Wales Beached Here

At 1:46 p.m. on Nov. 1, when the royal motorcade finally arrived at Hanover Square and Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cornwall slid from her black car, an important question was raised. Was it scarlet? Was it vermillion? After much whispering in the press pit, a verdict was reached: Camilla’s suit was actually fuchsia, and it should have been drowned in the river. “It’s horrible,” said a woman into the quiet that cushioned the royal couple. “What was she thinking?”

Indeed, what evil soul told Camilla to wear hot pink for a visit to Ground Zero and the dedication of a garden dedicated to the 67 British nationals who died in lower Manhattan on Sept. 11?

Well, it could have been those scheming Scots, at least one of whom spent Tuesday demonstrating in front of the U.N. with signs that read “Camilla HRH Wench” and “Camilla You Are No Princess Di.” Or perhaps there’s a devious Diana loyalist in the wardrobe at Clarence House!

The Duchess of Cornwall actually has three royal dressers traveling with her, according to stateside royals expert Kitty Kelley; she also characterized the Prince of Wales as “so terrified that [his wife] will somehow be compared unfavorably to Diana.”

“Three!” Ms. Kelley reiterated. “As if what she wears is going to—well, he just doesn’t want her to put a step wrong. And Diana was such a fashion icon.”

On the Royal Couple’s first official tour, the major item on sale—besides a series of lithographs by Prince Charles that retail at Saks Fifth Avenue—is Camilla.

In fact, she looked kinda hot—almost aging-Bond-girl hot—in plain black shoes and with three tight strands of pearls around her neck. And her new husband, Prince Charles, the man whom she convinced to have the first royal civil wedding ceremony in England’s history, was—unlike so many of the puffy or stolid royals—oddly wafer-thin and weightless. Governor George Pataki, traveling behind him, looked like a bloody lumberjack in comparison. So often the pale royals appear bent sadly under the crown or tiara—or drowning in the shallow Saxe-Coburg-and-Gotha gene pool.

But as the press waited for the photo op (four hours of waiting, in fact), a pungent anti-Camilla sentiment wafted up from the largely non-American reporters and journalists.

They traded stories of the disco-dancing, John Travolta–loving Diana, vulnerable and gorgeous. One cameraman begin constructing sleazy narratives of the event about to unfold: “So excited by the garden, Prince Charles mounted Camilla and began slapping her lean flanks like his prize dray.” Judy Wade, the royal correspondent and harridan from Hello!, in her hideous dirty flats and frumpy coat, pushed the press for Camilla dirt.

And one smarm-caster taped his routine while the king-to-be and consort-to-be paraded in the background: “One of the main challenges for Charles and Camilla will be generating any interest in this trip whatsoever.”

Not all of the—ahem!—press was so nonplussed. Like an eerie echo, there was Tina Brown among the 35 guests in a clump inside Hanover Square. She was looking, oddly, so much like Diana Spencer herself. She was in high black heels, and though her light was originally hidden away in the second row, she had— ta-da!—somehow made it to the very front of the group.

Sir Harold Evans, her spouse, wool-gathered. Ms. Brown clutched her quilted purse. He checked his watch; her hair blew back. When Prince Charles walked by, Ms. Brown made a gleaming, big “Hi, how are ya?” face, and Prince Charles appeared to recognize her, and perhaps even gave her a little “Hullo” mutter.

“How does it feel to be in New York?” yelled a frustrated reporter. After a bit of thought and eye-rattling, Prince Charles appeared to mouth the word “Wonderful.”

“What’s going on here?” asked a tall Brooklyn dude on the street. “Eh, Prince Charles,” he was told. “That’s all?” he asked. “Fuck him.”

“This is really Charles’ way of beatifying Camilla,” Ms. Kelley said. “He has to have her sanctified as the Duchess of Cornwall, and this is a good way to do it …. I think they’re going to be surprised—and maybe a little disheartened.”

“She’s not particularly stunning; she looks a bit like horse, you know,” said Page Sixer Tom Sykes. “She’s an easy target, especially for the tabloids. What we mean when we say people are nasty to her is the tabloids. Diana was the darling of the tabloids—she sold millions and millions of papers. When I worked at the Evening Standard, when Diana died, it was on the front page of the newspaper every day for eight weeks.

“Camilla doesn’t have the glam,” Mr. Sykes continued. “But—she seems levelheaded, and like she’d cook you a nice Sunday lunch. And give you a cigarette.”

So instead of glamour and doe eyes and a slightly borderline affect, Camilla’s tactic is to sort of mudge her way into being liked.

What is harder to tell, however, is whether, on this first tour, and emboldened by his new marriage, Prince Charles has a political agenda.

