I'll Have the Croutons and the Orange Sherrrrrbet

London
A Novella in (roughly) 6 short chapters

Prologue
Knowing that I had to get my US taxes done, and further knowing that H+R Block would have no trouble with all of my finicky income aspects, I set about searching for the nearest office. Turns out it’s in London. I set my mind to going over one Friday morning and decided:
A- Since I was there I might as well make a weekend of it.
B- Since it was a weekend I might as well bring friends.
C- Since I was bringing friends we may as well celebrate my birthday
And so it came to be that Mark, Joe and Sarah volunteered most enthusiastically to come along and help me ring in 29. Again. (What?) The arrangements were made, hotels and flights were booked, and Scout Master Mark started researching places to go, things to do. My only requirements were to see the British Museum (snore for the rest of the group) and to have tapas on Friday night for dinner. I love Spanish food! After that, I was just along for the ride. And to get my taxes done.

After failing to get an appointment with H+R Block, Co-worker Clare suggested I see if the US embassy could offer any advice. Sound girl that Clare. I went to their website, there was a tax section, they had the name of a tax accountant in Dublin, and I don’t have to have my taxes in until June 15th because I don’t actually live on US soil. (instert rolling eyes here) So now I’m going to London for no reason other than to party and be silly somewhere else. Had I known, I’d have picked someplace much cheaper, but whatever. The damage was done and we were going. Whee…

One
I arrived in London at 10am on Friday April 7th. A good day if I do say so myself. After checking into the hotel, and giving SMM kudos on a great little find, I freshened up and took myself to the Petrie Museum. I had missed it on the last trip to London and wanted to see it. So I went. You simply have to love a museum that gives you a flashlight because ‘some parts of the exhibit are quite dark’. They were and I used the flashlight quite a bit. But it’s a good collection of some of the finest early archaeological finds. Petrie was the first to realize the value of pottery in sites. Until he came along, the only focus was on tombs, mummies, and structures. Turns out, pottery is one of the easiest and most accurate ways to field date a site. Oops. Anyway, the collection is filled with small finds: pottery, tools, jewellery, clothes, etc… and I made the astonishing discovery that Egyptians had tweezers. I’d never really thought about it before but there were several pairs recovered. Very decorative ones too, some with precious jewels encrusted. (Just once in my life I want something that’s encrusted with jewels. That just sounds cool.) I finished with the collection and stepped out into the rain marvelling that still (!) I never remember to bring an umbrella with me. So much for the drought, where Dallas is getting more rainfall than London right now. (no really, I heard it on the radio)

I strolled the 6 blocks to the British Museum, (it wasn’t raining hard, just sort of sprinkling. Although from the people sprinting from building to cover you’d never know that. Perhaps London has Acid Rain?) and ended up going in a side door toward the back. It was confusing and when I finally found myself in the grand court, it was at the back. Not so very impressive to see it first from that angle. I managed to wind my way around to my mission: the Rosetta Stone. When last I was in the museum, I saw the stone and forgot to take a photo of it. Because I’m that s-m-a-r-t. Then I sent my father a postcard of it because he’s the one that interested me in archaeology in the first place, carefully explaining the importance of this carved piece of rock. So I wanted to get a photo of it for my Dad. (It’s funny, I travel all these places and think how lucky I am to be able to lead this life and how desperately I want my parents to be able to join me. During the day at least. They’d be crap to hit the clubs with) The problem with seeing the Rosetta stone is, everyone wants to see it and there is a perpetual crowd around it. Which wouldn’t bother me if it weren’t for the fact that 1/3 of them are reading a guidebook about the stone and another 1/3 are explaining to their companions what it is and why it’s important. Which more times than not they get wrong. Determined to get a photo in front of the stone, thus proving to my future senile self that I was indeed there, I shoved my camera into the hands of a kind looking soul and ‘gently nudged’ some pre-teens out of the way for the shot. Then I got the hell out of there and enjoyed the rest of the museum, including the Elgin marbles, which are amazing. But I spent most of my time with the mummies, most of which I used in a report at USC. It’s so strange to see something that you’ve only seen in books but have studied. It’s like some strange star sighting. Except I was more excited to see the Mummy of Hor than, say, Andy Dick or Stephen Rea.

