What the Queen’s Funeral Taught Me About Britain
Of course I went to see the queue. For the past week, the south bank of London’s River Thames has been transformed into a living art installation, as mourners have waited for up to 24 hours to file through Westminster Hall and spend a moment with the coffin of Elizabeth II. An old joke holds that British people can’t see a line without wanting to join it. Hundreds of thousands of us proved this true. Married couples, parents and children, tourists, retired soldiers, David Beckham. All human life was there.
The weather was fine but crisp. The British autumn is a bittersweet season; one day in September, you leave the house and, even as the sky is still clear, the air bites you. It’s the perfect time of year for a funeral.
Today marks the last day of Britain’s official mourning period for Elizabeth II, and it has taught me more than I expected about my country. Early predictions that no have been debunked; the procession route in central London was full two hours before the funeral started. Travelers at British stopped to watch the ceremony on television. Crowds lined the roads taking the coffin to its burial place, in Windsor, throwing flowers in front of the hearse. Britain likes to luxuriate in a narrative of its own decline, but by God, we can organize a pageant. The most frequent text message I received from friends and family was: That wasn’t : The coffin nearly fell off the gun carriage at Queen Victoria’s funeral, and at Edward VII’s coronation, the archbishop couldn’t read the proclamation, because the abbey was too dark.
