Keepsakes

Hampton Court postcard

(This story is from a May, 2000 trip to London.)

"Do you have any guide books in American?"  A travel weary father asks as he holds up the Official Hampton Court Guide.  The book sports a British flag in the corner, indicating it's written in English.  The poor man, no doubt so tired from sightseeing and herding the family through yet another London sight that he can no longer think straight.  Similar encounters are the norm if you hang out, like I do, in tourist gift shops.  I know that most of the tschotskes are cheap, often gaudy, and for the most part, "Made in China," which makes me think that I should just go to China and cut out the middle man.  Still, the draw of beautiful post cards and shiny baubles is too much to resist and I wade into the fray at every opportunity.

Today's foray is at Hampton Court just outside of London.  My dear friend, Kass, and I are spending an incredible ten days in Great Britain.  While she's not the shopper that I am she is a postcard connoisseur, so she's braving the gift shop crowd, too.  We decide to split up and meet in the foyer later.  I wade in and join the crowds, looking at everything from postcards to books to the "Made in China" replica phone boxes.  There's something that compels me to load up and bring home some kind of tangible object from a trip.  In nine or ten hours I can go from the comfortable environs of my home and culture to a completely different world.  I'll immerse myself in the new place, picking up mannerisms and bits of speech, and then just as quickly I'll be home again.  It's almost as if the trip never happened.  That's where post cards, guide books, and the ever present refrigerator magnets come in.  Every time I get the milk I see an iconic red phone box, reassuring me that, yes, I did indeed spend time in London.

So, today I wade into yet another crowded gift shop.  Passing by grandparents holding up miniature sweatshirts and bibs, young people fingering key rings and miniature castles, and scholarly types scanning the book section I head first for the post cards.  As always, the photos and artist's renderings are stunning.  No one catches the light quite like a professional photographer with good equipment and assistants to keep the pesky tourists out of the shot.  After a rather exhausting forty minutes of moving through the crowd, I manage to get a guide book "in American," a couple of magnets, lots of beautiful post cards and ten stamps with the queen's profile, enough to transport my experience to friends and family back home.

Hampton Court chimneys from the Privy Garden (my photo)

Pushing through the crowd, I manage to get to the foyer.  No seating area but I find a spot on the steps off to the side, away from the constant crush of people.  Soon, I notice two middle-aged women near me discussing stamps.  I'm a bit surprised to hear their British accents but then Americans visit the White House, too.  It turns out that one of the ladies needs a stamp for a card to her son in Spain.  Since I have sufficient postage for airmail to the U.S. my stamps would do.  I lean over and offer her one.  Like most motherly types she insists on paying me for it, digging into her tiny coin purse with arthritic fingers.

Hampton Court 

Wine Cellar

South Front at night

The three of us chat a bit, about how well her son's business in Spain is doing, about traveling and sightseeing, about how much I'm enjoying London, the usual chit chat with strangers.  Rested and the postage problem resolved the ladies get up to leave.  I realize that I have my memorable keepsake for the trip.  Our ten minute conversation is more precious to me than all of my beautiful post cards, photos, and magnets because for these few minutes I cease being an American tourist and become simply someone to chat with, to brag about a son with.