England and America ... Separated by a Common Language

We May be Incoherent with Travel Fatigue but Your Directions Make as Much Sense as a Rubber Crutch

January 6, 2012

11:30AM, GMT: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! This is a fire emergency; please evacuate the building! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!

Jason, who throughout the years of our relationship has slept through tornadoes, minor earthquakes, and what is referred to in hushed terms as the great cat puke incident, bolts straight from bed asking, "What the hell is that?"

I'm still floating hazily somewhere in the US Eastern time zone and mumble in reply, "Someone left the cake out in the rain."

Sleep is apparently not in the cards, so we decide the best course of action is to go have lunch, neither one of us being particularly interested in becoming the great American human torch in Kensington. To get from our room to the elevator or main staircase we must walk through six "fire doors" which we suspect are anything but. For one thing, they are made primarily of wood and for another, they are swinging doors without any kind of apparent automatic locking device. Jay and I speculate that perhaps they mean that these are doors best used in a fire, rather than to prevent the spread of one.

We take pictures of our temporary domicile on the way out, just in case.

No Irish Cream? Blatant False Advertising!


The Grand Staircase that no one used


The hotel's lone wi-fi hot zone


12PM, GMT: We find a pub, The Stanhope Arms, across the street from our hotel and pull up a window seat in order to watch it burn, if in fact there is a true fire emergency as opposed to an ill-timed fire drill.

Jay and I get our first lesson in British pub ordering: go to the bar, you lazy sots, and tell the barkeep what you want. We also hear, for the first but not the last time, that our credit cards don't have embedded security chips and this is a very bad thing; very bad indeed.

Jay starts the visit off with a pint of Guinness and a Steak and Ale Pie; the menu indicates that this dish comes with a jug of gravy, which may be the most disgusting thing I've heard of all day until the term mushy peas comes to my attention. I wonder aloud about the English fascination with peas, in my opinion only one square removed from the mouth-coating vileness that is the lima bean.

I order a pint of Strongbow Cider and a Croque Monsieur. While ham and cheese may seem like a boring start, at least this one includes welsh rarebit; I also have to make sure the gutworm has adjusted to the time zone change before I can start introducing weird and scary food items. Too much grease or heavy food on day one could result in an international colon blow of epic proportions, and from what I've read, British plumbing might not be able to withstand that kind of intestinal onslaught.

The food is good and we enjoy watching the locals wander in for a lunchtime pint ... these include a gentleman in a three-piece suit who is apparently a regular and a public works employee who just needs one more drink to "get through the bloody afternoon."

We find this charming since it would never fly in the US; at least not in Stinktown. But then again, since no one in London really needs to drive a car, what's the harm? A broken water main here, or a misapplied loan payment there ... these are easily corrected problems that can then be re-hashed over another pint at the pub after work.

Jay and I decide right then and there that we love London.

Less than 100 feet from the hotel's front door


Guinness ... the beer that eats like a meal


Steak and Ale Pie


Croque Monsieur with Welsh Rarebit


1PM, GMT: In my over-planning compulsion I have purchased hop-on hop-off bus tickets with the Original London Sightseeing Tour; they were offering two consecutive days for the price of one and it seemed like a great way to acclimate ourselves to the city without expending much effort.

Once on board the bus, with nowhere to sit but the unprotected-from-the-elements-open-air seats, we realize that we are expending a lot of effort just staving off hypothermia. It doesn't help that our bus keeps getting stuck in traffic and that the "live" commentary is neither live nor working. At one prolonged bus stop Jay actually falls asleep, which tells me that he is really tired or this London tour is really dull.

Cold, cold, cold but still happy to be here!


2:30PM, GMT: The bus finally makes it to Leicester Square and we decide to exit before losing all feeling in our extremities. We have an ulterior motive in that the place we're supposed to pick up our London Passes from is also located in this area. They have supplied idiot-proof directions ... unless you're American.

11A Charing Cross Road; walk past the Wyndham's Theatre and just to the right is the ticket information and redemption booth.

We walk past the theater three times looking for 11A until it dawns on us that we may be on the wrong side of the street. Jay and I weave through traffic, swearing under our breath, and arrive at 11 Charing Cross Road. Surely 11A must be inside!

Nope.

We do however, find a single page print-out taped to an interior door that reads "11A Charing Cross Road is not in this building. It is in the small ticket kiosk in the middle of the square. Redeem your London Passes there."

Really? There is nothing on that kiosk other than signs for discounted theater tickets. How in the name of all that is English would anyone in their right mind know to go there to redeem pre-paid London passes???

Jay and I enter the wee ticket kiosk only to find another sign, this one directing us downstairs into what bears a creepy resemblance to a doomsday bunker. It's almost as if they don't really want tourists to find them and redeem their vouchers. I'm tempted to say something to the the lady behind the counter while we're getting our actual passes, but she barely speaks English (or American) as it is, and I realize that it would be wrong to unload on her.

Hey sellers of the London Pass; here's a re-write of those directions for you free of charge:

Take Exit 1 from the Leicester Square Tube Station to Charing Cross Road. Turn left and walk down to Wyndham's Theatre. Directly across the street from the theatre will be a small kiosk selling discounted tickets; redeem your vouchers at the desk located in the lower level of this kiosk.

There.

Was that so hard?

If you don't like my directional edit you could just hang up a sign. That would solve a lot of problems and confusion; and judging by that sign we found at 11 Charing Cross Road, you have a lot of problems with confuzzled clientele.

4PM, GMT: The hotel did not burn down in our absence and it's time for a real nap. If we wake up in time for dinner we'll eat downstairs; if we wake up in time for breakfast we'll order room service. If we wake up in time for Lauren's wedding we'll be sure to shower and change clothes!

7PM, GMT: Jay and I land a table at Olives, an Italian restaurant located in the hotel, when it becomes obvious that there is no room at the bar. We find ourselves in capable, if clumsy hands, with our server who informs us of the half-off drink specials at the bar before dumping an entire bowl of olives all over the table. Normally I would be horrified by a table covered with roly-poly olives and the juice of their departed brethren but I'm so tired all I can do is laugh and ask for another drink.

We order the Antipasto Misto to share and throw in the seafood option for good measure. The amount of food that ends up at our table surprises even us. There is a full platter of Italian meats, along with chunks of Parmigiano Reggiano, and the most delicious buffalo mozzarella we've ever eaten. We also receive Scottish salmon carpaccio, lightly fried cod chunks, prawns, and wee fried whole fishes. Jay and I are initially surprised by how fresh everything tastes, but then we realize that much of the food must be imported on a daily basis from warm-weather regions of Europe. What a treat this is compared with the tired, landlocked produce we typically see in Stinktown this time of year!

Antipasto


Salmon Carpaccio with Apple Salad and Pomegranate Seeds


Fritto Misto


1AM, GMT: Jason is snoring in bed beside me, oblivious to the world. Unable to sleep, I have watched a two-hour Agatha Christie movie on BBC and am now deeply engrossed in Sophie's Choice, which I have never before seen; it only took 30 years and more than 4,000 miles for me to finally get with the program. I am reminded once more why I love Meryl Streep - she is amazing. Eventually I fall asleep while watching darts ... it's either that or Al Jazeera and neither one is particularly appealing but with a few Tylenol PM I find darts to be a quieter option as long as no one in the audience is the victim of an errant throw.