For the last few weeks I’ve changed the channel rapidly whenever talk of the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton came on the news, commercials, or shows that I watch regularly. It seemed that from the very first moment I had had too much. Yes, I’ve seen how similarly Kate and Diana dressed in their red frocks with their black belts. No, I did not realize that Kate won’t throw her bouquet, but will instead place it at the memorial to the unknown soldiers. My, I had no idea that the gown of Diana’s train was such a bother to that poor thirteen year old bridesmaid.
No more!
But the fact is…I don’t think I can help but watch.
The reason is that in the summer of 1997, I moved to London to study abroad for one semester…and on the first morning of my homestay, I woke up to find the house in tears. My host mother was sitting on the couch sobbing, tissues wadded up around her, the phone in her hand. Her teenage daughter was absolutely beside herself, her younger children playing silently on the floor. All I could make out when I entered the room was, “Diana’s dead. She’s dead. She’s gone.” My jet-lagged mind swirled…was this some relative they had mentioned the night before? Perhaps a pet I didn’t notice when I was moving my luggage into the front room? And then I glanced at the television, the images of Paris, the headlines. Princess Diana had been a car accident the night before and died.
If you want to get to know a country quickly, live there in a time of either immense triumph or profound mourning. Never before had I seen such a collective grief, an overwhelming sadness. The people – the entire country – had in one profound moment had their collective hearts broken. I wandered the streets taking pictures of…
…the winding line of people waiting to sign the condolence books outside of Harrods…
…scores of people five and six rows deep staring at a sea of flowers outside Kensington Palace…
After awhile, London became my home and not the site of memorials and mourning. The pomp and circumstance that surrounds grieving was replaced with celebrations. I had the pleasure of witnessing London at its finest with parades through her incredibly grand streets…
…royal carriages carrying important people…
Over the months, the city became my home. There was the townhouse where I lived…
…my 102 bus…
…my beautiful city.
But of all of the images that are burned in my memory from that time, there is none quite so moving as this:
A boy saying goodbye to his mother.
So as much as I’ve enjoyed mocking the American newscasters trying to pull off the floppy hat look or Anderson Cooper asking what a frock is or Barbara Walters covering her 5,214th royal event, the truth is…
Tomorrow I’ll be watching my city, and I’ll be celebrating with them.