u . s . [ d a y 0 1 ]
I wake up early, lay my clothes out on the bed and start packing. In between packing I try my best to tidy up my apartment - don't want to return to an untidy apartment. My jeans fit like a glove. I feel like a sexy George Michael circa 1980's - minus the earing, leather jacket, acoustic guitar, and ambiguous sexuality. I can't decide which sport jacket to bring - the plain blue or the brown tweed. I settle on the tweed because it's warmer, fits me better, and looks better on me. I also can't decide whether to bring my pea coat, my umbrella, or my Patrick warm-up rain jacket. I hear the winds of London have destroyed many an umbrella, and my pea coat is super bulky and probably overkill. I settle on the rain jacket. All this indecisiveness makes me late (surprise!). I drive like a possessed lunatic to Lotti's house (READ: sound barrier). I park next to his house where I was allowed and advised to leave my car, step out, grab my gear, turn to their driveway and there are Matt and his father standing next to their car, trunk open, smiling anxiously. Drop, lock, and go. Can't miss the bus.
Anxious isn't the word. Lotti and I are ELECTRIC. We talk little but when we do, our mouths fire off short automatic rapid-fire bursts. RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
We stop in Clinton and people hobble aboard. An old woman sits next to me. At first she only talks to herself. But in an inviting way. Eventually I chime in. She learns where we're headed. We talk of the Paris Francs; a restaurant she recommends in Paris called Le Procope, located in the Latin Quarter off Michelle Boulevard, Ben Franklin and other American dignitaries have eaten there; her "fearless" son, the bike rider, the late-in-life husband with the especially young bride, the bain and pride of her existence; her homeland - Quebec, Canada; and her history, "I'm just an old wasp." Her skin is a healthy krinkled white, her hair is a frizzy red, her smile is worldly and complicated, her name is Isadore Klaus. She shakes my hand and gets off at Port Authority. For some reason I think of Katie.
Our bus driver is a New Yorker. New Yorkers love their horns. He is no exception. He screams and slams on his breaks - violently jerking everyone in the bus - and incessantly fists his horn. I get more motion sickness from this short (in distance) ride from Port Authority to JFK, than I do on any airplane, train, trolly car, bus, or cab throughout the rest of my trip. At one point, the bus stops. From the angle of our seats and the look of cars stopped in front and in back of us - it looks as though we're caught in more stop-and-go. We sit and sit and sit and sit and the bus doesn't move. Matt taps me on the shoulder and points. We are actually parked at the side of the road. Our driver has stopped to get himself a sandwich. Fucking fantastic. The jerking and screaming and honking continues.
I do not know what wormhole the bus passes through, but we arrive at JFK 45 minutes ahead of schedule. We look around for Odie and ask the same unhappy, volumptuous 30-something Asian woman at the information booth twice where we are to check in. I haven't flown in years - don't know the procedure. We get in line, glancing sharply around. A tall, lanky silver-white haired man with a red airline jacket, American Airlines ID, and biofocals hanging around his neck asks us in a thick French accent where we are flying to. Heathrow. Yes, you're in the right line. Good. Ah, yes, the French. We'll get to you bastards soon enough. We wait in a looooong, snaking line. We both hate lines. We are sweating at this point. The airport is hot, we're nervous, our bags are heavy, and Odie is no where in sight. We call him on his cell phone. He doesn't answer. I leave a voicemail. We inch forward. So does time. 3:15 PM quickly becomes 3:45 PM. Every time the line moves the Indian-looking gentleman behind me bumps into my backpack - shoving me forward. It's as if he is blind and my backpack is the street curb he's purposely aiming for. I give him a few angry glares, he apologies but continues. We continue glancing around like skittish fawns in a forrest of wolves.
We reach the end of the line and both speak to a jolly, medium build black woman with a slight Jamaican accent. She is refreshing, she is liquid joy, she is a shot of Sambuca and a pat on the back, chap. We learn that Odie doesn't need the tickets. We have something called "ee-lek-TRON-ic" tickets. Woooow. The Future Is Here. All Odie needs is his ID. Finally Odie calls. We give him the low-down. He gets in line while we hit the food court. Lotti has a hearty meal of 8 oz. of Won Ton soup (the midget). I inhale a Texas turkey wrap. We meet up w/ Odie breeze through a basic baggage screening and board.
f l i g h t
The plane boards at 6:something PM. We taxi around the runway for 30 minutes. Cramped, cramped, cramped. Instead of emergency row, which we were promised by my travel agent, we get the row BEHIND the emergency row. This is good because it allows us front row seats to the comfortable passengers in emergency row - all spread out, feet up, grinning. I let my violent urges subside and busy myself with a feature story in AA's official magazine about one Ms. Penelope Cruz. The photos are delightful. She lists great hotspots and restaurants near Madrid. She gives good advice for beating jet lag. The movies start. We get to choose. It's either Spanglish, Ocean's 12, or National Treasure. We opt for Ocean's 12. It's fun, but stupid. And falls apart in the end, as most Hollywood pictures do. I continue to sweat like a whore in church. I slurp down whatever the flight attendants sling at me and try to sleep. Odie hits the Kalua + coffee. Lotti drinks coffee. Properly fueled, they never shut up. It's like a never-ending loop of Siskel & Ebert in 2-times fast forward with the audio speakers chirping chipmunk voices. They are my friends, but I want to kill them. So it goes. I ask them to keep it down and close my eyes again. The seat to my right is empty (?!), the seat to the right of that contains a businessman. He speaks English so free of any accent, you can tell he's foreign. Probably German. He is polite. He alternates between sleeping like a baby and working on a spreadsheet. He has a nice suit. I hate him too. I drift and think, but can't dream or sleep. I rest under the darkness of my Red Socks cap, only occasionally look up to the large LCD display of a jet icon painfully slowly inching across a map of the Atlantic. So slow. Yet so fast. Our plane is traveling over 600 miles per hour in the dead of night, moving through time. Speeding time.
l o n d o n [ d a y 0 2 ]
We arrive at 6:30 AM (GMT). I adjust my watch. We were in-flight for over 7 hours, but the clock has passed 12 hours as we flew through timezones. Nothing is so terribly different. Security checks are painless. We take my travel agent's advice and follow signs for taxi cabs. We wait for a few minutes and hop in the first one available. The driver says two words to us. And I don't recognize them as English. All the taxis have a nice retro English look. The ride takes a good 15 to 20 minutes. Out our windows tiny cars pass by on the wrong side of the road. We manage to spot a single SUV on the entire highway. It is a Jeep Cheroke.
We arrive at the Best Western and pay the cabbie. The fare is 56 pounds and pence. We each chip in a 20. He gets 60. That's $120.00. That's disgusting. We move on. We get access to our room right away, which is great because check-in time really isn't until 3:00 PM. It's now 7:15 AM. We take this as a good sign.
Our room is orange and blue.
Our first impressions of London are unfortunately predictable. It's overcast and miserable. The Disney idealic perceptions of the jolly English gents and Mary Poppin's blushing cheeks are quickly replaced by the grim, washed out misery and almost imperceptible tension of London. It's the London of The Long Good Friday. Gloomy and seedy. The morning commuters move just as you would expect a morning commuter to act on a damp, cold and miserable day. They are short and curt.
Breakfast is at a little coffee shop around the corner - delicious croisants and danishes and underwhelming tea.
