I think I have a problem.  When I am walking the streets of London, every older woman is Maggie Smith and every young boy lives like Oliver Twist.  Queen, Pink Floyd, and Robbie Williams have been on repeat in my head.  I feel like last year’s Olympics; I disparage this country with my trite English clichés.

Our first stop upon arrival was Westminster Abbey.  Poet’s Corner is a spot within the cathedral that houses the remains of many of the world’s most prolific writers, from Robert Browning, to Geoffrey Chaucer, to Jane Austen.  I found the grave of the author of my favorite literary quote: George Eliot (really, Mary Anne Evans).

The quote is from Middlemarch: “But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

London is cold and gray, but the people have been remarkably friendly.  Aziz, the “host” of a random church Mom and I stopped into, gave us a tour of the building, telling us about his life as a Londoner.  Taxi cab drivers have been warm and understanding; random English people on the street have stopped and offered to take our picture.  Mom and I are feeling right at home.  George was right about those unhistoric acts.