Two
After the museum I wandered back to the hotel, conveniently located next to Covent Gardens Market. It was a nice little walk since the rain stopped just as I got into the museum. I made some tea in the room and was contentedly sipping away when my brother and his wife Awww… called to wish me a happy birthday. 4 times. Internet phone connections? Suck. 30 minutes after we gave up, I was on my way for tapas with Joe and Mark. But thanks for calling guys! All 4 times.

We had a few minutes to kill before the reservations, plus Sarah and her sister weren’t there yet, so we popped into the pub across the street from the restaurant. Hey, it was my birthday! And what I love about those first few minutes in the bar was listening to Mark and Joe bicker over who got to buy the first round. I love it when people want to buy me drinks. Especially when they fight over the task. It was like my 30th birthday all over again. Only without the asbestos and the Velvet Elvis. We ordered, we toasted and I sipped on the warmest Old Speckled Hen I’ve ever had. (That’s the name of an ale, it wasn’t a barnyard themed pub) Still though, after a selection of Guinness/Miller/Bud/Stella only in Dublin, I’m happy with anything else that is dark and beer. The girls arrived, we started taking silly photos and then it was time for dinner. Mark made reservations at Salt Yard and it was fantastic. Ok it’s not Café Hola but Dallas (ummm… beer marinated chicken…) was a little bit too far to go. I can’t really tell you what we discussed at dinner but I remember a lot of laughter. And cava. And that we were the last ones in the place. Oh, and the peppers! I’m no stranger to tapas nor to Spanish food in general, so when I ordered the stuffed peppers, I was expecting what I’ve always been served before; namely, red peppers stuffed with cheese. And since that’s how the menu described it, we were all a little taken aback when the waiter set a tray of small round green peppers in front of me. Okaaaay… I tried one and it was rather mild, flavourful, not stuffed but nice. Sarah had one, Mark had one, Mark stole the dish, and the meal progressed. Until Joe tried one. Clearly, he got the only hot pepper of the bunch and immediately started sweating, fanning his mouth, and gulping water. (Irish cuisine? Not so much on the hot side) Sarah and I rushed to his aid with cheese but he wouldn’t eat any. Mark simply sat there laughing. After much convincing Joe finally nibbled some cheese and then understood why we shoved it in front of him. Poor thing didn’t know dairy cuts pepper. I’ve never seen anyone have such a violent and physical reaction to a pepper before. (Even including you, David, at China Whitey) After he was out of danger, we all had a good laugh at his expense. Cause if you can’t laugh and point at your friends, who can you? It was a fantastic dinner and we learned that Mark is a very picky eater who cannot stand raisins, sultanas, tomatoes, cheese, and umm… I can’t remember what else but the list was long. However, since he ate just about everything in front of him, while proclaiming how awful it was, I’d say that list is pretty negotiable.

After dinner we stepped into a night club of several stories and wound our way to the very top for some disgraceful dancing. I mean spirited dancing. Yes, spirited is the word. Some drinks were had, some dancing was done. Mark served beers out of his jeans pockets and then we were spilling out on to the street in search of the next bar. Only I was done. Completely done for the night. After making my impassioned plea to go home (but, but… I got up at 5am! Whimper…) and mostly just looking like a Muppet, they graciously decided to send me back to the hotel and keep going. God bless them. They put me in a bicycle rickshaw, but not until Sarah properly interrogated the driver (Do you know where the hotel is? Are you an axe murderer?) So David the Driver wrapped me in a blanket and pedalled me home. Then he walked me to the door of the hotel, bid me a happy birthday and I somehow made it to my bed before passing out. I woke up in the very early hours of the morning and changed into my pyjamas. It was a good birthday.