The Prince of Wales has made his opposition to the war quietly well known. He is visiting his country’s ally in that war just as the American death toll passed the 2,000 mark, and President George W. Bush’s approval numbers are plummeting.

Back at home, his subjects seem as eager as they are unable to topple Prime Minister Tony Blair for getting them into this mess.

“Charles as king would be, I think, surprisingly strengthening and reassuring,” said Jonathan Burnham, the senior vice president and publisher at HarperCollins who came over from London nearly 10 years ago. “He is wise now, a little melancholy, but Brits have now grown used to his spiritual side—which they used to think was soppy and embarrassing—and he is suddenly in tune with our times.”

So it seems like old-fashioned if well-timed politesse to begin this visit with a trip to Hanover Square and the World Trade Center. The square’s memorial isn’t even finished yet. They’ve installed fake bushes printed on canvas as backdrops; they’re as phony as a George Bush trip to New Orleans. The actual trees and bushes have just been stuffed into planters; there is bark strewn about where there might be grass. The concrete flooring is poured, but still retains marks in orange spray paint.

But despite the fakeness of the scenery that the lovebirds will enjoy in both Manhattan and D.C., their visit acts as a sanctification of the American losses on Sept. 11 that became a pretext for this war, as well as a reminder that British subjects are dying at the hands of terrorists, too.

And, well …. “They’re trying to sell British tourism, ’cause it’s really fallen off,” said Ms. Kelley, ever the realist. Oh, right: those bombings, that euro ….

But maybe the regime-to-come can rustle up some allure. In that same evening, the prince and his wife arrived at the Museum of Modern Art. All the East Ender photographers had been sniffed by bomb dogs—“Security, it’s all bollocks anyway, innit?” said one behind the ropes—and they jostled ear-to-elbow in the lobby, just for a view of Camilla, who had, unfortunately, changed into regal dark-blue gown with the silhouette of a garbage bag.

But maybe the regime-to-come can rustle up some allure. In that same evening, the prince and his wife arrived at the Museum of Modern Art. All the East Ender photographers had been sniffed by bomb dogs (“Security—it’s all bollocks anyway, innit?” said one behind the ropes), and they jostled ear-to-elbow in the lobby just for a view of Camilla—who had changed, unfortunately, into a very regal dark blue dress with the silhouette of a trash bag.

—Additional reporting by Sheelah Kolhatkar and Sara Vilkomerson

At 1:46 p.m. on Nov. 1, when the royal motorcade finally arrived at Hanover Square and Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cornwall slid from her black car, an important question was raised. Was it scarlet? Was it vermillion? After much whispering in the press pit, a verdict was reached: Camilla’s suit was actually fuchsia, and it should have been drowned in the river. “It’s horrible,” said a woman into the quiet that cushioned the royal couple. “What was she thinking?”

Indeed, what evil soul told Camilla to wear hot pink for a visit to Ground Zero and the dedication of a garden dedicated to the 67 British nationals who died in lower Manhattan on Sept. 11?

Well, it could have been those scheming Scots, at least one of whom spent Tuesday demonstrating in front of the U.N. with signs that read “Camilla HRH Wench” and “Camilla You Are No Princess Di.” Or perhaps there’s a devious Diana loyalist in the wardrobe at Clarence House!

The Duchess of Cornwall actually has three royal dressers traveling with her, according to stateside royals expert Kitty Kelley; she also characterized the Prince of Wales as “so terrified that [his wife] will somehow be compared unfavorably to Diana.”

“Three!” Ms. Kelley reiterated. “As if what she wears is going to—well, he just doesn’t want her to put a step wrong. And Diana was such a fashion icon.”

On the Royal Couple’s first official tour, the major item on sale—besides a series of lithographs by Prince Charles that retail at Saks Fifth Avenue—is Camilla.

In fact, she looked kinda hot—almost aging-Bond-girl hot—in plain black shoes and with three tight strands of pearls around her neck. And her new husband, Prince Charles, the man whom she convinced to have the first royal civil wedding ceremony in England’s history, was—unlike so many of the puffy or stolid royals—oddly wafer-thin and weightless. Governor George Pataki, traveling behind him, looked like a bloody lumberjack in comparison. So often the pale royals appear bent sadly under the crown or tiara—or drowning in the shallow Saxe-Coburg-and-Gotha gene pool.

But as the press waited for the photo op (four hours of waiting, in fact), a pungent anti-Camilla sentiment wafted up from the largely non-American reporters and journalists.

They traded stories of the disco-dancing, John Travolta–loving Diana, vulnerable and gorgeous. One cameraman begin constructing sleazy narratives of the event about to unfold: “So excited by the garden, Prince Charles mounted Camilla and began slapping her lean flanks like his prize dray.” Judy Wade, the royal correspondent and harridan from Hello!, in her hideous dirty flats and frumpy coat, pushed the press for Camilla dirt.

