From the moment humans beings are born, we're biologically programmed to avoid potentially dangerous situations. We fear heights because of the danger of falling. We fear loud noises because of the imminent violence which may ensue. We fear the dark because of the danger lurking where we cannot see. At the same time, humans are educated to avoid those dangers which are not instinctive. Our parents teach us to fear strangers, drugs and even sex. What evil people. . . But no matter how much effort we put into avoiding these situations, sometimes we fall into the fire.
Unfortunately, the fact that this is written means that I'm alive (fortunate, if you're me), so one can only assume that I've survived - or that heaven allows me access to my blog. However, after tonight, I cannot be sure that I'll ever be safe in London again. Pause for the moment of melodrama.
Tonight started the way any Monday night starts - with me thinking about where I'm going to drink. I had spent the day with a friend from home who was visiting, and returned just in time to check what everyone had on the agenda for the night. Much to my dismay, schoolwork, nothing and watching movies were the the most frequent replies which were returned to my inquisition. Then came the text message from Vadim.
Vadim: (text) Come to Marble Arch at 10:30
After a brief period of contemplation, I responded that I would be there.
A hour later, I was standing outside the Marble Arch. After a few text messages back and forth between Vadim and myself, I learned that I was to walk to a place (which I cannot name) about five minutes down the road. Without the slightest bit of skepticism, I proceeded.
I arrived in front of (the place which cannot be named), realizing it was a restaurant. Although nobody was inside, several groups of Arabs were outside on the patio, though Vadim (Russian) and his friends were nowhere to be seen. Checking my text messages again, I concluded that this was, in fact, the correct place, so I proceeded to walk inside and ask one of the waiters.
Me: Hi, I'm supposed to be meeting some friends here.
Waiter: No English (walks away to the back room and comes out with another man)
Man: Can I help you?
Me: Yeah, I'm supposed to be meeting some friends of mine here.
Man: Are you American?
Me: Umm, yes?
Man: No Americans in here. Who do you look for?
Me: Vadim ________, a Russian.
Man: Ah, follow me.
(The man escorts me to the back of the room to a door that reads, word for word "Do not enter." He opens the door, where I immediately inhale the strong scent of flavored smoke and hear the vibrant sound of flutes, tambourines and some guitar-like instruments.)
Man: Downstairs.
I slowly proceed down the stairs and hear the door quickly close behind me. I hesitate for a second, contemplating going back out the door, when I stupidly decide that I should see what's downstairs. As I walk down the stairs, I feel the adrenaline rushing within me as the scent grows heavier and the music rings louder. As I reach the final step, I turn to see the room I knew would be my last.
The lone room was quite small and dank. Worn, wood floors were accompanied by rusted chairs, several pairs of shoes and a litter of shisha bongs, and dark, crimson red wells lined with arabic paintings encompassed this morbid den. The ceiling, which at one time I'm sure had been white, was now stained a dark gray. Decrepit, square tables scattered about the room were burdened by peoples elbows, cups of tea and occasional plates of food. Worn booths surrounded the perimeter. An Arabic man standing in the center of the room was swinging a bowl full of hot coals. Two other Arabic men were seated behind a desk a few feet in front of me to my left. I took a step into the room and looked around. Several sets of condescending eyes were fixated on my from the men in the room as if warning me to turn back. I took another step forward. To the right of me, a table of four young Arabic men were playing dominoes. Not the enjoyable, tip-them-over dominoes, but the type were money was made and lost on the table depending on the order at which a player positioned them. I noticed a T.V mounted on the wall, where Arabic music videos were playing, and the news was being displayed in Arabic writing. I knew I was the only American who had ever been in this place.
I scanned the room and saw Vadim and four of his friends. I approached the table, was welcomed and took a seat. Minutes later a shisha was presented to me from one of the men working. I declined, where I was then returned an accusatory glance. The man took the shisha and walked to a back room, where he returned minutes later with a few cups of tea. I obliged.
Over the next two hours we discussed many things. Women, politics, countries, customs, nearly anything and everything. I was told that this place was an underground (literally and figuratively) shisha bar, due to the smoking ban in restaurants. I described my initial shock and fear, which received a round of laughter due to my naivety.
Russian: Muslims don't hate all Americans. Only the ones who didn't vote for Obama.
Silence is a true friend who never betrays.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Why yelling fuck the police is a bad thing to say . . . to the police
On Thursday night, I found myself having one last pint (my second of the night) to conclude what, thus far, had been an unbearably dull evening. First round at a pub called "The Goblet" (yes, it is likely exactly what you're imagining - drab, quiet, dimly-lit with less than a handful of locals drowning whatever miseries their minds would conjure) which lasted a painstaking 15 minutes. Of our group of five, only one enjoyed the lifeless atmosphere we had stumbled into. The remainder counted the seconds of life which were irrevocably wasting away as we sat inside this domesticated dungeon.
Not surprisingly, leaving seemed to bring back a glimmer of hope that the night could still yield a potentially rewarding end. That is, until the one who enjoyed The Goblet decided that the solitary solemnness was a picture perfect ending to a night. (I'd like to mention that this guy brought a XBox 360 with him to London . . . Take a minute to grasp the idiocy of that fact . . . and person).
Since he'll undoubtedly come up again, he will henceforth be known as GeoWhiz. I chose that name for this reason: Riding down an escalator with a group of guys, GeoWhiz decides he's going to make a move on a couple of cute girls in front of him. Here is the ensuing conversation:
GeoWhiz: Hey, how are you ladies.
Girls: Fine, thank you.
GeoWhiz: You have an accent (no shit Sherlock). Where are you guys from?
Girls: Luxembourg
GeoWhiz: What's Luxembourg?
Girl: The country? (looking at him with a confused daze)
GeoWhiz: (reciprocating that look, although with a different thought process occuring) Where is it? Is it in Asia?
Girl: No, it's in Europe.
GeoWhiz: Oh, well I'm from America. Have you ever heard of that? (I think he was being serious when he asked that question)
Girl: (Turning away) Yeah.
(I bet that girl has never appreciated the end of a moving walkway so much as she did right then and there)
Now, of course I could have used that as an opportunity to approach the girls and comment on the idiot who didn't know what Luxembourg was, shared a laugh at his expense and have built rapport at the expense of GeoWhiz's self-esteem, but I didn't. Why, I have no idea. I guess I was content with standing there, laughing by myself that day. Anyway, back to standing outside The Goblet.