Three
Saturday morning dawned at in that hazy pre-waking phase, I found myself giggling and thinking “so this is what it’s like to wake up in a good bed!”. My bed at FFS’ and at Nightmare Roommates’ houses were absolute crap and I’ve developed a sore back as a result. But I’m happy to say that my reaction was about how good my back felt and not about how hungover I felt. Because I wasn’t. Not even a little bit. I started the day with coffee in my room, looked at the time (10am) and wondered how soon I could call everyone and drag them to lunch. (presumably 2pm) Resigned to settling in for a bit, I took out my journal and started writing. About 2 pages later, the fire alarm went off. Now, having worked in hotels for a long time, I’ve been in this situation my fair share, so rather than panic I did the following:

1. Had a little more coffee and finished another page.
2. Looked out into the courtyard and into the hallway to see absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
3. Called down to the front desk who picked up and promptly hung up.
4. Decided I’d walk down to the front desk and changed into presentable clothes. My pj's are cute but...
5. Decided upon which items I’d absolutely need should the hotel actually need to be evacuated for good reason.
6. Looked out into the hallway again, no people, no smoke decided to call the front desk again.
7. Upon being told Yes, please evacuate the hotel, rounded up my passport, my journal, Oliver the digital camera, mobile phone, my money and credit cards, my coat and my new boots that I love perhaps a little too much.
8. Stopped on the way out the door to check map of where I should go in the event of a fire. About 20 feet to my right as it turns.
9. Casually wandered down the fire escape marvelling that I was the only one in this section of the hotel. Strolled out the fire door on the ground floor to see people across the street staring at me in disbelief.
10. Worked my way round to the front to find Scout Master Mark, looking very worried. Or bored. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. We hugged in relief that we’d not burned up in the Great Hotel Fire of 2006.
    

Joe however was noticeably absent. And now dear readers, you see the wisdom of my sweeping the room for items of great importance. We texted Joe, we rang Joe, we got no answer from Joe. Figuring he was on another side of the hotel without his mobile, we went for coffee to celebrate our new found appreciation for life. Scout Master Mark expressed some disbelief at me gathering my things, rolled his eyes, as he is wont to do, and generally gave me shit for not running out of the burning building. (FYI, false alarm, as most hotel fire alarms are) I explained working in the hotel industry for close to 12 years as I eyed his knapsack. His full knapsack I might add. After coffee, falafel, and brownie with still no word from Joe, we decided to go shopping. The sun was shining, we had precious little else to do and my hysterical journal reading had failed to produce even a giggle. What can I say? I’m boring. We spent the afternoon shopping on Oxford street and Joe surfaced some hours later saying that he’s slept thru most of the alarm (yeah, you read that right: slept thru the alarm) and by the time he called the front desk they told him it was nothing. So he went back to bed. Personally, I think the fire started in his room so he could meet a hot fire fighter. He joined us for a stroll down London’s version of Rodeo Drive. There’s a difference between old money and new money and Rodeo Drive is very new money. It was a charming section of town that I’ll never spend money in. Except for the chocolate shop. Oh that was wonderful. I stepped in and before I could think, I heard myself saying ‘It’s worth coming in just for the smell’, which made the staff laugh and nod their heads. And not in the ‘placate the crazy American’ way. I bought some chocolate, congratulated myself on not spending too much and then converted it from pounds to dollars. (Extolling of slowly controlled breathing here) Ah well, it’s my birthday, right?

Four
After limping back to the hotel (still love the boots but they are perhaps a little too high for shopping. Perfect for evacuating a hotel though) we had 30 minutes to freshen up and change for dinner. Scout Master made reservations at Dans le Noir for us figuring, at the very least, it would be a good story later. It is and the food was good too.

After hailing a cab (which involved running in heels, not tripping, and that car behind us honking instead of just going round) we arrived at the restaurant to find Sarah already into her first drink. She was a nervous wreck and trying desperately to calm her nerves. Here’s why: your waiter is blind and you eat in the dark. Literally. We had a round to steady nerves and go over the rules: no lighted watches, mobile phones, or whatever else may throw a bit of light; no getting up from the table without your waiter to guide you; no loud raucous noise (oops); store everything in the lockers provided so you have nothing to carry into the dark room. We ordered the entire meal, including the wine and then lined up single file behind Nita our waitress. With hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us (and thank you guy behind me for that shoulder massage), she lead the way thru 3 sets of curtains into the main dining room. When they say dark they mean it; absolutely no sight whatsoever. Waving my hand in front of my face, I accidentally hit my nose because I couldn’t see my hand. Things that happened/were observed in the dark room:

