WE WERE GLAD to be engaged in something other than sitting around in a hospital worrying ourselves into a state of distraction while at the same time combatting boredom. We crossed busy Whitechapel Road, getting accustomed to looking right instead of left as we stepped off the curb, and headed to the tube station which was within a few stops of the Tower of London. I grew up riding the subways of New York City, and had been on the London Underground countless times, so I perhaps took for granted the adventure this was for Charlotte, who had lived all but six months of her life in the suburbs.  We had bought week-long transit cards so we could enter the tube without having to stop at a booth or ticket machine first.

Although we were in the middle of the city, the District Line tracks were open to the sky.  We had to cross over an enclosed bridge spanning the tracks to get to the platform, but once there, could look up into the open rain-filled sky. I later found out that this was because that line was one of the last to go electric and the tracks had to be open to provide a means for the smoke and steam to escape.  These details continued to amaze and to contribute to what I saw as a fascinating London combination of the old and the new.

We arrived at the Tower Hill stop several minutes later and walked in the rain to the Tower of London, whose parapets and ramparts were immediately visible once we emerged from the tube station.  I had been there before many years before on of my trips to London with Mary Elizabeth and remember quite clearly the exhibitions and the late summer afternoon we spent wandering around the medieval keep of the tower complex.  On this cold and rainy afternoon however, Charlotte and I scurried from building to building trying not to get too wet.  The nasty weather kept most (although not all) tourists away, so we had a less crowded visit to this major attraction.  We began with a multi-media presentation in St. Thomas’s Tower and then continued along the perimeter, going through Wakefield Tower and continuing along the East Wall Walk to Salt Tower and then Broad Arrow Tower, which contained a diorama of particular interest to Charlotte.  It depicted in full detail the extraction of the bishop from his palace and his beheading on the grass outside.  The little figures were extremely detailed, including all the blood associated with the removal of the bishop’s head. I hadn’t realized that Charlotte had this fascination, but was happy that she was enjoying herself.

After a visit to the Crown Jewels, we headed for the White Tower, which is the central structure with four smaller towers at each corner.  Built in the 1070 by William the Conqueror, it is clearly the centerpiece of the complex and holds some of the most interesting exhibits, including suites of armor and enough swords, pikes and maces to ward off an attack of Attila and his Huns (if they ever got across the Channel).  Of particular interest to me was St. John’s Chapel on the second floor of the tower.  Built in 1080 of limestone imported from France, this tower has the powerful simplicity of the Abbaye de Senanque built by the Cistercians outside of Gordes in Provence, where Mary Elizabeth and I spent a few summer weeks in 1998 before Charlotte was born.

Although it was dark and rainy outside, the lighting bathed the ancient white stone in a warm glow.  This chapel, which is still used for worship, is the oldest church in all London and one can almost hear the centuries of whispered prayers echoing around the romanesque arches and round columns which surround the altar and handful of chairs.  I paused for a moment to add my own whispered prayer for Mary Elizabeth’s recovery.

I hadn’t let anybody at the office other than my boss and HR know what had happened and I was supposed to be working, so I was starting to get a few “hey, where are you?” emails as the New Yorkers started their day, so I paused amidst the armor suits and lances to send a brief email to a few colleagues explaining what had happened. I had been reluctant to tell anybody what was going on until I had had a chance to talk to Clark and Louisa at home, but I was planning on calling them that evening so I felt it was okay let a few people know.

I tried to be as straightforward about what had happened in the emails, without being overly melodramatic, but also being honest about what we had been told thus far – none of which was particularly encouraging.  Almost immediately I heard back from my colleagues with expressions of concern and the offer of – if nothing else – thoughts and prayers.  I remember receiving these messages as we were looking at the golden coronation robes just before leaving the white tower.

We went out into the cold and rainy tower keep, turning our collars up against the windy rain.  Across the darkened courtyard, which was largely empty at this point, stood a solitary fir tree, decked out in white lights for Christmas.  The tree lights cast a pallid glow on the surrounding buildings, and created a reflection on the rain-slick cobblestones.  It was a cheering sight – seeing a spot of light amidst the uncomfortable darkness.  I pointed it out to Charlotte and we both agreed that it made us feel a little more chipper, as we left the 1,000-year-old tower to find Ellinor and Jon for dinner.

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