at our table was in stark contrast to the unseasonably warm and sunny weather outside. I stated my piece, firm and reasonable, and was refuted by sheer madness. I shook my head. He shook his. Our voices grew louder. Our (okay, fine – my) attacks grew personal. I said some things about his mother, and her lack of a gag reflex, that I now regret. But still, I maintained my position. And that position is this: IT IS CALLED CILANTRO.

He disagreed, of course. “It’s called coriander,” he said, a claim which sounded all the more legitimate thanks to his English accent. If Patrick Stewart claimed that the sky was pink, we’d all believe it, on account of that damn accent. But I wouldn’t be so easily swayed.

“No one has ever been more wrong that you are now,” I said. Not even the guy who occasionally comments on my blog about how the holocaust never happened.

“I don’t see how I can be wrong if I’m telling you, factually, that’s what we call it,” he replied.

“And I’m telling you factually that YOUR FACE IS WRONG AND YOU ARE A TERRIBLE PERSON,” I screamed, and told him that I recently saw his mother servicing a fleet of young sailors. That was cruel and wrong. I really shouldn’t have said that, and most definitely should not have recreated the scene using Photoshop and some old beloved family photos.

He was undeterred, and kept pressing his point. I kept shaking my head. No, no, no. It made no sense. Perhaps we had misunderstood each other. Before it turned into an unfounded bloodbath, I needed to clarify that we were talking about the same thing.

“It has green leaves,” I said, my voice strained by vitriol, but still clear. “… it  resembles parsley, and can be found in many Mexican dishes. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“Yes. It’s a herb,” he said, making a point of pronouncing the “h” in front  of the word “herb.”

I let out a half sigh, half growl. I could only handle one epic disagreement at a time. We’d address the proper pronunciation of “herb” later.

“Yes,” I said, teeth gritted. “The HHHHHHHERB.”

“Yes. The herb. Coriander.”

“CILANTRO.”

“It’s called CORIANDER.”

“AND YOUR MOTHER IS CALLED FOR A GOOD TIME.”

I don’t know how long we went on like that. It may have been minutes, or days, or weeks. Time has no meaning when you are yelling at an Englishman. My aunt has been married to a Brit for 50 years, and I am certain she would agree with this sentiment.

Looking back, I realize it was an entirely absurd argument. Here in the states, the entire plant is called coriander, as are the seeds. But the leaves are called cilantro (the Spanish word for the plant) and for clarity’s sake, it makes things much easier. Go to a store looking for coriander, and you’ll find a dried spice. Search for cilantro, and you’ll end up with a fresh, leafy herb. In the U.K., so I am told, the whole dang thing is called coriander, and the leaves are called, intuitively enough, coriander leaves (or, on occasion, Chinese Parsley). Ask for “cilantro” and you’ll get wrinkled brows and confused looks. It’s just not as common a word over there.

We might as well have been quarreling over eggplant versus aubergine. Like the superfluous “u” in “humour” and “colour”, the transposing of the letters “e” and “r” in words like “centre”, it was just one of many inconsequential things that separates the English and the Americans. There would be no resolution to this.

In the end, we agreed to disagree and I promised to stop pledging money to neo-Nazi organizations in his name.  I suppose it was all for the best. After all, is it not our differences that make life interesting? If everything were the same everywhere, wouldn’t travel be pointless? Yes. OF COURSE. Of course. Our idiosyncrasies and foibles make the world grand, I reminded myself.  And I believed all that nonsense of tolerance and goodwill until our last day in London. Right up until we were in a cab on our way out of town. That was when we saw this restaurant’s sign:

Forgive the terrible photo. I had rage fingers.

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If you supposedly call the whole thing coriander, WHY THE HELL IS THERE A WHOLE CHAIN OF CAFES (with reportedly terribly food) CALLED CILANTRO? HUH? EXPLAIN THAT.

Your move, buddy.

“I feel my boogers drying up.”

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah.”

We don't really look like we're buying it.

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“Wanna go?”

“It says we have to wait 10 minutes before we feel the full effects.”

“Yeah … Wanna go?”

“Yeah.”

It's official: The Clink is not now, nor has it ever been, a good place to visit.

I am easily scared.

The first time I saw The Sixth Sense, even though I knew the twist thanks to a big-mouthed teacher of mine, I nearly peed my pants. Thankfully, as far as you know, I did not.  And once, years ago, Rand and I spent the night at a hotel near the Oregon Caves that was supposedly haunted. I literally spent the night with one eye open, convinced that if I closed it, I’d wake up dead (in the early morning hours, this logic made sense).

