It was really a case of being in the right place at the right time and letting the day's events sweep me along.
As you may know, the Pope is in London, paying the first official visit to the UK in 30 years, and the second in history. His 3 days here are stuffed with meetings, diplomatic handshakes, and speeches, notably an address to Parliament that took place yesterday. My boss Zoe mentioned on Wednesday that she could try to get me a ticket, thought the chances were small. And indeed they were; she was unable to get a ticket to the actual speech, but she did manage one for a small room next to the hall where they would live-broadcast the Pope on TV and I would keep my fingers crossed that I'd somehow get to the real thing next door.
So, after a 3-hour class on Christianity and Islam and a very long walk, I dragged my sleepy self to Portcullis House to retrieve my ticket and allowed Zoe to shepherd me through the winding maze of Westminster Palace to the Central Hall, an astounding room filled with stained glass windows and gilt ceilings. From there, the 20 of us in the "holding cell" followed a very nice docent into the room from which we were to watch the speech. To get there, however, we had to walk through Westminster Hall, the oldest part of Parliament, built in 1099. Pause for a moment. People have been debating, ruling, condemning, and compromising in that room for a thousand years. A thousand. I can't even wrap my mind around that. The vast stone walls were adorned with carvings of lions and griffins, the ornate oak ceiling beams with guardian angels. There was a brass band playing stately music, a red carpet leading down the stone steps of a dais, on top of which sat a throne-like red plush chair whose intended occupant had not yet arrived. On the wall adjacent to the dais, a huge stained glass window let in the late afternoon light. This hall has the same feel as a cathedral, and indeed, it is the political equivalent of a holy place. This is where the British court system was invented, where Sir Thomas More was sentenced, the only part of Parliament to survive the fire that destroyed so much of the city. To me, it all made the fantastical seem possible; I could have believed in Merlin and Narnia and dragons slain by chivalrous knights, enchanted as I was by my surroundings and their history.
The room was filling with an audience of statesmen and women wearing those fancy hats that British ladies like so much. Dreamily following the guide with my mouth slightly open in wonder, I vaguely noted what might have been an admiral before taking one last, longing glance at the hall and disappearing into a side corridor. It was like holding out a wedge of chocolate cake to the birthday girl and then throwing it out the window into a pile of cow manure (although hopefully no one keeps that stuff outside their windows... it's more for artistic effect to show convey the scope of my disappointment). All the waiting speech hopefuls sat with bated breath, hoping for some word that we would be allowed back to the hall with all the cool kids. Finally, after making friendly conversation with each other, we were informed we would all get seats in the hall. (In the words of Winston Churchill, "Never give up! Never! Never! Never! Never!" You just might get to see the Pope!)
We were ecstatic, all of us, even the serious man in the pin-striped suit. And our incredulous joy only increased as we were led past many rows of spectators, right up to the front of the room, about 100 feet back from the dais. It turns out that MPs go home to their constituencies on Friday afternoons, and many declined the Pope in favor of the comforts of home. Their loss was my gain, because all their vacant seats were in the front of the hall, and empty seats at big political functions look bad on TV. So guess who they used to take up the space? That's right, interns and secretaries and office workers got to sit in front of diplomats and benefactors and lords. In a country that still has a monarchy, there's a sort of poetic justice in that. So I satt down in my VIP seat, looked up, and the first thing I saw was... Tony Blair. Looking in my direction. I clapped my hand over my mouth and started giggling uncontrollably with the girl next to me, my new British friend sharing my wide-eyed enthusiasm. I don't know if Tony Blair saw our reaction, but I hope he did. And next to him, none other than Gordon Brown, with whom he was chatting amiably. A bit down from them, Lady Margaret Thatcher. Across, a crowd of cardinals decked out in their finest red. I tried, for a moment, to reflect upon the splendor around me, to appreciate my incredible good luck. Who was I to deserve to be there? But on the other hand, why shouldn't I? Events like this should be reserved for guests who truly appreciate them, not just powerful leaders going through the motions to maintain their reputations.
Now for the point of the whole grand affair: Il Papa. He arrived, fashionably late, to a fanfare of trumpets and made his way to his throne. After a short preamble by the Speaker of the House of Commons, Benedict got up to address Parliament (or rather, posers like me pretending to be Parliament). Confession: I have the utmost respect for Benedict and all his good works, but I've always thought his eyes lent him the appearance of a sinister evil genius. (Please don't smite me...) Standing at the podium, however, dressed in immaculate white to match his snowy hair and stooping slightly over the microphone, the Pope seemed gentle, grandfatherly, and wise. His voice was very soft and comforting, his German accent lending him the air of a kind professor. Every so often he would cough, making me wonder about his health. You couldn't help but want to care for this man, to do all you could for him.
