London. The Saga: Part 2

Day Three - Saturday
12:00 pm – Kay wakes up and hits me with her pillow. I complain and she responds by telling me that I suck for not finishing my drink the night before. I turn on the TV and flip through our four channels. There isn’t much on, but we do see a commercial for a new reality show. The premise is that fifteen pudgy, middle-aged carriage drivers have two weeks to learn how to perform Irish Dancing like professionals. We both silently wish that show were on right then. We finally settle on the film Mighty Joe Young. After three hours of attentive viewing, I’ve lost respect for three people. Me and Kay for spending a bulk of one of our few days in London sleeping until noon and then watching what could easily be the most terrible motion picture ever made. I’m serious. That film is a portrait of hell. But mostly I’ve lost respect for Charlize Theron for making it. Her only excuse for signing on would be if she were suffering from some sort of crack addiction that had impaired her judgment. But then I think, even through a crack-addled haze it’d be difficult to consider this movie a good idea. Thinking about it has gotten me upset all over again. Throughout the movie, Kay lays in bed occasionally eating one of the chips scattered across the plaid floor next to her. Based on the mess, it appears that her stint with room service went awry.

3:00 pm – We decide that it's time to begin our day and upon stepping into the hall, realize that our room smells terrible. Like booze, potato chips and something indefinable. We head over to the Portobello Market in Notting Hill. In terms of shopping, it doesn't do much for me. We do, however, discover a delicious hotdog concoction developed by the Brits. As Chicago based tourists, we appreciate that sort of thing. The shell is a slightly stale baguette through which they’ve drilled a hotdog size hole. You select your toppings,****** which they then unceremoniously squirt down into the hole. After that, they seal it shut with the hotdog. I could have eaten five of those things.

******Ketchup, mustard, relish, etc.

For the next hour we just stand around blissfully gnawing on our hotdog stuffed baguettes and admiring the various swords and flasks on display.

4:15 pm – We decide to catch the ‘Big Bus Tour’ thingee that Paul had told us about on day one of our trip. Apparently it’s one of those double decker buses that you can ride all over London to take in the sights. It takes us forever to locate a stop that you can pick it up at, but we eventually figure it out.

5:00 pm – We board the bus and prepare ourselves for the ride of our lives. It rains right after we get on so much of our ride is spent shivering uncontrollably. I’ve heard that shivering helps burn calories, so I remain unperturbed. Our tour guide is pretty rad. Much radder than us, in fact. So we pay as much attention as possible so that he'll like us. In the process, we pick up some interesting snippets of knowledge. The main thing I remember is that Ho Chi Minh worked as a pastry chef at some London Hotel. This fact quite literally knocked my socks off and I was able to absorb little else in terms of knowledge for the rest of the tour. The idea of Ho Chi Minh hanging out in a London hotel kitchen baking up a nice batch of coconut macaroons for the bourgeois masses during the early 1900’s haunts my imagination. Startling.

Lesson: Never trust a pastry chef. (I'm shaking my fist in the air.)

6:30 pm – We’re freezing. Inundated with facts about the Brits. And still shaking uncontrollably, either because of the chill, general British themed excitement or because we haven’t had a drink for several hours. We get off of the bus somewhere around Westminster and locate a pub with plans to partake in some local brews. The pub is warm and cozy and as I’m sitting there on the scarred, wooden bar stool, I think to myself that I will never leave it. I will remain there forever, paying my rent via drink purchases. I am relaxed and happy. Towards the end of our first beer, a bachelor party approaches us. Or stag party, as they like to call it. They are adorable. They ask us what we’re doing in London and we tell them that we’ve just popped over for the weekend. They respond that they’re on their way to some strip clubs.

They buy us a round of drinks and insist upon introducing us to the groom. Again, adorable. I remember that the groom is wearing a button up shirt with a realistic looking tiger on it. The entire point of the shirt, apparently, is that it’s terrible and he’s being forced to wear it because it’s embarrassing. I remember thinking that I actually kind of liked it. Tigers are fun. I also remember the best man frequently shouting ‘South Side!’ over and over once he discovered that we were from Chicago. Subsequent to his outburst, he would stand there visibly pleased with himself and say “I’m not supposed to know that am I?” I have to admit, the way he shouted ‘South Side’ utilizing a deep tone and the proper rising inflection towards the end was dead on. At one point a few beers in, I may have thrown out the word ‘squigy.’ I had no idea at the time what it meant and was merely trying to pepper the conversation with some British lingo. I felt immediately terrible to discover that it means fat. I’d gone to London and called someone fat. Who does that? I felt really lousy about it and afterwards decided no more off the cuff usage of brit-speak for the rest of the trip. I would have to save that for when I got home.

