The Prince Who Got Away
In London, an American Girl Hunts for Britain's Greatest Catch

By Autumn Brewington
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, November 16, 2008

Shopping on Oxford Street? A tour of Buckingham Palace? Afternoon tea at Claridge's?

Even before I finished reading the British Airways e-mail, I was planning my trip. The oversize type seemed too good to be true: Fly to London from $189 each way, plus two nights' free hotel. When I studied the fine print, I couldn't find a catch. The $189 fare applied to Washington. Members of BA.com would get an additional $20 off. And the free hotel options included a Hilton.

Only weeks earlier, inspired by a friend's trip to Thailand, I had resolved to have more adventures, to pick up and go while I was still free enough to be able to catch a flight on, well, relatively short notice. Now, it seemed, British Airways was encouraging me at just the right moment.

A few nights later, at dinner with the friend whose trip had ignited my own wanderlust, I mentioned the e-mail and learned that Clare had seen the same offer. Our chatting quickly turned to planning; after paying the check, we headed to my place to book tickets.

The deal had more than half a dozen hotel options, and Clare and I settled on the Phoenix Hotel, on Kensington Garden Square in London's Bayswater neighborhood. A few clicks and we were set. The taxes were nearly as much as a one-way fare, but our long weekend would cost each of us only about $500.

Clare, who had studied in London while in college, was adamant about going only long enough to take advantage of the free lodging. Her main interest was in seeing how her old neighborhood had changed. My priorities were not as straightforward. I had already seen many of England's tourist attractions. I wanted to have an adventure, but I wasn't sure exactly what that meant.

What would I do in London if I could do anything at all, I wondered.

Meet Prince William.

My reflexive thought was laughable, I knew. Even spotting the second in line to the British throne wouldn't be a matter of, say, keeping my eyes peeled as I walked around. I couldn't exactly ring the palace for an audience. It would surely require going to celebrity-haunt nightclubs, I mused, which we probably couldn't get into and probably couldn't afford if we did get in.

And yet, could there possibly be a better adventure for a 20-something girls' weekend abroad? One needn't be a royalty enthusiast -- which I totally am, at least when it comes to Prince William and his younger brother, Prince Harry -- to be excited at the idea of being in the same room with the prince. I didn't have notions of a love-at-first-sight moment. I don't even have a crush on William (though I do think he's cute). But I did have dreams of the Best Weekend Trip Ever.

It was the perfect quest.

I began research immediately. Mainly, this involved poring over People magazine and the British tabloids. Princes William and Harry have been photographed exiting an array of posh restaurants and nightclubs (occasionally in less-than-regal states). The reigning royal haunts were clear: Mahiki, in Mayfair, and Boujis, in South Kensington.

With Prince William learning the ropes in Britain's military, I knew it was possible he might be keeping a low profile -- trying to live down some of the adventures I was reading about, perhaps -- on the very nights I was hoping he'd be out. Luckily, all the tabloid coverage of the younger royals' exploits provided additional options for an impromptu run-in.

Clare and I booked an overnight flight from Dulles to Heathrow. We were scheduled to arrive about 10 a.m. Saturday, but delays meant that it was after 11 when we finally finished with customs and baggage claim. We headed to the Underground office so Clare could buy an Oyster card (the British equivalent of SmarTrip; I had one from an earlier trip) and learned that track repairs had closed the usual route downtown. Instead of paying $8 for a 45-minute Tube ride, we would have to take the Heathrow Express train into Paddington Station -- free. Fifteen minutes later we were just one stop from Bayswater.

We knew our hotel was close to two Tube stations (indeed, that was a reason we chose it), but the walk was shorter than expected. The Phoenix's exterior was definitely grander than its interior, but the lobby was pleasant, if dated, and the staff was polite. Checking in was easy even though neither of us had printed confirmation of our free reservation, and we were given an actual key (not a strip of plastic) to a tiny double room with an adjoining bath. After cleaning up and changing, we had about 48 hours to find the prince.

