Touring Towers

It was Abby (AKA Abena), one of the ‘Brits for Obama’ contingent that campaigned with my parents in Ohio some months ago. She kindly inquired if I would be available that evening for a tour of Parliament and perhaps a drink.

Great! Recently there has been a great deal of scandal and worry surrounding MPs and spending. I’d gathered that theses Parliament office workers were more than busy as of late, so I was very surprised to hear from one of them.

The irony of the evening is that I arrived at the visitors gate of Parliament promptly at 6:15pm. I was to meet Abby inside. I approached the guard and inquired if I may pass, as he was blocking my path. I couldn’t tell if his response of “I’m sorry its closed now” was saccharine, sarcastic, or seemingly genial. In any case, I feigned ignorance and cordialness and called Abby.

She flew around the corner and I could see her frenetic energy out of the corner of my eye as I took some more photos.
“Are you Cecil?”
Abby was a shortish, smooth-faced, and round Ghanaian. She would be my guide for the evening.

At first? Yeah, it sucked. After the initial thrill of being taken in to a separate entrance wore off, I began to realize that she probably hasn’t given a tour before. Just prior to introducing me to some colleagues at one of three Parliament pubs, she intimates,
“You know, even though I’ve worked here for all this time, I guess I don’t really know much about this place.”

Duh.
Worst tour ever.

But, as we say in Texas, “Bless her heart (add ample diphthong here).” We breezed by some of the most amazing stone and gilded ceilings that I’ve ever seen. We trampled hastily over well-worn marble floors. We glided by immaculately glistening stained glass. Intermittently we would stumble upon a 17th century statue of some notable, and I’d hear a light British-kissed voice inquiring, “Hmm...what does the plaque say?”

Then we began to meet the Diaspora. A thin Afro-Caribbean security guard brightened at the sight of Abby, introduced himself and then showered me in Jamaican patois. I caught maaaaybe 70% of it. My blank stare and staccato response betrayed my ignorance.

“Sorry, I see one of us and then I get going.”
Inside I agreed, though my words said, “No, not at all.”

We exchanged pleasantries that I had since become unaccustomed to since being in relatively staid England. He was warm and pleasant, and reminded me why I love my people so much.

Abby hesitantly asked if this gentleman had keys to the crypt. He said he didn’t but pointed us in the direction of a fellow officer that did and eagerly obliged. We immediately began our decent in the cold, twisty halls below the most ancient part of the Houses of Parliament. A large wooden door swung open to an incredible gilded chapel. To call it gorgeous would be an understatement as to call Houston summer-sun warm would be also in error. The other security guard related to us a small morsel of its history, but needless to say I don’t think I was supposed to take pictures.
Good tour.

We began our ascent again and spilled out into the ancient Westminster Hall Abby began her entreaties of completing the tour as we entered the Common Hall. Her knowledge and likelihood of a better performance was dismal. As a last ditch effort, she kindly asked another guard if he knew anything about the Hall.

To begin, his name was Minty. He was the sort of gentleman that you’d imagine that had a favorite pub, noshed proudly on English food and English football wins, and was seemingly ambivalent but deeply devoted to his wife. He was a Londoner.

Minty at first teased us with a little knowledge of our surroundings.

He talked about the ceiling with its many symbols, he sprinkled minor dates and peoples, and shared a simple joke or two. I ate it up. As did Abby. Seeing an opportunity, Abby kindly asked if we could see the House of Commons. He eagerly obliged and walked us there.

The talked about EVERYTHING. About Churchill, about the rebuilding of the House of Commons after the War, about the ceremonies involved in the Queen’s annual visit, about ‘modesty drapes.’ He discussed the origins of the word “tally” that was born there, and the phrase “toe the line.” I was enchanted. I wouldn’t call myself a history buff, but a thorough understanding of origin is oh-so-much fun. Abby, Minty, and I laughed and sighed in awe.

Minty was quite the history buff and hilarious in a high school teacher sort of way. He whisked us to where they vote, to the venerable although seemingly anachronistic House of Lords, to halls, corners, plaques, and even regal dressing rooms. He explained the British Royal family tree with the assistance of the many paintings on the wall with the clarity and hilarity of Maury.

BEST TOUR EVER.

“Well, we should say hello to my friend before we go. Do you have time? I warn you he’s a bit off” Even if not entirely true, he could have asked for a kidney and I would have said yes.

We joined another guard with who he’d been working with for the better part of two decades. Within 10 minutes he showed us his tattoo, Mayhem I think it was, (on his upper arm) and graced us, without hesistation, to his passionate and riotous performance of a NUMBER of his favorite bands song. He cajoled into joining. In a surreal moment, I thought, “Yup. I am karaokeing in Parliament.” Not your average evening. We talked of Obama’s senatorial visit to the Houses of Parliament and debated if Obama shaking your hand counts as “meeting” him (we for our karaokeing friend it did). I hadn’t laughed that hard in a house of government in quite some time. Our friend insisted that we take photos in his hat with his new (beautiful) Blackberry. We obliged.

“Oops. Its 10! We’re no longer paid to be here! We’ll see you later!”
And just like that, off they went after hearty hand-shakes. Thus concluded the evening, never to be repeated again.