I have never been so impressed with the product of a city government's efforts as I am with the London Underground. It is a model of simplicity, cleanliness, and efficiency. The seats are cushioned, the interior and exteriors freshly painted, during the day it arrives every minute on the minute, and the pre-recorded audio announcements of delays, train identifications, and stops are loud and clear. The platforms are clean and damn near sparkling. Very few of the ads on the walls are defaced. Perhaps it is our timing, perhaps they just finished revamping the entire system. Or, perhaps it is the determination of the British to maintain neat surroundings. Regardless, I'm impressed as hell.
The Tate Modern is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. There's a room with a working People Shredder installation exhibit by Michael Landy with manequins in bright red jump suits and helmets picking up little people, putting them in a bag - a large mechinized shredder which appears to run off a lawn-mower sized engine shreads the little paper people into a heap of pieces at the bottom - a video plays describing the processes of Scrapheap Services in details - it's cheeky, it's funny, it's thought provoking, I love it - priceless works abound on walls, a Dali lobster phone pleases Lotti, a small work by Leonor Fini entitled "Little Hermit Sphinx" catches my eye - I am at once in love. I think of Katie. Audio installations, and ... then there's the museum itself ... larger than a hanger for a 747, massive, expansive, with ceilings hundreds of feet high, dwarfing all the people therein, making us all into ants, puny and insignificant in the face of the concrete god, voices screaming and whispering in our ears. It's a surreal and beautiful place, and best of all, admission is free.
Here wandering around exhaustion takes its hold - we pass the entire morning wandering the floors and rooms of this place. Morning becomes afternoon. We have been up for 24+ hours already without sleep. And we have a half-day still ahead of us. "If we sit, we'll lay," I write, "if we lay, we will fall asleep, and if we sleep we won't wake for 10 hours."
Back to the pretty trains.
Right right, Big Ben. It's a clock. In a tower. A pretty tower with golden trim. Quaint. However, the building it's connected to is the size of several football fields. Spires and mini steeples and lips and curves and ornamentations carved into every crevice. Golden bronze. Majestic. Expansive! Ack! Street vendors across the way! Tourist trap stands with crappy trinkets! Creative panhandlers stuffing small paper roses into our lapels and asking for money for food for the starving children! I reach for my money but all I have is American change. No change, I say, so she asks for paper money! I reply, "No, THAT money is for MY food." We flee. It drizzles.
We aren't sure what we're walking to, but the rain is pissing pig cold and the wind is howling. It's not a nice rain, but a sideways mist that gets in your ears and nose and eyes. All we can see is a monsterous ferris wheel. We head for it. Lo! Behold! The Saatchi Gallery awaits just below the ferris wheel. Odie peels off for lunch with his Citigroup friend, Lotti and I investigate. It's 9 pounds to get in, but we each get free t-shirts. It's a wash. Aaaiiiiieee! Golden leaves and snow boarders drift in large canvas fogs! The vines and greenery swallow the stones and man-made objects! Beautiful! Hazy! Herbalicious! Katie. Peter Doig is great. Kippenberger's next. His work is overrated but ambitious. I need to see more. Immendorff is equally overrated, but bold. Lively. Dumas is screaming naked children. I gape and run away. Nitsch is a charlatan! A phony! Look at all these empty canvases splattered with red ink! An angry mule could kick over a bucket of paint and ... and ... what the fuck?? There it is ... on one canvas, just one, his genius laid out in neat, hand-drawn lines, so that when you step back across the room and look over at it, all you can see is this intricate schematic of human confusion. Beautiful. Grand. Impressive. Onward.
One last exhibit before we leave Saatchi's cave. It's a room. Only one person is allowed in at a time. No loose clothing or dangling bags or objects belonging to the person are allowed. Odd. Curious. I peek in around the line and guard. A woman stands in the center of a metallic triangle and stares in awe into the shiny black shelf in front of her. Is it transparent? What's under the glass shelf?! Is it a head?! A human head?! What could it be?! We wait, we enter. Lotti goes first. Oil! he cries. What? I walk in. The room immediately smells of oil. It's oil. The entire room is filled chest high with black motor oil. It's so still, so thick, it looks as if you could walk across it. Like black ice. Groovy.
FOOD! We leave Saatchi and head next door to CAFE MANGA. Little Japanime characters are painted on the walls, Spirited Away plays silently on large plasma screens, coffee, tea, pre-packed sandwiches, and fruit are served. We eat small sandwiches, relax and wait for Odie.
We sit too long and the lack of momentum allows our bodies to catch up with our frantic minds. We drool, we wait, afternoon is upon us. The sun pops out, our food takes hold, Odie returns, we get one last wind and press on. We're nearing the 30 hour mark. We can't see straight. So tired. I start snapping at Lotti. I bump into him on the street. He bumps into me. We're bumbling punchdrunk.
Afternoon is fading. We head back to the hotel, clean up, go to the nearest pub for dinner. There's a big football (soccer) game on. Men stand around looking like penned-up animals. Italy's winning, England is losing. Yay! They don't serve food. Next pub does though. Lotti and Odie get cod deep fried in Hoogarden. I get jacket potatoes with extra tuna fish and a brew (John Smith?). Their food is supposedly yummy. Mine is a plain baked potato with an icecream scoop of cold tuna salad planted in the middle. What?! Sure. Whatever. Nourishment. Then, after our 33-hour marathon we SLEEP.
l o n d o n [ d a y 0 3 ]
Now Odie and Lotti set their eyes on The Checklist: Buckingham Palace is first. We make a bee line for the Palace. It's large, concrete, and slightly ornate. I am not very impressed. I'm more impressed by the groups of female Italian students touring the venue. "Belissimo!" I think. "..." I say. The goose-stepping "changing of the guard" is about as fun as watching CSPAN and about as pleasureable as receiving the Hemlich manuever. Lotti and I clammer out into the busy English streets with the dangerously fast moving traffic (the English apparently all think they're fucking Evil Kinevil or something) to capture a photograph of the palace from a small vantage point in the middle of 6 lanes of traffic. A single step in either direction away from our street sign post would mean death. Click, check, done, next.
We walk East into St. James Park - it is Eden - we sit, rest, stare at the ducks for a minute. Click, done, next.
Trafalgar Square and Picadilly Circus (check, check) are nothing more than busy intersections lined with familiar American fastfood joints and Virgin Megastores. They are friendlier, less obnoxious versions of Time Square. Give them time though. They'll catch on.
It's a walking day, the sun is out and the cold-piss-up-the-nose thing is kept to a minimum by Mother Nature. We walk North into SOHO (check). This is nice. This is quaint. It's an older, quainter Village (a la NYC) - all trendy clothing stores, cafes & restaurants - with awnings and outdoor seating, clubs, bars, narrow roads of cobble stone. We duck into one of the clothing shops - they have a red t-shirt with a flat white image of a little (teddy?) bear holding a cocktail and tapping a cig into an ashtray. It says "Partying on your Dime" underneath. It's a must have, but for 35 pounds ($70), I pass it up. (2ktshirts.com) It starts to rain finally - we duck into the Dolce cafe and get lunch. This beautiful little Italian cafe proves wonderbar. MTV Europe plays The Departures on a large plasma screen.
The rain lets up and we hit the streets once more. We walk endlessly North East, go in circles for about 20 mins, and eventually wind up in Hyde Park (check). Hyde Park = a very large field with a few trees and a couple bungaloes. It's pretty. And flat. I immediately think of the major park in Chicago (name? not important).
The weather here changes drastically from one second to another. From sun to rain to sun to rain, like the tick-tock of a pendulum clock. Case in point it starts raining again while we're in the middle of the park with no elemental protection.
At the Southern end of Hyde we see Albert Hall (check) and across from that a statue of ole Albert - The Albert Memorial (check). Both are beautiful. The Hall is VERY Romanesque. It's massive. It's ornate. The statue looks like it's plated in gold.
