High Tea in England

My obsession with High Tea started years ago in Walt Disney World, at the Grand Floridian Hotel. Despite wariness of my mother and aunt's ploys to "refine" me and my cousins, I wound up enchanted by the miniature tea sandwiches and their crustless perfection, the exotic tea flavors like Chocolate Mint and Raspberry Dream, the individual cozies for your individual pot of tea. 

Mostly, though, I fell in love with the cucumber sandwiches and devonshire cream.

Tea became a must-do activity at Disney World after that, and I expanded to Japanese Tea Ceremonies and Afternoon Tea in Pennsylvania with my Grandmom. When our plans for Europe began to solidify, I knew it was time to realize the obsession: I wanted to have High Tea in England.

After seeing the Rosetta Stone, Big Ben, the Crown Jewels and Parliament, having High Tea sounds lackluster, but for all the import and historical relevance of the former, it was the latter that made my day, that had me grinning ear to ear and smiling like a fool for an hour straight.

In the theory of games and play, intrinsic motivation - motivation that comes from within oneself as opposed to forced from outside factors - is one of the defining qualities of a play experience. Activities that are intrinsic are the most enjoyable, the most rewarding and fulfilling, the ones we crave and will go back to and mourn as adults when we lose, even if we can't quite place it. Through that lens, it's no wonder. The whole world could tell me that the Parliament building was an amazing thing, but I was the one who wanted High Tea. It was personal, meaningful. That was amazing. 

And amazing, too, to sit through it and know the whole time that it was actually happening, that it was a nexus of thought I'd return to time and again for the rest of my life, remembering those few present moments. The tea sandwiches and scones, the champagne jello, the Earl Gray Tea (picked for Captain Picard and the word 'Citrine' in its flowery description). I scoured all the details I could, wondering at which ones would last: the way the arm of Hanna's chair was worn bare from use, the pink fu dog on the lamp by the table, the patterns in the glass windows like a geometric infinity design, the statue of a samurai warrior with a white man painted on its stomach, the raw, lumpy sugars in white and brown and the disappointing straws of splenda tucked into the side of the bowl with its tongs that were all but impossible to close...

I know I was at Big Ben, but I won't remember being there. I'll remember being at Cadogan's Hotel, in the Chelsea District, for afternoon tea. I'll remember all the little details. I'll smile.