On occasion, I find myself at odds with my chicken-sh!t disposition, and my curiosity as a traveler wins out. Like our visit to Sleepy Hollow, New York, or the Old Operating Museum in London. Yes, these places are somewhat creepy, but they’re also downright fascinating.

This is what originally drew me to the Clink Prison Museum in London. The Clink Prison was in operation from the 1100s up to the 1700s, and was known for being a rather unpleasant place. All manner of torture and suffering happened there, usually to members of whichever religious group the reigning monarch at the time was not a part of. The jailers and guards were entrepreneurial in their corruption, accepting bribes and charging prisoners exorbinant amounts for food and other necessities. Prisoners were flogged, or strapped to the rack, or boiled in oil, which I understand makes for a lousy week.

I anticipated that the Clink would be a worthwhile visit – creepy and entertaining. The reviews were solid (edit: I don’t know where I got this idea. The reviews are awful and hilarious), and it sounded legit. Even when I saw a gentleman in a terrible period costume handing out fliers in front of it (which is a pretty clear sign that you should run in the opposite direction), I was still convinced it wasn’t going to be an awful tourist trap. After all, there were street signs pointing to this place. The civic planners for the city of London wouldn’t lead me astray, would they?

There should be a warning underneath that reads: "This place is so not worth your money."

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Spoiler: they totally would. Those bastards.

While plenty of genuinely horrifying things happened on this spot, the museum feels like a bad house of horrors at a county fair. In an effort to truly hammer home the atrocities that happened here, the purveyors somehow cheapen them. A few sharpened pikes are scary on their own, because of what our imaginations add to the scene. But with the addition of a couple of fake, bloodied heads, and it becomes absurd almost to the point of being funny. Part of the reason I think I didn’t love the Clink was because of my expectations – had I expected something ludicrous and funny, something that I could have ridiculed in the company of a friend, I suspect I might have gotten a kick out of it. Instead, I found the whole thing to be kitschy, and not in a good way.

The museum started out promisingly enough, with real, genuine artifacts! Scraps of shoes that had been uncovered at the site were on display. The different sizes and shapes made it clear: men, women, and children had all spent time in The Clink.

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But it soon descended into corniness.

In the background was audio of a man yelling in agony. Problem was he sounded like Bert from Mary Poppins.

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Want to know how to create your own authentic Clink Prison dummy? Take a regular dummy, add a Pilgrim costume, and smear the whole thing with blood. Done!

The idea that children were imprisoned along with their parents was incredibly disturbing. Fortunately, the zombie Pilgrim helped brighten the mood.

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Reproductions of implements of torture, like this metal mask, were genuinely frightening:

Though I bet wearing this is more comfortable than having to sit through the 1998 film version of "The Man in The Iron Mask."

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This, however, was not:

This looks less like death and more like la petite mort.

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Frightening:

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Not:

I see Curly and Moe, but I'm having trouble placing the other two.

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Creepy:

Chains and locks found at the site of the Clink Prison.

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Outtake from a Barbie bondage video:

It's meant to illustrate one of the torture devices, but I'm pretty sure it's a huge G.I. Joe. And he's not wearing pants.

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This next part of the museum was legitimately disturbing. It’s a recreation of a debtor’s cell.

This scene sent one poor little girl screaming out of the room.

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Notice how the bed is raised? Apparently the prison would often flood, filling with ice cold, putrid water and sewage, and the prisoners would struggle to not get soaked while they tried to sleep. Oh, and see the bowl of round, red things in front of him? Those are rats. Since he’s a debtor, and unable to procure any money to buy food, that’s what he’s going to feast on.

Now, considering all this talk of rat-eating, what, pray tell, do you think an appropriate mascot for the museum would be?

Soon, you will be eaten.

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That’s right! An adorable little rat!

He’s actually quite sweet, what with his buck teeth and bright-eyed demeanor. Shame, really, that he’ll end up skinned and eaten by some innovative debtor. But wait … what’s that on his foot?

Um ... he's attached to a ball and chain? Seriously?

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The idea that the rat is a Clink prisoner tells me that the early English legal system was far more thorough than I had previously imagined. Still, it’s cute, and probably plays well with younger visitors who haven’t yet run screaming from the museum. And I bet he’s sharing lots of kid-friendly facts!