Opulence Is All.
Walking, walking, walking, we finally catch the Tron Train (NOTE: The Tron Train is the under ground train - either the yellow or the green - which sounds like the motorcycles in the film Tron. READ: R-A-D) to the Old Vic (check). Vic is indeed Old. It's a theatre (not a theater). It's not much to look at, but it's age and the people who have appeared there (e.g. Laurence Olivier) are noteworthy. We walk in just to see what it looks like. Spacey is appearing with Stephen Weber (from Wings!) and Mary Stuart Masterson in something called National Anthem. Probably expensive - 10 pounds?! No shit!! SOLD. Click, purchase, done. We head back for a shower, a quick meal, and then the show.
We decide to catch a meal at a restaurant close to our hotel (should have gone back to SOHO, but don't have time). Three rough-and-tumble Polish guys with backpacks and loud, drunken mouths damn near accost us for spare change. They're traveling, they mean well, but liquor has got their heads hot about something. The youngest of the three is the most polite. His crewcut, hazel eyes, and stink are upon me - inches away - he's muttering something - I'm turned, my stance is physically defensive, and I see Odie and Lotti are also alert - we don't want to beat-up some drunks this evening, but we're fully prepared to throw down. I'm trying to look at the menu in the window of the restaurant - I politely decline the opportunity to donate money to the young Polish man's cause - he starts walking muttering in a daze - he turns - "Have you heard about the pope?" Yes, we heard of his passing. "Sad. I like the pope-uh." Yes. Worthy of a drink. We go inside. While we're waiting for a table our young polish friend reappears! He's inside the restaurant! He's got a bottle of Pinot Grigio! He yells for the barkeep, who is not a barkeep but a respectable hostess in a conservative Englsh Restaurant, and asks her for a corkscrew so he can open his bottle. She waves him off, but he persists. "OPEN! PLEASE! YOU! COME HERE!" His desperate need for the wine, his ruffian appearance, and broken English make for an absurd scene. The hostess is floored and demands he leave before she calls the police. Our friend grumbles out the door. Should have got his name. Nice fellow.
In short: The food blows. It sucks. It's expensive, and obvious effort has been put into our meals' preparation, but it just doesn't seem to matter. English food blows. (Lotti does seem to appreciate his shephard's pie though ...
National Anthem starts. The stage curtain is one gigantic (and I mean GIGANTIC) American flag. The blaring opening music is none other than Bob Seager.
Everything around our hotel shuts down completely around 10 or 11 PM. Where to go? Where's the nightlife? Lotti and Odie prefer to go back to the hotel and retire. I really want to get A DRINK. We duck into a piano bar, it's lively, girls are dancing, the piano music is mediocre covers, but it's a jovial mix. I reach into my wallet. What're you guys getting? Nothing?? WTF. I leave - bent out of shape. I want to PARTY. I want to DRINK. I don't want my entire vacation to be a tour of postcard photos and tourist traps. I understand they're tired, but Lotti?? LOTTI??? The guy who popped prescription painkillers and drank like a fisherman for 2 days and 1 night straight without stop with Josh and I in Chicago?! I'm perplexed, but I cave. I could use the sleep. We walk back toward the hotel.
Our hotel is located on what I like to call Hotel Row. It's on a street surrounded by several identical streets (in several directions), each lined with identical white row homes converted into hotels - block after block after block of indistinguishable facades save a single sign or identifying plaque on each half-house with the name of the hotel - Comfort Inn, Holiday Inn Express, Luna Simone, a hostel for young students, the Alexander Hotel, Easton, Dover, Central House, Rama, The Park, Lidos, Sidney, Victor, Huttons, Days Inn, Carlton, Victoria, Melbourne House, etc. On and on and on. It's a miserable walk. Depressing as a cemetary.
We retire.
l o n d o n [ d a y 0 4 ]
Another day, another interesting Checklist. First up St. Paul's Cathedral. Our intial reaction to the exterior of the structure is as expected: It's a grand, beautiful church - the realized symbol of tranquility - sanctuary - the open arms of god. The inside was different. As beautiful and majestic as the inside was built, there were gates and lines and dividers and ticket booths. God's house had become a tourist trap replete with an 8 pound entrance fee, guided tours, a souvenir/gift shop, and even a damn cafe. It was no long god's house. He moved out when the shoppers moved in. It's a mall. We skip the tour and retreat downstairs to The Crypt Cafe, sit, and drink unimpressive tea. Here I am. Drinking my unimpressive tea. In a crypt. The Crypt Cafe. What is suppose to be a hallowed burial ground, is now bordering on a theme park. My first thought is: What the fuck are a gift shop and a cafe/restaurant doing in a burial site and a church? Just now a preist strolls into the cafe - collar and all. He orders a cup of coffee and looks utterly defeated, weary. He probably just needs some caffeine, but his expression is summary.
My second thought: This is the kind of gross irreverance and greed I'd expect from my own countrymen, not Britain. This must be our (America's) fault somehow. We're to blame for everything else, so why not this? Okay: Our tendency to over-commercialize and our corporate greed has spread to the land of tuppins and King Arthur. We've ruined our present, we've damned our future, and now we've even managed to fuck up our past. This guilt trip seems to be a recurring theme. Every time I spot a Burger King, Starbucks, McDonalds, KFC, Borders, American beauty magazine cover, and American pop music icon ad (Britney Spears promoting her new perfume), I cringe. I just want to scream, "I'M SORRY!! I'M SOOOOO SO SORRY!!" But people would probably just think I'm mad and haul me off to some dank, backward ass European mental institution and hook my brian up to a car battery. The bloody heathen animals they are.
We exit St. Paul's (check). The rain is particularly brutal today. The wind howls worse than our first day in London and the rain is constant. The dampness creeps into one's bones. We've spent a good deal of money in London already, and with this being our last day, we want to view attractions which won't cost us a week's wages.
Abbey Road is free! Because it's just a road. I protest, but I sympathize. I can understand the allure. The Beetles *were* undeniably great. I just hate to do what every American fucker with a disposal 35mm camera does - the obligatory "Quick! Get a photo of me dodging English cars! Ha-ha! Ow!" No. That's not for me, but I follow along politely and relatively quietly. We get there and (you're not going to believe it), there's the road. I KNOW ... *I* can't believe it either. It's even paved! Lotti crosses in a crazed jog while I snap a few photos. Could make a nice keepsake, I think. The nearby wall in front of the building where Lennon and Co. recorded an album (or two?) is covered with words and words, names, phrases, shout-outs, well wishes, and thanks. Lotti insists upon adding to the graffiti. I lend him my micro point Uniball (a precious thing to those who know). On the wall he enscribes something like: "Your country is great, but we're freezing our balls off. Matt, Odie, & John." I want to applaud, but my hands are numb. (check) We move on.
We walk aimlessly 8 blocks in freezing cold rain and wind to find an ancient prison. Out of desperation I ask a security guard standing outside a building where it is. We've past it already he says. It's now being used as a fully-functioning court house (he points back from where we came, we had indeed past it). Fuuuuuuuck (check). What a waste of time. More! More! I can still feel my feet!
We find the nearest train station and duck in. There's a Baker Street stop, so we have to get off. This was originally my idea, I'm afraid. I planted the seed. 221b Baker Street is Sherlock Holmes' address. The English have setup a tribute to him at that exact address in the form of a little faux museum/gift shop. It's a nice idea, but I don't need to see it. Odie, however, does. So it goes. Let's have a look. Back into the rain and wind. Hands in pockets, marching about. Endless rain. What is wrong with these people? These Brits are hopping to and fro, some of them wearing nothing more than t-shirts and light sport jackets. They look like they're in San Diego and it's a balmy 72 degrees (Fahrenheit). Crazy fuckers! We find it. It's a small shop. It's a museum. We stare at the front of the building in awe. I can't believe it myself. It's a real address and a real building containing a "museum" full of fictional materials based upon the fictional life and fictional adventures of this fictional character. Talk about suspension of disbelief. Ugh. Click, (check), done, next.
