Prim and Proper in London

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This blog is from my 2004 trip with my sister, Nicole. This represents my best attempt to decipher my scribbles from four years ago. So, this may jump from topic to topic, as my memory seems quite selective, at times.

From the start, I realized the decision to begin our European trip in London was a smart one. There is a sweet simplicity to the mayhem of entering a new country when you speak the language. After getting our backpacks, (word to the wise: don't travel with a backpack, ever!), maneuvering through customs, we faced the unpleasant reality that all, yes all, the ATMs were down. We wandered aimlessly through the airport looking for a place to exchange our money, before finally stumbling across an exchange booth at which we exchanged our money at a ridiculous rate.

Following the signs, which we could read and understand, something that we did not yet appreciate, we made our way to the subway. "Mind the gap,” echoed through the tube station as we boarded a car. Balancing the weight of my backpack, I teetered back and forth until finding a seat amidst other travelers. One quirk about me and traveling: I hate looking like a tourist. Hate it. When journeying into London, I did realize there was no escaping the fact that I was carrying a huge, green backpack, but to make matters worse, Nicole and I sat on the tube next to students from Missouri. So, not only were we backpack toting tourists, we were conversing with fellow Missourians about Missouri. Brilliant! I was so relieved when they exited two stops before ours.

Exiting at the Piccadilly Circus stop, we emerged to a surprisingly, bright and sunny day. We never did encounter London's supposedly dreary days. Evident from the first step on the ground, London has a pulse all its own. The vibe is captivating; it pulsates from the quaint neighborhoods, scattered with classic looking pubs. Cabs and busses drive wildly on the brick streets, hoping to hit a lost tourist. Busses tip as they speed around sharp corners. Crowds of people basked in the sun on the steps of Eros statue observing the boundless chaos circling around their small oasis.

Taking it all in, with ease, we followed the map to our hostel. (Again, never will I share a room with strangers.) Given this was our cheapest stay of our trip, I didn't have high expectations, and the hostel proved to live up, or down, to those. The beds, four of them bunked in a small room, were embedded with pubic hairs, and were accompanied with pillows that had lumps the size of golf balls. At this moment, we made a joint decision to spend as little amount of time in our room as possible.

We spent our first day exploring London without much of an agenda. We ventured in the National Gallery, a free museum that houses one of the most extensive art collections in the world. From there, we found ourselves at the Thames River. We decided to take a boat tour of the city, but just as the boat lulled down the river, our sleep deprivation set in. Realizing if we remained on the boat, we would most assuredly fall asleep; we exited at the next stop. Unsure of our whereabouts, we searched for a much needed cup of coffee. We didn't care where; we just needed caffeine. We finally stumbled across a small sandwich shop; it had coffee; we were sold.

With a rejuvenating cup of cappuccino in our system, we spent the rest of the day exploring the city. For dinner, we settled for a Spanish restaurant that looked quite charming from the outside. Inside, we were seated at a table that may as well been in the kitchen. The staff was overworked and inattentive; they were annoyed with us, and us with them. The food was mediocre, and the wine was drier than expected. It was a lousy dinner, to say the least.

Disappointed with dinner and the terrible wine, we created a mission for the evening: find a pub, find some locals, and chill. We did just that. We ended up closing down a bar with fellow Londoners: Sean, Ian, and Alex. Looking back, I can't remember much about them other than Alex wore a McShit shirt and shared my dislike of President Bush. I vaguely recall spending much of the night bashing Bush, which is one of my favorite pastimes.

After six Shakespeare courses in college, I wanted to go to the Globe. I wanted to sit in the audience, stand in the pit, and recite sonnets on stage (kidding, of course). It was all I cared to see in London. We had planned to head to the Globe first thing on our second day, but when we woke up, we were, well, not up to par. It was a rough morning: we slept a little later than expected, drank lots of water, took Tylenol, and then started moving. We leisurely made our way to the Globe, stopping for a quick bite to eat. Once there, we waited our turn, and then maneuvered through the informational displays. I could not focus on the displays so we moved quickly through them. They were having rehearsal on the stage, and we were allowed to sit and watch, if we so desired. As soon as I sat on the wooden seat, sun beaming in my face, my stomach started churning, and my head spinning as if it were a globe. I tried to suppress the nauseous feeling, but it wouldn't go away. I tried to focus on the actors, "nope, not working." I turned to Nicole, "I don't feel good." "I know," she laughed. "No, I don't feel good," I said as I got up and made a mad dash to the bathroom. Kneeling in a stall, with watery eyes, I hear laughter. "Go sister," She cheers.

