Wimbledon 2025

Before I decided to take a sabbatical, I was plotting an Italian escape—think pasta, gelato, and subpar attempts at speaking Italian. But fate (and my questionable travel planning) had me detour into London, where a wild idea took root: why not try to get into Wimbledon? It’s been on my bucket list for years, but honestly, dropping over $1,000 on Amex Hospitality tickets seemed less “once-in-a-lifetime experience” and more “please, let me eat instant noodles for the next six months.” I’ve applied for the public ballot more times than I care to admit, with about as much luck as a Wimbledon rain delay. So, I thought: what could be more British—and more entertaining—than The Queue? Especially since I could drag some friends along for the adventure, and misery loves company. Tea, biscuits, and a tent in the park, anyone?

I scoured the internet for Queue wisdom, but I was not going to camp the night before, so I decided to arrive at Wimbledon Park by 5 am. We stumbled out of our flat in the Broadway Market area at a time normally reserved for existential dread and questionable kebabs—4:30 am sharp. By the time we rolled up to the park just after 5, a sea of bleary-eyed tennis hopefuls was already streaming in. We joined the pilgrimage, clutching our biscuits, and before I knew it, we were officially part of The Queue.

Moments after joining the human snake winding into Wimbledon, I was handed a queue card with the number 5,083. That’s right—five thousand and eighty-three. At that point, I thought we were basically aiming for Centre Court on Day 47 of the tournament. The veterans around us were equipped for a minor Arctic expedition: foldable chairs, gourmet picnics, and some even had pillows that screamed “I came prepared to nap aggressively.” We, on the other hand, had a single sarong—basically an oversized handkerchief—on which we huddled together like penguins in denial.

Mercifully, there were some park vendors, offering the essential British breakfast: coffee strong enough to revive the dead and sandwiches that tasted suspiciously like hope. Suddenly, the hours ahead didn’t seem quite so grim.

By 10am, the queue began to twitch with excitement—like someone had whispered “free strawberries” down the line. As I scanned the horizon, I spotted tents still defiantly pitched long past the official 6am eviction hour. For a brief moment, I wondered if these were rebels, squatters, or perhaps aspiring performance artists. Turns out, they were just the ultra-hardcore superfans already queuing for tomorrow—because why strive for sanity when you could seek front-row seats and mild hypothermia? Honestly, their commitment made our sarong situation look positively amateur.

After the thrill of shuffling forward in The Queue—a movement so glacial I’m convinced we were being judged for our snack choices—we finally made it halfway to what I foolishly believed was the entrance. Naturally, we hit another standstill, which gave us ample time to contemplate the meaning of life and whether the Wimbledon staff were secretly running a social experiment called “How Much Can Humans Endure for Tennis?”

By noon, the line lurched into motion again, and we hobbled towards the gates, now seasoned in the fine art of British queuing and mild existential panic. There were still several dizzying switchbacks to navigate, but at least we were moving faster than tectonic plates. Pro tip: if you have mobility issues (or simply want to fake a limp by this point), there’s a special entrance. Honestly, the final stretch is not short, and speed-walking it after hours in line feels like a challenge invented by people who’ve never actually queued.

By 12:15 pm, after a seven-hour wait, we finally clutched our golden tickets. No, not Centre Court (let’s not get delusional), just general grounds passes. But inside, we discovered another queue, this time online. You had to register for Centre Court, Court 1, or Court 2—only two tickets per person, so if your squad is bigger than a British tea party, everyone’s fingers need to be flying.

Optimistically, I threw my hat in the digital ring for Centre Court. Moments later, reality hit me like an errant tennis ball to the shin—my queue number was 3,800-something. My dream of watching from center court will have to wait.

By the time we finally staggered through the gates, delirious with anticipation (and possibly dehydration), our collective hunger was bordering on mythological. We hunted for food like urban castaways, eventually stumbling upon a cafeteria that looked promising—or maybe we were hallucinating from seven hours of queuing. To my surprise, the prices didn’t require selling a kidney, which was already halfway on my to-do list. Channeling my inner Wimbledon foodie, I ordered baked sea bass with roasted potatoes, a green salad, roasted corn (which tasted suspiciously like cardboard impersonating a vegetable), a bread roll, and a Coke Zero—all for 28 pounds. Compared to tennis tournaments in the US, where a hot dog costs the same as a down payment on a car, this felt like a steal. If nothing else, my taste buds and my wallet both got their fifteen minutes of fame.

Once we’d refueled, it was time to hunt for actual tennis—my phone confirmed the digital queue was still crawling along at the pace of a particularly lazy sloth. Djokovic was headlining Centre Court (possibly playing his last match there), then Iga, then Sinner, so chances that someone would willingly surrender their ticket hovered between “never” and “in your dreams.” We adjusted expectations and gravitated toward the outside courts, where Paolini and Errani were playing doubles—a personal favorite, because watching two Italians yell encouragement at each other is basically free therapy.

Arriving at the side courts, we discovered one of Wimbledon's most “charming” quirks: their laughably tiny size. Three rows of seats per side—blink and you’ll miss them. Getting in required, you guessed it, more queuing. At this point, I was half-convinced the entire British sporting tradition is just standing in lines for increasingly abstract rewards.

Normally, at other tournaments, my mild ADHD and insatiable curiosity meant I’d roam the outside courts every thirty minutes, collecting tennis moments like Pokémon cards. Not so at Wimbledon. Here, once you nab a seat, you commit harder than a royal at a garden party—because if you leave, your spot is instantly snatched by someone with sharper elbows and fewer scruples.

The result: I watched a grand total of three matches all day, which is positively meager by my usual standards. Wimbledon: come for the tennis, stay for the queues, and leave with an advanced degree in British patience.

Another feature that was different from other tennis tournaments, especially those in the State, is the absence of the volunteers herding the crows. You’re left to your own delighted confusion, navigating the labyrinthine seating arrangements with all the grace of a sleep-deprived octopus. I repeatedly found myself standing in the wrong places, shuffling sideways like a crab, or moving at precisely the one forbidden moment.

By 7 pm, our energy reserves were so depleted that we began the slow, dramatic exit. There were a handful of spots I regretted missing, like The Hill (which appeared in the distance like a mirage for slightly more ambitious people) and the mystical American Express Lounge (I’m still not sure it was real—maybe it was just a clever marketing campaign).

I did, however, experience the legendary strawberries and cream. Verdict: decent, but as an aficionado of all things sweet, I longed for more sugar—perhaps a sprinkle of fairy dust? The Pimms cocktail was a triumph, so delicious I briefly considered becoming a full-time British socialite. Of course, every visit to Wimbledon needs a gift shop stop, where I pick up my usual souvenir t-shirt and a few gifts for friends.

If someone asks, I’ll tell them I saw the tennis, ate the food, and survived the lines—earning my honorary degree in British patience and snack-based economics.

Will I ever brave The Queue again? Only if there is a promise of Centre Court...haha. Until then, I’ll just keep tossing my name into the ballot, convinced that one day the tennis gods will get tired of watching me lose and finally grant me Centre Court glory.