We split up again. Odie tries once more to meet up with his CitiGroup pen pal, while Lotti and I pursue the Tate Britain and another cathedral. In short, both are costly, and our tight arses are through puckering for the Brits. We both conclude we have finished contributing to the English tourist trade for this vacation. If we are to spend money, it shall be on booze! "I demand to have more booze!!" We beeline for the Trader Vic. We walk East to Park Place and North. But we're trapped on the Park side and even our efforts to illegally, and precariously cross 6 lanes of highway speed traffic do not help us find the damn place. We don't want to be late for our meeting with Odie, so we retreat.
We meet Odie at Victria station. He's easy to find because London = Crackerville. At this point all three of us are thoroughly soaked, shivering, worn, and hungry. We walk into an Italian restaurant. We feel defeated because we're dining on Italian in England. A sin, but a compromise. Sadly, it is the best food we eat in London, with the possible exception of the Italian cafe in SOHO (Dolce). I have a glass of their house red.
After dinner we set out again for Trader Vic's, a famous hang-out of the rich and famous - including Mr. Mick Jagger. With fierce but punchdrunk determination and Odie - the urban trailblazer - as our guide, we find the joint neatly tucked into the lower level of a massive hotel high-rise. It's not at all what I would expect. The whole place is decorated with a West Indies island vibe, pina-coladas are served in fake plastic coconut shells, and the waitresses (all remarkably easy on the eyes) wear long, light, and flowing flowered skirts with slits which run all the way up one leg.
There amidst our conversation the couple at the neighboring table chimes in. An Indian man, turban and mustache and all, speaks American English to us. He's a friendly and charming refined gentleman, a graduate of Duke University, a businessman, and an experienced traveler. His lady friend is equally charming and graceful. Their common touch is a grace. We get a second round. We feel completely at ease talking with this man and allowing the vodka/rum to unfreeze our bones and brains and restore warm circulation. We are once again human.
Leaving Trader Vic's I'm charged for more drinking and fun. I want to meet people! See SOHO at night! We're all relatively tipsy. It's a perfect setup. But again Odie and Matt insist upon going back to the hotel.
On the way back to the hotel I announce my respectful intentions to part comany with my friends and head into SOHO for the evening. Since I will be by myself in an unfamiliar city abroad, I won't be drinking. My goal will be to find an all night cafe, and sit with my book.
I screw my courage to the sticking place and head out. I'm rather excited at the prospect of meeting people, exploring SOHO, and getting mugged on my own. Whether good or bad, I will find something interesting this evening.
I get off the train and head north into the heart of SOHO - trying to stick to the main streets. After about 4 or 5 winding blocks on Wardow I find a cafe that's open. Cookies & Cream. Their dessert cases fill the room. Everything looks good. I order a latte and a danish of some sort. Both are delicious. I ask the woman behind the counter what time they're open till. She doesn't know. (Wha?!) So I sit and drink and read - suspecting they're already past their usual closing time. There are two happy couples sitting apart from one another, caffeinating, talking, smiling, giggling. I think of Katie. I plant my nose in my book until they close around 1:30 AM.
I walk on and on and on. Where did all these bars and clubs come from? I didn't see them during the day! Were they invisible?! Endless entertainment, crowds of people marching about in their evening sexiness, hair gelled, perfumes waifing. Strange how the shops are now invisible. The area has transformed. Like a fucking Gobot. Crazy.
No more cafes in sight. Nothing. Walking. Neon. Walking. Happy chatter. Walking. I see an odd, but friendly looking guy walking past me and I ask him as politely as possible if he knows of an all-night cafe in the area. Nope. He's not from around here. He's from NYC. Wha?! NYC?? Yeah. I'm from Jersey! (Kind of.) A conversation sparks, he's a traveling musician, working the streets and subways to raise change, trying to make his way to Paris. His pony-tailed crown of brown is adorned with a dirty white paper Starbucks bag turned upside down and the edge folded and rolled a couple times. On his back is a black soft acoustic guitar case with shoulder straps. His name is Joe.
He wants to live. He wants to live to write. To write well he must live life in abundance. Big baskets full of ripe life. He wants to feel the cold street under some newspapers, he wants to hear the throbbing heart of all the great cities, he wants to meet all the people, the mad, the boring, the dangerous, the drab. I tell him I'll walk with him, just to chat with someone from "home." He's looking for a club named Strawberry Moon. We walk, we circle, we backtrack, we talk. He's a dreamer. I'm enthralled. We find the club off Heddon and Regent. It's a jumping place with pink neon and a healthy crowd. I'm only interested in quiet, so we trade email addresses, shake hands, and part company.
I press on. Must find a haven. Anything will do. Just some place quiet. I don't mind some chatter, but loud music is out. I don't mind the searching. I'm seeing something new, something alive, something ... clean. London is a delight during the day, and mysterious at night. The ancient cobblestoned road of SOHO at night. The shadows don't loom, they dance.
I pop in a restaurant, but they're closing soon, and don't serve just coffee. The hostess is uber polite and directs me to a cafe which is open till 5 AM. I don't find it, but I do find two great cafes. One is a true-blue Italian cafe (replete with a crowd of dark haired Italians speaking Italian) - it's a little crowded and a little noisy. The other is Cafe Nero - an Italian cafe franchise. This looks perfect. What time are you open till? "Four." Perfect. That earns a smirk. I order a massive latte and a slice of Ecstacy Cake (which is a nice name for Carrot Cake). Both are great. I sit down at a long bar facing the windows. I savor my goods and devour my book - occasionally glancing out the window to watch the party animals traversing the night light. People come and go. I stay. I also break to write notes about my trip in my little note pad. My hand works as quickly as it can - struggling to keep pace with my mind. It's a losing race. Three drunk guys walk past three girls outside. One of the guys grabs the hand of one of the girls and pulls her close like he's known her for years. She has no idea who the hell he is. She shakes him off and pushes him away. Tells him to take a hike. It was an innocent enough gesture. The young men pledge their undying love, smiling and laughing as the young ladies stroll away.
A crowd comes in and sits down at the far end of the bar - forcing another patron to move seats close to me. I notice he and I are shadows of one another. Doppelgangers. He is my height, lighter, shorter hair, glasses, sitting in the same fashion, scribbling in a notepad like me, book in tow, drinking coffee, and glancing out the window. He's smoking Marboro Lights. Everyone here smokes Marboros. Dunhills are better. After a few mins of us scrutinizing eachother with curiosity, I can't stand it anymore and spark the conversation. He's from Latvia. His name is Kaspar. WHAT A NAME! I want to be Kaspar from Latvia. It's the ULTIMATE pick-up. He's an instantly interesting person. We talk. We talk about everything. We're both a little lonely, hopped up on caffeine, and equally interested in one another. He's been living in London for years, arranging art exhibitions/events, writing his ass off, reading everything heartbreaking he can get his grubby hands on. He's brutally honest, chronically depressed, and open minded. The man is magnificent. He recommends Houellebecq, Ian McEvans, "House at the End of hte World" by Cunningham, Pynchon, Do DeLillo, praises Vonegut, adores Fitzgerald, and shrugs off Hemingway. I tell him he must read Joseph Heller. Start with "Catch-22," then brace yourself and dive into "Something Happened." Bring a wet suit and an air tank.