Now after having been socially and emotionally drained for the duration of a drink inside the Goblet, it's no surprise that the group was having reservations about going to another bar. After a minute or two of contemplation, one guy and myself agreed to head to The Angel (a bar with a moderately excitable social life) for a drink before heading home.
Upon arriving at The Angel, I scan the crowd. Much to my dismay, the lack of enthusiasm leads me to believe that the imminent end of my night is near. I order a pint. We're discussing whether or not prostitution should be legal when I hear some gleeful shouts behind me. I turn around to see a group of five guys, presumably at a similar age to our own, entering the pub. I decide the night's not over yet.
A half an hour later, we're walking with Leon and Will to their student union for a party. We're warned not to expect much.
Leon: "It won't be too exciting, but it's cheap drinks and 80's music until two."
I'm content.
I can hear the music blaring, although I don't recognize the tune. We have our first round of shots. Tequila and a lemon. Another song comes on I don't recognize, despite the obvious fact the artist is an American. We take our next round of shots. Tequila and a lime. Apparently we're debating whether a lime or lemon is better after the shot. A few more rounds and the bartender says they're out of lemons. We order tequila and an orange. Yes, an orange. Not surprisingly, nobody wants any more tequila after that. Next round is jager. Another song comes on that I don't know. I make my way towards the DJ, when I see a cute blonde girl dressed in black tights with a yellow tank top and neon pink shoes. After a moment of contemplation, I decide that the shitty music can continue for the duration of my conversation.
Approaching the girl, I notice a razor-blade shaped pink, glittery star painted on her right eye which leads me to believe she must be dressed up as someone in particular.
Me: "Who are you supposed to be?"
Bailey: "I'm Bailey."
Me: (Confused) "Who's Bailey?"
Bailey: "ME! What's your name?"
(I decide this girl will be fun to fuck with)
Me: "Reese"
Bailey: "Well it's nice to meet you Reese. What do you do?"
Me: "Telephone"
Bailey: "What?"
Me: "Ice Cream"
Bailey: "I don't get it, where are you from?"
Me: "The future."
Bailey: (laughs) "Ok, well why are you here?"
Me: "To sleep with Sarah so she can have a kid and he can fight evil machines and save the world."
Bailey: (Obviously hasn't seen the Terminator) "Who's Sarah?"
(Ya Mo B There comes on. I decide it's time to to focus on fixing the music problem)
Me: "Come with me if you want to live."
Bailey: "Huh?"
Me: (In my terminator voice) "I'll be back."
I make my way towards the DJ, and see Leon and the guy I came out with working together to stimulate the whiskey economy. Specifically, good ole mr. Daniels. When I get behind the table where the DJ has his equipment set up, I immediately understand why I'm not recognizing any of the songs. The DJ was a hybrid of the nerd wearing a sweatervest during a chess tournament and the World of Warcraft fanatic who remains remarkably skinny despite consuming only hotpockets and energy drinks.
Me: (With very little hope) "You uh. . . big 80's fan?"
DJ: "No."
Me: "You play any Journey yet tonight?"
DJ: "What's Journey?"
Nice job whoever picked this guy
Me: "It's just a small, local band from back home. Nevermind. Listen, some tier 3 pants are going to be dropping on Molton Core later and your paladin could probably use them. I'll take over from here" (Thank you roommate in college who played World Of Warcraft)
DJ: "You play WOW, too?"
Fuck my life
Me: "Step aside young one"
Thanks to the six shots of tequila, I wasn't too interested in how this guy felt about my taking over as the DJ. Unfortutely, I had no idea how idea how to run his equipment, and after turning the volume off entirely, I was asked to stay away from the DJ table for the rest of the night. Fuck it, keep playing Ya Mo B There (the only song I heard that I was familiar with, sadly).
I went back over to join the guys I came with and was informed that Leon finished his pitcher of JD and Coke first, making him the drinking champ of the night. The only problem with him being the champ was that it meant he was, as they say in England, proper fucking pissed (translated: very, very drunk).
Somewhere near 2:30AM those of us remaining inside were forced to leave. Bailey came up to me, asking where we were heading next. "I have to go destroy the mogwai because my roommate fed them after midnight," I told her. "Right . . . Well it was nice meeting you Reese. Good luck with Sarah." She turns and walks away. I smile and look at my buddy. To say that he was baffled would be a huge understatment. He looked like he just heard me bust out in Japanese. Hmm, actually, didn't Gizmo come from the old guy in Japan? "Umm, what the hell, man?" "It's an 80's party, I'm just being from the 80's."
In the meantime, Leon, noticing a police van (the police drive in vans with about 4 officers in them around here) decides it would be a good idea to start singing "Fuck the Police" as loud as he could. They had the windows down. They open the doors, get out of the vehicle and start walking towards us. I come to the conclusion that they're not impressed by Leon's vocal abilities, or not amused by his choice of a tune. Probably the latter.
Police Officer: "What's that song, mate?"
Leon: "I'm sorry, officer, I'm just drunk."
Police: "Yeah, and making a fucking ass outta yourself."
Me: "We're sorry sir, we're taking him home right now."
Police: You better, cause it's going to be you or us."
Fortunately for Leon and his friends, they're from England and are apparently used to this sort of thing. They assure us that they'll be fine getting him home and start walking down the street. I watch Leon kick a cone over, and the police, noticing also, approach him and tell him he's got one last chance. Deciding that walking with these guys might be a mistake, my buddy and I fall back about 50 meters. The police get back into their van and drive off. Less than a minute later, I see Leon dancing and shouting, and of course kicking constructing signs and more cones down. Less than another minute later, I watch the police van drive past us. One of the officers jumps out and jogs up to Leon, turning him around and pressing him up against a wall. Another officer gets out and pulls a set of handcuffs from his waist. A drunken fit of apologies emerges from Leon's mouth for 30 seconds, maybe longer. I don't know for sure because after 30 seconds he's inside the Police van being driven away. Mental note to self, don't sing.
Not surprisingly, leaving seemed to bring back a glimmer of hope that the night could still yield a potentially rewarding end. That is, until the one who enjoyed The Goblet decided that the solitary solemnness was a picture perfect ending to a night. (I'd like to mention that this guy brought a XBox 360 with him to London . . . Take a minute to grasp the idiocy of that fact . . . and person).