The speech was very well done (no surprise there, Benedict is an acclaimed writer and probably has legions of speechwriters to help him out), if a little general. It focused on the importance of tolerance and upholding morals... bread-and-butter issues, nothing too unexpected. But the event itself was historic, given the collection of people and the location, and I enjoyed every minute. Afterwards, the Pope shook hands with the former Prime Ministers, seeming again like a fond old grandfather, and took his leave with an entourage of cardinals and security guards. The crowd began to rustle, the politicians started to rise. The next thing I knew, Margaret Thatcher was standing five feet away as she walked down an aisle with a man on each side to support her. Sporting a pink suit and a fluffy perm, the former head of state was, frankly, adorable.
I allowed myself to be herded away with the large crowd, drifting through doors and courtyards and finally reaching the lobby of Portcullis again. It was nearly empty, except for stocky a middle-aged man with a platinum blond bowlcut who looked oddly familiar. It was Boris Johnson, the mayor of London, whose face I knew because it was splashed all over the newspapers when my family was in England a few years ago during the mayoral elections. Boris always seemed to have an air of mild befuddlement about him, and this impression proved true when he asked me how to use the revolving doors. Me. The mayor asked me.
"Oh... uh... you just, you just push the button and then it spins."
"What? Well, let me see you do it first."
"[nervous laughter] ok..." *thinking* Oh no does the mayor think I'm laughing at him? I'm not I'm just awkward and what am I supposed to say and why doesn't he know how to use his own doors?
He did figure it out, eventually, and the proceeded to throw on a shabby backpack before tearing off on a nondescript bicycle. I wonder if the people of London know their mayor just rides around town on a bike in the middle of the day. I think that's pretty cool; exactly what a mayor should do, really.
What a day. I pretended to be a Parliamentarian, saw the Pope, giggled at Tony Blair, and taught the mayor how to use a door. All the work of Serendipity, that old friend of mine. Thank you to the powers that gave me the most enthralling day in recent history. I am still filled with awe and gratitude.
So, after a 3-hour class on Christianity and Islam and a very long walk, I dragged my sleepy self to Portcullis House to retrieve my ticket and allowed Zoe to shepherd me through the winding maze of Westminster Palace to the Central Hall, an astounding room filled with stained glass windows and gilt ceilings. From there, the 20 of us in the "holding cell" followed a very nice docent into the room from which we were to watch the speech. To get there, however, we had to walk through Westminster Hall, the oldest part of Parliament, built in 1099. Pause for a moment. People have been debating, ruling, condemning, and compromising in that room for a thousand years. A thousand. I can't even wrap my mind around that. The vast stone walls were adorned with carvings of lions and griffins, the ornate oak ceiling beams with guardian angels. There was a brass band playing stately music, a red carpet leading down the stone steps of a dais, on top of which sat a throne-like red plush chair whose intended occupant had not yet arrived. On the wall adjacent to the dais, a huge stained glass window let in the late afternoon light. This hall has the same feel as a cathedral, and indeed, it is the political equivalent of a holy place. This is where the British court system was invented, where Sir Thomas More was sentenced, the only part of Parliament to survive the fire that destroyed so much of the city. To me, it all made the fantastical seem possible; I could have believed in Merlin and Narnia and dragons slain by chivalrous knights, enchanted as I was by my surroundings and their history.
The room was filling with an audience of statesmen and women wearing those fancy hats that British ladies like so much. Dreamily following the guide with my mouth slightly open in wonder, I vaguely noted what might have been an admiral before taking one last, longing glance at the hall and disappearing into a side corridor. It was like holding out a wedge of chocolate cake to the birthday girl and then throwing it out the window into a pile of cow manure (although hopefully no one keeps that stuff outside their windows... it's more for artistic effect to show convey the scope of my disappointment). All the waiting speech hopefuls sat with bated breath, hoping for some word that we would be allowed back to the hall with all the cool kids. Finally, after making friendly conversation with each other, we were informed we would all get seats in the hall. (In the words of Winston Churchill, "Never give up! Never! Never! Never! Never!" You just might get to see the Pope!)
