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Part 1 of a European Adventure: London
Vincent Yanez is a product of immaculate misconception. His travels have taken him from the hills of Europe to the beaches of Africa, from small villages in Italy to obnoxiously, boring truck-stops somewhere in middle America. He is currently sending his manuscripts to publishers on a weekly basis. He is hoping to collect enough rejection slips to build himself a paper-mache' airplane and fly into the desert - to find the Little Prince. His only claim to fame is a collection of cartoons, called WellBitten, available on Powells.com.
We are on our way to Europe. Two hours into our seven-hour flight and I once again detest flying. Dinner has been served. I forgot what I asked for and looking at my meal offers no help as to what I am eating. Airplane food has never impressed me. I do not think they put enough effort into it. I would probably feel this way with any place that would make me eat food that requires the use of utensils in a space that does not even offer enough room to have an eye spasm. We wait for the in-flight movie to begin and I enjoy a bag of peanuts and an alcoholic beverage.
I decide to make friends with the guy next to me. I feel it is the polite thing to do since our seats are so close together we are probably considered married by Amish standards. He does not seem like a lunatic and I feel it is wise to know the person I could later be using as a flotation device. His name is Greg and he is from Detroit. He is pretty much doing the same thing we are, wandering around Europe, but with less of a plan and hardly any money. He seems to have amused himself with these two facts, so I become happy for him.
He tells me that traveling always makes him understand how good he really has it back home. I hope that is true. I am very unappreciative of what I have. I am not saying my life is worthless, it is just that I am bored with what I have been doing with my life. I am five and a half miles above the ocean, flying to another country, and I have nothing waiting for me where I am going and nothing waiting for me where I left. I am either a free spirit or a pathetic soul. Most likely, I am a bit of both.
From the get-go, I know I will be traveling with Chris. We met three years earlier and slowly became the best of friends. We are complete opposites. He is anal, orderly and not very good under pressure. I am lax, messy and do not normally show signs of stress. When I ask him if he wants to go to Europe, he is as enthusiastic as I knew he would be.
On planning the trip, we had only one disagreement that brought us quite near to exchanging blows. It was due to a little thing Chris referred to as 'closure'. We had decided to fly into London, tour Great Britain, cross the Channel and then do the mainland of Europe. At the end of our journey, I had planned that we fly out of one of Europe's main airports, like Paris, to ensure a straight-through flight to the States. This made perfect sense to me.
Chris decided that at the end of the trip, we should make our way back to London and fly out of the same airport we arrived in. He drew me a diagram on a map that showed us landing in London, doing Europe and then flying out of London. He pointed out the neat circle this made. I related that this would not only take two or three days off the trip, as we schlep our way back to England, but God knows how much more it will cost to re-cross the English Channel and taxi our way into London.
This did not matter to him. My way is the way of Neanderthals. It offers no sense of completion. It provides nothing that resembles the visual treat of his well-drawn circle on the map, and worst of all, it provides us with no closure. At that point, I think I popped a blood vessel. This made no sense to me. He was not able to understand my inability to see the poetry in it all. Luckily, when it is time to book our tickets, Chris is unable to meet me at the travel agent's office; thus, the matter is solved quite easily. We are flying into London and out of Paris. Voila!
He took the news quite calmly. Of course, as we fly over the Atlantic, he is becoming a bit disgruntled for a different reason. There is a man two rows ahead of him with an enormous head, which is blocking the movie screen. For a moment, it is gone, and Chris relaxes only to become twice as mad as the hugely proportioned cranium floats back into view. Apparently, the large cranium was just pulling something out of the seat pocket in front of him. I think it is safe to say that Chris is enjoying the movie much less than I am.
He gives up and decides to converse with me. He tells me how moving sidewalks are one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century. He says they are miracles of modern man, making even the clumsiest people seem graceful. We had passed our free time in the Detroit airport riding these contraptions. Chris enjoyed walking in place. He said it was good exercise. I was just standing on them to avoid any unsolicited movement.
