Everyone has their ideal travel destination. They all want to be handed a small, golden ticket that can take them anywhere their heart desires: New York, Los Angeles, Tokyo. My destination, however, is a bit harder to get to. My golden ticket, fitting comfortably in the palm of my hand, not only takes me where I want to go but when I want to go. On the face of the ticket, in small ink-black letters, the name of the destination is etched across the paper. It reads: Victorian London. In a quick flash of bright light, I teleport to the beautiful age of Queen Victoria upon the redemption of my ticket. I look down at myself, ensuring that I am alright after the time jump, only for my eyes to be met with the luxurious and intricate design of lace and the stunning faded
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To begin my first night in London, I attend one of Charles Dicken’s farewell readings. I let the author’s beautiful story, A Tale of Two Cities, pour over me. The onlookers and I revel in the words’ poeticness in dark and light, and, when he has pronounced the last syllable of the novel’s final word, we stand to our feet in applause for the writer and his work. The following night, my last night in the industrialized city, I find myself standing amongst the city’s aristocrats at a ball. My heart soars with delight as the people around me waltz to the steady rhythm of the string instruments as the lavish band plays the popular symphonic music of the time. Before long, I am dancing with them. One of my hands rests on one gentleman’s shoulder while my other sits in the man’s palm. Together, we waltz and laugh as I continuously trip over the hem of my dress as it swirls at my feet. Then, after the dancing ends and the ball is over, I bid the gentleman a farewell and leave the glorious mansion as if I were Cinderella saying goodbye to Prince Charming before the stroke of
To begin my first night in London, I attend one of Charles Dicken’s farewell readings. I let the author’s beautiful story, A Tale of Two Cities, pour over me. The onlookers and I revel in the words’ poeticness in dark and light, and, when he has pronounced the last syllable of the novel’s final word, we stand to our feet in applause for the writer and his work. The following night, my last night in the industrialized city, I find myself standing amongst the city’s aristocrats at a ball. My heart soars with delight as the people around me waltz to the steady rhythm of the string instruments as the lavish band plays the popular symphonic music of the time. Before long, I am dancing with them. One of my hands rests on one gentleman’s shoulder while my other sits in the man’s palm. Together, we waltz and laugh as I continuously trip over the hem of my dress as it swirls at my feet. Then, after the dancing ends and the ball is over, I bid the gentleman a farewell and leave the glorious mansion as if I were Cinderella saying goodbye to Prince Charming before the stroke of