February 2017, London. Cold, damp, and everything was wrapped in that stubborn, bone-chilling English gray. It was the sort of chill that could freeze tea right in the kettle. So naturally, I thought, “What better time for a nostalgia walk?” There I was, hoofing it down the Mall, past Buckingham Palace, when I realized the whole city was in a proper uproar. Union Jacks everywhere, people buzzing with some kind of royal enthusiasm. Turns out, Her Majesty was celebrating her Sapphire Jubilee—65 years on the throne. And only the British could throw a bash quite like this.
The streets were positively heaving with folks from every crack and crevice of the kingdom. First, you had the English, who seemed to be practicing the art of looking both proud and slightly inconvenienced. Then there were the Scots aka “Jocks”, suspiciously eyeing every Sassenach bastard within a 20-foot radius. The Welsh, who, for reasons beyond my understanding, wore enormous grins while probably keeping an eye out for any stray sheep. And of course, the Irish, who were already well into the Guinness and shouting for an encore before the band had even started.
So, I joined the mob and marched along, taking in the patriotic absurdity. Street vendors were selling miniature crowns, “authentic” royal memorabilia that looked suspiciously like yesterday’s leftovers from Poundland, and artistic interpretations of London scenery that might’ve been painted by the artist’s cat. Twenty-five pounds for an abstract Big Ben? Only in Britain.
Eventually, I made my way to Hyde Park, which had transformed into a full-blown fiesta. A band was absolutely shredding it in one of those quaint little gazebos that usually house a single, miserable trombone player on a Thursday afternoon. People were dancing like their lives depended on it, or perhaps like they’d been challenged by Her Majesty herself. And then, as I elbowed my way to the front, I saw her. Not ten feet in front of me was Andrea Corr, right there with the rest of The Corrs, and good Lord, she was the prettiest Irish girl I’d ever seen. She was singing with that voice: sweet, soft, the kind that could get you to agree to pretty much anything.
For a brief, shining moment, I was in love. Properly, ridiculously in love. Of course, this little romance lasted precisely until I reached the airport. By then, I was cold, grumpy, and faced with the depressing reality of my return flight to Virginia, where nothing, nothing, even remotely like Andrea Corr or a Jubilee party was waiting for me. Ah well, that’s the British way, isn’t it? Have a smashing good time, fall in love for all of ten minutes, and then get back to real life. And I suppose, if it has to end, there are worse ways than with a good dose of Corrs-induced melancholy.
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