Another hour goes by before he finally loses his ability to not whine. He is mad at the space between the seats. There are five people sitting across the middle of the aircraft. We are lucky enough to be in the center seats, which makes me have to sit like I am sliding down a tube. Chris is finding it difficult to get out and go to the lavatory. He says it might be easier just to urinate in one's seat. He holds his empty cup aloft, in the direction of the stewardess.
" Oh please," he inquires. " Could I have some more to drink?"
***
We are almost in London. The excitement on the plane is obvious as everyone shuffles about and wipes themselves down with the moist, microwave-warm hand towels provided by the airline. Chris has pulled out our wish list that he had us write before we left. It lists all the things we think we want to see on our trip. It's not like they are all at the airport in London when we land, but it passes the time and draws our attention away from the fact that soon, four-thousand tons of metal is supposed to be put down on a piece of concrete no bigger than a driveway.
My wish list is simple. I would like to pay my respects to Van Gogh's grave in Auvers, visit Amsterdam, see a pope-led mass in the Vatican City and hopefully fall in love somewhere along the way.
The list Chris makes is a tad more youthful. A trip to Agincourt, to see where Kenneth Branagh filmed Henry V., a stroll through Prague, EuroDisney, a tip of the hat to Papa Hemingway at Harry's Bar in Venice and hopefully a chance to see Vienna. Oh yeah, and he too would like to meet the European sweetheart of his dreams.
Of course, these accomplishments are teetering on whether or not we will be let into London. The plane lands and we are given our freedom. There are things I notice about myself after long, overseas flights. I feel more tired than I should, I become very fond of the ground and I somehow acquire a pungent breath that the boldest of mints cannot extinguish.
The lady in customs decides there is something suspicious about me. Greg (the guy I met on the plane) and Chris breeze right by her with nothing more than a half-wave. Hell, even the guy with the really big head got through without a problem. Then comes my turn. She has me state my business, asks for my passport, checks my backpack, and wants to know how long I am staying and where I plan on residing. The other passengers are watching and a few jeers are tossed as they tell her to leave me be.
My answers do not help her any as they are short and not too well thought out. Chris has the names and addresses of the people and hostels we are planning to stay with. I tell her I am just here to wander around for a bit. This answer does not seem to appease her. Maybe she thinks I am being vague. Perhaps she thinks I am a person of ill repute, with my black hair and cowboy-like stroll. Perhaps my sleepy eyes and denim jacket give me a sinister look. Do I look like the creep that stood her sister up for the prom? I am tired and it takes everything I have not to tell her what a wretch she is being. Eventually she grows bored with me and lets me through. I feel sorry for all the puppies she must kick on her way home each day.
We ride the subway, or underground, into Victoria station. Victoria Station is, by far, the coldest structure I had ever set foot in. I could slide down iceberg slopes on my bare bottom and feel warmer than I do now. The high vaulted ceilings and concrete floor offer no resistance to the icy wind blowing through the open doorways along the walls. I am afraid to blink in case my eyelids freeze shut and I think I see a team of sled dogs making their way to a train departing toward Wales.
We pile our bags on the floor. I spread-eagle myself over our belongings as Chris ventures off in search of a bathroom. This became a routine for us in the airports. One person would smother the bags in an attempt to ward off tempted bag smugglers and the other would venture off on some stupid adventure involving either a bathroom or a hot dog. I do not suppose it offers much resistance for anyone who really wants to take our things. However, if they try, I will most likely raise myself from the pile of overstuffed bags, grunting and moaning the whole while, and at least curse in their general direction.
I am getting quite comfy and am near a total jet lag black out when a security guard taps my foot with his club. He informs me that I cannot sit on the floor like this and any bags in the station have to be carried at all times. I understand that there is paranoia of terrorist acts within the city of London, but just one look into my well-meaning eyes should convey that I am not the least bit dangerous. I stare at him with my practiced puppy-dog look. At best, I am hoping to convey to him that most days I have trouble putting on my wristwatch must less handle explosive devices. He continues to hover over me so I slowly push myself up like a drunkard.
