St James Park and 'Here's to Acting Like Tourists'

I should think, that without Michael, there is no way I would've survived London, let alone been successful in all my searchings.  It would have been a fool's errand without company, and even the most enjoyable sights would have been disappointing.

Even as I tore through street after street, cutting through lane after lane, and turning around at dead end after dead end.  Michael was there, keeping pace patiently, and never hated me too much, even when the things I'd planned to see were closed, or empty, or illegal.





I'm no good at being a tourist.  I like to try and keep my feet.  More often for not that meant, walking with purpose, ignoring beautiful things on my way to something else.  But Michael, he would always stop to look, and photograph those things that despite the crowds around them, really were majestic and beautiful, charming and historic, even if I couldn't appreciate them at the time.

I know why I did the things I did in London.  I'm incredibly vain, and full of pride.  I wanted to be different, but that gets in the way of so much on a good holiday.

So it was Michael who had to pressure me into taking a bicycle on a peaceful ride through St James Park, to enjoy the sounds and sights of it (on our way to find an 19th century graveyard for the pets of the city's rich and famous that we would never actually find).  And yet it was that hour of cycling that will stay with me for longer than most things I saw, I should think.  Going across a small bridge, I glimpsed for a moment the view of a miniature beach by the shores of the lake.  We heard the rustling trees, we felt the wind in our hair, and we enjoyed that part of the day for what it was, rather than for some sort of subtext or hidden meaning.





It was Michael who made sure we went to places that people acutally recognised.  It was also Michael who bothered to try to get to know our dorm-mates from Portland, he booked tickets to David Mitchell's live Q&A about his book, it was Michael who made things fun.



At the end of our week, we found our way to Abbey Road, but this time, the desire of the tourist was mine.  I've always wanted to go, and it was on the way to where we needed to be with our luggage.  Sort of.*

At the crossing, whilst waiting for a Korean family to attempt in futility to recreate the Abbey Road cover with three people.  I met a man from Australia, from Queensland to be precise.  We chatted about football, and the weather and the things that seemed appropriate for people so far from home.  Michael was getting the camera ready at the nearby monument when the man asked me if my friend liked the Beatles too.





I didn't have an answer.  I mean, I presume he does. Everybody likes the Beatles right?  But it struck me that I'd never actually asked if Abbey Road held that much interest to him, but regardless, he was there, ready with the camera.  On the other side of the planet, watching by way of the 24 hour video feed that captures the crossing day and night, a multitude of friends and family tuned in to watch us prance about.  But Michael was actually there, and he had been the whole time.  I'd never forgotten him of course, he was a part of it all, but it was here that I realised just how much he'd committed to my mad expeditions, and how much his wisdom, calm and enthusiasm had improved my mood, time after time.

I've still not asked him whether he likes the Beatles, I will one day maybe.  But I think the most important thing I know, is that even if he absolutely hates them, he was still happy to come with me. I'm still vain, I'm still full of misplaced pride.  But Michael isn't, and that is something I am very thankful for.

*  As in not at all. We went two hours out of our way with heavy bags.