Since he'll undoubtedly come up again, he will henceforth be known as GeoWhiz. I chose that name for this reason: Riding down an escalator with a group of guys, GeoWhiz decides he's going to make a move on a couple of cute girls in front of him. Here is the ensuing conversation:
GeoWhiz: Hey, how are you ladies.
Girls: Fine, thank you.
GeoWhiz: You have an accent (no shit Sherlock). Where are you guys from?
Girls: Luxembourg
GeoWhiz: What's Luxembourg?
Girl: The country? (looking at him with a confused daze)
GeoWhiz: (reciprocating that look, although with a different thought process occuring) Where is it? Is it in Asia?
Girl: No, it's in Europe.
GeoWhiz: Oh, well I'm from America. Have you ever heard of that? (I think he was being serious when he asked that question)
Girl: (Turning away) Yeah.
(I bet that girl has never appreciated the end of a moving walkway so much as she did right then and there)
Now, of course I could have used that as an opportunity to approach the girls and comment on the idiot who didn't know what Luxembourg was, shared a laugh at his expense and have built rapport at the expense of GeoWhiz's self-esteem, but I didn't. Why, I have no idea. I guess I was content with standing there, laughing by myself that day. Anyway, back to standing outside The Goblet.
Now after having been socially and emotionally drained for the duration of a drink inside the Goblet, it's no surprise that the group was having reservations about going to another bar. After a minute or two of contemplation, one guy and myself agreed to head to The Angel (a bar with a moderately excitable social life) for a drink before heading home.
Upon arriving at The Angel, I scan the crowd. Much to my dismay, the lack of enthusiasm leads me to believe that the imminent end of my night is near. I order a pint. We're discussing whether or not prostitution should be legal when I hear some gleeful shouts behind me. I turn around to see a group of five guys, presumably at a similar age to our own, entering the pub. I decide the night's not over yet.
A half an hour later, we're walking with Leon and Will to their student union for a party. We're warned not to expect much.
Leon: "It won't be too exciting, but it's cheap drinks and 80's music until two."
I'm content.
I can hear the music blaring, although I don't recognize the tune. We have our first round of shots. Tequila and a lemon. Another song comes on I don't recognize, despite the obvious fact the artist is an American. We take our next round of shots. Tequila and a lime. Apparently we're debating whether a lime or lemon is better after the shot. A few more rounds and the bartender says they're out of lemons. We order tequila and an orange. Yes, an orange. Not surprisingly, nobody wants any more tequila after that. Next round is jager. Another song comes on that I don't know. I make my way towards the DJ, when I see a cute blonde girl dressed in black tights with a yellow tank top and neon pink shoes. After a moment of contemplation, I decide that the shitty music can continue for the duration of my conversation.
Approaching the girl, I notice a razor-blade shaped pink, glittery star painted on her right eye which leads me to believe she must be dressed up as someone in particular.
Me: "Who are you supposed to be?"
Bailey: "I'm Bailey."
Me: (Confused) "Who's Bailey?"
Bailey: "ME! What's your name?"
(I decide this girl will be fun to fuck with)
Me: "Reese"
Bailey: "Well it's nice to meet you Reese. What do you do?"
Me: "Telephone"
Bailey: "What?"
Me: "Ice Cream"
Bailey: "I don't get it, where are you from?"
Me: "The future."
Bailey: (laughs) "Ok, well why are you here?"
Me: "To sleep with Sarah so she can have a kid and he can fight evil machines and save the world."
Bailey: (Obviously hasn't seen the Terminator) "Who's Sarah?"
(Ya Mo B There comes on. I decide it's time to to focus on fixing the music problem)
Me: "Come with me if you want to live."
Bailey: "Huh?"
Me: (In my terminator voice) "I'll be back."
I make my way towards the DJ, and see Leon and the guy I came out with working together to stimulate the whiskey economy. Specifically, good ole mr. Daniels. When I get behind the table where the DJ has his equipment set up, I immediately understand why I'm not recognizing any of the songs. The DJ was a hybrid of the nerd wearing a sweatervest during a chess tournament and the World of Warcraft fanatic who remains remarkably skinny despite consuming only hotpockets and energy drinks.
Me: (With very little hope) "You uh. . . big 80's fan?"
DJ: "No."
Me: "You play any Journey yet tonight?"
DJ: "What's Journey?"
Nice job whoever picked this guy
Me: "It's just a small, local band from back home. Nevermind. Listen, some tier 3 pants are going to be dropping on Molton Core later and your paladin could probably use them. I'll take over from here" (Thank you roommate in college who played World Of Warcraft)
DJ: "You play WOW, too?"
Fuck my life
Me: "Step aside young one"
Thanks to the six shots of tequila, I wasn't too interested in how this guy felt about my taking over as the DJ. Unfortutely, I had no idea how idea how to run his equipment, and after turning the volume off entirely, I was asked to stay away from the DJ table for the rest of the night. Fuck it, keep playing Ya Mo B There (the only song I heard that I was familiar with, sadly).
I went back over to join the guys I came with and was informed that Leon finished his pitcher of JD and Coke first, making him the drinking champ of the night. The only problem with him being the champ was that it meant he was, as they say in England, proper fucking pissed (translated: very, very drunk).
Somewhere near 2:30AM those of us remaining inside were forced to leave. Bailey came up to me, asking where we were heading next. "I have to go destroy the mogwai because my roommate fed them after midnight," I told her. "Right . . . Well it was nice meeting you Reese. Good luck with Sarah." She turns and walks away. I smile and look at my buddy. To say that he was baffled would be a huge understatment. He looked like he just heard me bust out in Japanese. Hmm, actually, didn't Gizmo come from the old guy in Japan? "Umm, what the hell, man?" "It's an 80's party, I'm just being from the 80's."
In the meantime, Leon, noticing a police van (the police drive in vans with about 4 officers in them around here) decides it would be a good idea to start singing "Fuck the Police" as loud as he could. They had the windows down. They open the doors, get out of the vehicle and start walking towards us. I come to the conclusion that they're not impressed by Leon's vocal abilities, or not amused by his choice of a tune. Probably the latter.
Police Officer: "What's that song, mate?"
Leon: "I'm sorry, officer, I'm just drunk."
Police: "Yeah, and making a fucking ass outta yourself."
