After Day Two’s epic hike, we had no trouble sleeping, killing one of my main concerns about the trip: would jet lag drag me down, mess with my sleep cycle, and ruin my touristy fun?

Apparently not.

Today’s stop was our first use of the Palace Pass, which gave us sorta kinda fast pass admission into three palaces: Tower of London, Hampton Court, and Kensington Palace. The Tower was one of Dad, Interrupted’s Must See Touristy (it works if you say it out loud sorta kinda fast) so off we went.

Once again mistrusting our not-mad Underground skillz, we opted for an Uber and headed down to the River Thames. Here’s what we saw/did/experienced:

Like Cher, the Tower is amazingly well-preserved. And like Cher, it’s almost a little *too* well-preserved, as it turns out. It is in such good shape, it looks as if Disney took a crack at it.

Within its walls, it’s got a seemingly infinite number of little towers, all with twisty spiral staircases and let me tell you Interwebz: when you’ve cranked out 10,000 steps by noon, one more spiral staircase and you’re looking for the door. When you’ve cranked out so many steps in dressier-still-comfortable-but-not-as-comfortable-as-my-sneakers flats (anticipating a tea date at the Savoy later), you’re taking crankier to the next logarithmic level.

If you visit, here’s a Pro Tip: check out the Crown Jewels first. The line, or should I say: queue, is very long unless you’re first in. It’s the kind of exhibit you’ll feel a little bummed if you don’t see it, but not so much that you’re going to want to spend an hour in a line. Go early, save yourself.

There are ravens, supposedly the Guardians of the British Galaxy. The legend says that as long as there are six ravens at the tower the kingdom will stand. I speculated that they clip the wings on the ravens so they won’t take off; Dad, Interrupted scoffed. Turns out I was right. They have seven ravens there, they’re having trouble keeping them in stock, as raven breeders are dwindling in Britain, and they clip the wings so the entire nation doesn’t freak out if the ravens decide to fly to Mallorca for the winter.

There’s a lot of focus on weapons, and not as much focus on famous prisoners getting executed, a topic I was surprisingly and disturbingly interested in. The tower where Anne Boleyn cooled her jets was unavailable for touring, as was the Bloody Tower [insert your own imagination here].

I did see an axe. Maybe the axe? Not sure.

This is also where we saw The Scavenger’s Daughter torture device, a configuration that looked suspiciously like the inspiration for British Airway’s 747 roach (sic) class.

A highlight for me was the Traitors’ Gate.

With my burgeoning fascination with Anne Boleyn, it seemed like a natural until I learned that she probably didn’t even use it to enter the Tower. So much for imagination.

The café/cafeteria type restaurant was pretty lame, even by my famously non-picky standards. The food was difficult to get to, not particularly good, and it was school cafeteria type seating, with long rows of tables too close to each other. This configuration gave rise to the only truly overtly nasty moment we experienced in ten days of tourism: we rose to leave, only to find that I was trapped: other diners were hemming me in from adjoining tables and didn’t care to move themselves so I could get out.

I was too astounded to say anything, and was pondering turning my own table over on its side and climbing out through the wreckage, until Dad, Interrupted ran back to the table and made the rude gits move their own generous butts so I could somehow squeak through.

And they were annoyed that I made them move. I guess they expected that I would wait patiently while they snarfed down their whatevers.

Tourists.

Unlike Anne Boleyn, we escaped the Tower.

We tried to get in at Churchill’s War Rooms but, encouragingly restoring my faith in human nature, in a world where people make literate decisions, display historical curiosity, and stand up when people want to exit cafeteria-style seating at lunch, there was too long of a wait.

We were not cerebral enough this day; we didn’t want to miss our fancy tea date at the Savoy. This was more Must See Touristy on Dad, Interrupted’s part, which had been kind of a surprise, given that he is highly allergic to dressing up and drinking hot beverages from tiny cups with his pinky sticking out.

Seems that the Savoy Hotel used to be a fancy home, whose owner was considered to be responsible for a tax or something, and then the peasants rebelled in something called the Peasants’ Rebellion (who knows where they get these names) and rode their horses right through the lobby.

Fancy crustless sandwiches, amazing little cakes, and tea. Beautiful setting. Kind, attentive servers, who get really agitated if you try to pour your tea yourself. Handsome date.

Uber ride home. Stout, cider, cigar and planning the next day at the Monkey Puzzle.

© E. Stocking Evans 2018