Episode Two: London Taco Bell, Knock-Knock Jokes and Lawrence of Arabia We are almost to 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 […]
Episode Two: London
Taco Bell, Knock-Knock Jokes and Lawrence of Arabia
We are almost to 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 London airport 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 and includes a respectful peek at Van Gogh’s grave in Auvers, Vatican City with optional pope-led mass, sitting in a Parisian café and a general want of either not getting killed or falling in love, preferably both.
The list Chris makes is a bit more youthful. He wants to see Agincourt, as his tribute to Kenneth Branagh in Henry V and take a stroll through the streets of Prague. He is especially excited to tip his hat at Hemingway’s watering hole, Harry’s Bar, in Venice, and would like to spend a day at EuroDisney. Of course, these accomplishments are teetering on whether or not they will let us 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 don’t 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. 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 terrorist, 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 prick 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. I am hoping to convey to him that most days I have trouble putting on my own wristwatch, much less handle explosive devices. He continues to hover over me so I slowly push myself up like a drunken man.
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. Undeniable functions of the body that each of us must adhere to should not be profited from, but then again, I suppose restaurants and brothels would tend to disagree with this type of logic. Restrooms 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 to do my business is because it seems that the places that charge you are usually the ones that have never used a coin of it to help maintain their particular area in the realm of sanitation. Stepping into this bathroom is like being time-warped back to the days of the Black Plague. There’s garbage strewn about, the floors 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 fornicate with one.
I have no desire to take my backpack off again so I have worn it in. I try to get into a stall, but my backpack is too big and I do not fit. Luckily a urinal opens up and I make a dive for it. 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 man may roll over in his sleep and fall on top of me disgusts me a tad more. Luckily, a kind gentleman 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 leave 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 thing. 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. The beds cost us thirty-three dollars each and the key deposit is another thirty (refundable) dollars. A sheet and pillow will be extra.
One of the exciting things we heard before we left 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 cheap 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’s 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 us 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 just 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 doesn’t 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.
Chris is considering a trip to the front desk to ask if we can have a private room. Normally I would make some lewd comment as to what exactly his intentions are toward me, but I am too tired to be obnoxious. He says that he can explain our flying difficulties, my bus-induced coma and my talking in my sleep.
Apparently, while staying in our medieval hotel in Kentucky, I was talking all night about plane tickets, boarding passes, seat numbers and departure times. Though I appear almost annoyingly calm in the face of crises, it all comes out in a mad anxious rush while I am sleeping. Of course, the part that made him most annoyed was the fact that he stood awake that night trying to answer my, as he put it, random, frantic ravings. We decide to just tough it out and I am in asleep by six in the afternoon.