Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying England is a horrible place. After all, if it was, there wouldn't be so many damn foreigners there. And thank god there are, because it's all the damn foreigners who make London, in particular, such an interesting place. And if there ever was a country in need of an infusion of melanin and a pinch curry, it's England.
The thing about the food in England? The best food in England is NOT English food. Because English food is bland and weird. And I'm being kind here. I am not a picky eater either. In fact, there are very few foods I dislike. But, after two years of ethnic food, I was really looking forward to the exoticism of uncomplicated, straightforward hygienic food. And since I like virtually everything, I don't bother asking pesky questions about what I'm eating. So pot pie? Chicken. Beef. Veggie. Whatever. Can't go wrong. Serve it up. Because again, I like everything. Except organ meats. Oh holy hell! Who would put a disgusting kidney in a perfectly good pot pie? Sweet Jesus. This must be a remnant of the World War II rationing we-mustn't-waste-anything mentality. Or maybe it was just leftover from World War II, like SPAM was in Hawaii.
Do you know who the big four of the fashion industry are? (Ok, I admit, I didn't until I researched for this post. And yes, I actually research stuff for this blog. No joke.) New York. Paris. Milan. And of course, London because why else would I bring it up? Walking the streets of London, you see stores from all over the world. Which makes it all the more perplexing when you look at the people walking down the street. Cause they were the biggest conglomerate of some of the unfashionable people I've ever seen. And consider the source here. This is coming from an American woman who wears ripped jeans and balled up t-shirts every day of her life. Which has got to make you think, oh my god, this must be dire. And I assure you, it is. It's like walking into an episode of "What Not to Wear" and to my surprise I'm Finola Hughs. (Don't laugh. It could happen.) It's like the English get dressed in the dark or something. But that's probably because they do. Because the sun doesn't come up until like noon, if it ever does. This might also explain the real obvious super long fake eyelashes. They're probably wearing several layers of lashes cause they can't tell they already have them on. Thus creating this effect and reinventing the new black trend. All I can say is, it's better than wearing white athletic ankle socks with brown scuffed up shoes and a grey suit.
London is also a world financial market. They did originate the gold standard after all. And I don't know what they did after that to keep the title. But they did bravely cling to the Pound while the rest of the European Union switched to the Euro. Really smart or really dumb? The debate continues. Check any newspaper for the day's take on that one. And England has lots of them to check. Oh you'll have to wade through the crap in it to get to the financial section. Oh right. Cause guess where the tabloids first debuted in 1900? England. And in 1969, the page 3 girl debuted to increase readership. Or oogleship. Whatever you want to call it. I mean one would hope that as a world financial market, journalists would cover the hard hitting news. Like whether converting to the Euro would have taken the sting out of the exorbitant cost of the wedding of Kate and Will. But, on second thought, I'm pretty sure they did cover that.
I think it goes without saying that all big cities carry the burden of high crime rates. London is no exception. Jack the Ripper? British. Ok, so that was unfair. That was a long time ago and things have changed. Violent crimes have actually decreased in London, but the flip side is that other more petty crimes have increased. Today it's Jack the Ripoff. See, young hoodlums don't want your money. They want something far more valuable. They want your music. You see, England used to be an exporter of good music. Very good music. Remember. The British Invasion. Punk. Then, The Spice Girls. Ouch. Obviously, the good years ended at punk. And the British youth are desperate. So, if you find yourself in an alleyway in London with a knife to your throat. Don't reach for your wallet. English thieves don't want your money. Instead give them what they want, what they really really want. Your ipod.
Luckily, culture is everywhere in England. After all, it is the birthplace of William Shakespeare, the greatest writer in the English language. Says who? Says Wikipedia. So it must be true. His plays were translated into every modern language. And you'll be happy to know that the rich tradition of live theater lives on here. The evidence of it is everywhere. Big, pink posters declaring Legally Blonde "fantastic" and "blows other musicals out of the water". Uh, REALLY? Now I didn't actually spend any money to see it, because I hate musicals and being raped by the Pound, personally. But, (and I'm just guessing here) it's no Shakespeare. So it's yet to be determined. Will Legally Blond be pronounced legally dead or will it be translated into Swahili? I'm on the edge of my seat in anticipation and sitting here reading the dictionary while I wait for the verdict.
I know, you're thinking I'm being too hard on the British. And, you're thinking but, it's quaint how they drive on the wrong side of the road and everything. Once upon a time, I thought so too. I even drove on the wrong side of the road in Australia, Scotland, Ireland and Malta. Sure I almost killed some people. But, as I tell the kids, almost doesn't count. Neither does that ticket I almost got in Malta for not following roundy-round protocol. But, the most treacherous thing about London traffic? It's walking across the street. You see 99% of the world drives on the right side of the road. And by right I mean right side of the road. And 99% of those crossing the street in London are foreigners. So, 99% of people are going to look left, even if your condescending crosswalk reminder says to look right. (Caution: Statistics are overinflated for effect.) And who the crap looks down at their feet when crossing the street? Not my brother, a casualty of looking left when he should have looked right, who got assaulted by a mirror on a double decker bus right after we said goodbye on that fateful day. Don't worry, he's ok. I was hoping he got a really cool eye patch out of it, but he only got some stitches. I think he should make up an elaborate story, wear and eye patch and start talking like a pirate. Well, that's what I would do anyway.
So what's my point? Good question. Do I have one? Ah yes, I guess my point is every destination is a collection of small oddities and contradictions steeped in history. That's probably the most fun thing about travel, making your own adventure (or misadventure) while unraveling the hidden story of the place. And then slowly falling in love with all it's endearing intricacies.
Unless it's for the quest for collecting random facts that may aid in us winning the World Trivial Pursuit Tournament someday.
But let's be honest, it's probably for the collection of priceless trinkets like that commemorative crown in a box I forgot to buy...
