So I am leaving the US of A and not going to Canada. I have not done this before. I am going to England...Britain...Great Britain...The British Isles...The United Kingdom...The UK....bloody hell...what is the placed called? I am going to London. The home of my beloved shiny sexy Wallpaper Magazine.
I had to go get a passport a few weeks ago. Someone at the State Department thought it would be funny if they played with my picture. So this is what is on the passport:
So not funny. Roxanne, did you do this?
I have some concerns about this trip. Obviously I am freaked out about how I will get around. Abject terror is probably a more apt description of my feelings on this subject. As you know, it is my strong belief that as a white male American it is my birthright never to take public transportation. My employer will not spring for a rental car (like I would even try to drive on the wrong side of the road!), and my use of taxi cabs has to be at a minimum unless I want to pay for them myself. I am going to have to take trains. Trains that plunge deep underground. Trains that were recently blown up by terrorists. If one more person tells me how easy The Tube is to use I will stand on their neck until it is flat.
My other main concern is the language issue. I can’t even understand Monty Python, let alone Benny Hill. What if I am in a meeting with the customer and I can’t understand anything they say? I am worried I will spend the whole time saying What? What?
Someone at work told me that if you cannot understand British people you simply say, "I am sorry. I am from Mexico. Can you speak more slowly please?” They will all burst out laughing and then start using proper BBC English.
It takes over 9 hours to fly from Seattle to London. We cross over the North Pole.
Not sure if there are sharks down there. What else can I worry about?
9 hours is a long time to be on a plane. I get all whiney about a 5 hour trip to Maui. I bought these super expensive Bose Noise Cancelling headphones to use on the long flight over. My iPod is filled with podcasts and of course the new Rosanne Cash, but I can't stop listening to this song called The State I Am In by Belle & Sebastian because of this one lyric:
And so I gave myself to God
There was a pregnant pause before he said ok
Now I spend my day turning tables round In Marks & Spencer's
They don't seem to mind
I have been bleaching my teeth all this week. I wanted to make the British people feel as bad as possible about their teeth. When I got home last night I found a tube of tooth bleach gel on my kitchen floor, drained of its contents. That darn Bill I thought and went to bed. Early this morning (when it was still dark out) I found my $400 tooth molds in the laundry room, chewed upon, and covered in whitening gel and kitty litter. There was a glow coming from the corner.
OK. This is about all the pre-trip rambling I can come up with. More after touchdown.
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I am here. I am not happy. This is not The UK. It is The UCK! Let's just go down the list, shall we?
I started off the drama before leaving Seattle by cutting my chin while shaving. This was not one of those little nicks every guy gets from time to time, no, it is one of those deep gashes that will not stop bleeding, and when it does there will be a scab on my face for a week. I will probably have a scar. I put some Neosporin on it and hope for the best.
Then when I get out of the shower I notice that some kind of flesh eating virus is consuming much of my inner thigh. I am a clean person, I shower every day -- sometimes twice. It is not my fault I am being eaten alive. I rub some Neosporin on it and hope for the best.
Then, one hour before I have to leave for the airport I break the little toe on my right foot. I did not just stub the little fucker, no, I broke it. All I did was brush my toe against a shoe that was sitting on the floor -- it was one of my favorite black Tsubos with the red dot on the bottom no less! The toe just broke. I wish it had just broken off, because right now it is the size of a whole extra foot and is exactly the color of really fresh Ahi sushi. There really wasn't anything I could do - except put Neosporin on it, and hope for the best..
Mark takes me to the airport. I sit at the bar reading, what else, shiny sexy Wallpaper, and waiting to get on the plane. Some very drunk man is going to Hawaii. He's loud and icky so I leave and wait for the plane by the gate. Later I see he missed his flight. Good.
Finally I get on the 747, sit down, and immediately I see this woman with an asymmetrical haircut getting into the seat in front of me. I can already tell she is trouble. Yep, as expected the minute we take off she puts her seat as far back as possible. I can't see my little TV screen, I can't eat, all I can do it punch the back of her seat every 4 or 5 minutes. My foot hurts.
I am trying to make the best of this, really. I put on my noise canceling headphones and try to sleep. Soon I am shaken by a truly ugly flight attendant waving a pot of coffee at me. I shake my head no and close my eyes. She shakes me again and starts screaming. "Sir. You must close the window shade. We are flying into the sunrise and people need to sleep. Sir you must do this immediately or I will call the captain over." Jesus Christ you bucked toothed freak! It won't be light for 6 hours! Rather than cause an international incident I close the shade and pout.
