Author: Vincent Yanez

It Doesn’t Matter Which Road You Take #4

Episode Four: York

Vikings, Fish and Chips and The Pet Shop Boys

I am lying in what is most likely one of the most comfortable beds in all of England. I was originally supposed to sleep in the loft, but when our host turned on the light, the first thing I see are three huge spiders eyeing my head hungrily. She gave them a good smack with her slipper but I could not get out of my head that their immediate family would now want to extol revenge on the humans. Chris is now sleeping in the loft.

We arrived in a town called Wakefield and took a taxi to friends of Chris’s parents, Mary and David. The taxi ride came out to £4.90 and Chris handed him £6. We left the cab, only to have him yelling at us that we had given him too much money. I guess the book was correct, one does not tip cabbies in England.

Mary had a traditional English meal of potpie and peas waiting for us. It was perfect gray weather food and I was happy as a clam. We then poked around the house for a bit, wrote in our journals and headed off to bed. A big comfy bed, which is now slowly sending me off to dream land.


It is too early in the morning but Chris says we need to get ready if we are going to make the bus to Wakefield. Mary walks us to the bus stop and flags down a bus for us. You can tell she is nervous about leaving us on our own and I can’t help but think how much our mothers must be worrying about us back home. We called them when we landed in London and then told them we would not call again for at least a week. Of course, for all we know, they may have already changed their names and vanished.

York's shopping district

From Wakefield, we hop on the train to York, arriving in the early hours of the morning. We immediately jump on a big, red, double-decker bus. The tour is interesting and because of a slight mist, we have the entire top section of the bus to ourselves. We see the ruins of St. Mary’s and one of the largest medieval castles in the world.

Mary has made us sandwiches of ham and butter, which are unbelievably good, but leave me with the smell of ham and butter on my hands and face. We are growing tired of the bus and are thinking of hopping off soon when the driver tells us to pay attention as we come around this next turn. He says that if anyone is sitting on the top, he recommends that they stand up and look straight ahead. We obey, and coming around the corner, catch our breath in unison.

We are across the city and on a slight rise. Before us is the most amazing sight, York Minster in its full glory. The size of the church itself is hard to describe. You do not realize how big it is when you are in front of it or even when you go inside. However, when you see it in comparison to the city itself, it is incredible. Half of city of York is the cathedral. It is like looking at an ornately carved mountain. I am too stunned to even think about taking out my camera for a picture.

After walking around York Minster, we stumble around the streets of York. There is a homeless lady sitting on the edge of the sidewalk up ahead. She is holding her head in her hands and has a little sign propped up against her legs. She looks up and me and I am surprised to see she must be in her mid-twenties. Chris wanders ahead.

People are slowing down to read her sign and then resuming their walks. We pass her but something bugs me and I go back. Once in a while, it strikes me that these people are someone’s daughter, mother or sister. I sit next to her and we talk for a little while. I know people say that the homeless are oftentimes alcoholics or drug addicts, but who could say I would not be too if in their shoes. If it is a means of escape from something worse, than that is their choice. Then again, she could be none of those things, just hungry and having a bit of bad luck. We talk as two strangers would, about the weather and where we are from, nothing too personal and nothing too intrusive. I do not have much money on me, but give her what I can and leave her be.

We come to the shopping district, which is made up of the buildings that lean so far into the road, their tops actually touch one another. Chris sees a sweater that he is thinking of buying, but instead we just stalk it from outside the shop window for a good twenty minutes.

The Boating Party

There is a guy replicating Renoir’s The Boating Party on the sidewalk with chalk. It actually looks like the real thing. Next to the picture is a sign that says this picture is not for sale. I really do not see how it could be, since it is drawn on the sidewalk. Next to me, I see the tourists in their plaid shorts, black socks and dangling cameras. I wonder how many people have attempted to buy the sidewalk from him. I am glad he is not crafty enough to actually sell it to them. It looks like it is going to start raining and I fear for the artist and the boating party.

We hike up to Clifford’s Tower, a round structure on a hill, a place the Jews fled to in 1190 to escape being killed by the Christians. The plaque says that the Jews, after fleeing to this spot, ended up taking their own lives. From atop the hill I can see the whole of the land and think of the history of this structure. My concerns take on an air of insignificance.