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Or, you know, just facts about how former monarchs were really BIG on torture.

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Okay, you know what? That’s just messed up.

The Clink isn’t a particularly big museum – just a few rooms. Apparently it was once the basement of a warehouse, and it still largely feels like it – there are no windows, the lighting is dim, the air stale and hot. I guess that’s the one bit of authenticity about the Clink: when you’re there, you really do feel like you are imprisoned. When I left, my wallet ten dollars lighter than it had been, and stepped out into the bright, crisp London afternoon, I couldn’t help but breathe a little more deeply, walk a little more lightly, and enjoy the city just a little more.

My hard-earned lesson was this: Freedom has its merits, even if the Clink Prison Museum does not.

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The Everywhereist Essentials:

• Recommended: Nope. Unless you are a teenager looking for a few laughs on Halloween, this is one you can definitely skip.
• How to Get There: The museum is conveniently located on Clink Street, in South Bank. If you find yourself in the area, kindly walk past the museum and consider visiting the Tate Modern (which is free), Shakespeare’s Globe Theater (which I highly recommend), or one of my favorite spots in London – the Old Operating Theater Museum and Herb Garret.
• Ideal for: Morons, teenagers, people who rent horror movies and laugh when the heroine gets it.
• Insider tips: Don’t go here.
• Nearby food: There’s a Starbucks directly opposite, which really should have tipped me off. And the boardwalk near the water is full of chain cafes, including a Greek place that I think is better than the reviews suggest. If Borough Market is open, though, just head there and skip all this other nonsense.
• Good for kids: Absolutely not. I watched several little ones get carried out by their frantic mothers, including one little girl who was holding back tears and saying to herself, “I have to be brave. I have to be brave.” It was heartbreaking. Anyone between the ages of 13-17 might enjoy this place, though.

It's true.

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I also felt it pertinent to include a post-script or two.

We are not bluffing.

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I just need to know their president’s address, so I can mail it.

From my trip to London last spring, in much quieter times.

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Like most of you, I’ve been following the news about the riots in London. I’ve seen the photos. I’ve searched through news articles. I’ve poured through the twitter accounts of my friends across the pond, all in an attempt to figure out what the hell is going on over there. And there’s so much I want to say, but I’m not sure where to start.

I’m tempted to begin by yelling at the tribes of young, embittered idiots who are running through the city and destroying everything in their path, like a pack of deranged locusts. Though instead of corn, they’re seeking out electronics. I want to slap some sense in them, and remind them that they are from the country that invented manners (and a healthy disdain at a lack of said manners), and their behavior is completely unacceptable. I hope that in a few days’ time, they’ll look at the burning wreckage of their city, and they’ll understand that they’re the ones who will have to live in it. It’s the societal equivalent of rubbing a dog’s nose in its mess.

Of course, they aren’t the only ones who will have to live with it, and therein lies the problem. Thousands of Londoners who’ve done nothing wrong will have have to deal with it. I’m tempted to call my friends who live over there and make sure they’re alright (though I’m currently on a plane, and can’t really do that. Besides, it’s the middle of the night over there). I want to tell them to stay inside, to draw the curtains of their homes, to take care of themselves. I want to tell them that in the end, it will all be okay – that they’re not alone, that the world is watching, worried about them, and that this, too, shall pass.

Because, to a very small degree, I know what they’re going through. I’ve seen my hometown taken over by idiots and misguided kids. Watched police officers, their faces obscured by riot gear, overwhelmed and exhausted as they try to do their jobs under unprecedented circumstances. I’ve seen bad decisions made by everyone involved.

My tale of a city under siege took place in November of 1999, when I was 19, and a sophomore in college. The WTO Ministerial Conference took place in Seattle, and with it, came riots and tear gas. My city was unrecognizable. I had headed downtown with my then-boyfriend in tow – a leather-jacket wearing, guitar-playing, tattooed and pierced young man who was all kinds of wrong for me. But I was 19, and doing lots of misguided things (including chopping off my hair and wearing cargo pants) so he wasn’t a particularly big mistake in the grand scheme of things. Besides, he was cute.

Many classes at the University of Washington had been canceled the day of the WTO. Peaceful protests had been planned, and the instructor for the drama class I had been taking told us that we should go “watch the theater of politics.” So I pulled an oversized torn sweater over my spikey hair, tugged on some military boots, and went.

