Midnight in Piccadily Circus

Thirty-five years ago my mother and I took off from Boston for London, England. In the previous six years, since age nine, I had developed Anglophilia extraordinaire, and in 1975 the National Education Association, of which my mom was a member, offered a week-long tour.

That trip was an experience that exceeded even my exalted expectations. We were on a coach tour, and we traveled to select spots that were favored by teachers, historians, businesspeople, and teen-aged Anglophiles.

The first experience that I was a witness to in England involved the couple next to me on the airplane. We had the same last name. Mrs. Davis was somewhat phobic of airplanes, and had been a little nervous during the flight. As we began the descent, she became truly frightened. All the way down, her solicitous husband held her hand and rubbed her back. I was warmed by their understanding of and care for each other, and not a little envious.

Throughout London and its environs -- at the changing of the guard, at Ann Hathaway's Cottage, at Hampton Court, in restaurants, and at theaters, everyplace except the Tower of London, which was almost totally inaccessible -- the tour guides and bus drivers were tremendously friendly and accommodating of my wheelchair and me. I think that I assumed that this was the behavior of London drivers generally. Then, alone, Mom and I went to see Henry Fonda as Clarence Darrow. It was a marvelous performance, which we viewed from the Royal Box, because 1) The Royal Family wasn't attending that night and 2) It was the easiest place for the ushers to reach.

The performance ended at about 11:40. Then came the considerable challenge of flagging a cab in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. No cab driver wanted the bother of a wheelchair when so many other fares were easier and faster to dispatch. As we were wondering what to do, a large car pulled up, and we were invited in by a very well tailored and beautifully mannered gentleman. Any hesitation that either Mom or I might have had about accepting a ride vanished because it was the only one offered.

We had a lovely trip. Our "car host" was from Saudi Arabia, and he stated that he was deeply distressed by the divisions between people. We pulled up at a hotel that may have been the Dorchester, and he handed the driver a wad of money to take us anywhere we wanted to go. Mom and I were both honest and sleepy. We gave the driver the name of our hotel, full of thanks for the eccentric experience and to our gracious host.