He points at my copy of "You Shall Know Our Velocity!" and inquires. I explain the plot, and his antenae are raise. He examines the back, reads, turns it over and exclaims! Latvia! He points to the coin on the cover. Sure enough it's Latvian currency. Go fucking figure. I haven't gotten that far in the book. I know they eventually reach Latvia though.
Around 4:00 AM we pack up and depart. We trade email addresses. We shake hands. It's the warmest encounter of my trip. He's a genuine article. I hit the streets.
It takes me a good 15 mins to find an Underground station. It's closed. Fuuuuuck. Okay. I can do this. The buses are still running, and worst case scenario, I can walk it. The city's beautiful! I'm energized! Press on! I walk, I stop under a street lamp and search the SOHO section of my map for identifiable landmarks. I peer, I gape, I struggle to angle the tiny map toward the street lamp light while my bloodshot eyes strain to focus on the tiny print and tiny crisscrossing lines. A good minute passes as I stare and sway, dilerious. A rather clean-cut looking chap approaches me and asks me if I need directions. I explain my situation. He's golden. Golden hair, golden tan, golden eyes, golden earing. Blue shirt. He's jovial as shit. He's drunk, but happy and cognizant. We introduce ourselves and he marches me to a bus stop, rambling the whole way, asking me about my trip and the sights, and offering advice on his country. We shake hands and he's off into the shadows.
My bus stop is on a busy street in central SOHO. I curl up on a pseudo-seat of cold hard plastic on a windless corner of the bus stop's glass shell. I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait. I buy a ticket from the machine, read the signs, scrutinize the arrival times. The waiting goes on for 20 minutes. I begin pacing, I duck into a corner store, carefully watching from the windows for the bus. I see buses, even the bus with the ID number that's suppose to stop, but it doesn't. The buses stop everywhere but here. Damnit. Eventually it dawns on me that England's transporation system isn't completely flawless. Ah! A consulation. But how do I get back to my bed? I feel like a wet American rat in a quaint English maze. My cheese is my hotel bed.
Using my map I draw a mental dotted line, nearly "as the crow flies," from point A (in SOHO) to point B (the hotel). It involves a little zig-zagging and a romp through straight through the heart of a large park just North of Buckingham Palace, but I could give a shit. I'd rather be walking (bumper sticker idea!). So I turn on my iPod Shuffle, click to Max Richter's Blue Notebooks, and start hitting pavement with foot.
This is it. This is the experience I'll always remember. Not the fucking museums, not the bad food, or the cold rain, not the expensive cab ride, or forgettable tea, or Big Ben, ... but this. THIS. This cold walk, this lovely, lovely, lovely romp through the heart of London at 4:30 in the morning while Tilda Swinton whispers in my ear over Max Richter's electro-classical music bends my heart into a glowing hearth for these miserable sods and their sterile city. The strings are singing. The strings are sliding. They are mournfully crying and my hair is on end. It's a meditational walk and I absorb every corner of every cobble stone.
I must be walking through a major business district because as I travel South the small SOHO shops turn into immense, less ornate structures of concrete and grey brick. The music continues to sweep me along. The chilly air ushers me into a London commututer pace - a fast marching charge to the slow piano chords.
I make my way to the edge of the park and peer inside. It's pitch black. The sign at the gate states that the park does not open until 5:00 AM. It is 4:45 AM. I go in. I pull one of the iPod buds from ear to make sure there's no one following or lurking about me. I must be on Max's track entitled "Shadow Journal." There's a slow creeping metalic echo drifting behind his violin. Like echos in a metal pipe filled with water. A vast underground pipe.
I break the spell to take a quick leak on an English tree. Poor tree. Poor London. It's such a clean park and a clean town. I feel terrible doing it, but I spent the entire evening drinking lattes and at this hour there is no place open in which I could use their restroom facilities. I verbalize my apology, and resume my walk.
I don't get back to the hotel until 5:30 AM. I estimate my walk took a good 30 minutes. Perhaps a little more. As I walk down my hotel's street a few birds begin to chirp and the sky begins to yeild a dark gray toward the horizon. I'm just in time.
e u r o s t a r
The following morning we are up early, eat our shitty breakfast, and taking one last ride on the Underground to the Eurostar station. This is where we shall hop a train from London to Paris. It will travel under the English channel for part of the ride. We are excited. I've only been on one major train ride in my life, from North Carolina to Florida. It was miserable. But I'm hopeful. If I look sharp, I expect I'll see the English and French countrysides whizzing by at 100 MPH or so.
We are really early, so we sit on the filthy carpeted floor near our train gate's escalator, exhausted, but anxious. Odie crams his French language studies, Lotti listens in, I jot notes in my journal. Others mill about us: a couple of bland American girls, a stylish 30-something Englishman, and a slew of French and English couples, both young and old. All 3 of us in a sad state. Lotti hasn't shaved for 4 or 5 days, I haven't shaved in 1 or 2, I'm wearing my knit hat to hide my disheveled hair, and all 3 of us are wearing crumpled jeans and sneakers. We're a dirty crew. The Dirty Quarter-Dozen.
Eventually the train boards, we climb aboard. Odie and Lotti on the left, then the aisle, then me and an empty seat. After about a min, the empty seat is populated by a bubbly English girl. Her name is Ellie. I had spotted Ellie (as had Lotti) at the station. She doesn't stand out terribly, but she stands out to us. Her black (dyed?) hair looks primp, but punk, she sports a drab olive green army jacket and blue-gray jeans, her eyes have a hazel twinkle, her body is slender and wrapped in a fair English complexion. She's a doll. Most notable is that which lies just below her surface. There is an innate curiosity, an excitement, an interest, and intelligence about her. It's not the dark, loathesome brooding spirit of a trouble genius, but the cheery, cheeky charm of a young woman of wit. She immediately introduces herself and although delirious beyond comprehension I manage to maintain a semi-coherent conversation with the lass on music, film, literature, writing, school, weather, and the like - yanking Lotti and Odie into the conversation intermittently. When Lotti speaks, he blushes. Girls think it's cute when he does. I always get a kick out this. Time flies, I nod off, Ellie nods off, the train flies. Occasionally we window gaze and are treated with beautiful scenery - a rapidly morphing landscape. It's Pennsylvania, then it's New Jersey, then Vermont, then Texas. Somehow none of us notice when we travel under the channel. It seems like only a few minutes here and there of darkness. The ride above ground is slower.
Beauty is All.
We arrive, Ellie and I rapidly exchange contact info with plans to all meet up for drinks in Paris that night. We dive into Paris head first.
p a r i s [ d a y 0 5 ]
We are determined to not make the mistake of paying for a cab, as we did in London. We use our first Euro's at a pay-for-access bathroom at the train station. We walk through the wrong turnstile and gape at the contemporary metalic doors of shower stalls. "Excuse moi!" We gain the attention of the smiling guards and smile like cheshire morons while pointing to the gated area to the toilets. L'Aventura!
We find the right metro platform, hop on the rail, and get off at our stop. So far so good. To our dismay our pop-up map of Paris, which I purchased in London because our London pop-up map Doug was kind enough to give me was so smashing, sucks ass. The map is not nearly detailed enough and we can't find the street to save our lives. We wind up strolling for 20 mins or so. I stop to kick a football (soccerball) back to a group of kids playing in a parking lot. I'm delighted by the very idea. I love The Beautiful Game. And miss it. Odie stops in a nearby hotel and politely asks the receptionist where we can find our hotel. It works, we find it.
