On to the Next One

The fact that I'm starting this entry at 10PM is a good indication that today was fairly eventful.

Or . . . that I'm a big re-tard that has become a homebody while abroad in a new and exciting country.

Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

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We began the day with a 4-hour coach tour of the whole swath of scenic, touristy photo-hot-spots in London -- a castle and moat (of which I've forgotten the name of, you can't blame me though, right?), the River Thames, Westminster Abbey, Parliament, and Buckingham Palace. It wasn't meant to be all that comprehensive but rather a brief overview of what to look for in our future treks to these sites. As much as I'd like to elaborate on these places, I really can't offer much insight when only given 15-20 minutes at each site to essentially freeze my hot dog into a popsicle while taking contrived photos such as this one:

Me, glum as an L.A. bum, in front of Westminster Abbey.

Our guide for today's tour as well as for the rest of the semester's London excursions is a charmingly pithy granny named Angie. Frankly, she looks and sounds like she's done one too many semesters of catering to inattentive American college students. But I appreciate her candor and wit; little lady has a whole lot of spunk. I'd like to sit down with her and have her give me the real nitty gritty on Londontown, but every time I glance her a caring smile - one that attempts to communicate, "I like what you have to say! I'm listening, Angie!" she, in her perpetual state of malaise, offers only a jaded grin.

Poor Angie at the helm.

I returned from the coach ride to our flat sore from the cold, a cold which penetrates deep into the bones of my body and which nips the tip of my nose and cheeks. Once you open the door to our flat, a huge backdraft of warm air hits you in the face, reminding you to shed your layers of clothes. For lunch, I shared a delectable cardboard-textured Sainsbury's pizza with my roommate Mike B. and drank a paltry glass of British milk. Satiated, I took a brief nap curled up next to the radiator positioned, fortunately for me, right beside my bed. I had a couple of weird R.E.M. dreams about former acquaintances and then we were off again to explore London some more.

The fine ladies from 19 Bedford Pl. accompanied us and suggested we could do some excellent window shopping at Harrod's, the British emporium that claims to sell everything under the sun (for a price, of course). In the 80s, the old-Hollywood actress Ingrid Bergman commissioned Harrod's to plan her funeral. Supposedly the service was as lavish as she was. As I strolled past the ancient Egyptian facades and ornaments, I wondered if this was the store that Michael Jackson had famously asked to purchase the Elephant Man's bones. Then I wondered if I could purchase Michael Jackson's bones. Anyway, I digress.

The mad house is fucked-up ridiculous. It makes Hannah B.'s dearly beloved Nordstrom look like the Crenshaw Swap Meet. It is a 7-story building featuring 9-foot Swarovski crystal chandeliers, an entire room for selling gourmet chocolates, rare gems and rocks, a pool table previously owned by the Beatles, antique furniture, modern furniture, elephants and monkeys, clothing from every reputable designer in the world... A whole lot of dumb shit for people who are stupidly rich... I mean the hyperbole simply sees no end in sight.

Harrod's

£5,000 cupcake

Swavroski Crystal Chandelier

We bought some stupid chocolates and finally left the labyrinth just in time to hit up a pub. When we first arrived in London, we mistakenly assumed that pubs in England operated similar to bars in L.A. In reality, most of them close by 11PM. We checked out this pub called Devonshire Arms in Piccadilly Circus around 6PM and were finally able to have our lips taste English beer since arriving 4 days ago.

I had a pint of London's Pride. Smooth and malty -- honestly nothing special. We sat around and shot the shit, not surprisingly, about a bunch of shit: Pete Carroll demoting himself to the Seahawks, our career prospects, how fucking expensive this city is, and plans for traveling Europe.

Those last two topics are actually one and and the same. It's become a common point of discussion among us kids -- we must live in near abject poverty in order to travel as much as we can in the forthcoming weeks and months. Mike and I, both of us with humble budgets, are taking this point to heart. For dinner I ate rubbery spaghetti noodles topped with Chili slop. Tomorrow, I may have the same. But soon!!!... I will be traveling all across the European continent, making new friends along the way.

Consider that as an American I've been eating bastardized Italian food all my life and now, for the first time, I get an opportunity to gorge on authentic pastas and gelato in Florence. Tonight, a visit to Dublin, Ireland for St. Patty's Day and an Amsterdam trip materialized. Shit, bring on the slop and the precipitous weight-loss. I don't give a damn. It's on!