Our Day at Wimbledon

The day started relatively calm. We awoke around 8, got dressed, enjoyed an egg McMuffin downstairs, and began our journey to Wimbledon. However, within 15 minutes on our way to the tennis championship, it turned slightly sour.

I had forgotten my toiletries bag before leaving Paris. As a result, I didn’t have my razor. So, for Wimbledon, I opted to forego shaving. After all, with my constant five o’clock shadow, I didn’t think it was necessary. I was wrong.

After stepping onto the train (Chris sacrificed our car service as not to be problematic to our hosts), Chris began to knit pick my appearance. For starters, he didn’t approve of my unshaven neck. That, combined with my “flowy” Diesel rooster shirt and “unfallen” hair, gave me the appearance of someone he “found on the street.” But we were on our way so there was nothing I could do. That was, until, he realized he forgot his Wimbledon ticket. So we quickly switched trains and headed back to the McDonald’s flat (an apartment owned by McDonald’s we rented in London for a mere 75 euros a night - simple in design but ideally located).

While Chris ironed my shirt, I shaved with a blade. Since I usually use the electric version, I was concerned this method would irritate my skin and make it bleed. Not that day. Our luck must have been changing.

With tickets in hand and wardrobe change complete, we hopped back on the train. We arrived to join our party for lunch at the Wimbledon Club only 30 minutes late. They had just received their starter so nobody was punished for our tardiness.

After finishing a lunch of mixed meat tarts and other unappealing side dishes, we crossed the walkway to reach the stadium just before the 2:00 p.m. coin toss. There was no rain delay (which apparently is common for Wimbledon). Our seats were 1/3 the way up behind the baseline – perfect for viewing the match. I was surprised at how small the venue is. But as they always say, “everything looks bigger on TV.”

The crowd was amazingly quiet for play. Spectators shouted a few random supports chants for Nadal and Federer between points. But for the most part, they were respectful of play (unlike other tennis matches where apparently the crowd is a bit more rambunctious).

While I was watching the match, it was hard for me to grasp the fact that I was there, in person, enjoying the tournament, rather then viewing it on TV. Usually, the finals take place around the 4th of July. So, in past years, I’d watch it at home in Kansas with a/c cranked high to combat the 100-degree weather. Or, as in the last couple of years, we’d be watching the tournament in Saugatuck with friends gathered around the TV recouping from the night before.

As the hours passed by, I sat in my most uncomfortable chair looking around absorbing the sites and sounds of Wimbledon: the photographers amassed on the sidelines, the required “stand breaks” between set points, the policemen as they guarded the entryways.

After an invigorating three hours of play, my butt was ready to leave. With our hosts, we exited and returned to the club for clotted cream, scones, tea and a bit more conversation.

As the name implies, clotted cream is quite heavy and artery clogging. It appears to be vanilla frosting – thick and creamy. But the taste is subtly sweet. And when combined with preserves on top of a scone, it’s simply divine. As a result, we had possibly three or four as well as a few orange frosted cakes. Of course, I had to explain the Fat Girl philosophy to our table. Otherwise, they would have thought us to be barbarians.

With the sun shining, we returned home around 8 p.m. Our day at Wimbledon may have started rough, but it ended on a bright note. That was, until, we decided to have KFC (London style) for dinner and watch the World Cup. But that’s another story…