We walked with a large group from the University of Washington campus down Eastlake Avenue (which had been closed specifically for us) to the Seattle Center (in retrospect, this seems like a ridiculously long distance to walk, but at the time, we didn’t really think anything of it).  The young rebel in my life (I have trouble figuring out what to call him. He was not, decidedly, my boyfriend) tossed a leather-clad arm over my shoulders, and in the mess, we managed to find my teacher in the crowd, who felt a kinship with this distant approximation of Jim Stark over whom I was smitten. We talked and laughed and mildly discussed the politics which were the impetus for our gathering.

When we got to the Seattle Center, we lost track of my instructor. We milled around for a bit near the Space Needle, bumped into a few friends from the dorms, grew bored, and eventually headed home. I found out the next day that my instructor had joined a group of unionists as they continued their march downtown. What he did not know – indeed, what none of us in knew in that era before smart phones and Twitter – was that the downtown core of Seattle was already a mess.

Tear gas canisters had been fired into the crowds of protesters (the problem with shooting tear gas in a windy city like Seattle – it doesn’t stay put. My friend’s mother was gassed while in her car, waiting for the ferry to Bainbridge). The windows in numerous stores downtown – including the GAP and Starbucks – had been broken. A protester, clad in black, his face covered, had climbed atop the Niketown sign and, through patience and persistence, was kicking down the letters, one by one (he was wearing, incidentally, black Nikes at the time. The irony of this would not go unnoticed.)

But my young man and I were already back in our dorms. We found them mostly empty, and when we asked what was going on, we were told that everyone was downtown. That it was a pure mess down there. Absolute chaos. Riots, tear gas, broken windows, hundreds of police officers.

And then, we did something that showed a rather significant lapse of judgement on both our parts, and yet, if you look closely, you’ll see it’s not entirely at odds with whom I am.

We went back downtown.

I know. I know. Scold me. Go ahead. I won’t disagree with you – but keep in mind, it was more than a decade ago. I was 19. I had spikey short hair. I listened to Possum Dixon. Clearly, I wasn’t making good decisions with my life. This was one of many.

The buses weren’t running all the way down to First Avenue, as they usually did. So we got off further east on Pine Street, and walked the rest of the way downtown. We saw the wreckage of the day. Debris, trash and handmade protest signs littered the streets. Recently broken windows were sealed up with plywood, the section of sidewalk in front of them marked off with caution tape. It was eerily quiet. Sidewalks were empty – stores were closed early, the facades dark, unusual for the weekend after Thanksgiving. The only light came from streetlamps and the enormous star that hangs, every holiday season, from the top of Macy’s (then still called The Bon Marche).

I squeezed my gentleman’s hand – I was fearless. It’s a funny thing how the presence of someone you care about can make you feel safe, whatever the circumstances. We were stupid kids, walking into a situation we didn’t really understand, and I was completely okay with all of it because I was holding his hand. He wasn’t even someone who I would fall in love with. He was simply a boy I liked. No wonder I now think I can conquer the world: I have Rand in my life.

Heading west towards the water, we saw the occasional person wander by. They didn’t seem panicked or nervous. They simply strolled, peering at surroundings which looked only vaguely familiar to them. As we neared First, we noticed more and more people clustered about, talking, as well an increasing number of police officers in riot gear. I noticed one looking at me, and I remember smiling and offering a slight wave. He smiled in reply. I’ve always been a sucker for a man in riot gear.

We reached the corner of First and Pine and could go no further – here was where the lines had been drawn. I’ve visited this corner hundreds of times since that day, and I rarely think of that night, because it looked so different on that evening that it ever has before or since. Protesters sat on the ground, cross-legged, facing troops that had been called in from the National Guard, who stood in formation some 40-feet away. An armored vehicle was behind the troops, and though it wasn’t too much larger than an SUV, for years afterwards, I could have sworn it was a tank. We milled about, talking to folks, bumping into someone we knew, who told us that this was the calm before the storm. And indeed, it was calm. There were no cars, no traffic, no loud shoppers running between stores. There was a bit of chatter here and there, but mostly, it was quiet as we stood in the middle of a usually-busy road.

And then, a voice came over a speaker. It was boomed down the street, echoing off the dark buildings. Seattle was about to go into a state of Martial Law, it said, at 9pm. It was currently 8:40. The voice broke through the quiet, incrementally, alerting us of the time. When it was announced that in seven minutes, Martial Law would be in effect, I took my rebel’s hand and we turned and headed up Pike, away from the water, back to where we could catch a bus back to the dorms. We walked slowly, in no rush, and I caught the eye of the same officer I had seen before, and again I smiled.

