I've been to London. While that's not a big deal for most people -- especially those that live there full time -- for some of us it's a new and unique experience. And, as of Jan 3, 2002, I've been to London.
Turns out that one of the best things about having my own web site is that after I got back, instead of having to recount my adventures one person at a time, I could just tell everyone who asked: give me a few days, it'll be flung onto the walls of Mental Snot where it can stick for an eternity for all to see. So here goes, I'm winding up the pitch... and... FLING. (splat.)
The key to this journey was two fold: cheap air fare (who the hell wants to go to London in the dead of winter?) and cheaper accommodations (my friend Gaby's flat). That, and an incredible urge to get off my ass (after sitting in a plane for umpteen hours) and finally see this tiny island kingdom off the coast of mainland Europe.
Thursday:
My first view of the city was of darkness. Pitch black early morning as I took the one-hour tube ride from Heathrow airport to central London. But as the ride progressed I was treated to a gradual sunrise that slowly revealed rows of houses silhouetted against the brightening sky, with miles of chimneys just waiting for Dick Van Dyke to clean while he danced with a tee-totaling nanny and a bunch of cartoon flightless waterfowl from the Antarctic. Let's just say I hadn't slept much on the plane.
And when I finally stepped outside... blue skies. It turned out to be the ONLY day of blue skies while I was there. I was too jetlagged to do much of anything, but I met several of Gaby’s friends, got a quick tour of the city… and we went drinking. ‘Nuff said.
|
(Note: Stonehenge Pictures coming as soon as Gaby finds the roll of film they're on!)
Eventually, we arrived at Pikka’s mother’s house, and this house requires some background.
There’s an old English manor -- more on this later -- near the town of Bath. This massive house has been there for hundreds of years, and as part of the estate the owners had a groundskeeper who lived in his own cottage on the property. This home is where we were staying.
I’ve never seen a house like this before in my life outside of fairy tale illustrations. While this amused my hosts who said it was a very common style of house all across Europe, it was something very unique for me -- the quaint picturesque home in the middle of the English countryside, surrounded by thick woods and rolling hills. You know what I’m talking about, the house with the doorways so low that anyone over 5’10” has to duck to pass underneath the doorframes.
The bathroom exit was particularly tricky -- duck under the bathroom doorway, make a right turn, duck under the doorway to the den. It’s that second doorway that got me every time. I’d be coming up for air after ducking under the first one, and BAM! Should anyone need to do a DNA test on me any time soon, I’m sure you could peel some chunks of my scalp off that mantel.
And it was evening, and it was morning. The third day.
Saturday:
My jet lagged body had shut down really early in the night and woken up just as early in the morning. 5:30 a.m. local time early. Looking out the window at the slow dawn gave me an urge I rarely have -- to go for a long hike in the woods. But the last thing I wanted was to be locked out of the house in the freezing cold while everyone else was asleep.
Luckily my urge was fulfilled a few hours later when Gaby and Pikka finally woke up, and off we went trudging through the trees.
The first thing I noticed when we stepped outside -- before the cold, before the muddy ground, before the country (read: smelled like manure) air -- were the gunshots. My immediate thoughts were to dwell on the irony that the last moments of my life would be summed up like this on my epitaph: “Fled Los Angeles for a week, got shot in English Countryside instead.” And some joker with a can of spraypaint would add this to the end of the tombstone: “You know. The country with strict gun control laws.”
Turns out they were just hunters shooting at peasants. Yes, I know those silly Limeys prefer to pronounce it “pheasants” -- but what the hell do they know.
I then made sure I was wearing nothing bright and orange to let them know I was a fellow human -- and followed my friends into the woods anyway. Not that we were trying to get shot. I mean, it’s not like we covered ourselves in feathers and hid in the bushes. We even walked away from the gunshots. (We figured out which direction they were shooting in by carefully measuring the doppler effect of the slugs whizzing past our heads.)
Up the hill we went. I was very proud of myself for having packed a pair of waterproof Timberland hiking boots I had purchased the previous winter in New York City. Boots I had worn for only a few days until I went back to LaLaLand and which had then lain useless on the rug until this fateful walk.
My boots -- which I remembered to bring (I cannot emphasize this enough times as it makes my absent-minded nature very proud to have temporarily overcome this debilitation condition) -- saved my ass. (My feet? Nah, too literal.) This ground was MUDDY. The nastiest, gooiest mud I’ve ever had the perverse pleasure of sloshing through.
At the peak of a large hill we crossed a giant (mud-filled) ditch -- an ancient, long empty moat which surrounded a Roman fortress that once stood on that hilltop thousands of years before us. Little was left to mark the Romans’ stay, but it was clear to see how easy it would be to defend this highground. The view was spectacular -- a large field with more woods in the distance, the requisite fog hugging the landscape. And, in the distance, the morning sun was glinting off the windows of the nearby manor.
 |
© 2002, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com