By the time we are over Iceland my foot is throbbing with each heart beat, I am still really pissed at the stewardess, and the asymmetrical woman keeps wiggling in her chair and waking me up. There is only one thing I can do. I am going to make everyone else as miserable as me. I snore. I snore loud, I snore strong. Big, snorty, window shaking snores. Like a harbor seal. The whole plane can hear me. Call the captain now bucked tooth bitch! With my eyes squinted I see slowly I am waking everyone up as their little reading lights turn on. I keep this up for about 30 minutes. Once I feel the moral balance has been restored I stop. I punch the chair in front of me one more time for good measure.
I arrive at Heathrow. It is cold and wet here. My foot is really killing me. Since I am an American I consider just buying a cheap car to use whilst I am here, but I give in and get on the express train. It's fine. At Paddington Station I get a cab driven by a very friendly cabby who's favorite TV show is Frasier. He talks on an on about Seattle, the mermaid, and rain. He’s also upset that McDonald’s doesn’t serve Root Beer over here anymore. As an American he needs me to look into this. I tip him 4 pounds on a 6 pound cab ride.
At my hotel, the Radisson SAS Portman, I try to check in, but the clerk, Babette, informs me in her fake French accent that my reservation has been cancelled. I am like 14,000 miles from home, it's cold, it's raining, my extra foot hurts really bad, the flesh earing virus feels like it is spreading, and I have nowhere to sleep. On the bright side my chin does seem to have stopped bleeding. Babette decides she can get me a room here just for tonight, but I am on my own the rest of the week. I go up to my tiny room, with two tiny single beds pushed together to form one grown up bed, try to call Expedia, but my calling card does not work. Fortunately my laptop does. I get onto Expedia and learn that all hotel rooms in London are booked for Valentines Day. I find a $200 a night place in Birmingham or Manchester or something like that. I need to ice my extra foot now.
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I've had a bath, re-Neosporined most of my body, and a just finished a cup of tea. I am a little less bitter and filled with hate now. I call my coworker Jonathan and we walk to Soho for dinner. We find this little Lebanese place. Good hummous, babaganoush, chicken, lamb,etc. It is all good. The waiter apologizes that all he has is French wine. I can work around that.
I can tell that Jonathan has been dying to ask me if I am a big mo (or a poof as they say here). I make it easy on him and volunteer the info. He says I don't hide it very well, my poofyness. I tell him his shoes don't match his belt or his wrist watch band and that he should really rethink the length of his sideburns.
When I pay for dinner they won't let me tip. Weird. I learned later that they want you to tip in cash only. Otherwise they have to pay tax on it and they never actually get the tip.
Walking back to the hotel I should be all excited to be in London. I try to soak things in, but I am just too jet lagged and my foot is killing me. I crash. A couple of hours later I am violently awoken when I fall through the middle of the two single beds that are pushed together to form my regular sized grown up bed. I really hate this hotel.
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Up at 3am. I tried to sleep but I can't becasue it is really 7pm, 19:00 as they say here. I meet my counterpart from M&S at 9am or 9:00 as they say here. He's nice, and smart, and very helpful, and pays for the coffee. We head over to M&S where they are all nice and smart and helpful. There are giant flat screen TVs all over playing the Olympics. Male speed skaters are on right now but I remain professional and do not attempt to lick the screen.
As the day goes on I find I have no trouble understanding these people. In fact the only real difference I can see is that they go to Spain for vacation instead of Hawai'i.
We have a really productive day, and then it's time to go check out of the stupid Radisson and into The Royal Lancaster right across from Hyde Park. Here is my scoring matrix on the new hotel:
Royal Lancaster
Did not lose my reservation, + 500 points
Has alarm clock, + 25 points
Has clothes hangers in room, + 5 points
Has grown up sized bed in room, +50 points
Has iron and ironing board available in hotel, +5 points
No free wi-fi, - 25 points
So, Royal Lancaster gets 560 points, Radisson SAS Portman, -560 points.
I am tired so I order room service. I get fish & chips and a salad, and a glass of wine. They use French's mustard as salad dressing here. Afterwards Jonathan calls and wants to go out. We walk down to this cool shopping street called Queensway. It's late and cold but there are thousands of people out walking around, going to dinner, shopping, breaking the antennas off cars. A cute little couple from Spain who do not speak English asks us for directions. We drink some Lagers and then go break the antennas off cars.