Me: "We're sorry sir, we're taking him home right now."
Police: You better, cause it's going to be you or us."
Fortunately for Leon and his friends, they're from England and are apparently used to this sort of thing. They assure us that they'll be fine getting him home and start walking down the street. I watch Leon kick a cone over, and the police, noticing also, approach him and tell him he's got one last chance. Deciding that walking with these guys might be a mistake, my buddy and I fall back about 50 meters. The police get back into their van and drive off. Less than a minute later, I see Leon dancing and shouting, and of course kicking constructing signs and more cones down. Less than another minute later, I watch the police van drive past us. One of the officers jumps out and jogs up to Leon, turning him around and pressing him up against a wall. Another officer gets out and pulls a set of handcuffs from his waist. A drunken fit of apologies emerges from Leon's mouth for 30 seconds, maybe longer. I don't know for sure because after 30 seconds he's inside the Police van being driven away. Mental note to self, don't sing.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Closing Time
It's commonly accepted knowledge that one must learn from his/her mistakes. Thanks to a bit of advice from a friend, as well as looking back on a disastrous Valentine's day, I had no choice but to reevaluate my methods for dating here in London to save my pride, if not for a few notes in my wallet. Less than a week after my fiasco, another opportunity arose to not only entertain myself, but renew some of the pride and self-satisfaction that comes to one after a job well done.
Before I start with that story, however, I'd like to clarify a few things regarding my last post. First and foremost, I undoubtedly implied too much blame on the French girl. I chose the cliche date, albeit the atrocious woman has no liking for anything. At the same time, I chose to continue the date. I had the ability to become ill, receive an emergency phone call or even simply declare an end to the perdition that was our date. Second, I perhaps made her sound like something of a bitch - this is terribly inaccurate. This girl would be more suited to guard the gates of hell, if not only to repel the semi-wicked back towards the path of righteousness. To call her a bitch, and a bitch alone, would undeniably be the understatement of the century. I have had several brief encounters (Thank God for their brevity) with her in the past week, and her misery emanates so strongly from her person that it's nearly contagious, so long as one is in her immediate presence. But I digress.
I don't recall who said it, but 'The only way to truly appreciate the joys in life is to experience the hells.' Been there, done that. On Thursday, my day was anything but that. It started off just outside of the Halloway Road underground station, slightly after two O'Clock P.M. Her name is Marta. I met Marta nearly three weeks ago, although at the time I didn't know her name, only that she was from Poland. On Monday, having been released from class early, I thought I'd stop at a pub to get a bite to eat. That's when I met her again. Twenty minutes later, we had arranged to get together on Thursday and shoot a few baskets.
Thursday:
It came like any other day, but ended quite differently. Arriving just short of 14:00, I met Marta and the two of us travelled from store to store searching for a basketball. Nearly an hour later I was successful. JD, a local sports chain, happened to have a leftover basketball in the back corner of their store. Apparently they get a small shipment in during the summer, but don't receive many requests during the gloomy winter here. We stopped at a local gym, one which Marta believed had a basketball court, only to find that they only had a basketball hoop (1) which was reserved for their several youth teams. Another hour or so in search and we were just stepping onto the decrepit and seemingly cryptic courts. Apparently basketball courts are a blemish on the beautiful face of London, so it's necessary to hide them.
Playing basketball, we met a young boy named Roy. Roy was 12 and from Edinbrough, Scotland. I talked to Roy for about 10 minutes and was astonished to find that, while basketball was fairly unpopular in England, it was almost unheard of in Scotland. Only one day a week did he have access to a basketball hoop. The other days he was limited, if not doomed, to play football.
After giving her all she could handle :) (I'd been waiting for that) Marta and I left to meet her boss from the pub Phibbers and one of his customers who had talked up this Turkish restaurant to be the bee's knees. Al, the customer, must have been one lonely sonofabitch, despite being married with an 18 year old kid. After a decent dinner, we agreed to go with Al to get a drink. 5 minutes later Marta, Gary (Marta's boss) and I were standing outside of a gentleman's club waiting for Al, who was supposedly checking out the inside. "Aren't you guys com-" was interrupted by Marta's "no" when he came back outside. Gary and I followed behind the feuding Al and Marta, laughing while she lectured him about being married, 45 and seeking strip clubs - she was right. We stopped at a club called the Queen of Huxton, where we watched Al run some game on a few girls . . . or set new global records for the shortest amount of time required to scare them away - in one instance out of the club. Gary, Marta and I decided to head back to Phibbers and let Al continue destroying the social life at the Queen. An interesting side note, the next day a friend of mine went to the Queen for their Grand Opening, and described the club as lifeless and empty (Congratualtions Al, if you're reading this, you may have successful bankrupted a club in only one night of being there).
We arrived at Phibbers just after 1:00AM, in time, or so I thought, for a pint or two before heading home for the night - presumably by myself since Al's energy and personality had collectively killed any positive social vibe throughout the night. We ordered a pint and a small group of people sat and conversed.
2:00AM - The pub closes.
2:15AM - 7 of us remain in the pub. Gary, Marta and myself, along with Danny, Chris, David and Michael. With the exception of me, everyone else worked there. We drank and exchanged stories about the bar fights that had occured in Phibbers, and believe me, there had been many. I learned that there are two rules when you own a pub in London: 1) Never serve glass on a match day, and 2) don't purchase expensive furniture - in fact, don't purchase furniture at all. Instead, fix the furniture that breaks everytime a match ends.
3:30AM - Gary, Marta, Danny and I are the four remaining at Phibbers. I learn that pubs don't have to close down and kick everyone out at a certain time. They just have to lock everyone they don't kick out inside. Danny teaches me cockney, an English slang, when I show him a message I received from the alleged boyfriend of a girl who I had met the weekend earlier. "Listen you yank. Jog on or you'll av a mars bar down your boat race." Translated = you'll have a scare down your face. Danny sent him a funny message back, although I couldn't understand it. Something to do with Emma Freud's and Cobbler Awls.
4:00AM - Danny decides we all need Jagerbombs to keep us awake.
5:00AM - Danny performs a tequila stuntman and immediately regrets it. A tequila stuntman consists of snorting salt, squeezing lemon juice into the eye and drinking the shot.
