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Published: September 7th 2006
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About a month before my flight, a major terrorist ring is broken up in England. They’d been planning to blow up as many as a dozen trans-Atlantic flights, using high-tech liquid explosives that could be mixed and detonated aboard the plane. New rules are put in place; liquids and gels are banned from carry-on bags. For a few frenzied weeks, water bottles and toothpaste tubes and little cans of spray-on deodorant are piling up in all the airports, as confused travelers adjust to security procedures being implemented on the fly. Apart from some chapped lips, everyone’s taking the new measures in stride. Major carriers are assuring that extra water bottles will be loaded onto each plane.
The mood in London, as it often is in the face of adversity, remains resolute. Though bowler hats and bobbies have gone the way of Benny Hill, the stiff upper lip is still an enduring British hallmark. What’s surprised me during my week here is how few signs there are that the country is - in the parlance of the times - “at war.” Major landmarks haven’t been secured with concrete pylons; the armed forces don’t patrol the underground. Slipping in and out
of the National Gallery, my bulky backpack doesn’t attract a second glance. The guard at Tate Modern waves Lenny through, casually looking into her bag. “It’s alright, love,” he says. “You’ve got an honest face.”
When I describe to her the scene back home, she’s stunned. Admittedly, I don’t blame her. It’s hard to explain how the streets of New York have come to resemble the streets of some third-world capital in the throes of revolution. What would Bing Crosby think, getting patted down on the steps of Grand Central? Lenny suspects that London’s comparably mild security might have less to do with cultural factors than tight-fisted legislators. I’m quite ready to accept the fact that in London - where a single ride on the tube can run you the equivalent of US$8 - even the city itself has gone broke.
Financially, I’ve been taking a beating all week. The British pound might be the worst thing to happen to budget travelers since
The New York Times Travel section. Lenny’s doing her best to sniff out good deals around town, and we spend an afternoon taking in a play at the Globe. At £5 for a
performance by the Royal Shakespeare Company, it might be London’s best bargain this side of the pasty, and even as the choppers whir overhead and the occasional ring tone chimes during the show, it is - in the eyes of a 21st-century American, at least - a faithful rendering. Bawdy theater-goers curse and hurl vegetables at the stage. Drunk spectators relieve themselves in the aisle. People are dropping dead of plague left and right.
Okay, some of the original spirit’s been lost in the past few centuries, and Lenny wisely warns against referring to the ushers as lusty wenches. These “eagle-eyed pensioners” - whose sweet pink faces belie a steely-eyed demeanor - are quick to remind those of us in the standing section that, for a measly five quid, we haven’t earned ourselves so much as the right to squat. A couple of girls get sent out for dawdling with their phones. You get the impression that beneath their neat little aprons and ruffled blouses, these broads are packing serious muscle.
By the end of the third and final hour, the play’s become a war of attrition. If you’ve never read
Antony and Cleopatra before, you
might be surprised how much time is left after a full half of the starring couple has bit the dust. Afterward, we rest our ailing muscles beside the Thames. Large packs of American tourists are milling outside the theater. We have a pint and eat gourmet sausages - “posh bangers” - while the work crowds make their way to the pubs. Then Lenny heads back to Peckham Rye, and I head to SoHo for what promises to be an ugly night.
I met Meagan and her sister, Bronwyn, in Mexico City. The two had been on the tail-end of a year-long trip across Latin America, getting into the sorts of misadventures that either make for incredible memoirs or tragic after-school specials. By the time I met them they’d become fluent in Spanish - a language they hadn’t spoken at all when arriving in Chile - and when we rendezvoused a week later in Oaxaca, they’d managed to find jobs and a home-stay with the housekeeper of a popular hostel.
In the months since, Bronwyn’s returned to Australia and Meagan’s gotten settled in London. Not surprisingly, when I meet her at the SoHo bar that she tends,
she’s full of licentious stories that usually involve some combination of the words “drunk,” “dancing” and “underwear.” She’s also landed a job in a government ministry. Back home in Australia, she had a history of work with high-ranking officials. She’s told me stories about her father, a fiery union leader for local mine workers who was always the first one in the clink after a protest. He kept a picture of Lenin in the living room. During union meetings, the girls would play rousing Communist anthems on the piano.
She introduces me to her friends, a group of hearty, hard-drinking Aussies who have helpful advice for my upcoming trip to Spain. A few tipsy old men leer at the short-skirted blonde beside me; a waitress on her off night comes stumbling in, swaying in wide arcs between the stools we scramble to move from her path.
At last call we move to Push Bar- a tawdry basement club nearby that feels like the bottom end of a very full hamper. On-stage is Battyho, described to me as “London’s premiere gay rapper.” He’s encouraging the crowd to sing along, joining in for the improbable chorus, “You’ve got more
mince than a butcher.” I have it explained to me three times and still don’t quite get it. Yet I shake with convulsive laughs every time the crowd joins in. Battyho’s back-up singer is bouncing around beside him, pulling off her top to reveal a very impressive set of breasts. Young club-goers are slouching on the banquettes, wearing sport jackets and (I suspect) very ironic neck-ties. I can’t quite decide if the £3 cover was a rip-off or a steal.
Afterward, I meet a young girl from the Czech Republic on the bus ride home. She’s getting an MBA in London and hopes to make it to New York someday. Her dangling earrings - colorful prisms in some sort of “native” style - catch the fluorescent lights in a kaleidoscopic whirl. She leans forward earnestly when she talks about her homeland.
“I really, really believe,” she says, touching her chest with sincerity, “that Prague will be…it. Soon.”
I wonder if the guide books will catch on.
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