I {HEART} HRH

I have had numerous wonderful experiences in my four years living in England, and one that will rank right up there no matter how many years go by is standing inches away from the Queen. Yes, that one, Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II. So close I could have reached out to touch her. So close that I suddenly transformed from fifty-something adult to giddy girl, gawping at her, waving my two-quid Union Jack on a plastic holder.

HRH was coming to Cowes to dedicate the new RNLI lifeboat station, adjacent to the Island Sailing Club, and to unveil a plaque along the Parade to commemorate her Diamond Jubilee visit. There was to be a parade of sail from Gurnard, just west of Cowes, where she would glide by on the Solent on board the 246-foot super yacht Leander, a whacking great vessel that just says majesty. (It was loaned to HRH by Sir Donald Gosling, former owner of National Car Parks aka NCP.) As the yacht passed the Royal Yacht Squadron, a 21-gun salute from the polished cannons sitting at waterside would begin. The royal party—Prince Philip was with HRH—would then walk up Trinity Landing, greet some of the local important people, and then head east on the Parade to dedicate the plaque, listen to local children sing, launch the lifeboat, and finally pick up a launch at the Cowes Yacht Haven to head back to London.

The plans were announced several months ago, and I decided as a part-time resident of Cowes that I should be there. I blocked the date on my work calendar. My friend Kim, a full-time resident of Cowes, had the itinerary at hand and we spoke on Tuesday evening to set our plan: queuing up on the Parade at 7 am, almost three hours ahead of the Queen’s arrival, to be assured of a good position to see her.

When we arrived there were already several people lined up against the barrier, and we decided to stand near the plaque as we knew the Queen would stop there to unveil it. A lovely family with two little girls had decamped with a blanket, folding chairs, folding prams and assorted bags of food, toys, and other distractions for the wait. We came alongside them, figuring that we could sidle up to the barrier when the Queen arrived, get a photo, and be happy.

It all came together perfectly—and on time. We saw Leander approaching, and then heard the 21-gun salute; the distance from the Squadron to where we were standing is not far; in fact from where we were standing we could certainly see the RYS castle.

I must say, the anticipation was palpable—by the time the hour was approaching for the Queen’s arrival the crowd was several deep, wondering what colour she’d be wearing, and how the Duke would be dressed, and who else would be accompanying them. As she stepped on the launch we caught a glimpse of the Queen’s apricot outfit. The crowd was cheering. I was feeling a bit, well, thrilled.

We could see her walk up the landing, and stop to greet the IoW VIPs who were lined up to curtsy or shake hands. The Duke was looking dapper in a lovely grey suit. Then, suddenly, they were in front of us, and Kim and I were able to move a bit closer to the barrier to snap a photo. One of the little girls next to us, called Grace, handed the Queen a posy, and she smiled and accepted it. I was still gawping, though I did manage to point my camera phone and click—and inadvertently took a 2-second video which you can watch, here (hopefully it works):

Kim managed a few photos with her camera, thankfully, and I recovered and took some, too.

We watched as HRH tugged the sash just a few feet in front of us to pull the red curtain open and reveal the plaque. Applause, more flag waving, and a bit of woo-hooing ensued. When the royal party moved away from us to hear the children sing, Kim and I made an attempt to follow through the throngs, but by the time we approached the area the song had been sung and the Queen and the Duke moved into the shade of the RNLI station, where speeches were being given. Fortunately there was a big screen mounted just outside the RNLI, and we were able to see and hear what was going on.

It was hot, and we were in tight quarters with people all around us, but it didn’t matter—it was fantastic. Kim and I kept exclaiming how really thrilled we were to have been so close, and to just be there to be a part of the Diamond Jubilee celebration. When it was over we walked the short distance back to Harbour House and I made us coffee—it was just after 11 am and a long time since breakfast, but not quite lunch time—more time to “debrief” and also just catch up a bit with our lives. We decided to head out and see if we could watch Leander leave, and we did catch a glimpse of the yacht heading back toward Southampton.

When my friend Sarah saw my photos she said “You’re so American.” I suppose my enthusiasm for something so British is not so British—but not everyone is reserved here, and some are even royalists! I do suppose that I was a bit more effusive in my enthusiasm than some—though judging from the crowd around me, we were all quite enthralled with the Queen’s visit. How lucky am I? Earlier this year I was dining with the Duke at a bar yacht club dinner, courtesy of Tim, and now this chance to see HRH close up. She reminds me of my grandmother. She is amazing for 86. She is always regal, ever personable, and, simply, elegant.

You might guess, then, what my favourite part of the Olympics opening ceremony was , , , the Queen's  perfect delivery of the line “Good evening, Mr Bond.”

What’s not to love?

Jubilation

It is such a remarkable summer in Britain, and a part of me feels as an expat that I should remark on the events that are exclusive to my place of residence.