This time, he didn’t smile back. I read into this too much at the time, but looking back, I figure he was tired and exhausted. He probably was underpaid and out of his element and not looking forward to the rest of the night.

We had only gone a few blocks when we heard cracks behind us. We turned, and saw plumes of smoke – they had started firing tear gas to disperse the crowd. We began to run up the hill.

Near 6th avenue, we could hear music, and as we neared 8th, we were able to pinpoint where it was coming from. High up a cylindrical tower at 801 Pine Street, someone was playing, rather loudly and with generous application of the whammy bar, “The Star Spangled Banner.” My not-quite-paramour held up his fist and yelled in appreciation.

(Many years later, when I recounted this story to a group of friends, one of them stared blankly at me when I reached this point in the tale. He told me – and his girlfriend later confirmed- that he was the one up in the tower, playing his guitar. Though we didn’t officially meet until years later, our lives had already crossed at that point. I’ve always liked the idea of that.)

We continued up Pine. Despite our head start, the commotion quickly caught up with us. We found ourselves, at one point, ducking behind the sign of the old funeral home on Pine (it’s now a bar), when a tear gas canister landed not far from us. We made one final sprint up to Broadway, where we promptly caught the next bus to the dorms (everyone else was already back and wondering where the hell we were). We later found out that the National Guard had marched all the way up Capitol Hill, chasing the protesters down the street.

In the months that followed, Seattle’s police department faced criticism for how they handled the riots. The department was shaken up, as some officials resigned and new folks came in. Life went on. Starbucks and the GAP fixed their broken windows. I ended up getting a 4.0 in my theater class. The boy and I broke up. My hair grew out, albeit at a painfully slow pace. I started dating someone new, and that relationship, in turn, eventually led me to Rand.

And during those months, I learned things. Like that I shouldn’t go running back downtown in the middle of a riot to see what was going on. That I should avoid dating musicians, and I should never cut my hair above chin length.

Seattle, too, learned from its experiences. Terrible, awful things still happen in my town. Just last summer, a homeless man was shot by a police officer. People were angry. They were upset. But rather than act out violently, they assembled, peaceably. They spoke of the man and his memory. They dedicated a Totem pole in his honor and vowed to work with the police to make things right.

Like me, my city made bad decisions. And like me, it learned from them.

It’s why I have hope for London. I know the situation there is far graver than ours was – the vandalism and the violence more widespread. The causalities are higher. Right now the city is unrecognizable, far more than Seattle ever was. Right now, London is not London.

But I’m confident that it will be again, and soon. I’m hopeful that the city and its people will learn from these events. That the idiots and delinquents will look at the mess and they’ll understand what they did. That reason and civility will prevail. And years from now, the riots and violence will be a distant memory, a story told to friends over beers. It will be something people write about on their blogs, long after the scars have faded, long after bad haircuts have grown out.

Long after London becomes London again.

I have something very important to tell you with regards to travel. It has absolutely nothing to do with what you should pack or where you should go. I have no insightful revelations about which airline seat to pick in order to avoid sitting next to a guy who obviously has TB. I always end up in that seat. Perhaps that’s an area where you might be able to advise me.

No, the bit of advice that I have to offer is far less complicated than all of that. It’s simply this: that in the end, it does not matter where you go. You can climb Kilimanjaro. You can stay in a yurt and do whatever it is people do when they’re inside one of those things. You can take lots of photos, perhaps expertly, or, if you are like me, as though you have handed your camera to a drunken baboon. Do whatever you like, because really, it won’t make a lick of difference. In the end, the thing that matters is not where you go, but who is with you.

There are no two people who have taught me this lesson more than Jon and Lisa.

We were in Oslo, on a sunny day in October, and couldn't figure out how to get off a roof.

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Whenever we meet up with the two of them, which is most often in the U.K., but occasionally in countries with slightly worse climates, things go awry. And yet I’ve never really noticed that our trips together are stunning examples of mediocrity, because, damn it, we have so much fun.

Take, for example, the time we went to Brighton, and it took us two full hours to get there, when it should have been roughly 45 minutes. How, after sitting in traffic and quietly starving, we found the restaurant we wanted to go was closed, and that it was absurdly freezing because we didn’t realize that GOD DECIDED TO INCLUDE BEACHES IN THE U.K. AS A JOKE. He never actually meant for us to visit them.

