An American in London

“When you come back to England from any foreign country, you have immediately the sensation of breathing a different air…There is something distinctive and recognizable in English civilization…It is somehow bound up with solid breakfasts and gloomy Sundays, smoky towns and winding roads, green fields and red pillar-boxes.”         
      -George Orwell, “England Your England”

I departed my cozy kot at 7am Thursday to catch the train to Brussels.  Ever budget-conscious, I opted to take the bus to London.  Having endured a few twelve to sixteen hour bus rides around Australia, I figured a mere eight hours would be worth saving 100+ dollars.  As I was walking in the cold, crisp morning air, backpack on my shoulders, I began to sense a familiar feeling.  It had been a while since I felt it, and it became more apparent the further into my journey I went.  Something I had not felt since Australia—the feeling of adventure: the liberation, the thrill, the exhilaration. Here I go again, I thought, off on a long trip, with unfamiliar faces through unfamiliar territory.  The song “Good Life” by One Republic, which always reminds me of my time in Australia, was playing in my head.  Its lyrics speak of travelling the world and enjoying life: “We’re young enough to say/ This has got to be a good life…When you’re happy like a fool/ Let it take you over.” The opening lyrics, “Woke up in London yesterday/ Found myself in the city near Piccadilly,” were all the more appropriate this occasion.

My bus turned out to be twenty minutes late in arriving, yet while waiting in Brussels I got to meet a few of my fellow travelers: a friendly young Canadian couple who had both quit their jobs and were spending this year travelling the world (the UK was their last stop in Europe, then onto Israel) and a cooky old English lady who would talk the nearest ear off about Tony Blair selling arms, “the truth about Ireland”, and how much John Lennon inspired her.  We felt so bad for the poor soul who was seat-belted next to her and we were shocked the British border agents did not chuck her into the English Channel. 

The virtues of my chosen method of transportation include enjoying the countryside and making new friends (conversation seems to pass the time better than reading or failed attempts at sleeping.)  I was fortunate to sit next to an English bloke my age named Charlie (sin Chocolate Factory) who is doing his Masters in Amsterdam, visiting home for the weekend and grabbing some things he left behind.  Yet, both of us were unfortunate enough to be selected to have our bags torn apart by French customs.  I had to keep myself from laughing as the French agent slowly opened my bottle of vitamins, holding it away from himself as if it were about to explode, while Charlie had to explain why he had a suspiciously empty suitcase (Ho ho, you know you could at least put a croissant in here?)

While on the ferry from Calais to Dover, the famous White Cliffs slowly crept up from the horizon.  I was immediately reminded of the poem “Dover Beach” by the great Englishman Matthew Arnold, but I was soon after embarrassed when I realized none of my companions were familiar with it.  Back on the bus, we whizzed through the picturesque English countryside and crept through the London traffic to the Victoria Coach Station, where I was welcomed by my dear bespeckled friend, Ben.  Since he kept insisting he did not have any Floo Powder, we took the Underground—the oldest metro in the world!—and made our way to some pints and pie at Ye Olde Chesire Cheese pub—an old haunt of Charles Dickens, Samuel Johnson and fatigued middle-aged professionals.

While he was still in the US, I put Ben up and we toured Baltimore for a day, so he promised to pay back the favor when I was London.  I think I can safely say I got the better end of the deal ;)   In merely two-and-a-half days, we were able to cover a lot of ground—Southwark Cathedral, Borough Market, South Bank, The Royal Academy, The National Gallery, Piccadilly, etc.  It was fantastic to finally see some of London’s icons with my own eyes—including The Eye, as well as Big Ben, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Shakespeare’s Globe, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace.  

The New Palace of Westminster

As a politics and history nerd, I particularly enjoyed the tour of The New Palace of Westminster, or The Houses of Parliament, which Ben booked.  It was awe-inspiring to walk through that historic place, although I did make sure to shake my fist at the painting of George III.  We had a proper old gent of guide who enlightened us as to the quirky traditions of the Palace—such as how every year the Black Rod beats on the door to the House of Commons exactly three times with his staff to invite them to hear the Queen’s Speech. And apparently the Speaker must be dragged to his chair upon his election.  Our guide also familiarized us with some recent occurrences—how Tony Blair was hit with a bag of flour by a student in the House of Commons and how a student (again) nearly beheaded the statue of Margaret Thatcher.  I shuddered at the thought of new bizarre traditions being created (“the annual pelting of the prime minister”, “the annual decapitation of Lady Thatcher”)

Aside from seeing and touring the great sites of London, it was also nice to get a peek inside daily life of average Britons.  For all the griping I heard, I rather enjoyed English cuisine—fish & chips, marmite on toast, Yorkshire tea, and a proper English breakfast consisting of beans, tomatoes, sausage, eggs and English bacon.  I was disappointed, however, when Ben’s wardrobe would not yield the entrance to Narnia (have to try harder next time…)

When I first entered Ben’s mother’s house, it was almost a too-delightfully-English scene: his mum and stepdad were both sitting in armchairs, she sewing and he reading a book with a large magnifying glass.  Throughout my stay, Ben and his family exhibited the stereotypically dry English sense of humor (“very droll” as Sir Humphrey Appleby would say.)  I also noticed something which George Orwell identified in “England Your England”:

“It is worth noting a minor English trait which is extremely well marked though not often commented on, and that is a love of flowers.” 

A lovely English garden

Flowers seemed to be prevalent in the English home—not only in vases but on wallpaper, on the furniture and in the smell of the air.  It is as if they are trying to bring the garden into the rest of the home.  And it seems the English take gardens very seriously.  While having tea and ice cream at Ben’s dad’s place, his stepmom expressed to me how she was glad they at least have a small but nice garden.  I got the sense that the English don’t aspire to the large house and big yard like in America, but to have and hold onto their own bit of space and unadulterated nature, especially those in the Greater London Urban Area.  Perhaps the same could be said for the city as a whole which is characterized by its many parks (“Over bridge of sighs/ To rest my eyes in shades of green” as the song “Itchycoo Park,” goes.)  Indeed much of British fantasy is an escape from Dickensian city life to some pre-modern, pre-industrial world, be it Never Land or Diagon Alley.

Ben and I enjoying a parting pint at the
White Horse pub before I depart

All in all, my visit felt far too short and I miss London sorely.  I even began to regret not trying to study in London, but a quick glance at my bank balance was consoling enough.  I hope to make it back to England very soon, but in the meantime, my neighbors will have to put up with “Rule Britannia” blaring from my room.