1. The people seated next to us had lighted hands on their watches that made both Sarah and I dizzy as they moved their arms. We had them remove the watches and immediately, we both remarked “that’s so much better!”
2. Never order a nice little Sancerre first. Too expensive. Start with a bottle of water so that when your companion pours it all over the table instead of into the glass you don’t have to double your bar bill in order for everyone at the table to have a glass of wine.
3. When deprived of sight, the mind tends to animate things for you. We all remarked how we painted each others movements during dinner. In my mind, Joe spent most of dinner looking around the room (with his napkin on his head as it turned out), Mark needed to sit up straighter and Sarah was wearing a different dress. And we were the only ones in the room, which I’d also animated. Amazingly it was all done in black and sort of resembled back stage at a theatre.
4. Mark ordered the Chefs Blind menu, where the chef makes anything he feels like for your dinner. The waitress started by asking if there was anything he wouldn’t eat and after the laughter just sort of wandered off with a random list of items (see discussion on tapas above) His starter arrived and after a bite or two, he reported that it contained croutons. That’s all he could identify. We never found out what it was. Funnily enough, when asked what his main course was, it too had croutons.
5. Toasting with wines glasses takes much coordination when you cannot see the other members of your party.
6. So does passing things.
7. Although she knows who Stevie Wonder is, Sarah had no idea what Mark was talking about when he said he was weaving his head.
8. It is much easier (and safer) to eat with your fingers.
9. After about 10 minutes of “isn’t this weird?” it ceases to be so. The room was much louder than any of us had anticipated. So much for worrying about Mark’s loud laugh. And Sarah’s. And the loud American. Joe was ok though.
10. It is more blinding and disorienting to come in from the light than to go back out into the light.
11. This is the only restaurant where you can successfully swap your empty dessert plate for your friends poached pear (no pun intended) while she is in the restroom. Bonus points if you can do it without giggling like a 13 year old girl. Extra bonus points if it takes longer than 5 minutes for her to figure it out. Bastards…
12. Both Sarah and I remarked the rest of the night how obnoxious and blinding light was after that experience. Couldn’t they dim those just a little bit?
    

We had our coffee in the bar, took inventory: no one with tuna in their hair, no spills down the front of our clothes, no chocolate smeared anywhere it shouldn’t be. We paid up, waved to the Seeing Eye dogs behind the bar and then caught a cab while discussing how that was really a great experience but none of us would do it on a regular basis. And Mark pretended he ate with his silverware the whole time. Fa’ Quello…

Five
Speeding thru London in a Black Cab to a club watching TV. Wait, what? There was a little TV in the back seat, much like you’d find in the new fancy 777 airplanes. And I had the controls. Couldn’t tell you what we watched but I remember putting it on the comedy channel. It seemed appropriate. When we stopped I stepped out of la-la land into a whole different sort of La La Land: Gay bar. But they had Newcastle Brown Ale in the really big bottles and a punch bowl full of free condoms, so how could I complain? We met the ugliest drag queen I’ve ever seen, met God’s Gift, and then had to slam the beers down because pubs in Britain close at 11:00. Sigh… We ended up in the O Bar which wasn’t much to speak of. We tried to get upstairs but no dice. Downstairs was a frat party that none of us wanted to join. So across the street to some unnamed place we went (freedom? fabulous? Dunno) Instantly better though. Space, nice music, chandeliers everywhere (and we know how I feel about chandeliers) and the bar staff was stocked with Cabana Boy Wanna Be’s. (we all know how I feel about Cabana Boys too.) We had some drinks and then decided to retire to the disco room downstairs and tear things up. I dubbed it the disco room because, well, the ceiling was covered with disco balls. Seriously. Close to 30 of them in varying sizes bouncing colured lights into the chandelier wall sconces. I was in heaven with all that bright shininess happening. There were some beers, there were some shots (baby Guinness, uuugh!) and then there was the pole-dancing dance off. Which sounds a lot squickier than it was. All these gay guys dancing round this strippers pole, mercifully not stripping, and really trying to out-pole dance each other. Remember the Model Walk Off in Zoolander? Like that. It was hysterical and we had a front row seat. Really, it’s just disgusting what people will do in order to not go home alone. And then the Irish took over the pole. Knowing that we were all going home together, the earnest side of seducing strangers took a back seat to the farcical side of seducing, um, no one. But we made ourselves laaaaaaugh… Honestly, I’m amazed no one asked us to leave. And then I met Clamper Boy. Technically, he’s a lawyer, but I decided he was lying about that to pick up chicks and re-employed him as a parking inspector who goes around and clamps cars. He didn’t argue and then he bought me a mojito, which I drank, which should tell you something about my mental state at that point in the night. I hate mint. Mint is of course an essential component of a mojito. After talking at the upstairs bar for a bit, I brought him back to the table and introduced him as my British Boyfriend (again, he didn’t argue) and then Sarah re-christened him as the Mojito Drinking MF. Yeah, it was late. We closed down that club (or perhaps they did ask us to leave) and the decision was made to put everyone in bicycle rickshaws and go to The End. That’s the name of the club one of the drivers (sadly not David the Driver) recommended to us. Mark, Joe, and Sarah went right in leaving me with Clamper Boy to discuss whether or not he’d come in with us. He insisted that it was a squeamish nightmare in there and we’d hate it. He was right. It was the worst part of late night clubbing. Fog machines going into overdrive, stoned people standing watching the more energetic stoned people dance, loud bad music, too many people… uugh. We had a drink and the decision was made to get out of there. I went home, the others made a late night stop at McDonalds (which should give you insight into their state of mind at that point in time) and there was some talk about Sarah being spotted running down the street in size 10 mens athletic trainers with Joe behind her in heels shouting ‘give them baaaaaaack!’ . But. You know how rumours start.

