Several years ago I was waiting for Brock Dundee in Trafalgar Square in London. Tourists were mounting the four lions at the foot of Lord Nelson’s Column for photos and art lovers were queuing before the National Gallery to view the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibition, while busy Londoners strode across the square for various rendezvouses in the capitol. Brock showed up on time and I asked him, if he wanted to see the exhibition.

“Queue up with tourists?” He shook with revulsion. “Better I take you to the best pub in London. It’s right around the corner.”

“Sounds good to me.” It was already past noon and we walked toward St. Martin in the Fields. A familiar personage posed in bronze on a thick plinth.

“I had forgotten George Washington was here.” The statue had been donated by the people of Virginia.

“Supposedly the soil underneath the statue had been imported from the USA.” Brock had lived in New York for a number of years. He had almost married the most beautiful girl in the city.

“What for?” The Scot had even written a play for her. It had something to do with a revolt on a Caribbean island. She left him for Hollywood. We didn’t talk about those days.

“The Father Of Your Nation once said he would never step foot on British soil again.”

“Washington had never been to England.” I had minored in American History at university.

“You’re forgetting that America was British soil before the Revolution.” Brock hooked his arm with mine. “Let’s get us some beer.”

“In honor of George.” I headed east with a parting nod.

“He was a man who never lied.” Brock was an historian too.

“Just like my father.” My old man came from the same stock, only we hailed from Maine.

There were no statues in London honoring anyone from the Pine Tree State.

I know, because I googled it.