Mortified, we left the Globe only to balance the rest of the day between our need to nurse a brutal hangover with our desire to see London. We visited Westminster Palace to salute all the dead English writers I spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours studying in graduate school.

By the night's end, we had another mediocre dinner, saw Thoroughly Modern Millie, and ended the night in yet another pub with another group of Londoners. This time, however, we drank with reservation. The blokes, as they kindly called themselves, educated us on English slang. They were pissed, and we were definitely not amused. It was a far from brillant scenario, so we left after one drink.

The food is London is nothing spectacular. We woke on our last morning wanting a proper English breakfast. Figuring we had been everything but proper, we sought a fancy tearoom for our English tea. The dark wood trim, red and gold wallpaper gave the room a stately feel. A plush red sofa lined the wall, and ornate chairs sat opposite. Tea was served in gold trimmed china, equipped with shiny apparatuses for each condiment. We marveled as our server cluttered our table with shiny objects. The absurdity of it all got the best of us as we lifted each lid in amazement, "Oh, sugar!" "Lemons!" "Honey!" "Butter!" "Jars of jelly!" Cracking up, we did our best to compose ourselves. We sipped our tea, nibbled scrabbled eggs and croissants, pocketed the jars of jelly, and then waited patiently for the anticipated check. How much can a breakfast really cost? I mean, it's breakfast, for God's sake. Eggs, tea, and a croissant. We quickly learned that it costs fifty-two pounds, which basically exchanges into one hundred dollars. One hundred dollars for eggs. They weren't poached or anything, just scrambled. One hundred dollars for scrambled eggs. Damn, I'm glad we pocketed the jelly!

We spent the remainder of the day seeing as much of London as we could before taking the train to Paris. We wandered the streets in Notting Hill, a picturesque area with bright pastel colored buildings lining the streets. It is hard to imagine anyone ever being mad or sad in a place that looks so eerily perfect and cheery. It almost seems fictitious. It was beautiful, but no place I'd ever want to live.

Buckingham Palace was the last 'to do' on our list. We went, we saw, and we quickly left. The crowds surrounding the palace resembled a mob. We stood at the gate, acknowledged that yes, we were standing before the palace, we made a couple snide comments about the crowds, and we left. To me, Buckingham Palace is a place you see to say you have seen it, and then you go on with your day. That is what we did, anyway.

Rounding out a busy couple days in London, we relaxed on the lawn of St. Paul's Cathedral. To our surprise, we noticed an astonishingly high number of attractive men lunching on the lawn. Upon further inspection, we noticed they all seemed to be wearing blue shirts. No kidding! Tons of hot men, mostly clad in blue button-up dress shirts, sitting on the lawn in their slacks and suits, enjoying lunch and conversation. This was our oddest discovery, and yet we were thrilled with the prospect of it, and a bit sadden that we discovered this on our last day. Word to future London vacationers: don't bother with the restaurants, they suck. Take your meals on the lawn of St. Paul's.

When it was time to leave, I was anxious for Paris and ready to leave London. Nicole, however, still wearing her new jacket with England printed across the chest, boarded the train a bit saddened to be leaving London. She swears it was the city, but I think it was the St. Paul men.

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Photos

Eros statue in Piccadilly Circus
This was our first view of London after exiting the tube.

Side Street in London
This was a quaint street by our hotel.

Tube
'Mind the Gap'

Westminster Abbey
Tomb of Queen Elizabeth I, Chaucer, Dickens, among others. Shakespeare's memorial is also here.

English Tea Room
This is where we had our proper English breakfast.

Notting Hill
I kept looking for Hugh Grant, but, alas, I never saw him.

Comments

[Jean]

Felt like I was there.
Great Blog Jen. Wonderfully detailed account of your trip, made me feel like I was there with you. Love the pics too.