But it didn’t matter a lick, because we had a good time. The sort of good time that doesn’t stop simply because your ice cream scoop falls off its cone.

Or when I tried to take Lisa to Magnolia Bakery, but got miserably, hopelessly lost, ensuring that Lisa was late for an important call, and as we finally managed to get a cab and zipped uptown to our hotel, we noticed that Magnolia now had an outpost exactly THREE BLOCKS FROM OUR HOTEL (and this, dear friends, is why I pay so much attention to cupcakes. To avoid tragedies like this). Lisa, in her infinite patience, just sort of laughed about it, and whenever I pass by that damn bakery in any one of its locations, I smile a little and think of her.

Or, oh sweet lord, that hotel in Oslo that inexplicably had platforms all over the place, ensuring that both Lisa and I independently nearly broke our necks falling from them, while our husbands (dear souls that they are) kindly told us to be careful seconds after our ankles twisted unnaturally. And how we still laugh about it because a bathtub smack dab in the middle of a hotel room simply makes ZERO sense, even if you are a svelte Norwegian whose abs should always be on display.

All of this is why I’ve hesitated to tell you about our trip to The Black Swan Restaurant in Ockham and Richmond Park (in Greater London), because honestly and truly, I don’t know if either place is that great. I mean, we had a terrific time, but we had the company of Jon and Lisa. You may go and find it’s totally miserable.

I will tell you, in hopes of staving off some disappointment, that The Black Swan is not a thematic restaurant based on the movie, and there aren’t women running around in blood-stained tutus, as much as I wish to the contrary. The cuisine is a delicious (if a bit fancy-pants) version of tradition English fare, though it will sadly take you several long years to get it (we waited for over an hour). Of course, the time goes by quickly if you do the following:

• Catch up on what your dear friends have been up to since the last time you saw them (Answer: they made a person. We got to meet her.)
• Check with the waitress to make absolutely sure they have sticky toffee pudding.
• Partake in whatever is going on here:
  

  Sigh. I don't even know anymore.

• Double-check about that pudding.
• Attempt to take photos of children who are apparently ordering drinks at the bar.

There she is in her floral dress and headband, patiently awaiting a Guinness with a straw in it.

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Really, the time zipped by. When our meal finally arrived, it turned out to be quite delightful. Rand ordered some sort of liver dish topped in a pound of bacon.

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I got some sort of potted fish thing that sounds ill-advised but was lovely:

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And I am pleased to report that there was, in fact, a glorious sticky toffee pudding.

Deny me this and I will cut you.

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We had a nice lunch, despite leaving several years older than we were when we arrived. From there we went to Richmond Park, which is a grand sprawling place where you imagine people distantly related to the monarchy (those who do not to merit their own pages in US Magazine, but are still a wee bit inbred) go hunting or something to that effect.

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The weather was unexpectedly good, considering the forecast for London in March usually calls for grey skies with a smattering of ennui.

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And there was this scene, which warmed the brittle lump of coal that is my heart:

"FINE. You can both be mom. Now quit fighting about it."

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Later, we headed to Pembroke Lodge in the park, which includes the following delightful line on its website:

Previous occupiers include the Countess of Pembroke ~ “A close friend” of King George III

Pembroke Lodge is a big stately affair, and I am sure that back in its heyday it was full of women who said, “Well, I never!” before abruptly fainting. Because I am a charlatan, I only took a picture of the backside.

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They have a cafe where we enjoyed cream tea outside, under a cluster of pigeons with loose bowels.

I should not have mentioned bird poop immediately prior to posting this photo.

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And then we said good-bye.

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Would I recommend straying out of London to visit The Black Swan or Richmond Park? Probably not. They’re nice and all, but nothing truly spectacular. I had a lovely time, but like I said: it’s not where you go. It’s who you drag with you that matters.

Sign on the wall inside at the Churchill War Museum.

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The strangest thing happened to me that last time I was in London: I went to a museum dedicated to Britain’s role in WWII. And I liked it.

I know – you’re thinking that you can’t have read that correctly. “She must have meant cupcakes,” you think. “Or possibly Jeff Goldblum. She just got the names woefully confused.”

