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As luck would have it, we were situated behind three very good looking guys. Graham, Ant and Matt, donning their “especially for Wimbledon” mismatched socks, overheard us devising a solution for our dilemma and decided to take us under their wing. They regaled us with the story of their first time queuing for Wimbledon.

They showed up, jumped in the line with nothing more than a few snacks and were stuck in the seemingly endless downpour for the bulk of the evening. This year, having learned from their experience, they came equipped with all of the proper sleeping gear, most importantly a tent.

Becky and I gave each other knowing glances as the guys shared this information. We, by no means wanted to be stuck in the rain all night. If our past 10 months in London were anything to go by, we knew that rain was inevitable. We were all set to go back to our flat to grab “survival materials” when the line stewards on horseback arrived, handing each of us a 5x7 card with all of the information we needed to know about the queuing process, including our number for purchasing tickets the next day and seven rules that we were all supposed to follow.

The rules specifically stated that we were not allowed to leave the line, unless it was for a short-term absence. After a heated game of “rock, scissors, paper,” it was decided that Becky would take a “short-term absence” and go back to our flat to get all of the comfort items she could carry.

In the meantime, I got to absorb some of the queue culture. It was an enormous street party where everyone was invited and hundreds were in attendance. We were situated on a long sidewalk with a huge park to our backs and houses across the street, many of which set up kiosks on their driveways, selling refreshments, unofficial Wimbledon souvenirs and flags from nearly every country. People wore these flags as capes while they sauntered up and down the street, chatting up any and all.

Matt, Ant, Graham and I got Pimms and Lemonade to get us in the spirit, and while they attempted to put up their tent, I watched and laughed. The ingenious tent that was supposed to take 15 minutes to erect was still not assembled after 45 minutes, and according to them, it was the tent’s fault of course.

The poles were flailing about, our eyes in constant danger of getting poked out, directions were being shot back and forth like a tennis ball. I hesitated helping them at first, as I feared that they might see my offer as a direct attack on their manhood. I finally gave in, offered my expertise and we were successful.

By the time we got the tent up and began to settle in, Becky returned. Her “short term absence” had turned into a four-hour excursion. She arrived in a taxi and we all helped her unload the excessive amount of items she brought. There was a duvet, changes of clothes, toothbrushes, toothpaste, playing cards, books, magazines, pillows, candles, and it looked as though she had brought the entire contents of our kitchen. We unfortunately had no tent, but now we at least had something to put between us and the elements of nature.

As we completed our nest, we were greeted by a parade of take-away delivery people on scooters.

“Curry. Tandoori. Delivered in 30 minutes!”

“Chicken and chips!”

“Pizza for Mark! Mark! Mark!”

They crawled up and down the streets offering any number of edible delicacies, handing out menus left and right. The options were endless. Within minutes, the menus advertising Indian, Chinese, Italian, fish and chips, you name it, decorated the street like confetti. Even though we had all of the food that Becky could muster from our flat, we still decided to join our three new friends in ordering from Mr. Chow’s Chinese. We called in our order, told them which house number we were closest to, and were eventually greeted by a little man, with a disproportionately huge helmet, screaming, “Jennifer, I have Chinese for Jennifer.” We lit our candles and enjoyed our Kung Pao and fried rice.

Becky and I wrapped ourselves closely in the duvet as the clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped. The boys offered to let us share their tent with them, which was incredibly generous seeing as, they didn’t really know us as anything other than the random, unprepared Yanks and it was a three-person tent. After they convinced us that it was no problem, we accepted their offer.

We all crawled in, trying to configure ourselves so that we were as comfortable as possible. Then, the rain started. Matt turned his whole 6’2” body around, disrupting the sleeping arrangement that we had pieced together so carefully like a puzzle and stuck his head out of the tent.

“It is quite literally raining cats and dogs out here,” we could hear a muffled voice communicating. “I think a Chihuahua has just fallen on my head.”

No one slept. We laughed the night away, as Becky and I counted our lucky stars that we were not outside getting drenched. We were entertained by the boys’ humor and quick wit until the wee hours of the morning when we were startled by a line steward shaking our tent mildly.

“Time to wake up and get packing. We will be moving on in about an hour.”

The tent that took so long to put up took mere minutes to tear down. We gathered all of our belongings. This was not an easy task given the amount of stuff we had, and the fact that it was still raining. We were sent to another queue for left luggage, and then herded like cattle to the last of the lines, where we were instructed to wait until the ticket windows opened.

We were handed stickers that read: ” I queued in the rain for Wimbledon 2003,” which everyone wore proudly on their chests. I was wet, exhausted and getting antsy. What if the rain didn’t stop and all of that queuing was for naught? No one else seemed too worried about it so I grabbed a cup of tea from a nearby food stand and enjoyed this queue for the next two hours.

We had a great position for buying tickets, which Becky and I were amazed by since our placement in the line was so random the day before. We had our choice of courts. We chose Court 1 so we could see Agassi. Matt, Ant and Graham decided to join us, so we knew that we were in for another day of laughs and entertainment.

Entering the hallowed grounds of Wimbledon was like crossing into another city. There were shops, restaurants and thousands of people. We grabbed some breakfast and waited for the matches to begin. The waiting process really defines the Wimbledon experience. It’s how you fill the wait time that makes the experience memorable—we spent this time exploring the grounds, playing cards and talking to a variety of tennis fanatics, some sporting articles of clothing that they had made out of tennis balls especially for this event.

We gallivanted around the grounds and the sun began to shine, making it a beautiful day for tennis. When it was finally time, we headed over to our second row seats at Court 1. We could practically touch the players, which, I’ll admit, was rather tempting.

“Quiet please!”

Once these words were uttered and the players assumed their positions, the entire stadium was filled with an eerie silence that was only broken by the popping sound of the tennis ball and the grunts of the players. I’ve never been in the vicinity of so many well-behaved adults before.

Andre Agassi entered the court. Our heads moved from left to right, to right to left, in an attempt to watch the blur of a tennis ball as it flew between the competitors. About ten minutes into an intense match, the clouds rolled in and wrung themselves out on top of us. A special crew came out of nowhere to cover the lawn court as the players exited and the ball boys and girls scurried. The rain started again.

We took the opportunity, along with the thousands of other spectators, to grab a late lunch. The lines were enormous, so the five of us decided on a buffet-style restaurant. We had been waiting about five minutes before Matt tapped the shoulder of the gentleman in front of us.

“Pardon me, but do you mind if our group goes in front of you? We really don’t like queuing,” he asked.

The irony of the comment was almost too much to bear. The gentleman didn’t know whether to laugh or take offense, so he simply turned around in confusion, leaving us to maintain our place in the line. We waited nearly an hour to get a seat, and were eventually able to enjoy a hot meal which we topped off with strawberries and cream, the official treat of Wimbledon.

“Play will resume in ten minutes.”

As this announcement boomed over the loud speaker, we devoured the last of our food and joined the hordes of people back to our respective courts. We all took our seats, and at the command of another “quiet please,” centered our attention on the refreshed tennis masters.

As the time approached to say our goodbyes, we knew that we would leave satisfied. The experience was much more than we could have expected. Gathering all of our belongings from the left luggage area, the five of us made a pact to return.

“Same time next year,” we all agreed, knowing that it was really the queue that we were looking forward to. The tennis itself was simply an added bonus.

Jennifer Zangwill is a freelance writer who recently moved to San Jose, Calif., after spending a year teaching in London. She started traveling to Europe when she was three and hasn’t been able to stop. In fact, she says she’s just keeps gaining momentum. This summer she’s making her way back over to that side of the pond where a plethora of new adventures await.

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