7:00AM - We agree to go to breakfast. Danny has the hiccups and decides the best way to get rid of them is to plug his nose, have someone tightly press their hands over his ears and have someone pour a glass of water down his throat while he kneels down, closes his eyes and lifts his head up. The three of us stare at each other when he says this. We go along with it anyway. After the last of Danny's performances for the night, or in this case morning, we head down to a restaurant for a full english breakfast. When we walk in we're warmly greeted by a middle aged lady who knows Danny and Gary by first names. Marta tells me they come here every morning for breakfast when the do a lock in at the pub. "She must think there is something wrong with them because they come in here drunk in the morning all the time" Marta tells me.
...
Before I start with that story, however, I'd like to clarify a few things regarding my last post. First and foremost, I undoubtedly implied too much blame on the French girl. I chose the cliche date, albeit the atrocious woman has no liking for anything. At the same time, I chose to continue the date. I had the ability to become ill, receive an emergency phone call or even simply declare an end to the perdition that was our date. Second, I perhaps made her sound like something of a bitch - this is terribly inaccurate. This girl would be more suited to guard the gates of hell, if not only to repel the semi-wicked back towards the path of righteousness. To call her a bitch, and a bitch alone, would undeniably be the understatement of the century. I have had several brief encounters (Thank God for their brevity) with her in the past week, and her misery emanates so strongly from her person that it's nearly contagious, so long as one is in her immediate presence. But I digress.
I don't recall who said it, but 'The only way to truly appreciate the joys in life is to experience the hells.' Been there, done that. On Thursday, my day was anything but that. It started off just outside of the Halloway Road underground station, slightly after two O'Clock P.M. Her name is Marta. I met Marta nearly three weeks ago, although at the time I didn't know her name, only that she was from Poland. On Monday, having been released from class early, I thought I'd stop at a pub to get a bite to eat. That's when I met her again. Twenty minutes later, we had arranged to get together on Thursday and shoot a few baskets.
Thursday:
It came like any other day, but ended quite differently. Arriving just short of 14:00, I met Marta and the two of us travelled from store to store searching for a basketball. Nearly an hour later I was successful. JD, a local sports chain, happened to have a leftover basketball in the back corner of their store. Apparently they get a small shipment in during the summer, but don't receive many requests during the gloomy winter here. We stopped at a local gym, one which Marta believed had a basketball court, only to find that they only had a basketball hoop (1) which was reserved for their several youth teams. Another hour or so in search and we were just stepping onto the decrepit and seemingly cryptic courts. Apparently basketball courts are a blemish on the beautiful face of London, so it's necessary to hide them.
Playing basketball, we met a young boy named Roy. Roy was 12 and from Edinbrough, Scotland. I talked to Roy for about 10 minutes and was astonished to find that, while basketball was fairly unpopular in England, it was almost unheard of in Scotland. Only one day a week did he have access to a basketball hoop. The other days he was limited, if not doomed, to play football.
After giving her all she could handle :) (I'd been waiting for that) Marta and I left to meet her boss from the pub Phibbers and one of his customers who had talked up this Turkish restaurant to be the bee's knees. Al, the customer, must have been one lonely sonofabitch, despite being married with an 18 year old kid. After a decent dinner, we agreed to go with Al to get a drink. 5 minutes later Marta, Gary (Marta's boss) and I were standing outside of a gentleman's club waiting for Al, who was supposedly checking out the inside. "Aren't you guys com-" was interrupted by Marta's "no" when he came back outside. Gary and I followed behind the feuding Al and Marta, laughing while she lectured him about being married, 45 and seeking strip clubs - she was right. We stopped at a club called the Queen of Huxton, where we watched Al run some game on a few girls . . . or set new global records for the shortest amount of time required to scare them away - in one instance out of the club. Gary, Marta and I decided to head back to Phibbers and let Al continue destroying the social life at the Queen. An interesting side note, the next day a friend of mine went to the Queen for their Grand Opening, and described the club as lifeless and empty (Congratualtions Al, if you're reading this, you may have successful bankrupted a club in only one night of being there).
We arrived at Phibbers just after 1:00AM, in time, or so I thought, for a pint or two before heading home for the night - presumably by myself since Al's energy and personality had collectively killed any positive social vibe throughout the night. We ordered a pint and a small group of people sat and conversed.
2:00AM - The pub closes.
2:15AM - 7 of us remain in the pub. Gary, Marta and myself, along with Danny, Chris, David and Michael. With the exception of me, everyone else worked there. We drank and exchanged stories about the bar fights that had occured in Phibbers, and believe me, there had been many. I learned that there are two rules when you own a pub in London: 1) Never serve glass on a match day, and 2) don't purchase expensive furniture - in fact, don't purchase furniture at all. Instead, fix the furniture that breaks everytime a match ends.
3:30AM - Gary, Marta, Danny and I are the four remaining at Phibbers. I learn that pubs don't have to close down and kick everyone out at a certain time. They just have to lock everyone they don't kick out inside. Danny teaches me cockney, an English slang, when I show him a message I received from the alleged boyfriend of a girl who I had met the weekend earlier. "Listen you yank. Jog on or you'll av a mars bar down your boat race." Translated = you'll have a scare down your face. Danny sent him a funny message back, although I couldn't understand it. Something to do with Emma Freud's and Cobbler Awls.
4:00AM - Danny decides we all need Jagerbombs to keep us awake.
5:00AM - Danny performs a tequila stuntman and immediately regrets it. A tequila stuntman consists of snorting salt, squeezing lemon juice into the eye and drinking the shot.
7:00AM - We agree to go to breakfast. Danny has the hiccups and decides the best way to get rid of them is to plug his nose, have someone tightly press their hands over his ears and have someone pour a glass of water down his throat while he kneels down, closes his eyes and lifts his head up. The three of us stare at each other when he says this. We go along with it anyway. After the last of Danny's performances for the night, or in this case morning, we head down to a restaurant for a full english breakfast. When we walk in we're warmly greeted by a middle aged lady who knows Danny and Gary by first names. Marta tells me they come here every morning for breakfast when the do a lock in at the pub. "She must think there is something wrong with them because they come in here drunk in the morning all the time" Marta tells me.
