We have arrived in London. Our host here at our hotel took a look at our suitcases, a look at our reservation, and groaned. We are on the top floor, which is up eight flights of stairs. He insisted on carrying one of the bags up himself, not realizing until the last flight that I had given him the larger but lighter one because he expressed a wish not to scuff up his newly painted hallways. Having proved myself a strong American woman (his phrase), I closed the door and temporarily collapsed.
Revived by the process of unpacking a few things, I was willing to venture forth again. Our goal was the British Library:
If I am very very good, I will end up in the British Library for eternity (while if I am very very bad, I may have to spend it in the Acalanes parking lot, or lost in Ikea). We saw the Magna Carta. I saw an illuminated Canterbury Tales and a copy of Piers Ploughman. Chaucer is my favorite guy ever and I have fond memories of deciphering Piers back when I was wallowing in my extremely fulfilling but economically questionable English-majoring.
Brent will be jealous because we saw an exhibition of science fiction books that was what he hoped we’d see in Seattle. I am not nearly the fan he is, but what a collection! T. was thrilled because he saw this:
It goes with his fez and I am finally in a country where the odds are reasonable that people recognize a reference to the doctor.
Our visit was a little on the short side, since we spent most of the day dealing with luggage and trains, but we will be back if we have spare moments because all that absolute gorgeousness is FREE. The bookstore, however, is another matter and somewhat dangerous.