The receptionist has a pink tie and a polite disposition. I never catch his name, but he is a tremendous help. Our room is the size of a small closet, but it's clean, sufficient and also pink. We are on Choisy [Street]. Odie explains "Choisy" means something along the lines of "Chinese." Which would explain all the Chinese and Japanese restuarants lining the block. Our first French meal is Chinese (as interpreted by the French). It's delicious. Everyone at every table around us chain smokes throughout their meal (think: Triplets of Bellville - the long faces with the greenish-gray toned skin). We are not favorites in the restaurant. One female couple move tables away from us. Is it because we're American? Is it because we're loud? Who knows.
We depart the restaurant in search of a small shop (a convenience store?) in which we might purchase a calling card. For some reason all the payphones only accept cards (not coins) they don't accept our American Visa cards. Our VISA's work in ATM's and for purchases (restaurants, hotels, metro tickets), but not in the phones. Go figure. Next time we come to Europe we're getting European cell phones. This is bullshit.
We wander for a good 30 mins, we encounter a madman who screams profanity at us in French, Odie refuses to translate, we're perplexed and unnerved, we give up, we hop on the dirty, noisy French rails. They remind me of New York.
We arrive at the Opera House stop. Indeed there is a large, beautifully lit Opera House before us in a large ... square with many roads heading in odd directions. Paris (so far) seems to have the grime and grit and humanity of New York, but is older and prettier to look at. We ascertain (roughly) Southwest and walk, in search of Harry's New York Bar (a Hemingway haunt). After making a few circles we find it - guilty because it feels like a tourist trap, but inside, it's just a dank old place with yellowing collegiate banners. We are able to spot Lehigh University's banner. Scotch and whisky seems to be virtually the only thing one can order. I get Dewar's, Odie gets Jack Daniels, and Lotti gets Bushmills. We are happy here. It's the only place we've been in Paris so far where we aren't afraid to talk freely as Americans. This place was obviously designed as a haven for us rich bitch American folks to hide in from the obnoxious French bastards outside in every direction. A number of college age American kids are around the joint. The bartenders look like New York bartenders (and sound like French poodles), a gorgeous young woman I suspect is a prostitute sits at the far end of the bar with her back to the wall and stares blankly toward the door. She has short, gelled blonde hair. She doesn't dress like a street walker, she looks attractive ... sexy ... like she's ready for action ... she has the sense of a pro about her.
We get happy on the drinks and relaxed from the atmosphere. I think the hokey, commercial pandering feel about the place is what makes us feel at home. I snap a few low-light no-flash photos of Matt and we split.
Exhausted and dying for some caffeine, we duck into the first cafe we find (at the corner). We are cordially led to a table with huge tears in the seat. Matt and Odie order espresso, I order coffee. It is the most potent, amazing shit we have ever tasted in our entire fucking lives. Odie's eyes bug out of his head. We'd be speechless if we weren't hopped up on massive levels of caffeine.
Numb and wired we leave and head for The Ritz. We walk 10, 15 blocks, and wind up at the Hotel Louvre instead. Satisfied with our decent progress for the evening, and resigned to return and succeed tomorrow, we head back to the hotel and crash.
p a r i s [ d a y 0 6 ]
I reluctantly get up early with Odie and Lotti (they wait for me downstairs at the breakfast table). I'm groggy. I meet them down there and they're already ecstatic. The continental breakfast is supposedly divine. The hotel's coffee is excellent, there are hard boiled eggs, toast, breads, crouisants, jams, yogurts, cereal, cheese, juice, milk, etc. It's an impressive spread.
We leave, and wait around at the Paris platform. It looks like one of the poorly maintained platforms of NYC transit ... only larger. There are very few seats, but lots of space on a tiled platform to sit. It smells (as bad as NY).
We arrive at the Louvre (check) prepared for "the lines." We enter through the I.M. Pei pyramids, which impress the shit out of me - the blending of the old and the new! the contrast is breathtaking! They're equally impressive from below where you can look up to the cathedral-level ceilings and absorb the light beaming through the collosal glass structure, and watch the hoardes of tourists riding the circular elevator and walking the large chrome-covered spiral stair case. It's a magical effect. I think of Katie.
The line takes less than 5 minutes to get through. We buy our tickets and head in. The Lourve (the largest museum in the world) is nothing short of breath taking. Wall after wall, room after room, wing after wing, and floor after floor of ancient masterpieces is just pure overload.
We see the Mona Lisa. Lotti points out how closely her face resembles Da Vinci's own face in his self portraits. I'm reminded of Richard D. James super-imposing his face on other people's bodies. I am thoroughly creeped out.
I get separated from Lotti and Odie at one point and become very unhappy at the situation. The place is a gigantic maze and just absolutely PACKED with people. After 15 minutes or so pass and I cover the entire floor we were on and can't find them, I resign myself to the idea that I won't see them until the evening at the hotel (our rendezvous point if something goes wrong).
Fortunately, they find me. Desperately thirsty we head over to the Egyptian exhibit area (which wreaks of rotting piss) and head into a cafe (there are several within the Lourve). We ea. order water. A couple and a family sit near us. The family dines on overpriced food. Disney World prices. Disney Land Jackasses. I'm reminded of home. I shiver.
After the cafe, we cover a few more floors/wings/whatever of the Lourve, but at this point we are so overwhelmed and dazed, we aren't able to absorb much. It's like tossing a 16-year-old male virgin into a harem full of beautiful naked exotic horny women. One beautiful naked woman would be enough to turn the poor fellow catatonic for a while, but a whole harem ...
We leave and head to Notre Dame Cathedral. Our walk to Notre Dame is a treat - book, magazine, postcard, movie, and music sellers line the Seine, and although I wouldn't want to swim in the damn thing, the Seine is a delight to walk along. The effect of the flowing water and ancient buildings and small cars and men in their hats all adds up to a deliciously dirty, rustic French dreamscape. I think that's what I like about the French - their grime, their sweat, and their unevasive humanity. I buy a postcard with hands growing out of the ground and reaching for a distant image of the Statue of Liberty with the words "Et surtout la chose enivrante : la Liberté ! La Liberté !" written on it. I have no idea what they mean. Odie translates it roughly - it means something like "And especially the intoxicating thing: Liberty! Liberty!" <shrug>
Notre Dame (check) is surrounded with large crowds of people. Several middle eastern women stop us and ask us if we speak English. Any time we reply yes, they speechlessly hold up a small ratty-looking cardboard sign that says something about starvation. Some of them carry babies which that practically shove in your face. We wave them off. Panhandling infuriates me. Especially when infants are being used as props for the charade. Access is free and the crowds just funnel in one door and out the other continuously. The inside is solemn, yet buzzing, dank and very dark, yet glowing with candles and light filtering through the stained glass windows. It's gorgeous and awe inspiring.
We leave ND famished. We stop at the first bistro we see. We fully expect it to suck since it's incredibly close to a huge tourist attraction (ND). The waitor is a verile, stout, silver haired gentleman of considerable height, a booming voice, and a fresh tan. He is the MC of this establishment. He very quickly seats us, and takes our order in accented, but well spoken English. With a twirl, he's away towards the bar yelling our orders in French. Amidst the orders we make out (and there is much a heightened volume on this particular word) "L'Américain!" ... yeah ... that makes us really uncomfortable, but the gentleman waitor brings us our drinks and food rapidamento and the food ... for my money it is the best meal we have all week in UK/Europe. It is DIVINE. Lotti gets an omlette, odie gets a ... meat ... sandwich of some sort, and I get a salad. All three of us MMMMM and AHHH throughout the meal. The food is perfect.