Alas, the guy didn’t seem all that bothered so I’m assuming that I didn’t inflict too much damage. Thank god he wasn’t actually fat.

8:00 pm – We head back to the hotel to clean up a little. Actually, Kay lazes around watching TV while I take a shower. You wouldn't know this by looking at her, but Kay's not known for having high standards of hygiene. She prefers to wallow. Afterwards, we head out to find a restaurant. We opt for a little Thai place built into a skinny, Victorian style house. It's relatively inexpensive and the food is good. After dinner we’re feeling pleasantly drowsy and decide to head back to the hotel for a quiet evening in at the hotel bar. That way we’d have no problem getting up the next morning to get our respective asses into gear.

9:00 pm – Have you ever spent so much time with a person that there’s nothing left to talk about? That’s how it was. Sitting there drinking our newfound favorite Foster/Lemonade concoctions. I was a little grumpy because the bartender had for some reason dumped some grenadine into my drink causing it to resemble liquefied red jello. I have a thing with jello, I’m both drawn and repelled by it.*******

*******This stems from a past work experience where I spent an afternoon auditing a gelatin factory. I went in without a full understanding of where gelatin is derived from and walked out with first hand knowledge of what real trauma actually is. I grew up that day.

Apart from a brief, unremarkable conversation with another hotel guest, we both sit together in relative silence. It is during this silence that I am glancing around the room at the other bar patrons and suddenly note that one of them is hitting on me from across the room. Big time. When I look at him, he grins and waves. The bar is pretty dim and hazy from all of the cigarette smoke, but I can tell immediately that this man is quite a bit older than myself.

“Check it out. That guy over there’s totally hitting on me,” I say jabbing my head in his direction.

Kay immediately glances over and responds, “For the love of Christ, please flirt back. I’m totally bored.”

I smile at him. This prompts him to walk over to our table with his really good-looking, much younger friend in tow. The older guy, Joe, is a client of the really good-looking guy. They are both Spanish and Joe doesn’t speak a word of English. The other guy, Jack, speaks flawless English. From the get go, Jack wants nothing to do with Kay and I. My guess is that this is either due to our building state of intoxication or the probability that he only dates super models. Either way, we're screwed.

Joe has to be fifty-five if he's a day. He looks terrific for his age, but like I said, it exceeds my own by at least two decades. In addition to that he is about five foot three inches. I’m five foot nine and am sporting a pair of stilettos. Standing next to each other, we look like the characters from the movie Twins. I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Joe and Jack invite us to go out with them to meet Jack’s sister at a bar. Thus begins an entire night spent with Joe standing next to me gripping my waist in a possessive manner. The first bar that we go to is unlike any we’ve seen so far. It's one of those places that are so hipster cool that there’s no sign out front. The only thing indicating that this place is a bar is the abominably long line out front. Lucky for us, we're hanging out with two well-connected Spaniards. One of whom is clearly thinking, wholly disgusting, impure thoughts about me and the other absolutely annoyed that he's being forced to hang out with us. We bypass the line and traipse right in through the front entrance. We may have even gotten to walk on a special carpet. I can’t really remember. The best part is how loudly everyone in line complains. Their misery only serves to exacerbate my delusions of specialness. It is quite possibly the greatest moment of my life. The inside of the club is awe-inspiring. The only problem being that I have a mammalian barnacle attached to my hip. I try to be nice and make conversation. Kay, with two months of Spanish lessons under her belt, offers to act as interpreter. Jack promptly exits the immediate area further evidencing the fact that he isn't a fan of us. Here’s a sample of some get-to-know-your-date type conversation that Joe and I have:

Me: So … Europe has some lovely mountains. Do you enjoy skiing?
(I take a sip of my beer as Joe gazes up at me with utter bafflement.)

