I manage a whopping total of three hours of sleep on the plane—not ideal, but not terrible either. I woke to the soft rose-colored glow of the “daybreak” light they use to ease you into consciousness, and I think, forget buzzing and beeping alarms; a soft pink glow is all I need to wake up every day. Or, maybe it’s just the adrenaline from the fact that my brain knows I’m oh-so-close to my longed-for destination.
When I peek out the window, we are flying over Ireland with just 45 minutes to go. Slainte. A lovely surprise. A less lovely surprise is the fact that my right nostril had sealed shut like a vault.
The kind flight attendant offers me fruit and a biscuit for breakfast, which I happily accept, though what I really want is coffee—hot, black, and immediate. I had two cups before I could even pretend to be functional.
Kenny only managed an hour of sleep. I feel bad for him while also feeling bad for myself as I make my way to the airplane toilet facility, where I blow my nose 14 times and then try to fix my hair and makeup in the remaining 30 seconds I have before the seatbelt light flashes back on.
We circle Heathrow a few times before landing, which gives us some lovely aerial views of the English countryside and the Thames snaking through the city, with the London Eye spinning slowly below. The flight itself? Smooth as could be.
We shuffle off the plane, and going through customs is a total breeze—scan my passport, done—and while our luggage took its sweet time showing up, everything arrived intact. Even better, Kenny graciously finds the Afrin, and I liberate my sinuses.
Our cabby, Mick, is an absolute delight. He chats the whole way to the County Hall Marriott, sharing tips on where to go for good fish and chips, the worthwhile rooftop restaurants, and, of course, Guinness, which we all happen to appreciate. We bond over “the black stuff,” and by the end of the ride, he hands us his card and tells us to call him if we need someone for the airport ride back. A proper English welcome to start things off right.
There was a line at the hotel check-in, but we were rewarded with a room upgrade. At exactly 3:00 PM, we freshened up and made our way to the Library Lounge for our afternoon tea reservation.
They seated us at what had to be one of the best tables in the house, with postcard-worthy views of Big Ben and Parliament. Tetiana, our lovely waitress, greeted us with glasses of champagne as we perused the tea menu. So many tempting options, but we both went with the classic Earl Grey.
As the tea steeped, out came an artful presentation of tea sandwiches, desserts, and golden scones with strawberry jam, lemon curd, and that dreamy, decadent clotted cream. My favorite sandwich was the cucumber, though the salmon was close behind. The scones, of course, were the stars of the show.
While we sipped and snacked, we reminisced about our first visit to London and our stay at County Hall, all those years ago, and how much has changed since then, including us.
Our room, 235 on the second floor, has a nice view of the Thames, though we can’t quite see Big Ben or Westminster Bridge. Still, it’s spacious, comfortable, and quiet—and we don’t have to worry about the London Eye tourists peering in like last time. Small mercies.
Kenny grabs a quick nap while I unpack my London wardrobe and make a cup of hot tea. It was tempting to stay put and just rest, but we had dinner plans and didn’t want to miss a thing on our first night in London.
We got ready, even though I definitely looked like someone running on three hours of sleep, and headed out. Westminster Bridge was far more crowded than we remembered it being 16 years ago.
We made our way to the Westminster Underground Station, scanned in with our Amex cards, and hopped on the Tube to the Tower Bridge area.
Dinner was at Tavolino, an Italian spot we found after a lot of research. It’s nestled at the base of a curved building with a sweeping view of the Thames and Tower Bridge.
Italian on our first night in London felt odd at first, but Tavolino was worth it. We arrived early, but the hostess kindly seated us anyway, at the table, the one from the website with the unbeatable view. A good omen, surely.
As the sky shifted into pinks and purples, we started with Prosecco, focaccia, and olive oil, followed by the Porcini and Truffle Arancini with Parmesan foam—heavenly. They brought out three, and when Kenny accidentally ate my half of the last one, we just laughed. He was caught up in the joy of the moment and the taste of it all.
For mains, he had the Cacio e Pepe Bucatini, and I ordered the Spinach and Ricotta Pappardelle in a tomato butter sauce. It looked like a rose on the plate and tasted like perfection.
We were too full for dessert, so we lingered over glasses of Sangiovese and let the evening unfold around us.
After dinner, the sky had darkened, and the Tower Bridge glowed blue and purple over the Thames. We took a few more photos, then began the walk back to the Tube.
As we turned a corner, we looked up and suddenly—there it was—The Shard. It hadn’t even existed the last time we were in London. Somehow, it had crept up behind us, and we laughed about the skyscraper looming over us like the Winter Warlock with its frosty, jagged top.
We rode the Tube to Waterloo and walked the rest of the winding way back to County Hall. Along the way, we passed a street buzzing with energy—locals gathered outside pubs watching Arsenal play Real Madrid. Judging by the cheers, Arsenal won. A happy night in London.
You’d think I’d fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, but of course, my brain had other plans. I tossed and turned, mind still buzzing from the day, until finally, sleep found me. London hummed quietly outside as the city and I drifted off together.
