If you’re an American, and you want to piss a Brit off, just point at something, anything, a Pub or Tower Bridge for instance, and say “isn’t that quaint?”
At Heathrow, the walk to the baggage claim is ridiculous. When I moved here in 1996 I thought it was due to construction, however, long after the construction was complete it’s still a good mile. On the plus side, if you checked any bags it’s a good way to pass some time, because once you’ve gone through the immigration and caught your breath, you still have ample time before your bags show up. I suspect that through concessions to the union, the baggage handlers in Heathrow must be given sufficient time to rifle through your luggage.
Eventually the baggage carousel light flashes and everyone rushes to block each other’s view. The belt finally starts moving and necks crane, but nothing comes. After a while, three bags crest the hump and slide down onto the carousel. There’s a collective sigh of relief but it’s short lived because there are no more bags. The crowd shuffles around the turning, empty carousel. Did they just bring the three bags and forget the rest? Don’t they have bigger trucks? Some of the less experienced passengers head off to the lost baggage counter. Not me, I’ve been through Heathrow before. I think it’s quaint.
I took a traditional black cab to my friend’s house in Putney. A pricey mistake, and I should know better. Just like I should have known to bring an umbrella.
The first evening some friends came over to cook, and welcome me back to Europe after my exile to the US. The meal excellent, consisting mostly of lamb and wine. It seems so many of the highpoints in my life are centered on excess in good company.
We watched the grand nationals, a race that my friend Rod calls the stock car race of the horse world. It’s a brutal 5-mile steeplechase. One year, 40 horses started the race and only three finished. Ban the race? Fuck-em, its tradition.
The next morning we went for a Pub meal. The many food choices were listed on blackboards hanging on the walls, fish in one room, and meat in the other. This caused a lot of standing around. There were the good old-fashioned items like liver & onions and Yorkshire pudding, as well as some haut cuisine sounding items. After the customary discussion about the proper pronunciation of the dishes, all for my benefit, I let someone else order. I had tuna loin steak, though was surprised to learn that tuna had loins.
We ordered at the bar, grabbed our London Prides and sat down to discuss my plans and various affairs of state. Only in England can saying “this is a good pint with a good persistence of foam”, be met with general nods of agreement. I hope my friends read this: I have the greatest friends on earth, and it’s at times like this in your life that it becomes clear. Also, there’s no one I prefer having my first beer in the morning with.
English Girls get a bum rap. I like them. They have a down to earth attitude and I love the styles in London. There is more variety than in LA where I lived till now. I particularly like the ones that tend toward the “mucky” side, a descriptive term I picked up from Rod as well. No one does “mucky” like the English girls. The look is a disheveled, slightly rough, doesn’t get out in the sun enough, look. It’s a look that says, “Yeah, I’m game”
Two days later we headed down to Portsmouth, which is quiet, old harbor town, and a nice break from hectic London. There’s a boardwalk along the seaside; it was blustery as we worked our way around. There are some nice sights, although the pier and the Fun Zone is a bit tired, sitting on the beach with slumped shoulders. But once you pass the fun zone you enter the old part of town with warm rustic pubs, many with roaring fires in huge fireplaces, and it’s all really, well, sorry, but it really is quaint.
I went to my first English football game, Cheshem v Portsmouth, in Cheshem. I went with Mike, a diehard Portsmouth supporter. I’ll confess I was a bit scared. Before the game we went to the Cheshem supports club Pub (we got our tickets from some season ticket holders). It is a good working mans Pub. I intended to keep a low profile, but it turned out to be great fun and we met some wonderful Cheshem fans. Nothing of the football hooligans I was expecting, well, almost. One Portsmouth supporter (not Mike), drunk as a monkey, announcing to all that he hadn’t missed a Portsmouth game, home or away, in eleven years.
One big difference between Los Angeles and London is phlegm. London public transport is a cacophony of hacking coughs, sneezing, gurgling, sniffling and blowing noses.
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