From there we walk (rather lackadaisically) back along the Seine, look at more books and such, hop a rail, and find the Arc du Triumph. It's a grand thing - old, and opulent, and lonely in the middle of a massive circle of roads. I have a theory all the despicable French egos emminate from this Napoleonic structure (he commissioned the building of it, I believe). We easily spot some American tourists as we walk the small tunnel under the encircling roads to get to the base of the Arc. It's more impressive from the base. We decide not to climb up though. We mill about and leave.
Next we head for the Moulin Rouge, wind up up in a seedy stretch of road with a sleezy carnival-like atmosphere where German boys emerge from strip joints, peep shops, and sex shops of every imaginable kind. Right at the center of it all is the Moulin Rouge (check) with its distinct, slowly turning windmill arms (a kind of gross mockery of Don Quixote). The cost to get in and see a show at the Moulin Rouge is approximately 115.00 EUR. Odie's eyes once again bulge right out of his head. We mill about. I use the bathroom in a filthy little bar. We leave.
In photos, the Eiffel Tower looks like nothing more than a fucking oil derg to me. In person it's rather majestic, simply because of its size. At night, it's lit like a fucking Christmas tree and gorgeous to look at. At the bottom, people mill about, lie about, kiss, and snuggle like a pack of panda bears in heat. It's rather annoying for someone that is missing their significant other. I think of Katie. I can't figure out why Paris is such a romantic hotspot. It's old and has a kind of seedy charm, but ... I don't know. It's just not sexy. I could see ARUBA being sexy ... but Paris??
After the tower, we headed back to the hotel and popped into a restaurant nearby (in Little Italy) for dinner. The atmosphere was odd, but accommodating enough. Everyone around us again smokes, but there are much fewer of them so it's not a big deal. Our meals are served in 3 courses and not bad. I suspect we're in a bad restaurant, but even a bad restaurant in France is the equivalent of 5 star restaurant in London or a decent place to eat in The States.
Well fed we head out to vilify our existences by finding The Ritz (another Hemingway haunt ... what can we say? We like Hemingway). We get off at the Opera stop again, admire the lights, and beeline South for the spot on the map. We aren't half a block from the subway stop when we all simultaneously spot a blackman in a small black leather jacket pissing on a building right along the main thoroughfare on our sideway, not 20 paces ahead of us. He turns his head, spots us, and shouts to us to get our attention. He seems very eager and is still mid-piss. I want to yell to him, "Don't! Stop! It's not good for your kidneys!" But it's too late, he's still pissing as he half-turns around, somehow manages to zip up and move toward us in one motion. We must look absolutely horrified. He stops a few paces from us - we're all in Defensive Mode (think: Power Rangers posing, minus the fancy shiny suits) - when he asks us if we want to buy hash. Ahahahahahaha! Crazy fucking Frenchman. "No thanks," we say.
Humanity is All.
We press on. We finally find The Ritz in a prestine historic cobble stoned lined square. It's dead quiet and only a few cars are parked out front. A couple minis, and a few luxury cars. It's late at night. We peek inside and notice that it's mind bogglingly posh inside. We decide to go in and see if the bar looks any more approachable. In a daze, I accidentally try to step into the same space of the revolving door as Odie (don't ask me why - I think it was because I was walking close to him trying to hear what he had to say). Naturally we both don't fit and I wind up with my body jammed in the door. I make a scene in front of the porter and consierge (sp?!). Embarrassed we proceed down the hall to the front door of the bar. Inside there are men in black jackets and bow ties serving elegantly dressed people next to a grand piano. It's the most exquisite and formal establishment my mangy eyes have ever seen. I refuse to go in with my two-day shadow, jeans, black knit hat and second-hand tweed jacket. I must look and smell like either (a) a thief, (b) a deranged artist, or (c) a filthy bum. More likely (d) all of the above. We leave, but all three of us vow to return some day in our custom tailored suits, cash-in-hand for a cocktail and a toast to Hemingway. The man had taste.
We make our way to a bar we had passed the previous evening and had gaped at in wonderment. It's a multi-floored affair garrishly lit with a massive multitude of neon lights. The brightest of the lights are the letters which compose the name of the joint: The American Dream. We simply cannot resist going inside. The place is hyper-kitch heaven. The inside is just as garrish as the outside - if not more so, due to the clutter of "American" paraphernalia strewn all about. Some of the items are obvious givens (pictures of Marilyn Monroe) and some are really bizarre (huge jars of pickles and hardboiled eggs - is that something we're known for??). Odie attempts to order one of the beers by pointing to the handle of the tap in front of us. The bartender laughs and says its just "for show." Odie looks at him in perplexed disgust. The bartender offers him a comperable drink in bottle form. Odie accepts. I order a vodka, the bartender twirls the bottle, which I find impressive, but the spinning of hte bottle splats some droplets of vodka on Odie and Lotti, which amuses me even more, but pisses off Odie even more. Lotti's smoking Odie takes a cigarette and holds it in his mouth. The bartender (as all bartenders would do) pulls out a lighter and offers to light Odie's cigarette. Odie stares right through him and gesturing at his cigarette says in his very deep, ominous, Evil Odie voice, "This is just ... for show." The bartender, obviously freaked out, backs away, smiles and works the opposite end of the bar for the rest of the evening.
We head back to the hotel and crash in our pink room. I dream of Katie and almost hump Lotti in my sleep. He is horrified.
b r u s s e l s [ d a y 0 7 ]
Wake up semi-refreshed, eat as much from the impressive continental breakfast spread as we can (I manage to cram down 5 hard boiled eggs, a croisant, some cheese, a banana, and a couple bowls of cereal), and head to the train station.
The train is spacious and comfortable. No cute girls are seated beside me. This time we sit facing eachother - two across from two with a tiny table inbetween. The fourth seat is occupied by a 50-something French woman with a fine complexion, primp hair, fine clothes, pretty eyes, and horrible teeth. As we're getting seated, she attempts to put her bags in the overhead, but discovers we have already taken up the entire overhead with all our luggage. She complains in French, and I humbly apologize and point to an overhead area that is rather empty. She nods no and begrudgingly sits down. I fear she's going to make us miserable with her ... misery, but we manage to ignore her and engage in some lively conversation. I use the time to fill out my postcard to Katie, my mother and my sister. The lively middleaged people across the aisle from us share a bottle of wine and a baguette amongst themselves. How quaint. They don't like our presence though so we keep to ourselves. I ask Odie how to say "all my love" in French, which I wish to write on my postcard to Katie. He doesn't know but the crabby woman perks up and offers to assist. I politely decline, but her offer sparks a conversation. She turns out to be exceedlingly polite. We talk for a while and she learns all about our little adventure and we learn a few things about her (born in France, lives in Brussells, often visits Paris to shop/eat, warns us of the terrible weather in Brussels, etc.). She makes the rest of the ride fly, much like Ellie did our Eurostar ride.
Upon arrival, we get directions and hop the local rail. The first rail is called the "bus", but it's a crazy-ass curry-smelling multi-car trolley that flies all over the downtown area. At first we're horrified because the downtown area looks like ... Allentown ... on a bad day. Our lips curl and our expressions grow more and more gruesome as we watch mile after mile of torn-up pavement (mid-construction), vagrants swarming around derelict Chinese food shops, and low rusting power lines. This can't be it, we think. There's GOT to be something old and beautiful somewhere in this terrible place.