Which is a fair assumption, because were there museums dedicated to cupcakes or the equally-delicious Mr. Goldblum, I would be a lifetime member. But no, that is no typo – I went to the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms  (known collectively as the Churchill War Rooms), and I truly enjoyed the experience.

For the record, I am no expert in the field of 20th-century history. Rather, I have a dim understanding of what transpired on the earth before I was born. I can recount with frightening accuracy most episodes of Cheers, but ask me about the Geneva Convention, and I blank (note: I just learned that it’s actually plural – Geneva Conventions. See? Clueless). And it was as an attempt to rectify this glaring hole in my knowledge that I decided to go to the museum.

Also, it was pouring rain and freezing, so wandering around London was kind of a bust.

There’s two sections to the museum: one part dedicated entirely to Churchill’s life and career, and another dedicated to the Cabinet War Rooms – the underground bunker which housed the British command center in WWII. Both parts of the museum are entirely underground, and the Cabinet Warm rooms are actually in the old bunker, with large portions of it preserved to as it looked back in the 40s (though obviously some improvements and additions have been made since the second World War. Like 2-ply toilet paper and neon lights). At the risk of editorializing, I will tell you now: the War Rooms are far more interesting.

The rooms actually predate Churchill’s term as Prime Minister, but he was the first PM to make use of them. They were constructed in the 30s as a response to the soon-to-be-legitimate threat of aerial bombings.

Churchill apparently marched in one day, looked around, and said (in what I presume was very dramatic fashion), “This is the room from which I will direct the war.”

And someone may have gasped dramatically, and someone else likely fainted, as is what you do when history happens before your eyes.

Churchill conducted more than a hundred meetings from the bunker and members of his Cabinet spent long hours there. Higher ranking officials had their own designated bedrooms and offices. There were conference rooms and map rooms, and even a kitchen in which meals were prepared.

The woman at left is applying lipstick, because being underground during wartime is not excuse for not looking your freshest.

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Check out the ceiling fan.

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Apparently Churchill was chided for consistently ignoring the limitations of food rations.

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A typical officer's room.

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It’s a glimpse into not only the war, but also to administrations and governments of days passed. Even in the most dire moments, leaders of today conduct business from lavish hotel rooms and conference halls (the scene of Obama and high ranking officials reacting to the news of Bin Laden’s death comes to mind). But that wasn’t the case decades ago. Walls and floors were barren, the beds narrow and suitable for only one person. Imagine, just imagine telling Silvio Berlusconi that he had to sleep in a twin bed. He’d be infuriated once he realized that it wasn’t a king-size bed filled with actual twins.

And yet, despite how modest the accommodations were, there was something remarkably dignified about all of it. Flowered bedspreads neatly laid out, modest dining tables set with clean linens and matching tea cups.
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Room belonging to Churchill's wife, Clementine.

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Churchill's quarters in the War Room. He never actually spent the night (preferring to return to Downing Street) but he did occasionally nap here. Notice the chamber pot.

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The Prime Minister's dining room.

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It’s a quite reminder that even in the darkest of times, you should compose yourself with dignity. I can’t think of a more truly British notion than that.

“Our country is at war, sir. Cities are being bombed, rations are tight. The Germans are creating an awful inconvenience for us.”

“Yes, it’s distressing, isn’t it? Let’s sit down and have a cup and sort this out. And for God’s sakes, man, STRAIGHTEN YOUR TIE.”

I just adore it.

I spent a long time roaming around the War Cabinet portion of the museum. I did the audio tour, which I HIGHLY recommend (the museum would have been confusing and meaningless without it). Wandering through, the recording device pressed against my ear, it was hard to reconcile the fact that I was presently carrying far more advanced technology than the officers in that crowded bunker had when they were directing a war. It’s shocking to think of how low-tech things were. Granted, technology isn’t required to wage a war (I’m sure there was a time when people just chucked rocks at one another, and before the invention of rocks, they probably just threw smaller people), but when you think about Churchill, tucked away in a tiny room, having a static-filled phone conversation to Roosevelt, it’s kind of humbling.

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Aforementioned Transatlantic Phone Room.

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Military progression was noted on a map, with pins.

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Posting updates from the field.

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Wooden signs would indicate what the weather was like above ground.

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There was only one hitch with the entire museum:  if you are following the audio tour, about halfway through the War Rooms you’re instructed to detour into the Churchill Museum. It interrupted the flow of the tour, and when I returned to the War Rooms, it took me a few long minutes to remember where I had left off in history.