We are debating whether or not to go into the Jorvik Viking Centre. It is supposed to be an interesting place but Mary told us she went once and it really smells in there. We are not sure if she means that it smells in a bad kind of way or in a Viking kind of way. Of course, it would not help much if she had said yes to either of these. We decide not to go and instead head for the crumbling wall that surrounds the city. Walking around a city wall is more fun than one might think. Not only are we able to avoid the traffic and pedestrians as we go from one side of town to the other, it also offers a great view into people’s back yards. I never would have guessed at the popularity of those plastic Pink Flamingos.

After reading all the plaques we could find, explaining who lived here, died there and lost their head a time or two, we decide to call it a day. Our train will not be ready for a bit so we head out of the station to play. To our left is York Minster, towering over everything. Across the street is a huge billboard of an American basketball player wearing high-heeled shoes. To our right is a wooden cutout of a train conductor pointing the way to the station.

Chris and the conductor

Chris wonders if we have enough time to go back into the church for a bit, but I talk him into getting pictures of us with the wooden train conductor and that pointing finger of his. I smile sheepishly as I touch the wooden gentlemen’s finger with my own. As I take Chris’s picture, he sticks the wooden train conductor’s finger in his ear. This time I am a little jealous. His will be the better of the two photographs.

We are back at Mary’s in late evening. Her son-in-law, Les, and his two boys are here to meet us. He is an old friend of Chris’s parents and they discuss the family back home. I wander into the living room and join the two boys in a game of cards. I am beating the older one at this game, but the little guy is kicking both of our butts. Both kids have thick West Yorkshire accents and at one point, the younger one says something to me that sounds nothing like the English my ears are accustomed to.

I say, “Excuse me?”

He is obviously embarrassed and apologizes that it is hard to understand him because his accent is so thick. At this point his father walks into the room. He tells him never to apologize for his accent. He says it’s a good strong one and he should be proud. I am beginning to like this guy.

Les finds me intriguing as we talk about my background, my beliefs and the fact that I actually voted for Clinton. He says that he has always thought he liked him, but was unable to really form an opinion just on what the English newspapers say. I tell him the good and bad points of his presidency and Chris sits to the side rolling his eyes in true Republican fashion. I have never really cared about Clinton or politics much, but having something that irritates Chris so easily is hard to nullify.

After a bit, Les crams us into his red sports car and takes us for a spin. He drives like we are being chased, which is even more frightening when you are not used to being on the wrong side of the road. I keep reminding myself that unless we meet up with a group of Americans, failing to drive in the correct English fashion, a car will most likely not come around the corner and hit us head-on.

He takes us to a pub called Carpenter’s, for a pint. Here we meet up with Mary’s brother Brian. Brian turns out to be another member of the fan club for Chris’s father. Tales of his dad’s old days are passed around and the beer flows freely. Brian asks me what my favorite musical group is, which is odd coming from a man who is most likely in his early sixties. I tell him that Erasure is my all time favorite and he laughs and says they are his too. Les loves The Pet Shop Boys, which thrills Chris to no end.

Talking to Brian is like talking to a person my age. It excites me to know that there is a good chance I can still be hip as I progress in years. We talk about America a bit. They make it clear that even though they tend to envy the speed and technology we appear to have, they kind of pity us for the lack of culture and history that we have to endure. Come to think of it, I kind of pity us too. We all agree that England has most of the world’s best musicians and some of its worst food. Except for the seafood and potato concoction, which Les tells us we will love, as he has appointed himself the ambassador of introducing us to our first taste of world famous Yorkshire fish and chips.

As we walk out of the pub, the barkeep and a few of the regulars shout out, Cheers! This makes it the most perfect pub experience I could have ever wanted. Brian asks us where we are headed off to tomorrow and I tell him Inverness. He gets a faraway look in his eye. I ask him if he has ever been there.

“No lad.” He says, “But I mean to before I pass on.”


At sixty thousand miles an hour, on what this country considers the correct side of the road, we get to the fish and chip place within no time. Les says he just wants to make sure they didn’t close before we got here, but I have a feeling he would have driven this fast anyway. He jumps out of the car, gets the food from what looks like a small trailer on the side of the road, and hops back in. I have to hold this bundle of goods all the way to his house and the smell is making me ravenous.

His two boys are home, as is his wife, Susan. We talk into the night about our countries, technology and whatever else we could think of. It is interesting to be able to talk to someone from a different country, yet still speak the same language. It helps to feed the curiosity. The smallest of the boys tells his mom that he wants his hair like mine. By this point, it is long enough to put into a little ponytail and I apologize to her for the future argument this will most likely bring about.

The fish and chips are as wonderful as Les said they would be and our last night in England is spent with a nice family and full stomachs.