I contort my body in every angle possible to put the various bag straps wherever is easiest. The security guard stands there, watching me, offering not a bit of help. Does he honestly think I can carry two large backpacks and two smaller backpacks at the same time? I want to smile at him and say something smart, but I am not too sure what it would take to get oneself beaten to death with a club. Chris returns at this moment and interrupts my general cursing of the English and their paranoia. We pile our belongings onto our weary backs and shuffle off down the corridor.
Of course, I realize I have not had my turn at the lavatory, and force him to show me where they are. It costs half a pound to get into the bathroom. Charging me to do my business is one of the most annoying things in the world. They should at least charge you for the type of service you are about to perform, as they are not all the same, but I suppose this would only lead to dishonesty. No, really officer, I was only going to urinate, but then...
The other reason I do not like to have to pay for this is because it seems that the places that charge you are usually the ones that have never used a coin to help maintain their particular location in the area of cleanliness. Stepping into this bathroom is like being time-warped back to the days of the Black Plague. There is garbage strewn about, the floor and walls are filthy and there is a man sleeping on the counter above the wash basins. I am afraid to touch anything, much less expose items of my person that may someday bring about a world leader or at least procreate with one.
I have to debate whether or not to wash my hands when I am done. The thought of not washing them disgusts me, but the thought of touching the handle to the sink and taking the risk that the slumbering gentleman may roll over in his sleep and fall on top of me disgusts me a tad more. Luckily, a kind patron leaves the faucet on and I do not have to do anything but wet my hands and run for the exit. It puts me in a bad mood to know I paid half a pound to most likely contract some unknown disease. I left the faucet on and I wonder if the sound of running water is making the homeless guy dream of waterfalls.
We find our hostel on the map and trudge through London's streets, nimbly dodging morning rush hour. The hostel is buried in a grove of trees in the middle of a park. We realize this is supposed to be a serene setting to relax and unwind, but we are both amazed at the seclusion of the place. This would be the perfect setting for a maniac to hack and chop his way through weary travelers without a soul hearing a peep. This makes the walk along our tree-lined path much less enjoyable. We have to wait until three in the afternoon to get in our room and the beds cost us thirty-three dollars each. The key to the room will cost us thirty, refundable dollars. A sheet and pillow will be extra.
One of the exciting things we were told before we left America was how the hostels would only cost us eight to ten dollars a night. This is true in some remote hostels in the middle of dilapidated rain forests. Other than that, most hostels in and around major European cities, subsequent to 1978, charge almost as much as the smaller hotels. We dump our backpacks and are thankful that they do not ask us for a holding fee. Gathering our guidebooks, we set out to wander the streets of London.
We are both grumpy and I am extremely jet-lagged. If I was not so tired we would probably be arguing right now, but luckily, lack of sleep has eased my nerves. We make it back to Victoria Station to try and figure out what to do on our first day. The thought of a London-version of a Broadway play seems intriguing, but the price of a ticket would take a large chunk of our money and I can guarantee that I will be asleep by the middle of the first act. We decide to jump on one of the red double-decker buses in front of the station. It is time for a hop-on hop-off tour.
For the common tourist, these bus tours are the greatest invention since Pepto-Bismol. They drive all over their respective city, pointing out all the major tourist attractions and allowing you to jump on or off whenever the fancy strikes you. Unfortunately, the feeling of a seat beneath my butt causes my body to finally succumb to the jet lag, and not ten minutes into our tour I fall sound asleep. I awaken to the sound of the bus pulling back in to Victoria Station. My first tour of London looked exactly like the back of my eyelids. The tour guide takes pity on me and gives us a ticket to ride again tomorrow for free. Being as tired as I am I almost want to weep and hug the nice man. Instead, I give him an award-winning smile.
Of course, now I feel like someone has run me over and I am hungry to boot. We wander the streets thinking we will find some fish and chips, shepherd's pie or something else incredibly English. As luck would have it, there is not a chip in sight. We end up giving in to our American stupidity and eating a wonderfully disgusting meal of Big Macs and fries at the local McDonald's.