Six
Morning dawned because that’s what it does. Checkout time was 12:00. Check in time at the airport was 4:30. I managed to make it to the front desk at 12:35, fully showered, packed and looking reasonably presentable. Mark sitting in the lobby reading the business journal pretending to be a businessman. Joe appeared shortly after I did and joined the queue waiting to check out. Giggling like a 13 year old again, and standing a distance from me, I asked him what was wrong in that sort of tone where you’re laughing but you don’t know why, you just know something funny is afoot. Stage whisper: I’m still booooozed! Ah, I’m laughing right now at the thought of it. We checked out and decided to go for brunch. It wasn’t pretty. Joe felt awful by the time we got there. I felt awful by the time our meals arrived. Mark felt ashamed he had to travel with us. Still though, not bad food if only it weren’t for the fact that the entire first half of the restaurant was smoking. And that we had to walk thru it. Twice. 12 years I’ve been in cities with smoking bans. I just can’t handle it anymore.

We left and decided to find a sidewalk café. Mark wanted a drink, Joe wanted hair of the dog and I wanted Coke and Advil. We found one such place and seated ourselves in the dying sun. “Can we still talk with fake British accents when we go home?” I asked. Awkward pause… “Sure.” Answered the waiter. Yeah… didn’t realize he was there. He asked me to lay my fake accent on him and decided that it was actually very good and that I sounded like a native Londoner. (Take that Dan and Melissa!) The café did revive us, but not for what was in store to make it to the airport. Running late, we couldn’t find a cab to take us to the tube station so we had to sort of power walk to it, which was fine. The part that wasn’t fine was sprinting thru Victoria Station to the Gatwick Express knowing that we only had 3 minutes to get there. I almost tackled Joe and I know a crowd of people scattered like pigeons when we barrelled thru. We made it thankfully because had we not, we’d have been screwed and buying one way tickets to Dublin. And I’m sure that would have been expensive. Not that any of us had any spare cash at that point. London? Dear God Expensive. It makes New York look reasonable. So we sat on the quietest train ever, steaming to the airport, ready to be back home and over Birthday 2006.

Epilouge
The plane landed, luggage was retrieved, good-byes were said, battle cries were shouted one last time. (Orange Sherrrrrrrbet) The next morning I woke up with a cough. And a fever. I called in sick on Wednesday. On Sunday, I coughed and scared a little boy crossing the street. I sound like I have TB. Let this be a lesson: London is bad for your health. Choose Italy! I’ve never been sick in Italy. I think it’s the tomatoes Mark.

Photos will be posted after consent release forms are singed. By which I mean, when I learn to work my camera. Probably some time this weekend, which is another bank holiday weekend. See you all on Tuesday.