Joe: Uhhh … Non … (insert some Spanish here.)

Kay: You know, ski. (Kay begins to rapidly imitate the actions involved in skiing, swishing her arms, jumping side to side with her legs held stiffly together and making whooshing noises.)

Joe: (insert some more Spanish) (Joe is beginning to look fearful)

Kay: You know, uh. Sciare? (Does some more gesturing intended to refer to the action of skiing.)

Joe: (Suddenly understanding and grinning.) Ahhhh … esquiar.

Kay: Si! Si! Esquiar!

Joe: Si.

Me: (Nodding my head and grinning like a jack ass.) That’s awesome.
fin

As the night goes on, they invite us to go to another bar. We accept and hop into a cab that drives us out to an industrial district lying somewhere in the outskirts of the city. Eventually the cab stops in front of an abandoned, burned-out looking warehouse. It's very perplexing and I begin to feel some mild consternation. Inside, I'm relieved to be surrounded by the thumping beat of techno and a mass of writhing bodies highlighted by the erratic movements of the lasers. Kay and I have inadvertently become attendees of a rave.

My entire knowledge of raves is based on an episode featuring a rave on the show ‘Saved By the Bell: College Years.’ ****** This rave kicked that rave’s ass. Literally. It kicked its ass, made it cry, called it it’s bitch and then walked away with an overwhelming sense of superiority. Joe is still attached to me, but at this point in the evening I’ve grown accustomed to his ways. Ignoring him, I turn to Kay, see that the look on her face mirrors mine and say, “No matter what, don’t leave my side.” She responds by nodding her head and glancing around the enormous warehouse with unsuppressed excitement. This place is ridiculously, overwhelmingly awesome.

******I’m guessing that if somebody there had known this, they would have promptly kicked me out and stolen my shoes.

For the next couple of hours we dance. Dance like the world's about to end. Jack has disappeared again with his sister, but Joe is clearly in it for the long haul happily shaking it right along with us. Kay and I give up all guises of trying to make conversation. It's really noisy, and we're continuously looking around desperately trying to catch someone in the act of snorting cocaine or licking acid or something equally insane. After awhile, Joe begins gesturing at me. In response, I nod my head and continue my frenzied dance. Eventually he leaves only to reappear seconds later with Jack. He leans up to Jack shouting something in his ear and gesturing in my direction. The expression on Jack’s face sours as he hears what Joe's asking him to say to me. When Joe is finished, he leans his handsome face in and states in a tone entirely exempt of pleasure, ‘He wants me to tell you that you’re very sexy.’ I shoot Joe a grin and dance away to the other side of Kay.

Later in the evening, we need some refreshment so we head over to the bar to grab a drink. As we're waiting for our drinks we make friends with two guys that are standing around in a nonchalant manner. One of the two guys at the bar is Russian and the other is British. The British guy keeps telling us that his boyfriend (the Russian) is Euro trash. After he says it a second time, Kay asks him to define the term. In response the British guy starts naming countries. Russia, Germany, Italy, Greece, etc. Kay finds a napkin and writes, ‘Fuck the Russians. Commie bastards. Bastards, bastards, bastards.’ and hands it to the Russian’s boyfriend. He reads it for a moment before calmly tucking it into the front pocket of his blazer like one would a handkerchief. He then resumes the conversation.

Eventually, Joe and Jack want to leave and I tell Kay that there is no way in hell we're leaving with them. Now is the time to cut bait, in front of everyone. I don’t want to get thrown into a situation where I'm somehow alone with Joe, the middle-aged Spanish guy. He seems very nice, but the street-wise Catholic schoolgirl in me can see that this guy has ideas. Joe refuses to leave unless I give him my hotel room number. I give him the number of the room on the floor directly above ours.

Kay and I leave not long after.

Day Four - Sunday
11:00 am – This is our last full day, so we hop out of bed and jump immediately onto a tour bus. Mostly we just ride around seeing stuff all day, because we are getting nervous about having to go back and confess that we’ve spent a weekend in London devoid of sight-seeing. I think it's amazing the way you can still see the evidence of the WWII air raids on the pocked exteriors of the buildings. It's a sobering moment.