We hop the trolly for a train. The train is relatively new and the ride is a joy. Our stop is at the end of the line. The area we arrive in has a new hospital, a new shopping mall, and our hotel all within walking distance. It's quaint, beautiful, well planned, and spacious. Trees and grass here and there. It has a suburban feel. We relax, head inside, find our room (no bright colors this time), and crash for a few. We shower, head out, and pop in the little mall nearby. It's clean and rather new looking. We swing into a small supermarket. I buy a cheap bottle of red wine and Odie/Lotti both buy check-out lane grade Belgian chocolates. Outside they try the chocolates and share some with me. They're unbelievable. As good as Godiva. We toss the bottle of wine in Odie's backpack and hop the rail into the historic section.
Our goal is Grand'Place ("gran-ploss"). When we get off at our stop we find ourselves in the middle of a beautiful, bustling old city. It's a lovely blend of old and new. A few franchise restaurants (some American, like fucking Chili's) line the city streets alongside more traditional Brasseries and Bistros. We sit outside a rather large brasserie with probably 40 outdoor tables. I order up some sandwiches, Campari + orange juice, and water. It's brought out rather speadily and is delicious (these damn French people know how to eat!).
During my lone search for a MAC machine, I spot a beautiful street with dessert vendors and little shops. After our lunch we head down it. As we round the corner, Odie points out a waffle stand and suggests we get a Belgian waffle. The whole time I'm thinking, "A waffle?? What's so fucking great about a waffle? We've got Belgian waffles back home. Y'know ... leggo my Eggo?" But I play along and buy the damn thing. The dude at the stand grabs a pre-cooked square waffle (about 4" x 4") squirts some goo on it, tosses it on a waffle iron for a few seconds, wraps it in wax paper and hands it to me with my change. I stare at it quizically before taking a bite.
It may be the single most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my godforsaken life.
I swear to god, it's like fat-saturated buttery, vanilla-y, sugary, salty, spongy joy. Lotti and I start laughing and pacing with rubber legs in a trance - we can't believe how goddamned good the goddamned things are - we can't find the words to describe it - we can't figure out what's in them to make them so delicious. Odie composedly [a word?] assures us it's the "carmalized sugar" which is melted over the waffles immediately before they are sold to us. Oh man ... oh man oh man oh man. We debate at the possibility of getting another one, but we decide, no, better not push it, they're very, very rich and we'll wind up making ourselves sick on the things. To quote Willy Wonka, "one is enough for everyone and one is all that anyone needs."
We proceed. The streets are lined with the most ornate and beautiful buildings I've ever seen. More antiquated looking than those in London, and more ornate and well maintained than those in France - as if each building is a mini cathedral. I'm immediately in love with the place.
We find Leonidas chocolates (which was recommended to us by the woman on the train). We each buy a box and eat a few as we walk. Our waffle/chocolate buzz really kicks in just as we enter Grand'Place. The location alone is enough to get you high. This is our climax. This is our apex. It doesn't get any better than this.
Happiness is All.
We're standing in a massive square lined by a multitude of architectural masterpieces, lined by Bistros. The weather is "unusually" pleasant. The sun is out - the whole town seems overjoyed. While looking in his backpack for somehting Odie discovers that the wine bottle somehow broke and was leaking all over everything. This is a bummer and he has to get some napkins from a local restaurant and use their bathroom to clean up the mess. But even this can't put a dent in our happiness. We photograph the square from every imaginable angle and sit on the curb staring at it in awe. For my money it's the most beautiful place we have seen. Feeling bad about using the one restaurant's bathroom, we sit at one of their outdoor tables and offer coffee. Each coffee comes with a small Godiva chocolate. When Odie comes back again from the bathroom we starts sipping his with a huge smile on his face. Lotti asks him how his coffee is. Odie says, "It's not coffee. It's hot chocolate." The man is eat AND DRINKING CHOCOLATE. I officially crown him the biggest chocolate junkie in the world.
We walk a block away from Grand'Place into a tobacconist shop and purchase a couple small Cuban cigars. More leisurely walking and photo taking ensues. Per our plan we're taking it easy on this, the last day of our trip. It's Heaven. Restaurants, curving cobblestone avenues, and art galleries are everywhere. Churches, gov't buildings, libraries. We spot a mime and photograph a street musician playing accordian. It's the center of Rome during the height of the Roman Empire. It's gorgeous. I pop into a shop and buy Katie a scarf. We sit in a small park, I smoke my cigar, and eat some chocolates. The park closes as the sun begins its decent, we keep walking up the hill in town, and sit on some grand steps which give a grand view of the grand city. We watch part of the sunset. We're relatively quiet.
We decide to return to Grand'Place for dinner. We get a healthy round of drinks, eat a delicious dinner, and take some night-time photos of the square. A rotund little man staggers pass us (apparently ragingly drunk). He weaves back and forth like no one I've ever seen before. He literally can't walk straight. It's hilarious. We want to stay forever, but we're exhausted, we have an early flight, and the night can't last forever. We head back to our hotel and crash.
f l i g h t h o m e [ d a y 0 8 ]
The next morning we gather up our shit, eat a decent breakfast in the hotel and leave. As we're leaving I notice a waiter chasing after Lotti. Apparently Lotti in a daze thought it would be okay to walk out with their silverware and a yogurt. The waiter kindly, but with a look of desperation, asks Lotti to return the spoon. Crazy bastard.
We get on the train and start navigating our hops to get to the airport. We aren't sure of the exact route and we're cutting it close. The ride takes longer than we hoped and we're starting to cut it really close. I run for and hop on a train with Lotti and Odie not to far behind. I hear a yelp and look back to see Odie's head sticking just above the floorboards at the door of the train. He had attempted to hop The Gap but with his huge bag and all had fallen inbetween the platform and the train doorway, banging his knee and wrenching out his back pretty bad. He was scrambling after us to let us know we had gotten on the right train heading in the wrong direction. I apologized, he fell silent, we got off the train at the next stop and got on heading in the right direction.
Our last train before the airport requires the purchase of a ticket. The other trains in Brussels required some sort of token payment before you go through the turnstiles, but no one paid any attention to them. Up to this point we had been riding the rails in Brussels for free (as odd as that is). This train, however, is different. It requires a few EUR per passenger. It's a longer ride and a nicer train - perhaps it's privately owned.
We can't spot a ticket booth and can't afford to spare the time to go hunt for one. We MUST catch the next train, ticket be damned, or we'll miss our flight. We nervously board, find seats, and drop our luggage. I collect the remaining Euros amongst the tree of us and go searching for the ticket checking porter. I walk all the way to the locomotive of the car and can't find one, so I head back to my seat. After a few stops Lotti spots one coming down the aisle in the next car. The porter is allusive, but I track him down. Him is a her, and she's got a short-cropped punkish hair-do, green eyes, and an adorable smile. She reassures me it isn't a big deal and sells me three tickets.
We get to the airport, I'm punchdrunk and answer the security girl (a rail-thin blonde) sarcastically. I'm quickly led through. Lotti gets a nervous, sweating fat guy for his security screener. The nervous guy makes Lotti nervous. Sensing Lotti's nervousness, the nervous guy gets more nervous and starts grilling Lotti who gets more nervous and so on and so forth. Lotti gets asked all kinds of ridiculous questions like "where did you get your walkman?" To which Lotti responds Target, to which the guy asks, "What's that?" To which Lotti replies, "a store." Yadda, yadda, yadda. We're running late for our flight and I should be running full-tilt to the next security checkpoint, but I pause for a few minutes to take in this marvelous exchange. Hehehehehehe.
We breeze through the rest of security, and board our plane.
The flight is damn near empty.
We are told we can choose any vacant seat we want. Odie stretches out and elevates his hurt knee. Lotti grabs a window seat. I grab a window seat too in emergency row, stretch out, and stare out the window in blind awe of everything I've done and seen.
Serenity is All.
...