And one smarm-caster taped his routine while the king-to-be and consort-to-be paraded in the background: “One of the main challenges for Charles and Camilla will be generating any interest in this trip whatsoever.”

Not all of the—ahem!—press was so nonplussed. Like an eerie echo, there was Tina Brown among the 35 guests in a clump inside Hanover Square. She was looking, oddly, so much like Diana Spencer herself. She was in high black heels, and though her light was originally hidden away in the second row, she had— ta-da!—somehow made it to the very front of the group.

Sir Harold Evans, her spouse, wool-gathered. Ms. Brown clutched her quilted purse. He checked his watch; her hair blew back. When Prince Charles walked by, Ms. Brown made a gleaming, big “Hi, how are ya?” face, and Prince Charles appeared to recognize her, and perhaps even gave her a little “Hullo” mutter.

“How does it feel to be in New York?” yelled a frustrated reporter. After a bit of thought and eye-rattling, Prince Charles appeared to mouth the word “Wonderful.”

“What’s going on here?” asked a tall Brooklyn dude on the street. “Eh, Prince Charles,” he was told. “That’s all?” he asked. “Fuck him.”

“This is really Charles’ way of beatifying Camilla,” Ms. Kelley said. “He has to have her sanctified as the Duchess of Cornwall, and this is a good way to do it …. I think they’re going to be surprised—and maybe a little disheartened.”

“She’s not particularly stunning; she looks a bit like horse, you know,” said Page Sixer Tom Sykes. “She’s an easy target, especially for the tabloids. What we mean when we say people are nasty to her is the tabloids. Diana was the darling of the tabloids—she sold millions and millions of papers. When I worked at the Evening Standard, when Diana died, it was on the front page of the newspaper every day for eight weeks.

“Camilla doesn’t have the glam,” Mr. Sykes continued. “But—she seems levelheaded, and like she’d cook you a nice Sunday lunch. And give you a cigarette.”

So instead of glamour and doe eyes and a slightly borderline affect, Camilla’s tactic is to sort of mudge her way into being liked.

What is harder to tell, however, is whether, on this first tour, and emboldened by his new marriage, Prince Charles has a political agenda.

The Prince of Wales has made his opposition to the war quietly well known. He is visiting his country’s ally in that war just as the American death toll passed the 2,000 mark, and President George W. Bush’s approval numbers are plummeting.

Back at home, his subjects seem as eager as they are unable to topple Prime Minister Tony Blair for getting them into this mess.

“Charles as king would be, I think, surprisingly strengthening and reassuring,” said Jonathan Burnham, the senior vice president and publisher at HarperCollins who came over from London nearly 10 years ago. “He is wise now, a little melancholy, but Brits have now grown used to his spiritual side—which they used to think was soppy and embarrassing—and he is suddenly in tune with our times.”

So it seems like old-fashioned if well-timed politesse to begin this visit with a trip to Hanover Square and the World Trade Center. The square’s memorial isn’t even finished yet. They’ve installed fake bushes printed on canvas as backdrops; they’re as phony as a George Bush trip to New Orleans. The actual trees and bushes have just been stuffed into planters; there is bark strewn about where there might be grass. The concrete flooring is poured, but still retains marks in orange spray paint.

But despite the fakeness of the scenery that the lovebirds will enjoy in both Manhattan and D.C., their visit acts as a sanctification of the American losses on Sept. 11 that became a pretext for this war, as well as a reminder that British subjects are dying at the hands of terrorists, too.

And, well …. “They’re trying to sell British tourism, ’cause it’s really fallen off,” said Ms. Kelley, ever the realist. Oh, right: those bombings, that euro ….

But maybe the regime-to-come can rustle up some allure. In that same evening, the prince and his wife arrived at the Museum of Modern Art. All the East Ender photographers had been sniffed by bomb dogs—“Security, it’s all bollocks anyway, innit?” said one behind the ropes—and they jostled ear-to-elbow in the lobby, just for a view of Camilla, who had, unfortunately, changed into regal dark-blue gown with the silhouette of a garbage bag.

But maybe the regime-to-come can rustle up some allure. In that same evening, the prince and his wife arrived at the Museum of Modern Art. All the East Ender photographers had been sniffed by bomb dogs (“Security—it’s all bollocks anyway, innit?” said one behind the ropes), and they jostled ear-to-elbow in the lobby just for a view of Camilla—who had changed, unfortunately, into a very regal dark blue dress with the silhouette of a trash bag.

—Additional reporting by Sheelah Kolhatkar and Sara Vilkomerson