They lie, you know.
In films and television shows set in this fine city of London, you always get that mini montage of the protagonist and his entourage teasing the guards at Buckingham Palace, making faces and trying to make them laugh. Usually this happens when said protagonist and entourage are of the American variety, either because we are a) sunshine people who like to spread happiness and smiles or b) obnoxious.
I'd saved all that good touristy stuff, like licking palace guards, to share with friend K, who is visiting from New York this week, but when we arrived at the gates of Buckingham Palace (a bit gaudy, I thought, with the unnecessary golden-winged babies and all) we were disappointed to discover that not only could we not prod the guards with the tips of our tongues but we could not even hope to prod them with the tips of our outstretched fingers.
The guards were safe from our antics, standing a billionty meters (or 3.28 billionty feet) behind the baby-laden gates, which honestly seemed to be doing most of the guards' jobs for them. They were so far away they looked like red ants exercising their ability to carry 50 times their weight with those ridiculous hats on their heads. Occasionally one of them would move a few steps to his left, which was exciting, but then he'd move right again and spoil it.
This little London let down didn't put a damper on our afternoon, however. Although K and I both share an appreciation for and near proximity to New York City, our hearts have always been London's, and the city can do no wrong.
The London tube is cleaner than the New York subway, and although a disembodied soothing, English voice warns you to "mind the gap" getting off the tube, you'd have to be Kate Moss to fall in that groove. In New York, you have to get a running start off the train, and at the dodgier stations, you're safest carrying a retractable pole vault.
London gets architecture, history, charm, colour and black cabs as spacious (and expensive) as renting your own bus.
New York gets rats large enough to eat a bus.
It's most likely one of those the-grass-is-greener things, but then again, that's an unfair comparison because at least London has grass.
So although K and I had hoped to get a giggle from a guard, we were willing to accept and enjoy the palace for what it is (a really hideous building). Of course, our standards are low considering New York tourist attractions can be summed up as climbing to the tops of things.
But directing our attention to the next stop on our self-guided tour, we hit a snag. Or rather, I hit a European, though he turned out to be an angel in disguise.
I was walking along a bit of curb with K, when I noticed a large man similarly balancing along the raised pavement and moving toward us in an efficient and determined manner.
Assuming the best of his nature, I guessed he would eventually notice my presence, recognize the potential collision and remove himself from the curb, but in the most awkward instance of the game chicken ever, we both continued along our paths until we stood nose to nose.
Then he stepped on me.
Frightened and confused, K and I veered to the left, hurriedly shuffling away from the human bulldozer. We were trying to escape our shame when we stumbled upon a strange side gate guarded-on the outside-by the men in funny hats. K and I reverted back into silly Americans, and silly Americans with cameras.
After we'd had our way with the guards, who can't speak but might have been blinking SOS in Morse code, I mumbled an apology and then, in a brief moment of New York City pride, thought about adding a friendly hand gesture. After all, although we might have a love affair with London, New York has always been there for us, for better or for worse or for cravings for authentic and cheap Chinese food.
But the man had a gun.
Lysa Chen is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Friday.
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