It’s the little things about corporate culture I’m grateful for in situations like this; right now I’m sitting in Heathrow airport (London) suckiing up the wifi at the Starbucks. It’s about 8am here; 12am at home in San Francisco, and I’ve had about three hours of sleep. The transportation is so fucked here that it’s impossible to get to the airport by tube (remember when I landed it had been blown up?), and it seems that people are reserving the cabs to get to work — which meant it took me five cab companies at 1am to find one that would come get me and take me to the airport, and then only at 5am.
On monday I sat down with a map of the Underground and my laptop, mapping out all the unusable tube service so I could try to figure out a plan to see some sights. I sat with a black pen and drew lines over all the suspended/removed lines and stops, until I realized I’d drawn a huge black ring around the center of London. Ring around the rosy. So I just walked out and got on a bus headed randomly toward the city center.
I got off in Soho, the same neighborhood I’d gone bar-hopping with London Boy, the gay neighborhood. It was hot, sunny, full of green leafy trees and just lovely; I wandered around the businesses and shops until I was sweaty and my feet hurt. I had iced coffee, ate weird curry quiche and chatted with Hare Krishnas, took pictures and shopped at the Skin Two shops. The Krishna guy offered me a pamphlet, I declined, he asked where I was from and then profusely apologized about the “sitation” in London, assuring me that it was only once and would never happen again. I felt like I needed to comfort him somehow, it was strange, perhaps because he was feeling like as a tourist, everyone I met (such as him) represented London.
I bought myself two comfort souvenirs: a crystal eyepatch and a jeweled buttplug.
It took hours to get back to the house.
The next day, my last in London (yesterday) I made a big plan to visit the Highgate Cemetery, supposedly where the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula came from. Half the cemetery is open to the public, half is by tour appointemy only, so I booked a walking tour. I called the cab over an hour ahead of time to visit a district only about 25 minutes away from where I was staying, but of course the cab driver got lost, had to use my guidebook map, and then I just got out and walked — over an hour of driving, and I ran through the cemetary to try and catch the tour, to which I was late.
Pause for a minute to imagine me running through the old cemetery with my long black hair, big sunglasses, black shoes and socks and skirt (and sock garters). Now try it in slow motion.
I got to the huge locked iron gates, and an old verison of Lurch stood there. “I’m late for the tour.” No response. “I ran. I called to tell the receptioist was late.” No response. “She said she’d let me in. My whole trip to London has been like this…” Finally, he moved toward the gates, very slowly, and unlocked them using a huge skeleton key. “I’ll get her.”
I ran to catch up with the tour, and the cemetary was really green and gorgeous — check out my photos here. After the too-short tour through what seemed to be only a small section, I went across the street to the big public cemetery, which I found more fun and entertaining. I sat on a bench and read among the graves, in the shade. I took pictures. I wandered over to Karl Marx’s grave because Jackson wouldn’t forgive me otherwise. Then I meandered out of the graveyard to a nearby French cafe for cold beer and salad; it was my best afternoon by far, and I read at the cafe for a while. Then I tried to get a cab back; an hour and a half wait (I was *not* in a remote area, mind you). Once in the cab, I was trapped in traffic with a lifelong Londoner, who told me he’s “never seen it like this.” I told him that’s pretty much what I’d been hearing since I landed, and he laughed. We talked politics; people here know more about Bush than the average American, but that really isn’t a surprise. We talked about the bombings; he grew up when the IRA was bombing London so he had a world-weary prepective on it, which I suppose many Londoners do — and I think it’s incorrectly interpreted in the press right now as the iconic “stiff upper lip.” Interstingly, in the press here they’re not comparing the tragedy and their reactions to 9/11, which is what I expected, but instead they’re comparing themselves and their reactions to the Spanish.
The “stiff upper lip” is being talked about a lot — on talk radio they’re openly asking if they should be grieving more. Spanish TV crews were wandering around memorial sites and asking anyone who would talk to them why they weren’t crying or openly showing grief. Are the Brits seen as being cold, like their stereotype? I’ve certainly seen a lot of angry reaction in the blogs, and “let’s move on”, but no sadness, hurt, or pain. They’re definitely defensive about questions such as the Spanish are asking; is expressing loss seen as weakness in this culture? I read through my 200+ blog rounds, and it was very interesting to see really only these two reactions in the UK blogs.
Oh, and I haven’t met a single Londoner who likes our president; they can’t believe we’re about to gamble our social security away. Quel suprise. Neither can I.
Sorry if there are any typos; I need to wrap up and head toward my gate. Off to the Barf Vader and Puke Skywalker convenience bags…
