Aussie bars and danger in London

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I missed the shot I wanted.
Australians are really odd people, mate. You see, I unknowingly attempted to order some food at an Aussie bar (They have quite a few throughout Europe, by the way), and when no one came to help me for several minutes, I got up and went to the bathroom.
Now, as stimulating as that seems, it’s not half as stimulating as INFLATABLE SHEEP DOLLS, which were all SOLD OUT in the men’s room. I can’t imagine what’s funnier - the fact that they sell inflatable sheep at Aussie bars - or the fact that they’re all sold out of them. Anyway, I was trying to take a picture of this, when I heard another fellow walking into the bathroom, and I certainly didn’t want to be caught inspecting the inflatable sheep dispenser, so I jumped to another corner of the bathroom. I should also note that the bathroom - which featured pink décor and urinals shaped like a woman’s full, red lips - possessed a set of double entry doors, which gave me enough warning to step away from the sheep dispenser before being discovered. I had to wonder if this was by design or by chance.
As a city, London first frustrated, then amazed me.
I found it to be a place where the modern world existed right in the middle of a truly ancient village. The goddam place is freaking huge. Take this single fact: it took me 5 hours to circumnavigate across the bottom half of the city.
Now, it’s not as bad as Iceland, but the sun only shines about 5-6 hours per day with any actual usefulness.
First I couldn’t buy the extremely expensive ticket from Heathrow airport for the underground that I wanted. Then I found out that it wasn’t the right underground train anyway. Then I found the right one, and it cost just as much.
I remember being extremely uncomfortable with my very heavy luggage. But when I arrived, I then had to identify the best way to reach my host’s home. Picot had told me to take the minicab from the station, and as I stood there, with my back breaking from the insane luggage I’d packed, a young lady approached and asked if I was alright (carrying that load and looking confused). I told her the address I was looking for, and she and her friends communicated that to the cab driver and got me on my way. Actually I was alright, but the gesture made an immediate impression on me about the potential generosity of these people.
The cab driver was nice enough, as he whizzed through the left side of their extremely narrow streets, with cars parked on both sides, facing every direction. As we moved along I wondered how I would ever manage to navigate my scooter through this maze.
I loved Picot immediately. She was gracious and proper and helpful and simply a wonderful human being. She had many ideas, and had traveled extensively through Europe and South America. She was always full of hilarious self deprecation, which made her all that more endearing.
She invited me to take a shower in her bathtub, which had no curtain, so I laid down with her shower head and douched myself. It was rather amusing, but at least I didn’t make a mess.
We chatted for hours that first night, and afterward I got to work with the main part of my London experience - finding my motor scooter and buying it.
I decided to check out a Vespa dealer on Saturday, and get a look at the product I would buy, before finding an individual seller to get a far better deal.
As I wandered through the streets, I realized that navigation in general is far easier in America. This is likely due to the fact that in the US we have built a world to accommodate an increasingly unintelligent population. For instance, instead of having road signs located on corners in uniform appearance, the British (and Europeans) have their signs located on the side of the nearest building along the corner. The location varies depending on the height and dimensions of whatever that building is.
I spend the better part of my time in England purchasing the motorbike and everything associated with that. It was a nightmare bringing the bike back to Picot’s house on the opposite side of London. I didn’t feel confident on the highways right away, and my insurance wouldn’t start until the following day, so I had to circumnavigate the southern portion of the London metro area, which took about four hours, arriving in the dark. This was very unnerving for me, and as the rain and cold closed in on me, I began to doubt me trip in general. I bucked up and brought the machine home, everything worked out of course. I find it interesting that the British cycle their signal lights back to orange before they go green, just to prepare drivers I suppose.
Picot and I spent our last night together going out for Indian food at a fine restaurant, drinking a Kenyan beer called “Tusker,” which is named after the elephant that killed the brewery’s founder. How cool is that? On so many levels…
After dinner we walked to a pub across the street, owned by Indians who bought the bar because the previous owners wouldn’t allow Indians inside. Had some Indian beer, and we headed on home.
I enjoyed a full English breakfast at the café near Picot’s house in SW London. French fries with beans, ham, sausage and an egg. Perfect!
The ride down to Dover was scary. I wasn’t yet versed on how to secure my considerable baggage to the bike yet, and it was sort of flopping all over the place. I didn’t know if the whole thing would work at all really. Here I was, driving on a full-on freeway, with cars passing me all over the place, I didn’t really know what I was doing, driving on the left side of the road with a whole ton of shit strapped to my bike that could barely do 60. Eventually I got down to Dover, and found my way to the ferry terminal.
Everyone just waved me through, and I’m sure they mistook me for an Englishman, because the customs people just waved me through, even though I tried to show them my passport. (This situation still makes me nervous because I was never “stamped out” of England and “stamped into” France).
I waited there next to my bike for about 40 minutes before they loaded us on board. While I waited, I paced about like a freaking nut job trying to keep warm, routinely glancing at the white cliffs of Dover, which perched overhead, mocking my tempural deficiency.
I got on the ferry, and warmed myself up while I wandered through the corridors of their ferry boat.
The boat was more like a casino cruise ship. I had purchased a “two-course” meal along with my ticket, and I found my way into a popular cafeteria and began to load my two plates up to the heavens with odd-looking slop.
Hairy men wandered about, muttering in what sounded like Hungarian, and I concluded that the Sea France ferry was primarily a utility for truck drivers. I was wrong. When I came to the counter and presented my meal ticket, they smiled and started laughing. My meal was to be had on the above deck, with all the fancy tourist types, and this caf was simply the unseen grubby deck where all the classless laborers were confined.
Truth be told, it was pretty much the same slop at the other place. I would have felt more at home with the laborers than by myself in an empty dining room upstairs. But this presented the second opportunity for Europeans to impress me with their generosity. The man at the upstairs cafeteria allowed me to take as much food as I liked, and even a bottle of beer that I’m certain were not included in my 10 Euro ticket. He simply shrugged and let me pass, in the same way that the Iceland Air lady allowed me to pass my luggage through with an extra Kilo. That’s the way America used to be before the corporate virus. Europe appears to still possess people who care more about being human that being part of the machine. That’s what I’m looking for.
While on the ferry, I was informed that the weather was supposed to be horrible when we arrived in Calais. This, along with the fact that I was several hours behind and it was dark already convinced me to stay in Calais for the night.
A short drive through town and directions from a cabbie led me to a hostel room for 38 Euros. Not bad for my first night in France.

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Photos

b-tower bridge
At the tower bridge

ball games
Dont try to go playing any games with balls in London

hump1
Everything is humping in London

humpé
more humping

monument
This is called "the Monument", built after the fire in a bakery burned down most of the city in the 17th century

powerlines
This seems like the most practical way to distribute electricity

power
...

park...
... just park anywhere you like