...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Valentine's Day
4:30 P.M. - Ecstatic about the my upcoming date (Dinner and Cinema) with the French girl, Genie, for short, I give myself an hour to prepare. I choose my finest outfit, most of which was purchased the day previous just for this occasion, consisting of a glossy new pair of pointed, black Italian dress shoes, a new pair of European style (tight and slim) indigo jeans from Calvin Klein, a never-before-worn black button-up from Hugo boss, shirtless beneath - thanks to a couple of tanning sessions during the week, covered by a casual blazer from H&M, not to mention a silver ring and black leather bracelet from H&M, my trusty citizen watch and a silver cross necklace. A few sprays of Dolce & Gabbana-The One, and I'm ready to go.
5:20 - Equipped with a beautiful, red, Grand-prix rose and a box of excellent milk chocolates from Hotel Chocolat, I leave to pick her up.
5:25 - She comes in from a cigarette, dressed nowhere near as nice as I am (I assume she thinks that: a) we're not going to a nice restaurant. b) American's have no style and class and didn't want to impress me. c) she doesn't give a shit about our date.) I give her the rose and the wrapped up box of chocolates (an L18 box of chocolates) - she won't open the package up until after we get home. We say our hello's and she compliments me on my appearance. She asks if I would like her to change into something nicer. Umm, yeah. . . I obviously would. "No, you look fine," I say instead. We leave.
5:30 - Waiting for us outside is a black Mercedes-Benz (I put way too much effort into this date). I open the door for her. She gets into the car. I close it, walk around and get in, as well.
5:40 - I ask the driver if it's difficult to drive in London. Genie asks the driver if he has a Tom Tom. "No. No, I don't need one," he replies.
6:10 - I call the restaurant, Quaglino's, to explain why we're 10 minutes late and need directions. Our driver is lost. I think myself, I should give him a nice tip so he can get a Tom Tom. I type into my phone - He's right, he doesn't need a GPS - and hand it to Genie. She smiles, "I was thinking the same thing."
6:20 - We arrive at Quaglino's. I decide not to tip the driver for two reasons: 1. We're 20 minutes late. 2. People don't tip anywhere in London, except at restaurants where you have a waiter/waitress. If he wants a tip he should get a Tom Tom.
6:22 - The doorman opens the door and we walk inside Quaglino's, and I can't help but smile. This place is awesome, I think to myself. Walking down a marble staircase, surrounded by neon blue lighting, we arrive at the receptionist's table. A woman takes our coats and hands us a number, 128. Another woman asks us for the name of the reservation. "Brennan, Tyler Brennan," I reply. Yes, I think I am James Bond in this moment. The bar is situated one flight above the main dining area. This is a good idea of the view I get, although upstairs looking down: http://www.quaglinos.co.uk/ Replace the white flowers with bouquets of Red Roses, a wonderful assortment of valentine's day decorations, and throw throw in the live, harmonious jazz music and that's exactly what it is.
6:25 - We take a seat in the bar and await our table. Dimmed lighting. Small round tables - a soft whitish, marble looking surface. Circular, chocolate-copper colored, leather chairs - the ones with the half crescent back rest. A white candle. White carnations. We take a seat.
6:26 - I'm sad. I hear the one thing I desperately wish not to hear. "I'm not drinking tonight," is Genie's response to the waitress' inquiry regarding our choice of drinks. "I'll take a vodka tonic. A tall one, please." is my reply.
6:50 - Conversation changes from small talk to personal talk. Not the good type of personal talk about dating, intimacy and opinions on sex, but rather the kind of personal talk about mother's who didn't care for their daughter's, broken families and disdain for relationships.
6:55 - I try my best to be sincere and listen. As a matter of fact, I am and do. But please, it's valentine's day. Even if it is another hallmark holiday, it's still the one day when lustful, passionate romance is supposed to be in the air. I wait for an opening, then redirect conversation for a moment so that I can tell her I'm going to ask the hostess when we're going to be seated.
7:05 - Success, we're being brought to a table in the main dining area. I'm happy again. A second hostess seats us, where after we're immediately delivered a glass of champagne. She has no choice but to drink now. We regress back to small talk.
8:40 - I'm eating my cheesecake. I'm really happy now. The first of the five course meal started with champagne. The second some cracker thing with salmon on top. The following, bellotine de fois gras. For the main entree, I had sea bass with champagne sauce, prawn and potatoes and some vegetable mixture, all with a glass of Shiraz. She had cannelloni. For dessert we both had the New York style cheesecake.
8:55 - I get the bill. I'm sad again. L121.50 I pay the bill and leave. She seems happy. I'm not so sad anymore. We walk to the receptionists desk and hand in the number 128. It's late enough that we're not going to make it to the 9:00 cinema, so I can't help but think that I might save myself another 20 pounds by not having to purchase tickets for that. We walk towards Leicester square anway. We walk arm in arm. I feel a little affection from her, perhaps this night will end successfully after all. We talk about her family again. This time her dad. She likes her dad much more than her mom. While at dinner she missed several phone calls from him, so she calls him back and I smile as I listen to her conversing in French. After she gets off the phone we interlock arms again and continue towards Leicester square.
9:05 - We have our first argument. The miss France believes that England is a country, and that London is the capital of England. I argue that England is more of a constituency of the United Kingdom. We argue for 5 minutes. Neither one agrees that the other is right. I like this girl, despite her obvious ignorance.
9:20 - We find a Cinema showing slumdog millionaire, the movie we chose to go to. However, the show time isn't until 11:40. We agree to find something to do in the meantime. Genie proposes calling a friend who's in the area and meeting up with her and her friends. With no other options, I decide this could be a good idea, since I would have the opportunity to impress her friends and make myself more appealing to her.
9:45 - We meet her friend Sammy. When Genie points to me, Sammy smiles and I see her check me out. She's very friendly, and, I notice, very attractive. I consider changing my target. I reconsider. I don't think that would turn out well for me. I haven't drank that much, yet.
10:15 - I'm sick of walking around. Genie and Sammy do what I should've expected them to do, girl talk.
10:25 - We arrive at the roadhouse, a club with a live band, one that charges 12 pounds for entry. We'll need to leave around 11 to make our movie, so I'm happy that Genie says it would be a waste to go in their if it was to only be for an hour. Thank you God. My bank account really appreciates it. We say goodbye to Sammy and venture off to find the cinema. I facetiously (to her, anyway) ask her if she wants to hold hands like everyone else surrounding us. She replies that she has never liked holding hands and finds it stupid. "You thinking England is a country is stupid," I want to tell her, but instead I just smile and pretend that I give a shit about her stupid opinions.