4:00 PM – We decide to do a little shopping down High Street Kensington because mixed in with all of the British Gaps and British Banana Republics are some unfamiliar chain stores.

I remember buying a dress at one clothing store and as I’m standing at the counter to check out, the clerk suddenly grabs it and crams it into the shopping bag in an absurdly rough motion as if it were some sort of wild animal that would have fought the confinement. I’ve never seen anything like it. Kay and I both burst out laughing and the guy just stares back at us humorlessly. As we leave the store, I think that maybe we’ve just witnessed some of that dry British wit everyone’s always talking about. Or else maybe he just hates that dress. Stay away from the dress! Either way, I like it.

7:00 PM – We decide to go out for Indian while we’re here since everybody seems to love it and opt for a place down the street called Zaika. Neither of us have eaten Indian before and I still can’t believe how good it is. The waiter brings out a tasting menu so that we can try a lot of different things.

10:00 PM – We head back to Cuba, our old haunt from the second night, stuffed and suffering from indigestion. The kind of indigestion that stems from utter satisfaction. Once inside, we order up a round of beers and I notice a guy sitting a little ways down the bar is eating an oversized plate of chicken fingers.

Kay and I are sitting there, rehashing the finer points of dinner when the guy with the chicken fingers comes over, carrying his food and glass of burgundy along with him. The following conversation ensues:

GUY: Try my chicken fingers. They are delicious.
ME: No thanks, I just had a huge dinner.

(The guy pushes his chicken fingers aggressively in front of me and leans in as close as possible. We are touching noses. I glance down noting that he is inadvertently tilting his glass full of red wine just inches above my lap.)

GUY: No! You try them now. They are delicious.
KAY: Seriously, we’re not hungry. We just had dinner.
GUY: You try now.
ME & KAY: No.
GUY: Yes. Now. You try now. You like.
ME: Fine. I don’t want to, but fine.

(I pinch off the tiniest amount of chicken possible and pretend to enjoy it.)

GUY: (to Kay) Now you try.
KAY: No.
GUY: Yes. You try, now. You try the chicken fingers.
KAY: (Becoming annoyed.) No.

(The guy seemingly gives up and glances down noting that Kay is sporting a wedding band. He continues holding his glass precariously over my lap and leans in even closer.)

GUY: You are married?
KAY: (with hostility) Yeah.
GUY: Where is your husband?
KAY: Chicago.
GUY: What are you doing here?
KAY: We’re on vacation.
GUY: (Shaking his head in disgust.) Why your husband let you go on vacation without him? Why he not take proper care of his wife?
KAY: I’m on vacation with my friend.
GUY: (To both of us.) You have children?
ME: No, you?
GUY: You should have children. You should have children now.
KAY: We’ll have them when we’re ready.
GUY: No. You will have children now. It is your job. You have them now.
KAY: (Growing more hostile.) I’ll have kids when I feel like it.
GUY: Kids are good. I have three. You will have children now. It is your job.
ME: Where are your kids right now?
GUY: With their mother. We are divorced.

(KAY rolls her eyes.)

ME: What’re you doing in London?
GUY: I film documentaries. You are from Chicago. I film in Chicago. I film sunset over Lake in Chicago.
KAY: That’s not possible. The lake is to the east of the city. No way you filmed the sunset over the lake.
GUY: (Looking at Kay as if she is a darling, but impetuous little girl.) No. I did. I filmed the sunset over the lake in Chicago.

(The guy shoves his chicken fingers closer to Kay, sloshing some wine onto my lap.)

GUY: You have a chicken finger now. You like. It is delicious.
KAY: (Swallowing the remainder of her drink and getting up to leave.) Make me.
fin

After that we walk back to the hotel relieved to have escaped crazy-chicken-finger man.

Day Five - Monday
11:00 am – Kay and I wake up. Watch a little British Tellie and then pack our things. On our way out, we note the pungent odor of our room one final time. We find the smell oddly pleasant, perhaps comforted by the fact that, in some capacity, we’ve left our mark. The trip to the airport and home is relatively uneventful because, frankly, London with its limitless capacity for fun and frivolity has worn us out. In the aftermath, we are content.

-Enjoyed the Excitement of Kavorting with the Brits