I remember, once, a cousin of my husband’s spent a semester studying in Europe.  

“That’s great!” her dad said when she told him. “Let’s go watch a movie.” 

It was Taken. 

I thought of this when my daughter texted from college one autumn evening. She was awarded a study abroad course in London. 

I had no qualms. No misgivings. We did not watch Taken. We did not watch Amanda Knox. 

I mean, yes. She’d have to fly. Which isn’t my favorite. But I didn’t really think that all way through until just now so let’s just say I’m glad that flight is over. 

Her itinerary — wow. A hotel near the British Library. Museums. Castles. 

As I read the itinerary to my husband, I doubled over, forced myself to breathe. 

“Are you nervous?” my husband asked. “Are you thinking about my cousin? Taken?” 

“No!” I wailed.  

I visited London, once.  

Twice, if you count the airport.  

My visit to London did nothing to slake my thirst for a city I wanted to see my entire life. If anything, it intensified it, like I’d drunk salt water instead of fresh. 

Maybe I looked woeful. Maybe two years of deaths and dementia and wretched Christmases were etched on my face. Maybe — maybe my husband just needed a break from the Eeyore I’ve become. 

“You should go,” he said.  

It was fortuitous, this trip. I spent the five weeks before moving Willie. Then she spent a few days in the hospital. 

By the time I got on the plane, I was tired of Christmas and caregiving and calamity. I wrapped a thick scarf around me, set my in-flight entertainment to Deep Blue Sea, and slept.  

I took the Tube — one of my favorite things to do — from the airport to Tottenham Court Road. 

I mean, how adorably British is that? Tottenham Court Road. It practically demands a British accent. 

I bounded out of the Tube station into an overcast, drizzly London. 

Perfect.  

“Good morning, London!” I said. 

Under my breath.   

I didn’t want to look like a tourist.  

Or, you know, a lunatic. 

Although, one day on the Tube, a man exiting the train turned to all of us and said, “Goodbye! I love you!” 

Everyone just sat there.  

So maybe my greeting would have gone unnoticed. 

Also, I love you, too, dude. 

On this, my first day, as my daughter was busy with her class, I visited the British Library. 

I had an agenda. The Magna Carta, of course. And Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn. Original editions of Beowulf and Canterbury Tales.  

But as I wandered the British Library, I found note card after note card stating material was temporarily removed for research.  

Huh. OK. 

I had better luck at the Tower of London. 

Rick Steves suggests heading for the Crown Jewels as soon as the Tower opens. Otherwise, you might wait in line for hours. 

And if history has taught us anything, it’s that we should listen to Rick Steves. Rick Steves is a god among men. 

But I think maybe Rick Steve never visited the Crown Jewels in January. There aren’t — there aren’t a lot of people touring a largely outdoor destination in England in January. 

I could have looped through the Crown Jewels over and over again, seeing the monarchy’s diamonds and crowns and scepters on repeat.  

Ooh! Like I did with Deep Blue Sea on the plane, when I watched it 3.47 times before landing. 

Also, the Crown Jewels building in the Tower of London looks nothing like it did when Moriarty launched a terrorist attack there on Sherlock. 

Remember how Benedict Cumberbatch had to — no.  

We’re not talking about that right now. 

What we are talking about is the National Portrait Gallery, home to paintings of Henry VIII and the wife he, well, beheaded at the Tower of London. 

Signs warned all elevators were undergoing maintenance. Use the stairs, the signs said.  

As if I’d ever board an elevator undergoing maintenance. 

The next day, staff at Tower Bridge warned me there, too, the elevators were undergoing maintenance. 

I don’t want to brag, but I ran the Marine Corps Half Marathon, like, 10 years ago. I can handle a few steps.  

I mean, how hard could it be? 

You know, I feel like what the Tower Bridge staff should have told me was a Marine Corps Half Marathon ten years ago does not prepare you for 206 steps. 

Sorry. Curving steps — 206 narrow, curving steps. 

“Maybe,” my husband said, “this is what happens when you sightsee in England in January?” 

I rolled into my hotel from the brisk damp of London one evening. Warm pajamas and my bed beckoned me. I reached for the remote. A movie was just starting on British TV. 

Taken. 

I kid you not. 

The kidnappers came for Liam Neeson’s daughter. I thought of my own daughter, two blocks away. 

In a foreign country. 

I texted her.  

Nothing. 

Texted her again. 

Nothing. 

I texted a third time as I tried to remember the British version of 911.  

“I’m fine!” she finally texted. “I was READING.” 

Duh. I should have known she was safe.  

Obviously, kidnappers take January off, too.