November 22, 2009

Date with the Prince
Six hundred miles, a choppy ferry ride and
a rainy wait in line for less than a fairy tale

By Neita Cecil
for The Chronicle

     I had a happy, fairytale image of how it would all go down when I decided to trek to Victoria, Canada to see Prince Charles.
     I’d get to the venue nice and early, stake out a good spot, and await my … chance to see, with my very own eyes, the future king of England. Maybe even shake his hand.
     But without the Internet, and passports, this wild idea would have never come to fruition.
     The seed was planted one fine day in October, when, on daily perusals of my favorite royal-watcher websites, I learned the fantastic news: Prince Charles and his wife Camilla were making a state visit to Canada in November. One of their stops would be Victoria, British Columbia.
     I realized it was completely doable to go see him. Not just doable, but mandatory. Bucket list stuff.
     Why the interest in Prince Charles, you — and basically everyone I know — ask? He’s an environmental crusader. And he’s gonna be king. Isn’t that enough?
     Plus, I’d finally get to use those expensive passports I’d gotten this summer, when we’d toyed with the idea of going to Canada.
     My two kids got dragged into my adventure. Colin, 6, had no idea who Prince Charles was, what a king was, or what England was. Gracie, 10, at least knew who he was, but couldn’t care less about him. So, they consoled themselves with the fact that, while they were required to see Prince Charles, they’d also get to see Canada.
     I found out his visit was Nov. 6, and lined up a hotel room, a press pass and a babysitter to be with the kids while I played “reporter” for part of the event.
On the big day, with babysitter in tow, we hustled to the Parliament Buildings grounds, where this outdoor event would be held. We were two hours early, it was pouring rain, but almost nobody was there yet, so I was happy. We were right on the ropeline lining the sidewalk where the prince would walk by.
     The kids and the poor babysitter, who didn’t get the message that this was an outdoor assignment, took refuge in the Royal BC Museum for awhile.
     As the time drew near, I left the babysitter and kids in their primo spot on the ropeline, and took my position on the sparsely filled press platform.
     I noticed a guy on the platform didn’t have the huge yellow media ID badge I wore. The media security was supposedly so tight at this thing that when the press liaison officer showed me a map of press platform locations, he couldn’t give me a copy of it. Top secret stuff.
     But, the ID-less guy, Vic, said, “I just walked up here, nobody stopped me.”
     Huh.
     As we waited, Vic’s buddy phoned. He was stuck in a traffic snarl caused by the prince’s motorcade, and used a rather colorful phrase to describe the inconvenience. But Vic corrected his buddy, saying, “You mean it’s a ‘royal’ pain in the a**!”
     The prince’s arrival was grand: motorcycle cops running lights and sirens, leading a stream of black, important-looking vehicles. The prince and Camilla emerged from the largest vehicle. What a rush to see them!
     The group made its way to the lectern. The BC premier said it was Camilla’s first visit to Canada. A polite smattering of applause followed from the crowd of about 1,000.
     But that wasn’t a snub on Camilla — that’s just how Canadians roll. “Golf clapping,” Vic called it, mimicking the hushed applause of the gallery at a golf tournament.
     As the royal couple sat down for the premier’s brief speech, I fumbled with the zoom on my new camera, and suddenly found myself viewing a closeup of the prince’s hands. Fascinated, I watched them, and discovered he’s a fidgeter. His slightly cupped hands faced each other, just overlapping at the fingertips, and he’d subtly pull his hands apart, drawing one set of fingertips over the other.
     I was immediately reminded of a scene in the movie, “The Queen,” in which the Prince Charles character is shown holding his hands exactly that way, slightly overlapped at the fingertips. I’d thought it was movie make-believe, a fudged detail to make him seem hesitant and meek in the face of his commanding mother — but there it was, in the flesh! Trippy!
     Then it was the prince’s turn to speak. He spoke briefly and modestly, mocking his advancing age twice in a four-paragraph speech, which is his typical modus operandi.
     His speech done, he and Camilla signed a guest book, and then started for the ropeline. So did I.
     I’d made a deal with a couple who arrived after me at the event that I would reclaim my primo spot right on the ropeline once I was done shooting the speech. Three guesses how that went.
     I edged through the small crowd toward the front. Surprise, surprise — the couple didn’t surrender my original spot, or even my babysitter’s spot, who’d retreated once I got there. But I figured I was close enough. Plus, my daughter Gracie offered me her spot near the ropeline. Surprised, I said, “Don’t you want to shake his hand?” She explained to me for the millionth time, “I don’t care!”
     Well, I did! So I smooshed myself just behind my son Colin, who was firmly planted on the ropeline and most certainly did want to shake the prince’s hand.      The excitement grew as he approached.
     The prince stopped three people away and had a big conversation with some lady. Actually, it was just a sentence or two, long enough for me to take some really blurry pictures. Then, he shook the hands of the couple who didn’t give me my spot back. Colin and I were next. But, horror of horrors, at that exact moment, Prince Charles was beckoned away and he turned toward the ropeline on the opposite side of the sidewalk. Noooooo!
     But then a reprieve! He’s turned back toward us! I don’t remember this part, but Gracie says I asked the prince, “Will you shake this little boy’s hand?”
     And he did. Glory be! I’m apparently a decent mother, and my son shook the hand of the future king of England!
     But then the fairytale faltered. Because despite the fact that my outstretched hand was mere inches from Colin’s, and I basically begged the prince (this part I remember), “Will you shake my hand … sir?” he completely failed to do so.      Instead, he hopped off to the other ropeline, having instantly morphed from prince to toad in my bitter mind.
     Granted, I should’ve called him “Your Royal Highness,” since “Sir” is reserved for subsequent references. My bad.
     But seriously. I drove 600 miles roundtrip on twisty roads in slashing rain with two kids, rode choppy ferries, and stood for hours in the mud and rain — for that?
Feeling snubbed — he shook the hand of literally everyone around me — I found a webcast of the royal visit, and studied it carefully. (Find it at www.leg.bc.ca. We’re at minute 40:39. Colin’s in the blue coat.)
     Turns out it’s a bit of a crapshoot. The prince is pretty thorough at pressing the flesh, but he did miss a handful of hands, and one of them was mine. (Whaaa!!!)      And he did actually backtrack a bit to shake Colin’s hand after turning on down the ropeline, so I guess I should take back most of the evil things I’ve thought about him.
     And I loved seeing Colin’s expression on the webcast, looking wide-eyed as the prince approaches, but with his arm stretched out, determined to get a hand shake.
     And by golly he did, and I have enough mother instinct to be very happy for him. We immediately dubbed his right hand his Prince Charles Hand. I took a picture of it. Seriously.
     Colin started to taunt me mercilessly. The next morning, I woke up to his right hand dancing in my face, and him gleefully chanting, “Ha ha!”
     Now, if it had been anyone but my own flesh and blood doing that, they would’ve permanently lost the use of that hand.
     I whined about my non-handshake for the rest of the trip, and for a few days after we got home. Finally, Gracie said, “Mom, you’re being a baby!”
     But I’m still sulking — and plotting. Maybe I’ll join some royal fan club, just so I can resign. That’ll show him!
     I’m sure in the fullness of time — maybe by his coronation — I’ll develop the maturity to appreciate the fact that I once saw, with my own eyes, His Majesty, the King of England.