Postcards from London

A recap of Jubilee festivities and fate examined

The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee was the trip my childhood self was destined for. I know because of the steady reckoning I felt within, where suddenly everything around me felt intrinsically right and aligned in the deepest halls of my better being.

Eat, Pray, Love. The British edition, written and directed by JK Rowling, of course.

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England for the Platinum Jubilee, at 42, is the grand manifestation of a royal obsessed 6 year old who never outgrew the stack of British magazines at her bedside. Evidence of a passion that puzzled her classmates and stumped her mother, but persisted nonetheless. To the point of regular book reports on Andrew Morton’s latest tell all. And oral reports on the history of the Windsor family tree (which always clocked well past the designated 8 minute expectation)

It might sound dramatic, but on this occasion we’re going to willfully embrace it because a life long dedication to studying (and adoring) British royalty surely deserves it.

Plus it involves an ominous owl and a lot of rambling about fate so drama here is key.

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Consider the scene:

After our first few days in London, watching the city prepare itself for upcoming festivities I got a text from Lady Victoria encouraging me to try and sneak into the sold out concert at the palace that evening. A challenge I accepted ONLY because I figured a long shot is always worth the effort. And because even the failed attempts in life make for good stories later on.

Now, imagine what transpired after.

The press pass you made as a joke to yourself a year prior, with a photo of you looking like a proper D-list British celebrity, actually works at getting you in. You hand a stone faced man at security your pass and he smiles back at you with a head nod that pushes you through to the other side where you find yourself - in this unexpected victory - chasing after a long legged Lady Victoria with a stride that’s impossible to match in the ridiculously high heels you choose because you really never thought you had a chance of getting in, and with the corner pub as plan B the Prada heels made much more sense.

But now you are sprinting around the palace confines trying to keep up with a 6ft blonde in a hurry.

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Fast forward, three hours and a couple pimms later, standing front row at Buckingham Palace for the concert of a lifetime. A concert you never, in your wildest dreams, expected to experience. Saddled by celebration, painted by pageantry, framed by a nostalgia that swells when Prince William walks up to the microphone 20 ft in front of you, pausing under a blinding spotlight to address a crowd of 22,000 people there to honor the legacy of his “Granny.” The glow of his familiar profile against the crowd looking just like his mothers, triggering an old sentiment that cuts deeper now having boys around the same age as him at Diana’s passing.

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The sight of him, confident and grown, standing before this crowd opens a flood of emotion that plays like a movie reel in your head eventually bringing you to tears. While on a stage across the grounds Charles and Camilla appear to address the crowd to convey a whole country’s gratitude for the woman (“Mummy”) at the center of this lavish celebration. Her dedication, operating with the kind of selfless grace that’s grown extinct in this era, marking 70 years of servitude. The second-longest serving sovereign monarch in history. Second only to Louis XIV of France, who was crowed at the age of four.

A moving montage of family videos and colored photos showing Elizabeth in various stages of a crowned visage paints the palace walls with stunning effect. The images come paired with live performances from some of the biggest acts in the world. Rod Stewart sings Sweet Caroline, Alicia Keys bangs out Girl on Fire, Andrea Bocelli stands beneath a waterfall of sparks that explode with his finale, and Diana Ross - who closes the show - ends with a spectacular rendition of “Thank You.”

But nothing, and I mean nothing, delights the crowd more than the wholesome video on screen showing the Queen looking sharp and sprightly in her bold floral dress, sharing a marmalade sandwich (pulled from a Launer handbag) with Paddington Bear. A sea of British flags waving gleefully over this sweet scene.

The classic pairing they never knew they needed.

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The owl, synchronicity, and 666

At this point we don’t second guess the owl. We know he’s got things to say and that he’s always appearing at vital points, during odd hours, demanding my attention. Sometimes (often times) I’m in the bath at dusk when he calls for me but I never know when I will see him next. Sometimes it’s weeks, sometimes months.

This last time he appeared was during a peak point in the Depp trial. Where he took to stomping around our rooftop in the middle of the night until Mike awoke and walked out to see him glaring back at him from the peak above him.

“Your owl is the one out there making all that noise.” He said as I lay desperately wanting to avoid the inconvenience of a 3am greeting.