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The next day I try to walk to work with my broken toe. I limp along Hyde Park to get to Marble Arch. I am distracted by the need for coffee and stop at a mermaid on a side street. The people who work there are rude. I can't even wish they they didn't get insurance from the mermaid becasue they don't in this county of free healthcare. This was a mistake, stopping here, becasue I go the wrong way when I leave the store. I ask some woman how to get to Baker St. and in hearing my American accent she points me in the wrong direction. I hope she doesn't have insurance either.
I see all these men in wool overcoats standing around with bowler hats on. They are just standing there like Joe....what is a good British named?...like Joe Nigel just standing around being all British looking without any sense of irony. I'm like Dude, you were probably a hippy in the 70's, don't you feel stupid with that hat on?
Finally I find Baker St. and get to work. Mid-day we walk over to the actual M&S headquarters which are on a canal. Very cool modern building, all glass.
On the walk over we go by one of the sites of the terrorists bombings in July. Weird and scary.
After a productive day then I meet two coworkers for beer. We go to some little smoke filled pub, drink pints of ale, eat bangers and mash, and watch soccer...er...football. Finally the smoke is making me gag so I go back to the hotel. I see on the news that Parliament has voted to ban smoking in any public place in England. Why couldn't they do this two hours earlier? Actually it won't take place till next summer.
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So this is a map of The UK. The red part is London. As you can see it is kind of large. True, a lot of people live here, somewhere between 7 and 18 million people depending where you draw the line, but when I say large I mean large as in big land area. I think only Los Angeles covers more square miles (and trust me on this, it is square miles here, not square kilometers).
This morning I have to make the scary walk from my hotel to the M&S headquarters near Paddington Station.
I cannot be late or I will miss the shuttle bus to the M&S Stockley Park location way out in the suburbs which is entirely too far away to take a cab to.
I walk through the nearby neighborhoods of row houses, past the ancient hospital where penicillin was invented, past Paddington Station, past the site of one of those terrorist bombings in July. I go into the mermaid and order a grande filtered coffee and a skinny peach and raspberry muffin. I catch the shuttle on time. It’s a really long drive to the M&S office park in the suburbs where IT is located. Lots of old row houses, past the Fullers brewery, then into scary American looking suburbs. Suddenly there is a field and a cow. Are we in Scotland? Nope, more houses, Office Maxs, car dealerships. Then the M& S office park.
I have a great day working with the M&S folks, but it is long and I still have jet lag. Then I have to take the shuttle back into London at rush hour. Traffic on the freeway is bad -- just like everywhere else. This makes me a little sad. I really could be anywhere in North America right now – except the driving on the wrong side and the lack of yellow lines down the middle of the road.
For dinner we go to this neighborhood named Marylebone for dinner. I cannot tell you how to pronounce the name of this neighborhood. I can tell you that it is not pronounced Mary-Lee-Bone. If you Google this word you will see there is quite a controversy about this. Our restaurant is called The Red Pepper. It’s Italian. The manager is a super beautiful Italian guy. Our waiter is a retard looking Italian guy. We start off with some bruschetta and red wine. Then I have a salad of rocket and parmesan. For an entrée I have squid ravioli in pumpkin sauce. For dessert I get this cheese plate and have some port. It’s all OK, but nothing to fall down and wet one's pants over. One of my coworkers has this amazing poached pear in red wine sauce. I will try to make this at home.
Over dinner we talk about English English vs. American English. Some of this I already knew from Nigella Lawson.
Aubergine =eggplant
Corgette = zucchini
Coriander = cilantro
Pudding = dessert
Since arriving here I have learned:
Hamper = basket
Pants = underwear
Trousers = pants
Jumper = sweater
First floor = second floor
Ground floor = first floor
Still water = water
Fizzy water = sparkling water
I am really tired after dinner but everyone wants to go out drinking. We end up at this little pub drinking Guinness. I learn that Kate Moss, Jude Law, and Paul McCartney all live nearby. Abbey Road is around the corner. As I am dying from smoke inhalation I see on a pack of cigarettes some European Union Warning labels:
SMOKING KILLS.
And
SMOKING MAY REDUCE BLOOD FLOW AND CAUSE IMPOTENCE:
These pictures are blurry because it was so smoky in the pub.
Finally I take a cab back to the hotel and watch a weird British TV show that seems to be a British version of The OC where rich pretty teenagers are being stalked by a serial killer.
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London does not really have a skyline like you might expect for a city of its size.
There is a new area called Canary Wharf down the river with some tall buildings. There are two tall buildings in an area called The City, Nat West and St. Mary Axe that are cool. An old Space Needle sized thing called the Post Office Tower. Then the London Eye, which is really an observation Ferris wheel. There are some old churches too.