10:45 - We get into the cinema an hour early, but that's ok. It's cold outside, I'm tired of walking around. A bar would be pointless because she doesn't want to drink and I don't have enough money to drink. I want to go to a liquour store and buy a small bottle of whiskey for the movie, but I realize that she probably wouldn't like this. "Why should I care? This whole date has been about her so far." I tell myself I'm being selfish. I hate lying to myself.
11:00 - We're sitting inside the cinema talking and she talks about her ex-boyfriend. I want to kill myself. She talks about her golden retriever. I want to talk about my golden retriever. We're having an actual conversation again. Yay. Theatre 6 opens up so we go inside. A cinema is much different in London then it is in America. American movie theaters kick ass. English cinemas aren't nearly as nice. Go USA!
11:30 - Adverts (Previews) start.
11:37 - I want to see The International.
11:40 - Slumdog Millionaire starts.
12:44 - I look at my watch. Some dumb bitch answered her phone during the movie. I shake my head because I took that dumb bitch to a movie. I hate my life.
1:05 - I'm depressed. I didn't want to spend Valentine's day watching a bunch of Indian kids getting murdered. Valentine's day and genocide are not a good combination. Damn extremist religion . . . and atypical French girls.
1:50 - We leave the Cinema. The movie was good. I'm glad I saw it, just not on Valentine's day after an expensive dinner. I call for a ride. They say they have no driver's in the area. I'm pissed off. We walk to the nearest bus station.
2:05 - We get on the bus, a double decker, and Genie sits on the steps between the ground and upper floors. There are no seats together up there. I'm somewhat satisfied that she didn't ditch me to take one of them. A man gets on the bus (my guess is 25 and moderately intoxicated) and asks Genie if there are any seats upstairs. "Go look," is my darling's charming response. The man proceeds to flirt with her. She proceeds to tell him to fuck off. I'm entertained. This conversation continues for a few minutes and I decide to step between them and block her piercing scowls. The man goes to find another seat. I wonder whether or not that was a good choice by me. I was actually smiling.
2:20 - We get off the bus and walk back towards home. We talk about disney movies that we like, and songs from the movies. We sing a little. I think this night might turn out well.
2:30 - We get home. I contemplate asking her if she wants to watch a movie in my room, but she saves me the trouble. "I'm going to walk to my friend's hostel and get my scarf. Thanks for taking my out tonight, "she says. I say goodnight, not even bothering going in for a kiss. I already know what the result of that would be. I turn around and walk towards the door. I really, really hate my life.
2:35 - I walk inside and go to my New York friend's room where several girls and a couple of my guy friends are hanging out. I get showered with compliments on my outfit and one of the girls tells me I look incredibly sexy. She's a 9. I decide I took the wrong girl out. My friends ask me about my night and tell me about theirs. They ask if I want to go to the kebab place down the road and get some food. I like my friends. Time to start drinking. I get another beer and we leave to get some food.
3:45 - I go up to my room. The last hour was the best part of my valentine's day.
The following day, 4:00 PM - I find out that Genie stayed at the hostel until 6:15. I laugh. What else can I do?
8:00 PM - I meet an American girl who's greek and very attractive. We play a game of chess. I'm happy again.
5:20 - Equipped with a beautiful, red, Grand-prix rose and a box of excellent milk chocolates from Hotel Chocolat, I leave to pick her up.
5:25 - She comes in from a cigarette, dressed nowhere near as nice as I am (I assume she thinks that: a) we're not going to a nice restaurant. b) American's have no style and class and didn't want to impress me. c) she doesn't give a shit about our date.) I give her the rose and the wrapped up box of chocolates (an L18 box of chocolates) - she won't open the package up until after we get home. We say our hello's and she compliments me on my appearance. She asks if I would like her to change into something nicer. Umm, yeah. . . I obviously would. "No, you look fine," I say instead. We leave.
5:30 - Waiting for us outside is a black Mercedes-Benz (I put way too much effort into this date). I open the door for her. She gets into the car. I close it, walk around and get in, as well.
5:40 - I ask the driver if it's difficult to drive in London. Genie asks the driver if he has a Tom Tom. "No. No, I don't need one," he replies.
6:10 - I call the restaurant, Quaglino's, to explain why we're 10 minutes late and need directions. Our driver is lost. I think myself, I should give him a nice tip so he can get a Tom Tom. I type into my phone - He's right, he doesn't need a GPS - and hand it to Genie. She smiles, "I was thinking the same thing."
6:20 - We arrive at Quaglino's. I decide not to tip the driver for two reasons: 1. We're 20 minutes late. 2. People don't tip anywhere in London, except at restaurants where you have a waiter/waitress. If he wants a tip he should get a Tom Tom.
6:22 - The doorman opens the door and we walk inside Quaglino's, and I can't help but smile. This place is awesome, I think to myself. Walking down a marble staircase, surrounded by neon blue lighting, we arrive at the receptionist's table. A woman takes our coats and hands us a number, 128. Another woman asks us for the name of the reservation. "Brennan, Tyler Brennan," I reply. Yes, I think I am James Bond in this moment. The bar is situated one flight above the main dining area. This is a good idea of the view I get, although upstairs looking down: http://www.quaglinos.co.uk/ Replace the white flowers with bouquets of Red Roses, a wonderful assortment of valentine's day decorations, and throw throw in the live, harmonious jazz music and that's exactly what it is.
6:25 - We take a seat in the bar and await our table. Dimmed lighting. Small round tables - a soft whitish, marble looking surface. Circular, chocolate-copper colored, leather chairs - the ones with the half crescent back rest. A white candle. White carnations. We take a seat.
6:26 - I'm sad. I hear the one thing I desperately wish not to hear. "I'm not drinking tonight," is Genie's response to the waitress' inquiry regarding our choice of drinks. "I'll take a vodka tonic. A tall one, please." is my reply.
6:50 - Conversation changes from small talk to personal talk. Not the good type of personal talk about dating, intimacy and opinions on sex, but rather the kind of personal talk about mother's who didn't care for their daughter's, broken families and disdain for relationships.
6:55 - I try my best to be sincere and listen. As a matter of fact, I am and do. But please, it's valentine's day. Even if it is another hallmark holiday, it's still the one day when lustful, passionate romance is supposed to be in the air. I wait for an opening, then redirect conversation for a moment so that I can tell her I'm going to ask the hostess when we're going to be seated.