When he wouldn’t stop, I pulled myself out of bed and walked out back to see him not on the roof but atop his favorite perch, staring directly at me for a good solid 6 seconds. When I say hello he woo’s back at me twice, with a long pause before flying away in an eerie send off that marks the morning when everything started to explode (The gist of which will come together in subsequent chapters here as we go)

Later that day I watch a few owl symbolism videos. The main message being: these creatures and their symbolic lineage represent truth and enlightenment, both spiritually and intellectually. A reoccurring presence “encourages one to look deeper into everything that surrounds them.”

Now enter the whole 666 spectacle. Which started when I went to book our tickets for London and all of the prices listed on the site I use were $666. I screenshot the page and even joked online about being torn over a great price and a bad omen. Despite Mike’s urging, out of pure superstition, I refused to book anything under that number.

As weeks went on, though, the number continued to stalk me. In dashboards and insights, storylines, and several other random occurrences to the point that I started to document this absurd pattern of repeat. This, coming from someone who has always ignored emphasis on numerical meanings and musings.

Then in Ledbury, on June 6th, after I posted a series of slides showing the new bus on IG, a follower alerted me to the significance of the license plate. She explained that it spelled out the date of Robert F. Kennedy’s assignation: June 6th, 1968. Three sixes. Another woman pointed out the date we were picking it up happened to be the anniversary of this death. All coincidences easily overlooked by us both. The year (2022) adding up to six. So the pick up date: June 6th 2022 = 666

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But it didn’t end there.

I was floored by these bizarre connections so I revisited the origins behind the notion of “synchronicity,” founded by Carl Jung. A philosophy I had studied (and clung to) back in college but let go of throughout the decades. As romantic life philosophies in your 20’s tend to garner less prominence in your 40’s.

The first thing I noticed in his bio was the date of his death: June 6th, 1961. I sat for a moment trying to make sense of these mounting oddities. A trio of sixes piling up on me in a weirdly evolving subplot, while sitting inside a 400 year old hotel we choose purely out of location convenience then walked in to see it naturally outfitted with framed owl feathers and statues surrounding us.

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When I recount this whole interlude to the intrigued Englishman at the coffee bar the following morning, he shakes his head, looks me dead straight in the eye and says, “It’s the kind of stuff you can’t make up. Or ignore…”

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A Country Detour

Just before we decided - on a whim - to book that last weekend in Paris we ended up in a shoebox sized hotel in Soho. Deliriously tired, fresh off a three hour train ride that dropped us deep into the Ledbury countryside to find and test drive the old Commer bus Mike bought last year from Austin, a handsome, curly haired Shia LaBeouf look-alike who’s the top upholsterer in town and the the first (and only) to make us a proper cup of English tea in his workshop.

The countryside in Ledbury was as lush and charming and ancient as I’d imagined. Like entering a fairytale in living form. All green hillsides, cottage houses and cobblestoned streets with perfectly manicured hedges that line the entire town. Also the preferred place of residence for Liz Hurley these days. Ledbury’s new dazzling local. The darling of the town who is holed up in a mansion on a historic lot in a home she snagged in her last divorce and moved permanently to during the first onslaught of covid. A fact that causes me to scroll through a series of photos online showing her outstretched in various forms of yoga around areas of the estate. At the grill, near the pool, in a bikini at 57 looking just like she did at 32. The country, by the looks of it, treating her well apparently.

Tales of the townspeople’s run-ins with her around the bars and restaurants on the main strip are common. According to them she’s apt at making her way into town just as often as anyone else, to pick up firewood or treat herself to prime steak. The kind of small town sidetones I eat up.

And as much as I did not want to leave a bustling city, drenched in glittering pageantry and plenty of horse parades, the Ledbury detour proved sweet respite. The Monarch pride still apparent in the downtown with banners strung across every street and the Queen’s face in nearly every window pane. The pace (post celebrations) refreshingly slower than London too. And the people - if possible - even more mannered. Many of them connected to some version of a well-groomed spaniel on a leash. Speckled, long haired, short, tall, wiry, smart eyed but usually aloof. All the English dogs I met were well kept and looked as if like they had graduated from esteemed universities and held reservations at all the places us common folk couldn’t get in.

By the time we took the train to the countryside Arlo had already headed home. His time with us in London, just under a week. The three of us crammed into a tiny hotel room hardly bigger than the outline of the queen sized bed at the center of it, located right near the palace entrance. We spent the time riding bikes and dodging rain. Arlo learned right away how to get himself around town on the metro and made a regular habit of skating over to South Bank where he made a handful of new friends and seemingly impressed a couple girls who would later spot him walking to dinner with us and shout from across the street “You’re the American boy with the bloody ear from the skatepark, aren’t you!” referring to the fall that had split part of his ear in a bloody skate injury the day before.