I feel nauseated and the food does not help. We go back to the hostel. Our room is like a dorm with eight other beds strewn about. The shower is communal, as is the bathroom. Chris hates roughing it, and to him, this constitutes roughing it. I only want to go to sleep and am snoring by six in the evening.
***
I awaken refreshed and alert. The sun is just starting to work its way through the curtain and I feel excited about introducing myself to this place called London. I look at my alarm clock and see that it is six in the morning. No one should be awake this early. I lay back down and eventually drift off to sleep. Half an hour later, Chris coming back from the shower awakens me. I have a headache and my neck hurts. This is more like it.
We vote to get the hell out of this hostel. I figure it will be cheaper to drink ourselves silly in a pub or at least find a run down B&B to crash in. We go to Victoria Station in hopes of finding something that looks like directions to lodgings. The fact that everything is written in English does not go unappreciated. Chris is approached by a guy handing out brochures for a youth hostel, which makes us leery, but this is only due to the fact that we are both paranoid.
We are milling around for a bit, letting the early morning chill of the station work its way to our bone marrow, when a man and woman approach us. They are wearing backpacks similar to ours, which immediately makes them part of the family. The man tells us that the place to stay is called the Chelsea Hotel. He says there is a booth outside of the station and the rates are good.
Outside we find the booth, occupied by a woman reading a magazine. We tell her what we want and she makes a phone call. Ten minutes later a little van screeches to the curb. She tells us to get inside and he will take us to the hotel. Chris and I look at each other. Rule number two, when growing up, was never get in a car with a stranger. Rule number one was all about not taking candy from them, but who are we kidding, if he were to offer me a candy bar at this moment I would probably take it.
We stick our heads in the window and take a good look at the driver. He looks like a reincarnation of a young John Lennon. Round spectacles, mop of hair, wiry build and wearing a sleeveless shirt with the word LOVE written across it. We decide we can physically overpower this hippie if we have to and clamor into the van. He is a nice enough fellow and proceeds to tell us about the hotel as he drives 180 miles an hour through the streets of London.
I compliment him on narrowly missing both pedestrians and other cars, and what is meant to be sarcasm is taken as a compliment. He thanks me and explains that he is studying to be a taxi driver. He says that it takes up to five years to get a taxi license in London. There are so many streets with the same name, like Chester Lane, Boulevard, Way, Street, Hill, Knoll and Avenue, and each of these may at one time or another intersect with another one. The roads are mostly paved over mud paths that were originally used by coaches to get through the city, and you can tell their designs seem to have been made more by the horses rather than engineers.
I am developing a tumor from watching the scenery zoom by at near light speed and my right leg hurts from stomping on the floorboard every time I think braking would be a good idea. We screech to a halt in front of the hotel. As I tumble out of the van, I have to force myself not to drop to my knees and kiss the ground. He says he will wait for us as we check out the hotel. On the way up the stairs, Chris wants to know what will happen if we decide not to stay at this hotel. He is thinking we should not say anything that would upset Mr. Lennon if we plan on getting back into his brake-impaired vehicle. I guess we can take a room no matter what the price, or sneak out the back entrance and run.
Luckily, the Chelsea Hotel is a wonderful place and the rates are reasonable. Chris is excited that we are given a room of our own and does a happy dance when he finds that we even have our own bathroom. We drop our bags in the room and chuckle at the sink next to the tub. It is in perfect shape except for a large hole, about the size of my head, on the bottom of it. Luckily, the missing piece is lying near the sink, and with some patience, the whole thing fits back together quite nicely.
The young John Lennon offers to take us back to Victoria Station and we accept. Our travel guide lists that cabbies in England are not normally tipped. We find this quite odd and it feels weird not tipping. In America, failing to tip a taxi driver will most certainly result in your learning a few new words for one's genitalia.
When we arrive at our destination, we each give him a handful of coinage that seems to please him quite a bit. I am wondering if perhaps we are part of a small minority that tips their drivers. Chris is thinking maybe we figured out the money thing wrong and we just paid that man enough to re-enroll in university.