We gobbled down a quick lunch and then took the Underground to Leicester Square, where we bought tickets for a Harold Pinter double bill, "The Lover" and "The Collection." The plays had been my first choice thanks to a Daily Mail gossip column reference to William's girlfriend, Kate Middleton, giggling in the front row shortly after it opened. Then we caught the Tube to Temple, which looked to be the closest stop to Somerset House.

The Sun had reported a few months earlier that Prince William had taken Kate ice skating at Somerset House, an 18th-century neoclassical palace off the Thames. Built on the site of a 1547 mansion that eventually became a residence of Elizabeth I, Somerset is actually a collection of buildings that used to house public offices. Today it is home to galleries and various exhibits. The grand courtyard boasts an ice-skating rink in winter and fountains in the summer.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of the rink when we arrived, nor was Prince William out for a nostalgic stroll. After taking a few pictures, we shared an excellent strawberry scone in the cafe before heading down to Sloane Square.

This stop had three purposes: Sloane Square is adjacent to the King's Road, the Chelsea shopping mecca. Not only could Clare and I browse, but I thought we might spot William or Kate, who has a flat in Chelsea and frequently has been photographed shopping on the King's Road. Also, Internet reviews of Kitts, a club off Sloane Square, had led us to consider going there instead of Boujis.

We never made it to Kitts. Drawn in by the stores, we spent most of our time window shopping. I walked us around a block in hopes of recognizing the exterior of Kate's building from paparazzi pictures, but the only residence we definitively ID'ed (thanks to the plaque on Danvers Street) was that of Sir Alexander Fleming, who discovered penicillin.

After trekking well down the King's Road, we caught a bus to the South Kensington station and headed back to the hotel. It was already time to change again. (Packing for vacation is challenging; packing to meet a prince presents its own complications.)

All spruced up, we took the Tube to Piccadilly Circus and walked to the Comedy Theatre on Panton Street. Clare was dubious that Prince William would be in the audience -- if Kate liked the Pinter plays, she might have recommended them, I reasoned -- but any misgivings Clare had were quelled when we learned that Richard Coyle and Gina McKee were among the stars. The theater also happened to be next door to one of Clare's favorite student haunts, the West End Kitchen, where we had eggs after the show.

Then came the first big challenge: getting into Mahiki, the Polynesian-theme nightclub whose signature drink, the Armada Treasure Chest, comes in a 24-karat-gold-plated wooden chest, serves eight and can cost upward of $1,000. (The standard Treasure Chest, which also serves eight, runs about $200.) When William and Kate parted ways last year, he reportedly arrived at Mahiki with pals and proceeded to drink his way around the treasure-map menu. Some British columnists' attempts to decipher why royals and their hangers-on are fans of the place had taught me that we could expect to stand around for hours, as men in the uniform of the upper crust (button-down shirts, pricey jeans and brown shoes) bought drinks for women in short skirts and high heels.

The closer we crept to the possibility of seeing Prince William, the more determined I became to pass through the tiki torches guarding Mahiki's front door. After just a few minutes' wait -- guests with reservations queue to the left of the entrance; everyone else stands to the right -- we were whisked inside to a round bamboo table in the corner. From this perch, I studied every tall, sandy-haired young man I could spot. Clare and I did laps, attempting to scope out other areas. Three times I had a near-sighting, but full faces revealed . . . unknown commoners.

Each time I got my hopes up, feeling thisclose to success, the letdown was sharp. But my deflation didn't last. The atmosphere in Mahiki was so vivacious and infectious, it was impossible to stay down. The club, whose kitschy decor evokes everything that was ever good about Pier 1, played Beyoncé, Kanye West, Michael Jackson and Dolly Parton within minutes of each other -- and, simply put, it worked. After two drinks each, Clare and I hit the basement dance floor. I was wide awake when she dragged me away at 2:30 a.m.