We were ecstatic, all of us, even the serious man in the pin-striped suit. And our incredulous joy only increased as we were led past many rows of spectators, right up to the front of the room, about 100 feet back from the dais. It turns out that MPs go home to their constituencies on Friday afternoons, and many declined the Pope in favor of the comforts of home. Their loss was my gain, because all their vacant seats were in the front of the hall, and empty seats at big political functions look bad on TV. So guess who they used to take up the space? That's right, interns and secretaries and office workers got to sit in front of diplomats and benefactors and lords. In a country that still has a monarchy, there's a sort of poetic justice in that. So I satt down in my VIP seat, looked up, and the first thing I saw was... Tony Blair. Looking in my direction. I clapped my hand over my mouth and started giggling uncontrollably with the girl next to me, my new British friend sharing my wide-eyed enthusiasm. I don't know if Tony Blair saw our reaction, but I hope he did. And next to him, none other than Gordon Brown, with whom he was chatting amiably. A bit down from them, Lady Margaret Thatcher. Across, a crowd of cardinals decked out in their finest red. I tried, for a moment, to reflect upon the splendor around me, to appreciate my incredible good luck. Who was I to deserve to be there? But on the other hand, why shouldn't I? Events like this should be reserved for guests who truly appreciate them, not just powerful leaders going through the motions to maintain their reputations.
Now for the point of the whole grand affair: Il Papa. He arrived, fashionably late, to a fanfare of trumpets and made his way to his throne. After a short preamble by the Speaker of the House of Commons, Benedict got up to address Parliament (or rather, posers like me pretending to be Parliament). Confession: I have the utmost respect for Benedict and all his good works, but I've always thought his eyes lent him the appearance of a sinister evil genius. (Please don't smite me...) Standing at the podium, however, dressed in immaculate white to match his snowy hair and stooping slightly over the microphone, the Pope seemed gentle, grandfatherly, and wise. His voice was very soft and comforting, his German accent lending him the air of a kind professor. Every so often he would cough, making me wonder about his health. You couldn't help but want to care for this man, to do all you could for him.
The speech was very well done (no surprise there, Benedict is an acclaimed writer and probably has legions of speechwriters to help him out), if a little general. It focused on the importance of tolerance and upholding morals... bread-and-butter issues, nothing too unexpected. But the event itself was historic, given the collection of people and the location, and I enjoyed every minute. Afterwards, the Pope shook hands with the former Prime Ministers, seeming again like a fond old grandfather, and took his leave with an entourage of cardinals and security guards. The crowd began to rustle, the politicians started to rise. The next thing I knew, Margaret Thatcher was standing five feet away as she walked down an aisle with a man on each side to support her. Sporting a pink suit and a fluffy perm, the former head of state was, frankly, adorable.
I allowed myself to be herded away with the large crowd, drifting through doors and courtyards and finally reaching the lobby of Portcullis again. It was nearly empty, except for stocky a middle-aged man with a platinum blond bowlcut who looked oddly familiar. It was Boris Johnson, the mayor of London, whose face I knew because it was splashed all over the newspapers when my family was in England a few years ago during the mayoral elections. Boris always seemed to have an air of mild befuddlement about him, and this impression proved true when he asked me how to use the revolving doors. Me. The mayor asked me.
"Oh... uh... you just, you just push the button and then it spins."
"What? Well, let me see you do it first."
"[nervous laughter] ok..." *thinking* Oh no does the mayor think I'm laughing at him? I'm not I'm just awkward and what am I supposed to say and why doesn't he know how to use his own doors?
He did figure it out, eventually, and the proceeded to throw on a shabby backpack before tearing off on a nondescript bicycle. I wonder if the people of London know their mayor just rides around town on a bike in the middle of the day. I think that's pretty cool; exactly what a mayor should do, really.
What a day. I pretended to be a Parliamentarian, saw the Pope, giggled at Tony Blair, and taught the mayor how to use a door. All the work of Serendipity, that old friend of mine. Thank you to the powers that gave me the most enthralling day in recent history. I am still filled with awe and gratitude.
Katie, You are absolutely amazing! What a gifted writer you are and what a gift to be a part of this latest adventure. But please don't leave us for Parliament or Prime Minister...we'd miss you too much. Love, Aunt Jan, Uncle Leo, Helena, Timothy & Lily xoxoxo
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