We decide to use our hop-on, hop-off tickets today. A red double-decker bus pulls up and we happily jump aboard. Our first stop is Piccadilly Circus, which I decide is the Times Square of London. Chris is amazed at the size of the posters advertising mediocre American movies. We go to Leicester Square and drink cappuccinos.
We wander into Tower Records and I happily create a pile of videos that I have never been able to find in America. Of course, Chris bursts my bubble of joy by pointing out that they will not play in our American VCRs. He then struts to the Imported CD section and finds that all it contains is overpriced CDs imported from America. As the smile leaves his face, I feel somehow vindicated.
On to Trafalgar Square to watch the pigeons do whatever it is pigeons do. They are all waddling around looking for a handout. If people stopped feeding them, the little beggars would probably fly away, but the tourists are throwing out breadcrumbs by the handful. There are hundreds of pigeons and some are as big as dachshunds. I hope everyone does not act surprised when one of these feathery rags decides to walk off with a small child for its lunch. I find them disgusting but Chris is amused. He informs me that he thinks he was a pigeon in a past life because of the way he moves his head back and forth when he rides in cars.
Chris wants pictures with the pigeons and he also wants to sit on the giant lions that are ceremoniously draped with tourists, pigeons and bird droppings. I convince him that this is an unoriginal idea and there are too many people around to make the picture worthwhile. The reason he is so interested in this monument is because it is the symbol of Nelson Entertainment, the distributor of such films as When Harry Met Sally and The Princess Bride. He eventually agrees to forego this dream and I can only imagine the diseases we have managed to avoid thus far.
We wander over to the National Gallery. After staring at the Cezanne's, Gaugiin's, Monet's and Manet's we stroll over to Number 10 Downing Street. I am very impressed at how normal this residence appears. I wonder if it is as easy to stroll up to the door and knock as it seems to be. I contemplate doing this for a bit until I convince myself that somewhere, across the street, is a member of the English Secret Service who has had too many crumpets, too few bathroom breaks and is now watching me through the eye piece of his rifle. I walk on.
I am wondering what time it is, so we wander over to Big Ben. We have both seen pictures of this, but the real thing is beyond what we could have imagined. I find it incredibly useful in answering my question of the time of day. As we reach the corner of Westminster and Victoria, (at least this is where Chris says we are, I am lucky if I know what city I am in, much less the street I am on), Big Ben strikes five o'clock. The bongs are big and deep and careen off the city walls. It is an amazing thing to witness and we are giddy for minutes afterward.
We arrive at Westminster Abbey. Chris is becoming very impressed by this whole architecture thing. The gothic-ness, the stone walls, stained glass windows, arches, pillars and the whole package. He says the buildings of today are crappy and uninspired compared to the days of old. I find the large doors in the entryway to be of interest, but the rest of the place is lost on me as I find myself immersed in a sea of camera-wielding tourists shuffling through the stone arches like overfed sheep.
Heading back to the hotel we stop at a huge bookstore called The Book Shed. Chris feels it would be respectful to the English to buy a book by Clive James. I wander around and end up buying the latest Grisham book. I am not proud of my choice, but I need something for the train ride tomorrow that I can read without having to concentrate. We grab some ham and butter sandwiches and go back to the hotel.
It must be the excitement of our own hotel room, having our own bathroom or the fact that we are leaving London tomorrow, but we're finding ourselves restless and nowhere near being tired. We head out to find something to drink and end up at an Italian chain of restaurants called Bella Pasta. The atmosphere is perfect and the coffee is superb.
Across the street is a Taco Bell, and I am overcome with the curiosity of what a Taco Bell burrito will taste like in England. Is it boiled? Do they use lamb instead of beef? Clotted cream instead of salsa? I have to know. I consume my burrito, and despite all the opposition this could cause back home, this is the best damn Taco Bell burrito I have ever had.
I do not think Chris is very proud of the fact that I have now eaten in two American fast food joints and we have only been here two days. I feel ashamed, but then remember that England is not known for its amazing culinary treats, and promise myself that this will not happen once we hit the mainland of Europe. We head back to the hotel and prepare for sleep.
