After missing out on the Postal Museum Friday because it was fully booked, we scrapped our original plans to visit the Freud Museum on Saturday morning and properly booked reservations for the Postal Museum instead. The famous couch must await our next visit.

The highlight of my husband’s trip occurred at a coffee shop called Mouse Tail, just up the street from the Postal Museum. We had arrived early with hopeful hearts that we might get in before our scheduled time. Hopeful hearts dashed again, but quickly consoled with a warm pot of tea at the Mouse Tail.

As a backdrop to the highlight, my husband has become a committed student of the Italian language. He started exploring it around the time we moved to California and immersed himself completely during the pandemic. Over the past few years he has participated in Italian language classes, listened to Italian podcasts, has a standing, weekly appointment with an Italian via Italki, and participated in an Italian book group. That’s the formal stuff. Informally, he has visited Italy on several occasions, changed the language on his phone to Italian, and watched Italian movies with Italian subtitles regularly.

I understand almost no Italian. My biggest nightmare is driving with him somewhere where his phone automatically connects with Bluetooth in our car and I am tasked with removing it from Bluetooth or finding a specific app while navigating the Italian on his phone. My husband somewhat reluctantly agreed to come to London this weekend because he is taking an official Italian fluency test on Tuesday and has been studying like a madman. He hadn’t planned a break from his studying, especially after needing to be in Florida right before our trip to help with his parents’ move to assisted living.

On the plane to London, while I was sitting with my United Airlines-issued new husband after receiving our Basic Economy seat assignments, I learned after the flight that my REAL husband got assigned to a seat where he happily discovered that his seat mate was reading a book in Italian. He pictured himself speaking Italian across the pond, arriving in London well-practiced for his exam. Unfortunately, his seatmate, a native of Milan, had very little interest in speaking Italian with him. We ran into her on the Tube at the airport on the way into London. She greeted him very cordially and then quickly moved to another part of the car.

No matter where we travel, my husband is always attuned to people speaking Italian….or with accents in English that he judges to be Italian. My radar has become attuned to noting that his radar has detected an Italian speaker. He is almost always right, and usually the Italians he finds are happy to converse in Italian.

At the Mouse Tail, which was empty except for the barista, we ordered drinks and sat waiting for them to be delivered. Of the barista, my husband said, “I think she’s Italian.” I was doubtful. To me she sounded like she could be German. Naturally, my husband couldn’t resist finding out. Because although he had been soundly rejected on our flight over, every new opportunity to maybe speak Italian is an opportunity that must be explored.

She was Italian. They had a long & friendly conversation in Italian, so long that we could easily have missed our reservation time at the Postal Museum.

But we did not. We made it on time, where the first order of business was to ride a train through the Postal tunnels. The tunnels are tight, so the train is downsized. My husband is 6’2” and his head was just under the ceiling. The ceiling of the train is clear so you can see the tunnels very clearly. The train stops along the way to point out history of the Postal tunnels, details of how the trains worked, what workers did with the mail at various platforms, and safety features. The train takes about 15 minutes and then you are deposited back at the station to enjoy the exhibits that delve into more detail and allow you to participate like a worker. They are kid-friendly but interesting for adults as well.

We had reservations for lunch at the Holly Bush near Hampstead Heath, a place we had visited for Sunday Roast in the past, long ago. This is a lovely little pub. Great ambiance, nice menu, and the food is delicious and beautiful. I failed to take pictures of the food except of this amazing dessert. It claimed to be a crème brûlée, but the crème part was covered top and bottom NOT in a torched sugar crust but in a ganache-like chocolate layer that was out of this world. And covered in these lovely wafer-like leaves.

We had to rush off to the match, connecting in the St. Pancras station to the Piccadilly line. St. Pancras was thronged with people and when the first train pulled up it was completely full. We were pushed into the train where we gratefully co-existed with all of humanity for a few stops, much as a tuna coexists with other tuna in a tuna can, except for the getting-out-of-the-can-at-the-station part. It seems that some labor action caused parts of the Tube to be closed down or delayed, so people were running late into the stadium. Still, the entry to the stadium was smooth and we found ourselves in our seats in the Clock End.

Much lower seats this time, just a dozen rows into the upper stadium. And right next to the aisle, which means speedy exit for you (if you want it), but lots of people crawling over you to get to and from their seats. When you submit a ballot and it is accepted, your seats are just assigned to you and you don’t have any choice. We gladly accept these terms. And we were happy.

If you delayed getting into your seats for this match you missed all the best action. Arsenal scored two of the most quintessentially Arsenal goals you’ll ever see—read flowing and beautiful–in the first 15 minutes. The match promised to be much like the midweek match against Lens where Arsenal scored 5 goals by halftime. Fans must have felt so sure of that that when the Wolves’ goalkeeper went down injured at around the 23-minute mark, a significant number of fans headed for the concourse to get more beer. Remember, beer cannot be consumed in your seat at the Emirates, perhaps not at any Premier League match. I can’t imagine stepping away from the match at the stadium while play is still going on. When I take a bathroom break at home at a break in play, that turns out to be the most dangerous time for a goal to be scored. But I have no TV in my bathroom and there are lots of TVs in the concourse. Still, to purchase beer and drink seems like it takes more time than the average injury break. Maybe I underestimate the chugging speed of my compatriots.

Arsenal played well and was dangerous, but after the 15^th minute, we weren’t able to make any of our advances on goal count. After the first wave of people went for beer in the 23rd minute, the usual wave went for beer in the 40^th minute. By the time the half ended, with plenty of time added on, and I finally left my seat for the ladies’ room, the concourse was packed. I could barely get through it and back in the 15 minutes of halftime.

Our left defender, Oleksandr Zinchenko, is one reasons Arsenal have been playing so well over the past two seasons. He is a known agent of chaos in attack and he helps Arsenal sparkle. He contributed to one of the lovely goals scored sufficiently that fans were singing him with great verve. But defensively, he is less than a typical, solid defender. My husband once said, “he has a stinker in him.” And indeed he does. There will be 100 beautiful moments and then this one terrible one that costs us. Unfortunately, Zinchenko had such a stinker in him on Saturday near the end of the match where he failed to clear the ball decisively and the ball fell to a Wolves attacker who made no mistake. 2-1. After that were some nervy moments where you could see the three points slipping away. That’s how I felt, anyway. But in the 85^th minute quite a few Arsenal fans left to get to the Tube early. I guess they knew it was in the bag. I didn’t know whether to feel better or feel worse when they left, so I decide to feel worse.

At last the final whistle blew, with Zinchenko having only the one serious stinker in him this week.

The Tube at Arsenal station was unbelievably backed up when we left. We walked to the tube stop north of the Arsenal stop hoping for better luck. That was also inundated with Arsenal fans trying to work their way back. We were ultimately successful and headed to a pub in “our neighborhood” for the Pie Sharing Board. What a concept. Great way to celebrate a day at the top of the league.