In the country, without Arlo, we spent a full day driving the bus around Malvern. Getting lost on glorious green backboards where kind strangers took great effort in deciding our redirect. At one point we almost ran out of gas on a remote road without wifi but because luck was on our side we ended up finding a hidden station and eating sandwiches at a random cafe across the street. After lunch we ventured onto the grounds of a castle through a back entrance gate and played dumb with the guard on site who seemed surprisingly amused by our intrusion. Enough to direct our photo shoot to better light, near the front of the castle where blue sky and big white clouds would frame our backdrop.

Our last venture before the Commer is plucked from Austin’s warehouse and towed to a local port and put on a boat headed for California to meet its new fate hauling surfboards and shading sunburnt suffers I’m sure will appreciate the exotic addition it adds to their line up. A dash of British aesthetic to spice up the SoCal parking lots. Complete with a custom tea cabinet, a pop up roof, and three fold away beds.

Definitely Mike’s favorite gift to himself. Probably ever.

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England Impressions

Everything that unrolled during those tens days in London exists in a dizzying timeline. I recall a stretch of mid day lunches and aimless wanderings around the city in search of meaningful souvenirs, coffee, wine, fresh bread, live music and new celebration.

One afternoon’s journey (because I’m me) involved a bike ride to Belgravia to see the infamous flat where Andrew’s cramped bathroom sins took place. A single shot from a disposable camera that would permanently erase any air of nobility for the Queen’s favorite son.

The Belgravia neighborhood also looked straight out of a storybook. Quaint, quiet, old, relaxed and obviously wealthy. Maxwell’s mew as it stands today, looked dull and neglected compared to the version we saw in court. The white and red molding painted grey. The blooming flowers that used to drape down along her windowsills, all taken away. Her signature red door painted white, in attempt to erase all trace of its former (scandalous) past.

Directly across the cobblestone street sits the The Nagg’s Head. A dusty old pub we heard about in the trial, when her team was desperate to get the owner across the pond to testify on Ghislaine’s behalf. To confirm she was not living there during this crucial time period. The topic of his travel issues became an ongoing squabble between the judge and her lawyers who complained how hard it was to get an 80 year old man across the states to sit on the stand and testify in her defense. But he would, they said, If he could.

On a gloomy afternoon I watched him acutely eye everyone who filtered in. Signs along the bar forbid all use of cell phones and the music of the hour was amplified by speakers connected to a record player one level below, with Sinatra on repeat. He appeared completely unapproachable. I was never about to ask him what he thinks of his former neighbor, but I did wonder how many others have. With her old doorstep a stone’s throw from his. Her reputation residing like a ghost in this town, shadowing all the corners of London where points of her influence used to stretch. Traces of a forgotten woman who used to rule a town that now refuses to even mention her by name.

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On another evening, in another unexpected twist of fate, I’m invited to a posh private dinner club in Notting Hill by a new friend. She almost cancels on me (which I don’t mind because I’m exhausted) but then says she wants to show me the prettiest dining room in London while I’m here.

The build up that does not disappoint.

As soon as I arrive she gives me a tour of the place. Introducing me to all of the ornate wallpapered bathrooms and starlit staircases that lead to breathtaking dinning rooms in an interior vision outfitted for Marie Antoinette. I think to myself that if there is anyone more suited for this posh, exclusive super club, it’s Courtney Love. Adding the ideal dose of ragged feminine energy to shake up a highly refined English society spot.

In this three hour dinner date she unveils to me exactly what my intuition already suspected. That she is wildly smart, sporadic, shrewdly aware, and so God damn funny. Not to mention insanely well read (beyond almost anyone I think I’ve ever met in my life that I can think of) and chats like a genuine girls girl tossing around the kind of stories I live for. About self healing, the perils of the industry, salacious secrets, addiction, celebrity, sandal, family, lust and love.

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She also happens to be 4 years sober and thriving. But still the Courtney we envisioned in our teenage days. A rebel in designer dresses who gets scolded by the manager on site for smoking in the bathroom while playing me her newest song. A scathing ballad with an infectious hook she knows I will appreciate for reasons I’ll leave unsaid (for now)

Because she reads non stop she’s hip to everything that’s current. She turns me on to new writers and recommends Audrey Lorde and a couple other books I mark in my notes. When I snap two Polaroids of her sitting in her Viviane Westwood knitted dress, before a gilded vanity in the bird themed bathroom after her song has played, she looks exactly like herself, as she’s always been but happier. Like a woman on the verge of a creative breakthrough, her first in a long time. A ‘come back’ we discuss at length, with shared enthusiasm, at the rooftop bar past midnight.