I know, I know, London is not about skyscrapers. It’s about mile after mile of old neighborhoods filled with restaurants and shops and old men in silly hats. And history and Indian food. The number of people out on the street is really amazing, even at midnight. The only place I can really compare it to is New York, even without the skyscrapers.
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On Thursday I make my same trek to the mermaid and to the shuttle to the burbs
I have another amazingly good day at work. Do you know that feeling you get when you know you are doing a really good job? I love that! I know how to do this stuff! Finally I am earning my pay at my new job.
M&S feeds its people well. In the corporate cafeteria we have Indian food or Curry as they call it here. Naan bread, chicken curry, weird ass rice that is mostly peppers and carrots and spice, spicy potatoes. I like it.
Tonight we are going out to dinner at an Italian restaurant in a 500 year old building. Our waitress is amazing. Easily 70 years old, she has that strange artificial look of Donatella Versace, but she is dressed like the St. Pauli Girl.
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. Then she opens her mouth. “Hello my dahlings”. Her voice is this amazing gravely purr, like Jeanne Moreau mixed with Kathleen Turner. This is the most amazing sound I have ever heard.
For dinner I have asparagus soup then beef with foie gras on top. The foie gras tastes like liverwurst. I am against it. This place is fine, but not worthy of our waitress’ voice. At one point I have to pee so I climb three flights of 500 year old stairs to get to the bathroom. It occurs to me that they do not seem to have any laws here to make it easy for disabled people to get around. Weird. Gay people can get married, smoking is soon to be banned, everyone has health insurance, yet people in wheelchairs have to pee their pants
Since I am way out in the suburbs I have to take the Tube home tonight. It would cost at least 100 £'s to take a cab. I do not want to do this. I know I will get lost. I am going to end up in Scotland or Paris or something. I see myself emerging from the Tube in 5 years covered in rat bites and needing a shower.
OK, I have no choice. I get on the Tube at Bumfuckshire and hope for the best. Follow the pink path here on this Tube map to see what I had to go through.
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This morning I turned on the TV to watch the news. There is regular BBC news, icky Sky News run by evil Rupert Murdoch (Fox News), and this hilarious thing called GMT – Good Morning Television. This is just like that job Bridget Jones had in the movie. Blond female reporters running around the country doing silly things for morning television like interviewing puppies. At some point this commercial comes on showing these bouncy super cute little baby lambs. They are so fuzzy and so cute!
Then the commercial cuts to some blood and guts, then to a lamb chop on a plate, then back to the jumping fuzzy baby lambs. God Damn it! This is a commercial for vegetarianism! I sit on the floor and cry. I loved lamb, I loved it!
I have another full day at work then meet a bunch of M&S people at this trendy bar called Union. I just can’t drink anymore beer. I have a gin and tonic. They put Bombay Sapphire in a glass, pour in some ice, then add this really good tonic from a tiny bottle, and then top it with lemon. Right! Lovely! Brilliant! This beautiful rugby player from Zimbabwe named Cory keeps buying me drinks. Beautiful straight men should not be nice. It’s just wrong.
Eventually we end up at a pub and everyone gets very drunk. I ask Allison why there are no gay people in England. She looks at me strangely for a minute and then she say, "Oh the poofs! There’s loads! They’re just all out dancing right now." Sounds like the poofs are kind of the same everywhere.
We eat mustard flavored potato chips, drink some more, and eventually wander out into the night to find Indian food. At 11:00…wait I meant at 23:00 on a Thursday night there are approximately 900,000 drunk people wandering the streets of London also looking for Indian food. I feel a part of a larger drunk international community.
Walking back from dinner I see the Troy Hotel.
That is odd.
Today I go home, back to the land of Dick Cheney and guns. I walk over to Paddington, take the express train to Heathrow, and buy tea for everyone at the Harrods store there. Whilst waiting for my flight I have what is called A Very British Breakfast which consists of 2 eggs sunny side up, baked beans(!), Back bacon(?), mushrooms, a warm tomato, sausage, and brown toast.
My flight home is fine. I have an exit row in front of a bulk head. No one can put their seat back. There is this small English girl, with limited hair, maybe 2 years old, running around the plane bumping into things. She has a giant head, yes like an orange on the end of a toothpick. It's more or a grapefruit actually. I wonder if she will write travel stories some day.
So I am done with my first international trip. My toe is not as swollen, the scab on my chin is gone. I am mostly struck by how much more we have in common with the British than not. London does not really seem foreign or strange, just friendly and exciting. OK, enough for now. Back in a couple weeks. Cheers!
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