First, the Diamond Jubilee. I did not stay in London, did not join the huge throngs lined up along the Thames to watch the Flotilla. Tim was participating in the Diamond Jubilee Regatta in Cowes, a series of races over the holiday weekend that began with a sail around the island followed by shorter races on Sunday and Monday.  My dear friend Leah came down to join her beau and was not sailing, so we had the opportunity to pull up stools at the local pub and watch the flotilla on a big screen TV. I must say, it was grand. There was this buzz, this anticipation about all sorts of things—what colour would HRH be wearing? Will it rain on her parade? How many boats are actually IN the flotilla? Well, I have to admit, I got slightly choked up when the Queen stepped out of her Bentley; she is a remarkable, elegant, truly regal woman and I was filled with respect for her. The weather was awful, yet she smiled and waved and stood for hours to the delight of all of those onlookers lining the waterfront.  It was fabulous watching (we could hardly hear the TV) and Leah and I enjoyed the lunch, the conversation, and the chance to see it all from a very comfortable position—maybe not the best seat in the house, but certainly one of the driest!

We had a funny incident at one of the post-sailing barbies that I still smile at: we popped into a water taxi to head back to Cowes after a less-than-inspiring gathering at the East Cowes Sailing Club where the beef was grey like the skies—to be fair, the BBQ was sponsored by a local charity, so the money we paid was not for a posh meal but for the hospice. It was edible, it just wasn’t very good. At the barbie there was a couple wearing HRH and Prince Philip masks, dancing in an oddly, almost creepy tete-a-tete, and just as we were getting ready to leave on the taxi the Queen pops into our boat! It turns out she was the boat driver’s mum bringing him some food. The way she wore the mask--with a scarf around her head--she looked, again quite oddly, just like the queen. We asked if we could take her photo, and she laughed and agreed, giving us a decidedly American pose when she detected photographer Taron's accent.

The picture quickly found its way on Facebook, and I sent it around to some friends the next day, some of whom commented at how authentic our fellow water taxi passenger appeared.

On Monday Tim and I planned to go see a local Isle of Wight Celtic band, but missed their set and instead found ourselves at the same pub Leah and I sat in, this time to watch the concert and fireworks that ended the Jubilee weekend. I found some of it odd—Alfie Boe and his duet companion Renee Fleming singing a tune from West Side Story . . . how is that a celebration of something quite British? Stevie Wonder? Well, it was all good, just not very British to me. I absolutely loved Madness doing “Our House” as they flashed different London scenes and buildings on to Buckingham Palace; if you haven’t seen it, give it a look here.

And so went the Diamond Jubilee. Britain was closed for an extra holiday, which was quite nice and gave us a chance to relax together after a busy weekend in Cowes. I was glad to have seen some of the events, even digitally, and felt it was a nice juxtaposition to the start of the weekend where we celebrated Leah’s birthday with a cake decorated with a huge American flag! Tim arranged it with the Island Sailing Club and it was just lovely, much like Leah.

Next, the quintessential British summer weather. To sum it up in one word: rubbish. When I first came to England I was surprised at how much the natives talked about the weather--always a good ice breaker, but this was beyond polite conversation. The whingeing! Well, having experienced what is now my fifth British summer, I can understand why everyone goes on about it. This year has been particularly bleak—not many days above 20 C / 70 F, and while there was a drought in May, it feels like it has not stopped raining since June. There are some positively glorious days which are little treasures, and I find myself wanting to sit in the garden until it gets too chilly or the dusk gives way to darkness, knowing that these are precious evenings indeed. Those of you who have been following Wimbledon know how it’s been a bit wet and windy this year; just imagine those two weeks repeated over three months! I do not envy New Jerseyites who are sweltering in scorching 38 C / 100 F, but I must say there are days in London when I simply shake my head at how many layers I’m wearing in summer, and how there are more women wearing scarves (and I mean the bulky kind) and boots in June and July than there are donning flip flops and tees! It makes an upcoming trip to sail in Turkey that much more desirable. I’ve just checked the low /highs for the week we’ll be there, and the low is London’s high, and the high is just under the scorching weather New Jersey has been experiencing—so I guess we'll get the best of both worlds there!

Last, a note about the Olympics. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m half-thinking to escape, at least for some part of the two weeks where the world descends on London and some of its outer reaches. I have been boarding crowded buses and trains in the last few weeks thinking how is London going to handle the crowds that haven’t arrived yet? Some of us still have to go to work, still need to take some transport. We’ll have to grin and bear it, adjust our hours and our attitudes and be polite to our visitors. I’m excited that I will be, at least for some part of the two weeks, in an Olympic hosting city. I may even go to one of the sailing events (albeit in Weymouth), and am anticipating the excitement in what is already a vibrant city. I know I will need to get to the office—training schedule in place, I will need to be there for the first of the two weeks. The second week, at the moment, is blissfully free of appointments that require me to find my way to Chancery Lane, which has been designated as one of the hotspots (likely because the station is on the Central Line, with a direct link to Stratford where the Olympic stadium and its surrounding park are poised.

A very exciting, unique British summer indeed. Excepting the dreadful weather!