7:05 - Success, we're being brought to a table in the main dining area. I'm happy again. A second hostess seats us, where after we're immediately delivered a glass of champagne. She has no choice but to drink now. We regress back to small talk.
8:40 - I'm eating my cheesecake. I'm really happy now. The first of the five course meal started with champagne. The second some cracker thing with salmon on top. The following, bellotine de fois gras. For the main entree, I had sea bass with champagne sauce, prawn and potatoes and some vegetable mixture, all with a glass of Shiraz. She had cannelloni. For dessert we both had the New York style cheesecake.
8:55 - I get the bill. I'm sad again. L121.50 I pay the bill and leave. She seems happy. I'm not so sad anymore. We walk to the receptionists desk and hand in the number 128. It's late enough that we're not going to make it to the 9:00 cinema, so I can't help but think that I might save myself another 20 pounds by not having to purchase tickets for that. We walk towards Leicester square anway. We walk arm in arm. I feel a little affection from her, perhaps this night will end successfully after all. We talk about her family again. This time her dad. She likes her dad much more than her mom. While at dinner she missed several phone calls from him, so she calls him back and I smile as I listen to her conversing in French. After she gets off the phone we interlock arms again and continue towards Leicester square.
9:05 - We have our first argument. The miss France believes that England is a country, and that London is the capital of England. I argue that England is more of a constituency of the United Kingdom. We argue for 5 minutes. Neither one agrees that the other is right. I like this girl, despite her obvious ignorance.
9:20 - We find a Cinema showing slumdog millionaire, the movie we chose to go to. However, the show time isn't until 11:40. We agree to find something to do in the meantime. Genie proposes calling a friend who's in the area and meeting up with her and her friends. With no other options, I decide this could be a good idea, since I would have the opportunity to impress her friends and make myself more appealing to her.
9:45 - We meet her friend Sammy. When Genie points to me, Sammy smiles and I see her check me out. She's very friendly, and, I notice, very attractive. I consider changing my target. I reconsider. I don't think that would turn out well for me. I haven't drank that much, yet.
10:15 - I'm sick of walking around. Genie and Sammy do what I should've expected them to do, girl talk.
10:25 - We arrive at the roadhouse, a club with a live band, one that charges 12 pounds for entry. We'll need to leave around 11 to make our movie, so I'm happy that Genie says it would be a waste to go in their if it was to only be for an hour. Thank you God. My bank account really appreciates it. We say goodbye to Sammy and venture off to find the cinema. I facetiously (to her, anyway) ask her if she wants to hold hands like everyone else surrounding us. She replies that she has never liked holding hands and finds it stupid. "You thinking England is a country is stupid," I want to tell her, but instead I just smile and pretend that I give a shit about her stupid opinions.
10:45 - We get into the cinema an hour early, but that's ok. It's cold outside, I'm tired of walking around. A bar would be pointless because she doesn't want to drink and I don't have enough money to drink. I want to go to a liquour store and buy a small bottle of whiskey for the movie, but I realize that she probably wouldn't like this. "Why should I care? This whole date has been about her so far." I tell myself I'm being selfish. I hate lying to myself.
11:00 - We're sitting inside the cinema talking and she talks about her ex-boyfriend. I want to kill myself. She talks about her golden retriever. I want to talk about my golden retriever. We're having an actual conversation again. Yay. Theatre 6 opens up so we go inside. A cinema is much different in London then it is in America. American movie theaters kick ass. English cinemas aren't nearly as nice. Go USA!
11:30 - Adverts (Previews) start.
11:37 - I want to see The International.
11:40 - Slumdog Millionaire starts.
12:44 - I look at my watch. Some dumb bitch answered her phone during the movie. I shake my head because I took that dumb bitch to a movie. I hate my life.
1:05 - I'm depressed. I didn't want to spend Valentine's day watching a bunch of Indian kids getting murdered. Valentine's day and genocide are not a good combination. Damn extremist religion . . . and atypical French girls.
1:50 - We leave the Cinema. The movie was good. I'm glad I saw it, just not on Valentine's day after an expensive dinner. I call for a ride. They say they have no driver's in the area. I'm pissed off. We walk to the nearest bus station.
2:05 - We get on the bus, a double decker, and Genie sits on the steps between the ground and upper floors. There are no seats together up there. I'm somewhat satisfied that she didn't ditch me to take one of them. A man gets on the bus (my guess is 25 and moderately intoxicated) and asks Genie if there are any seats upstairs. "Go look," is my darling's charming response. The man proceeds to flirt with her. She proceeds to tell him to fuck off. I'm entertained. This conversation continues for a few minutes and I decide to step between them and block her piercing scowls. The man goes to find another seat. I wonder whether or not that was a good choice by me. I was actually smiling.
2:20 - We get off the bus and walk back towards home. We talk about disney movies that we like, and songs from the movies. We sing a little. I think this night might turn out well.
2:30 - We get home. I contemplate asking her if she wants to watch a movie in my room, but she saves me the trouble. "I'm going to walk to my friend's hostel and get my scarf. Thanks for taking my out tonight, "she says. I say goodnight, not even bothering going in for a kiss. I already know what the result of that would be. I turn around and walk towards the door. I really, really hate my life.
2:35 - I walk inside and go to my New York friend's room where several girls and a couple of my guy friends are hanging out. I get showered with compliments on my outfit and one of the girls tells me I look incredibly sexy. She's a 9. I decide I took the wrong girl out. My friends ask me about my night and tell me about theirs. They ask if I want to go to the kebab place down the road and get some food. I like my friends. Time to start drinking. I get another beer and we leave to get some food.
3:45 - I go up to my room. The last hour was the best part of my valentine's day.
The following day, 4:00 PM - I find out that Genie stayed at the hostel until 6:15. I laugh. What else can I do?
8:00 PM - I meet an American girl who's greek and very attractive. We play a game of chess. I'm happy again.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
January 25th
Approximately 16 hours away from my flight's takeoff, the blog is up and running. For those who are interested, my flight departs a little after 5 P.M. (U.S. central time) and arrives in London at 8:30 A.M. (London time). Well, I'd love to write more, but I need to watch a few episodes of House, eat American junk food, drink a miller lite (even though I hate the taste) and run through the snow - it'll be a long time before I can do those four things again.
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