European cities at night via satellite. It is an easy “day trip” (or night!) to London from Paris.

Friday. I woke up feeling fairly rested though my eyes were bloodshot: there’s probably mold in the hotel.

I showered, shampooed and got dressed. Then I set out for my free breakfast in the hotel. There were at least 20 people in the dining room, though few looked like they had taken a shower already. The place felt rather seedy, especially when I saw lecherous eyes look my way. I sat down at a table that wobbled, so I moved to another. One of the women working in the kitchen came into the dining room and basically asked me if I was crazy for sitting at a table for three when I was alone: “Sit somewhere else,” she told me, eyes blazing. Nothing like making paying customers want to come back! Breakfast consisted of white bread toast, butter and jam, weak coffee or tea, cheap cornflakes. It wasn’t very satisfying or particularly nutritious, but it was something to eat until I could get a piece of fruit. I tried to enjoy my breakfast at the wobbly table as I thought about the day ahead.

I went back to my room and wrote out two placards (which I had packed, rolled up, in my new French suitcase) to take with me to Buckingham Palace. After finishing them, I finished packing and did a sweep of the room to make sure I didn’t forget anything; then I walked down the 8 flights of stairs. I asked the manager if I could leave my luggage in the lobby while I was out. He said no problem, which was nice of him. I felt like my bags would be safe. Of course, having locks on my important stuff helped with my piece of mind.

I did a little sightseeing on my way to Buckingham Palace…..

Then I held my breath and showed up at the Palace. I held up one of my signs, which essentially told Queen Elizabeth II to leave me and my family alone. Some young woman (from Ireland?) came over and asked if she could take a picture of me and my sign: “Of course,” was my response. I had been there for about 30 minutes or so when a Palace police officer came over and started asking me questions. I told him that in the States, protesting is a right, and besides, I’ve seen other people protesting at the Palace. He basically told me that if the Queen doesn’t want people protesting right outside her residence, she was within her rights to shoo them away. Then he told me I was free to protest outside the gold and black gate, yet he also continued to try to ask me questions, like where was I staying. I said, “You just said I’m free to leave and that I can protest outside the gate, am I right?” He said that was correct. “Good, I’m leaving now,” I said, and walked away without looking back. I wasn’t trying to cause an international incident: I just wanted to stand up for my family name.

I stood at the corner he directed me to for about an hour. After I felt I had made my point, I left. It was drizzling. I went to St. James’s Park and took some pictures. Then I went to Inn the Park restaurant and warmed up, having some coffee and a dessert. It felt like a modern-day log cabin with cool lighting (and stiff seats). After I left, I threw out my placards in the trash bin near the restaurant. I felt like I had made my point. After seeing Palace police mill about as soon as I showed up, I couldn’t wait to get back to France, where I belong.

I went back to the hotel to retrieve my luggage, and thanked the management of The Continental Hotel for their service. Their hotel may not be the best, but they treated me okay, so all in all it wasn’t a horrible experience to stay at their hotel. I hope they….how shall I say?….do a little redecorating.

Victoria Coach Station was dark and cold, with almost no place to sit or stand.

I made my way to the bus station with a light rain falling. It was absolutely freezing in the bus station. People who worked there told me they had to leave the doors open (to the buses), even though no one was boarding. I went to wait in another part of the station. I struck up a conversation with an English woman who seemed nice enough, but she started asking me questions that were none of her business, like whether I owned the house I was living in, how could I afford to take this trip, and do I have money to get home. I wanted to tell her to bugger off. I wondered who was more tactless: the Englishman who was determined to get on The Tube sooner than me, and basically pushed me out of the way, or this woman, who wouldn’t know what boundaries are if they bit her on the nose? Ahh, travelling. You meet so many kinds.

I decided to que up in line since it was nearing boarding time (finally!). A guy behind me spoke to me, and he came to understand I had only been in London for 24 hours. He asked me which country I liked better: I told him, hands down, nothing beats France. I was hoping to sit next to him just to know I would be sitting next to someone friendly, but we boarded too late to be seated next to one another. I ended up sitting behind a couple who seemed to enjoy the idea they were giving me and others a show with their French kissing. They did it so much I felt like a voyeur. I completely get that many people aren’t hung up on showing a little Public Display of Affection, but it can get to a point where you want to say, “Get a room, already!” Some people behind me where shaking their heads and smiling: they knew what I was thinking.

We arrived at the ferry and were told to remember where we had parked. (I had to laugh: they made it sound like we were parked in a mall.) The inside of the ferry was nicely appointed, with leather and other types of seating, and places to buy something to eat and drink, though I was much too tired to do either. The young people (hehhehhehheh) were all so excited, many of them drank and ate and whooped it up. No thanks. Like many others, I curled up on a sofa for the trip, which was over before I knew it. I couldn’t believe how trashed the ferry as we were exiting: it was worse than any New Year’s Eve party I had ever been to. I felt groggy when I first got up but then adrenaline kicked in: I couldn’t find my bus. Someone seemed to know which one I was looking for and helped me find my way to it.

I was much relieved when I started to see signs in French again while on the bus back to Paris.

As the bus drove into Paris I and I saw signs in French again, I was so relieved. Nothing beats France. I felt like I had been in enemy territory in London (though I have no beef with British people in general, only with the Queen), and now I’m back “home.” The bus let us off at a bus station that was a bit of a walk to a metro station, but I couldn’t care a less. I was SO GLAD to be back in Paris. I got back to the hostel in no time. I ate my delicious French breakfast and went to bed, happy that I had made my point.

Salut !

Images of European cities at night and bus back to Paris by Can Stock Photo. Image of Victoria Coach Station by xjy, Flickr, CCBY 2.0. All other images by Elsa L. Fridl