We Went to London, Part 2: Horse Guards, Highgate Cemetery, and Parliament Hill

I love horses with jobs. Show me a horse cop, especially in downtown Chicago traffic, and I lose my mind. I think I love the buddy-cop dynamic between officers and beasts, be they dogs or horses. And since Chicago's K9 forces wear scary Hannibal Lecter cages around their mouths, horse cops are much more fun to encounter.  

I knew I'd love London's Horse Guards even more. 

The ceremonial changing of the Horse Guards didn't thrill a lot of my fellow tourists ("They're just standing there! Terrence, let's leave"), but I was enthralled by their synchronized trots and dismounts. I also enjoyed some guards' faint smirks as one of the horses had a small temper tantrum while standing in line, puffing and pawing and shaking his rider in his saddle. That horsie was ready for bed, dammit.

Remember when Andy Dwyer played with RC helicopters in front of this building on Parks & Rec? 

We wandered to Highgate Cemetery after the parade. My only regret from the trip is that we couldn't spend more than an hour in the cemetery. 

There were plenty of traditional markers like the ones above, but my favorite was this Penguin Classics tombstone. My future family, please take note. 

The Penguin grave happened to sit beside Corin Redgrave's resting place, and I quietly hummed the theme song to The Forsyte Saga while giving him a little salute. 

Other famous people in Highgate Cemetery include Douglas Adams (for whom I could not leave a pen, much to my shame), Karl Marx, and George Eliot. 

Gustav Mahler's daughter is buried there, too. She was an artist and designed her own tombstone. 

              

But the best parts of the cemetery are the meandering, weeded-over, vine-heavy, very-spooky, are-we-allowed-in-here side paths, where most tombstones are being pushed out of the ground by neighboring tree roots. (Or, I suppose, by a skeleton's hand.) 

We walked from the cemetery to Parliament Hill for a picnic with a view of the London skyline. We picked up sausage-and-mustard-flavored chips (yes, chips, because I'm back in America, so USA! USA! USA!) and Indian-spiced ciders from a nearby grocery store, tossed a Virgin airlines blanket on the wild grasses, and stared into space for a while. 

On our way back down the hill, I discovered that CRICKET IS A REAL GAME AND THEY REALLY WEAR WHITE. 

In the evening we saw the musical adaptation of Roald Dahl's Matilda. I was too afraid to take a sneaky picture of the set, but it was the coolest staging I've ever seen. The perimeter is made out of building blocks and Scrabble tiles! It's perfect! (As for the script and the implications of having a man play Miss Trunchbull as the feminine grotesque, that's a conversation to have over another tiny glass of rosé.) 

Before bed we stopped for a Pimm's cup and a cask ale, and then saw Chicago's guerrilla marketing at its best. 

Bah humbug.