president on the world stage. And as was often the case during those first months
in office, his main job was to clean up a mess, in this case absorbing the
frustration of other world leaders who felt the United States had missed important
opportunities to regulate reckless bankers and prevent the disaster with which all
of them were now dealing.
Beginning to feel more confident that Sasha and Malia were comfortable in
their routines at school, I’d left my mother in charge for the few days I’d be
abroad, knowing that she’d immediately relax all my regular rules about getting
to bed early and eating every vegetable served at dinner. My mom relished being
a grandmother, most especially the part where she got to throw over all my
rigidity in favor of her own looser and lighter style, which was markedly more lax
than when Craig and I had been the kids under her care. The girls were always
thrilled to have Grandma in charge.
Gordon Brown, Britain’s prime minister, was hosting the G20 summit,
which included a full day of economic meetings at a conference center in the
city, but as often happened when world leaders showed up in London for official
events, the Queen would also have everyone over to Buckingham Palace for a
ceremonial hello. Because of America and Great Britain’s close relationship and
also, I suppose, because we were new on the scene, Barack and I were invited to
arrive at the palace early for a private audience with the Queen ahead of the
larger reception.
Needless to say, I had no experience meeting royalty. I was given to
understand that I could either curtsy or shake the Queen’s hand. I knew that we
were to refer to her as “Your Majesty,” while her husband, Prince Philip, the
Duke of Edinburgh, went by “Your Royal Highness.” Other than that, I wasn’t
sure what to expect as our motorcade rolled through the tall iron gates at the
entrance to the palace, past onlookers pressed at the fences, past a collection of
guards and a royal horn player, through an interior arch and up to the courtyard,
where the official master of the household waited outside to greet us.
It turns out that Buckingham Palace is big—so big that it almost defies
description. It has 775 rooms and is fifteen times the size of the White House. In
the years to come, Barack and I would be lucky enough to return there a few
times as invited guests. On our later trips, we’d sleep in a sumptuous bedroom
suite on the ground floor of the palace, looked after by liveried footmen and
ladies-in-waiting. We’d attend a formal banquet in the ballroom, eating with
forks and knives coated in gold. At one point, as we were given a tour, we were