The late night, and jet lag, contributed to a late start the next morning. Clare went to the suburb of Richmond to see her old neighborhood. I took the train to Windsor, hoping that Prince William might enjoy a nice Sunday visit with his grandmother, Queen Elizabeth II, at her favorite residence, Windsor Castle.

Purchasing a tour ticket in advance allowed me to skip a long line and spend more time wandering with a hand-held audio guide. I remembered some things, such as Queen Mary's dollhouse, from a 1997 visit, but this was largely a new experience. About halfway through the self-guided tour I realized a door I was passing was numbered: 537. Could there be more than 500 rooms in this place? Studying subsequent doors for numbers almost divided my attention -- but not quite. I scanned for William when looking out windows and turning corners.

I didn't see so much as his portrait.

After returning the audio guide, I walked around the edge of the castle to the Long Walk, the road, leading to Windsor Great Park, down which the royals ride in horse-drawn carriages on their way to the Ascot races each June. I was about to take pictures of the castle when I saw movement on the other side of the gate.

I walked forward as quickly as possible while zooming my camera and trying not to trip. I homed in on a woman and several dogs. As the lens focused, I realized that I wasn't seeing just dogs but corgis, the small, stubby-legged dogs beloved by the queen. The walker was wearing knee-high boots and a scarf to ward off the late-afternoon chill; I suspected from her form that it was not Her Majesty. But could it be her daughter, Princess Anne, or her daughter-in-law Sophie, the Countess of Wessex?

Whoever it was renewed my hopes. I strode to the train station convinced that we would spot a royal that night.

I took a line to Twickenham to meet Clare, and we ate traditional English dinners at a quiet restaurant called the Langford. By the time we arrived back at our hotel, our energy levels were flagging, but we wanted to give Prince William another shot.

The previous night I'd worried about wearing something appropriate for the theater and a nightclub. Now I was concerned about comfort. Clare and I donned jeans and boots before catching a bus to the South Kensington Tube station. We spotted Boujis about 20 yards away. The absence of a line and our suspicion that it would be nearly impossible to top our evening at Mahiki raised our confidence.

"Can we go in," I asked the woman in the lobby.

"Ya, 10 pounds," she said. And we were in.

We were largely alone. Low-slung banquettes lined the colorfully lit walls, but the dark leather seats and the glowing black-and-white tables in front of them were mostly empty. Fewer than two dozen people were there. Clare got drinks and we parked ourselves where we could watch the DJ and the door. After a while the music just sounded loud to me, with the occasional interjection of familiar American rock or rap. The place felt more techno-funk than fun. We wondered whether we might prefer Kitts but decided to dance for a bit before leaving.

Even though it was Sunday, the club gradually filled with college-age people and 20-somethings. A group of Arab men arrived, complete with burly security guys, who mostly sat and watched the girls on the dance floor. I studied what looked to be VIP areas but saw no one resembling Prince William. After getting my hopes dashed by a Prince Harry look-alike, we decided to call it a night.

The next morning, fortified by waffles, we hopped on the Central Line to make the most of our last few hours in London.

Clare headed to Oxford Circus to shop while I exited at Bond Street. Last December, the Sun reported that Prince William had been spotted Christmas shopping in Selfridges. The giant upscale department store on Oxford Street was my last hope. While I knew it was unlikely, I was still optimistic, so I tried to focus on the best way to scope out the store while not leaving open the possibility that Prince William could swoop into an area I'd just left.

Had there been a later flight to the States that day, I might not have given up after an hour of browsing and people watching.

On the way back to Heathrow, it began to sink in that failure was imminent. I'd had too much fun to be sad, but with more time, I told Clare, we could have hit a few more places.

Did you think about what you would do if you saw Prince William, she asked.

Actually, I had. To keep myself from staring, or waving in excitement, I had worked on what to say.

Perhaps the next time I'm in London I'll get to test out my line.

The writer is assistant editorial page editor of The Post.