I’m UK, You’re UK

Sorry to leave you hanging. It’s a lot like when you have a show that you keep forgetting to watch but you forget to tune in and then they cancel it (alas “Pushing Daisies” I hardly knew ye). So, while the trip is indeed complete, the story of it is not (spoiler alert: I make it back alive). Now, where did we leave off? Ahh yes, my wonderful escape from Paris and near fight with a Frenchman. Wait, let me back up.

It was early on Saturday morning. Seems like forever ago but it was just a couple weeks back. The plan was that I would train into London, meet my friend Brad whom I was going to be staying with, get his keys and then I was going to crash while he went to a soccer game (football to the locals, footie to drunk locals and wannabes). Knowing I had built in nap time, I ended up not sleeping the night before. Never a good idea. When I found myself at the train station trying to get my tickets out of the machine, I wasn’t mentally prepared enough for a conversation, much less an altercation.

I was standing there with my passport and credit cards in my hand trying to get my tickets out when some drunk frenchie came up and started talking to me. I had my headphones in so I couldn’t really hear him, but I could make out the gist of his query – give me money. I gave him the hand, you know like a good audience member of the Ricki Lake show. Is that still on? Anyway, usually waving someone off is good enough. Not for this frog. He inched closer, entirely too much into my personal space and started saying more things. I was annoyed, not just because it was rude, not just because I hadn’t slept, and not just because I had too much crap in my hands and not enough hands on my bags. Mostly I was annoyed because LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. That was my mindset. And that’s probably why I pushed him, which hindsight tells me was not the best idea. He pushed me back and got ever so much closer, hurling French expletives and waving his arms about. So, I did what any red-blooded testosterone fueled man would do in this situation. I yelled “SECURITY” at the top of my lungs.

It was enough to drive him off, but not enough to get anyone else in the vicinity to give a shit. No matter, he was gone and I was free to hit the train to London. Oh, if only life were that simple. I don’t have the energy to relive the longest travel day, but I’ll shorthand it for you. The two and a half hour trip took me nearly eight hours. I didn’t sleep. It wasn’t fun. But, I did get the trip paid for (can you imagine if the airlines gave you a full refund for a delay?). Honestly, the time didn’t matter one I got my three hundy back. I kind of wish I would’ve met more delays on my trip. I could’ve saved some money.

England was amazing despite being entirely too wet and getting dark just after lunch. I was only supposed to stay a week but because of a snafu with my airline, ended up staying to and venturing out to little side trips. In the effort of saving time, and energy, I’m going to cover the side trips now, and the bulk of London next time. Incidentally, the first pic is in Hyde Park in London. But more on that later.

Brighton

I’m sure it’s shockingly new info, but did you know it rains a lot in England? In Brighton I met up with Canadian Mike of Budapest and Luxembourg fame. What was supposed to be a simple day of fun and frivolity instantly became a soaking wet pile of wet when we got caught in a downpour. We were so wet that we left puddles behind everywhere. At the first bar, at lunch, in the theater when we saw Bond. The night we spent at his friends house, hunched in front of the fire place, me in a stranger’s pants, he with his socks in the fireplace.

It was really wet.

Because of all the wetness (did I mention that it was wet?) I wasn’t able to get any real pictures of Brighton, which I hear is lovely. I managed the above shot on the way to the train station.

Bath

I lucked out when I went to Bath a few days later. Nice, sunny afternoon. This time I met up with my friend Ben whom I met in India. The great thing about the way my trip was organized was that all the Europeans I met on the road were now home and hospitable.

Ben gave me a tour of Bath, at least as much as he could before it got dark at three. Bath is a neat little university town, founded by Romans. It was once a prime vacation spot. And still is, according to our cabbie.

Where all the rich people live. Apparently Streisand has a home here. Thankfully I didn’t see her.

Ben and I mostly did a tour of bars in Bath. We hit upscale joints and dives, my personal favorite.

Ben. He helped me with my accent. There’s entirely too many british accents for me to keep straight. Ben’s a northerner, from York. He’s only in Bath for grad school. I tried to imitate his accent, but it just came out some mishmash of faux-posh brit slang. Like Madonna’s accent.

The moon looked really cool but the night sky and simple camera didn’t quite capture it.

Dover

Dover was windy. When my friend Brad and I were trying to figure out where to go, I saw the listing for Dover. White cliffs and a castle? Sold. The wind though nearly blew me off into the water. And that’s not as big of an exaggeration as you might think.

Brad, despite having an address in London, is trying his best to out-tourist me, with the camera strapped to his chest, the hat, and of course the map.

Climbing leads to null gravity?

I don’t think they’re much of a secret anymore. Unfortunately we didn’t get to see much of the secret wartime tunnels because of the need for a tour. I imagine they’re a lot like the secret wartime tunnels I saw in New Zealand. Only, you know, more British.

The diagram of the secret wartime tunnels. I want to just say that all the time. Secret wartime tunnels. It just sounds fun. Secret wartime tunnels. I think everyone should try and fit that into conversation today.

See? Windy. And look at my formerly bald head.

My camera not knowing how to process the night sky once again gives me art I get to take credit for.

The Cotswolds

The next trip was to the Cotswolds, a rural area of England that provided a nice escape from the the big city dynamics of London. Brad and I hopped a train for Morton-in-Marsh and hiked from there through to Bourton-on-the-Hill and back. The towns here had the best names. Everyone was in or on something.

I saw this sign and then immediately to the right I saw…

Talk about truth in advertising.

The Cotswolds were wet, okay, but more so they were muddy. My shoes would not be recovering from this trip.

Climbing up to the high-hide like they had in Jurassic Park: the Lost World.

But, unfortunately, England is not lousy with dinosaurs.

This is what Brad and I refer to as the Incredible Hulk walk, like the end of the old TV series. I haven’t seen either of the new movies, but I remember that slow depressing stroll Bill Bixby took every week.

And that was it for the side trips. I tried to make it up to Stratford-Upon-Avon to feed my Shakespeare jones, but didn’t make it. Still, spending the last week of my journey in London was nice. But what happened to my supposed final stop of Ireland you ask? Well, I’ll get into that next time too.