On the cab ride home we talk about the importance of intentions. The weight they hold and the actions they inspire. Hers with music, mine with stories. She tells me to keep doing what I’m doing, and we hug goodbye. On the other end of this cab ride she’s off to Japan and I’m starting to finally grow homesick.

In the hotel room when I return and everyone is asleep I lay in bed writing down a few phrases she said that I want to remember. Some details about Brad Pitt, and Harvey Weinstein, among others, but more significant is what she said about the things in life that drive you to darker places. “There are certain things that drive you to drink,” she says, pointing a cigarette at my face. Referring to incidents in her own life as well as Johnny’s. Specially the Rolling Stone article that not only shredded his reputation but also destroyed his trust in media. Damaging events that invite old vices. And what it takes to pull away from them.

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“To all of it”

Other than beans included on the breakfast plates and generally bland (downright saltless food) 10 days in England offered no critiques. In fact I fell in love. With the city, the structures, the people, the patriotism, and the unapologetic air of grandeur. But also the women who made me feel like one of them. Agreeing with me on everything from Meghan Markle to Ghislaine Maxwell to Queen Elizabeth to Camilla and beyond. Perspectives and opinions I’m used to pitching were simply shared opinions in their company. Embraced with dry wit and loads of gin.

No wonder synchronicity came to slap me in the face. Forcing me to confront expired notions of “fate” and “destiny” and remind me of what it feels like to take a more metaphorical look at life when it’s expanding full circle. No one saw this trial colliding with the England vacation. In fact as the trial dragged on I started to resent the timing of it, worrying that my commitment to Depp Vs. Heard would interfere with England, but lo and behold, post trial / pending verdict, we all ended up here in the same city overseas. With a phone call upon landing informing me that three tickets for private box seats (the same seats Tom Jones inhabited the night before) were under my name for Johnny’s set that night with Jeff Beck at the Royal Albert Music Hall. A venue notoriously engrained in my psyche because of the live albums Dylan recorded there in the 60’s. Performances I’d watched on bootlegged VHS too many times to count as a teenager. Admiring the red velvet curtains in the theater that turned out just as striking in person.

From our little red boon above the stage we sat together in the dark, ordering pizzas and sipping wine. Arlo with a full glass and big smile, realizing how 16 is rewarded differently in a different country. Mike, happily mingling with strangers seated beside him and me wandering the halls in search of Lady Victoria, catching a glimpse of Kate Moss slipping around the corner to greet a friend, before accidentally stumbling into the wrong booth to find Gina Dueters curled up in a seat holding her own mega pint of wine with a face I didn’t recognize until I paused to ask if Victoria Hervey was seated anywhere near her and she smiled back with big bright eyes asking if I was “Jessica?”

After the show we wandered down the block back to a proper art filled London flat where Victoria’s friend welcomed us in with sweets and champagne and we sat together around the table late into the night laughing, gossiping, rejecting jet lag and trading theories on favorite conspiracies. Where it should be noted, that under all types of lighting Victoria Hervey remains flawless. Perfectly coifed hair, perfectly enviable skin. With the kind of measured accent that only enhances it all.

These are the people and these incidents that would color our time there. I’ll never forget running into Victoria amongst a busy street filtering out after a parade, that led us to a brightly lit cafe for tea and Spanish coffees that were abruptly interrupted by the phone call from Arlo informing us of the sliced ear accident. Where two hours and six stitches later we walked out not owing a dime. A first hand experience with the NHS (UK’s enviable health care system funded primarily through general taxation) which I had been educated on by a young woman named Hannah during rooftop cocktail hour the night before. A witty, self proclaimed “royalist” who explained to me what makes their health care system flourish the way it does. Politics mixed with partying thanks to the SoHo invitation that came thanks to a pair of hilarious British women who work in TV production, and had me howling with laughter until news of a verdict came through and I had to scramble around the hotel during the hour long countdown in a panic trying to find a quiet corner to sit with headphones and steady wifi to hear it read aloud.

The reading of it caused the rooftop bar to erupt in a round of applause, the crowd raising their glasses to toast to the occasion.

“To justice!” one man shouted.

“To Johnny!” Said another.

“To all of it,” a woman, in a makeshift tiara beside me at the bar said with a smile.

"To all of it.”