I have brought with me a pair of thongs, or flip-flops, that I plan on wearing whenever we have to do the communal shower thing. The last thing I want to contract is some annoying fungus on my feet from some French Canadian biker club. In lieu of slippers, I put these on to visit the restroom and Chris cannot help but poke fun at me. I may seem strong on the exterior, but inside I am small and weepy. I suggest an interesting location for his head to be placed as I turn out the light.
***
Waking up in our own room is a wonderful thing. The drawback is that we have slept in, and even though we rush downstairs, we still miss the cheap breakfast by a good ten minutes. The lady behind the counter offers us a candy bar as condolences for being too lazy to cook one more egg. This only depresses us and we leave.
We catch the underground at Earl's 'Court and jump off at St. Pauls. The cathedral of St. Paul is too impressive for such a small name. I am thinking maybe it should be called St. Bartholomew's or St. Rotisserie's or something really big and religious sounding. Of course, St. Peter's in Rome is huge and Peter is a pretty small name, so I guess it all makes sense somewhere.
Walking toward the cathedral, Chris says that the Catholics really know how to put on a good show. Chris hardly ever says anything positive regarding religion, and I think this would be a good way for the Catholic Church to advertise for converts.
Catholicism: We really know how to put on a good show.
The doors to the church are huge and I make Chris take my picture in front of them. It would take at least thirty of me, standing on each other's shoulders, to be as big as these doors. Of course, thirty of me would never be able to stop complaining enough to accomplish such a task, so that analogy is somewhat pointless. We go inside and to my right is the biggest organ I have ever seen. The pipes go as high as the ceiling.
"Gosh," I say. "I wish I had an organ that big."
I hear snickers from the tour group behind me. It was meant to be undeniably vulgar, but only for Chris's ears. Apparently, my voice carries a bit inside of holy temples. Of course, now that I have said something disrespectful in the house of God, I have put my soul in grave danger. There is a mass starting and I decide it would be a wise decision to attend. Chris goes to the underground crypt to see if he can find T.E. Lawrence's grave.
It is a matinee mass and the crowd is small. The priest asks us to come to the front and sit in the seats where the choir usually sits, to be closer to him. He is a very kind old man and he talks about God, humanity and following our hearts when making life choices. He looks content and peaceful and I wonder if I will ever be that happy. Of course, he has had years to get to where he is, so I am thinking I still have some time to work on it. I am sure a comfy robe, like the one he is wearing, could help a bit too.
He has the small group come to the center of the floor and hold hands, and then we say the Lord's prayer together. When we finish he stands there with his eyes closed and I wonder if he has fallen asleep. Eventually his face breaks into a beam and I wonder if God just told him a good knock-knock joke. He looks at me and then winks and I am sure he has read my mind. He dismisses the group and we are set free to wander.
I find Chris with a look of concern on his face. I assume he did not find Mr. Lawrence's grave, but he says that he did indeed find it. He says it is not a genuine gravestone. It is a bust on a shelf with a big plaque beneath it that says Lawrence of Arabia. He wonders if it would be more profound if it said T.E. Lawrence and then maybe a quote or something. He says he is happy that he saw it, but it is a bit disappointing.
I run downstairs to see what he is talking about. It looks less like the guy in Lawrence of Arabia and more like my best friend from high school. I decide not to tell Chris that my mass experience was better than I had expected and that the priest can hear jokes from above. I mumble something about the mass being pretty good and then we leave the church.
On the steps are droves of people milling about. Backpackers, tourists and kids playing hooky, all lounging in the brief strand of sun that has found its way through the clouds overhead. At the bottom of the stairs is a man selling ice cream cones. We partake and join the others in watching the world go by. I am trying to get some photos of a few of the people with the more interesting faces, but it's too hard to hold a camera and an ice-cream cone at the same time. The ice-cream cone prevails.
Eventually the sun abandons us and the clouds invite a cold wind to join them. The land of Shepherd's Pies, Tony Blair and Afternoon Tea has been good to us. Our time in London has come to an end as we head for the train station.
...to be continued
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