The Churchill Museum itself has some interesting highlights, but I didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as the War Rooms (but hey, they’re attached, and it’s one admission to attend both, so I wasn’t going to skip it). I had trouble following the exhibits chronologically due to the confusing layout. There was also far too much information to digest. Unless you are a true history buff and a rabid fan of the statesman, you won’t want to spend more than a quarter of an hour there. And in that quarter of an hour, I recommend you take a gander at Churchill’s personal effects, many of which were on display:

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Churchill's pajamas: I bet he looked like a giant, drunk baby in this get-up.

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His infamous hat. For some reason, seeing this made the significance of the location hit home for me.

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According to the museum, Churchill had about 8 cigars a day, but never inhaled (he was just constantly lighting and relighting them).

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My trip through the museum put me in a contemplative mood. Like I said, I’m no history buff, and the American educational system’s teaching of history is a bit insular – you often neglect to think about how world events impacted other countries. The Churchill War Museum gave me not only historical context, but also provided some insight into the lives of English people during the war. They were knocked down. They picked themselves up, they dusted off their coats.

And then they had a cup of tea.

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The Essentials on The Churchill War Rooms:

• Verdict: Recommended
• How to Get There: Take the Westminster tube stop
• Ideal for: rainy days; history buffs; people who travel together but hate talking to one another
• Insider tips: The museum is not far from Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey, so there’s lots to see if you decide to make a day of it. Definitely get the audio tour, and be warned that the Churchill portion of the museum can be overwhelming
• Good for Kids? God, no. Not unless you were trying to punish them in some weird way.

And coming from the-perpetually-damp-Seattle, I can laugh when people complain about the weather there. “What’s that? It’s been raining for 2 straight weeks? WELL SEATTLE HASN’T HAD SUN SINCE 2009, SO SUCK IT.”

Plus, really, how can you complain about a town with entire stores dedicated to selling Victorian-themed sex novelties? Answer: YOU CAN’T. Here are ten photos from our trip to London (and neighboring towns) that might give you an idea of why it’s one of my favorite cities, rain or shine (though it’s usually rain).

1. Weather indicator, the Churchill Museum. During WWII, signs like this one would hang on the wall of the Cabinet War Rooms, from which Churchill directed the war. Since the war room was in a windowless bunker underground, it was the only way to tell what the weather was like above. I just love how it can sound so British with just one word.
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   Note: "Fine" weather in London usually means it's raining.

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2. Looking down Bridge Street towards the Parliament Clock Tower. Confession: I recently learned that “Big Ben” is not actually the name of the clock tower, but the name of the bell inside it. About 20 years after everyone else did.
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   Also, I nearly wandered into the street to take this, but thought better of it. Shocking, right?

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3. American Fried Chicken restaurant sign, London. When my bus passed by this, I may have started giggling uncontrollably.
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   Because they fail to specify which state the chicken is from, I'm going to go with Delaware.

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4. Treasures from the display window of Coco De Mer erotic shop, Covent Garden.  (LINK TOTALLY NSFW)
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   I regret not buying this. The cup and saucer, I mean. YUP.

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5. Sticky Toffee Pudding, Black Swan restaurant, Ockam, Surrey. Don’t ask me how something with dates in it can be this good.
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   I don't care WHAT you've heard. I totally shared this and did not eat it all by myself, including all of the caramel sauce, nor did I slap the waitress when she tried to remove my plate.

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6. The only thing more delectable than the dessert mentioned above (Ugh. Sorry. Sometimes I nauseate even myself.)
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   I bet he's thinking about sticky toffee pudding, too.

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7. Sticker seen on my bus window, London. And while it’s far from perfect (so very far), perhaps one of my favorite photos, ever.
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   This might be my new motto (amended slightly: "Explore everything ... and then have a snack.")

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8. Our friend Jon and his daughter at Richmond Park, Greater London.
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   Hair by Ziggy Stardust.

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9. Pembroke Lodge and Gardens, Richmond Park.
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   And - gasp - it was SUNNY.

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10. Bunny ears from a Storm Trooper (… wielding a bunch of disposable cups. Seriously – I wish I knew what was happening here).
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    Isn't he kind of short for ... actually, nevermind. He's not.

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    That’s just a glimpse of my last London experience. Reliving the visit in these photos has left me with an overwhelming desire to eat sticky toffee pudding for breakfast. So please pardon me, while I go try to justify that.