It’s perhaps a stereotype as an American woman but I have a thing for British guys. There, I said it. Despite my travels and the treasure trove of life experience that should tell my Thinking Brain that this is dumb and you’re too smart for this, I still have a small part of me that romanticizes them. The accent, the culture of “poshness”, the accent, the ideal of being more worldly and sophisticated than their American counterparts, and did I mention the accent?
In spring of 2006 I was in university in Boston. When spring break rolled around I looked into trips somewhere. Not being the Spring Break (with a capital S and B) kind of person I considered other less Cancún-y destinations. Inexpensive jaunts to Europe were common and as a student on financial aid, the budget was king. I quickly discovered that going home to Los Angeles was more expensive than going to visit my best friend who studying abroad in Rome. Obviously, I went to Rome.
The trip itself was amazing as it was only my first time properly travelling alone in a strange city. I had been lucky to travel through Italy a couple years before, but that was with my mother and as a part of an organized tour as neither of us were experienced intercontinental travelers. This time around I was completely on my own. And I Ioved it. Seeing my BFF and exploring the city together was a blast. We drank wine, smoked cigars as we walked past Saint Mark’s Square in the quiet of the night, and even had coffee dates with Carabinieris. It was perfect. But as perfect as it was it’s the trip home that stands the mostly clearly in my mind, even all these years later.
I’m a big advocate for long layovers. Like, the really long ones. The ones that are ten hours or more, that kind. If you can time it right it’s a free vacation in a place you might not otherwise visit. On the way from Rome to Boston I had nearly 16 hours in London. It was over a Saturday night, but I was still arriving early enough that I could at least make an evening of it and hope to figure out the rest of it as I went along. “Figuring it out” in the dead of the night, alone, in London. The fact I haven’t been murdered is frankly a miracle.
I looked into tickets to the theatre and if all went well I would be able to make it from Heathrow into Charing Cross with just enough time to walk briskly to the theatre and grab myself a last-minute ticket for my favourite musical, which by a stroke of fate happened to be performing in the West End then; “Evita.” Say what you want about it, but the soundtrack is full of bangers (don’t act like you don’t know all the words to “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina”, I see you) and the story is an incredibly interesting account of a woman who came from nothing and used what she could to have a tremendous impact on the people in her country. Yes, she and Juan were a little too cosy with fascists and had some questionable policies, but I digress. That’s a discussion for another day. But all that aside, I still love it.
Walking at a feverish pace through the crowded streets of London’s West End I skidded into the theatre with minutes to spare and was able to scrounge together all the cash I could for a slightly obstructed view ticket. I had done it! The show was phenomenal. I think I cried, but those subtle artsy tears that just gently roll down your face, seemingly in slow motion. I was at the theatre (written with the fanciest of posh accents) after all. But my plan after that was, well, nonexistent.
You must remember this was the age before smartphones. The iPhone, now ubiquitous the world over, would not even be invented for another year. Christ, I feel old just writing that. I was alone in a city I had only been in once before, in the middle of the night, no map, no plan, no working phone. Nadda. Zip. Zilch.
Thankfully I had a basic idea of the city and where things were. I think I even had a pop-up foldable map. And praise whatever deity that you believe in that I inherited my father’s fantastic sense of direction. As I wandered the historic streets of London, romantically lit up with the glow of streetlights and cozy pub windows I made my way somewhere to get dinner while thinking of how to occupy the rest of my time. As I ventured towards Embankment station I came across a lovely walking street where the buzz of nightlife began to waft through the air. In a tunnel under a bridge, I noticed a nightclub. I had been thinking originally that a club might be a good place to bide my time. I wasn’t a drinker at this point, but I could nurse a gin and tonic and simply watch people for hours. Soberly watching drunk people in a club was bound to provide endless entertainment and the hours would fly by.
I stood outside the club for several minutes watching people go in, trying to decide if it was the right place. Groups of scantily clad partygoers roughly my own age laughed and sang as they waited for the bouncer to let them in. Not knowing my way around London, and especially the nightlife, I had no idea what kind of venue this was. After noticing a preppy-dressed person a bit out of place, moi, the bouncer came over to the barricade to get my attention. He asked if I wanted to come in and I admitted I wasn’t sure. I briefly told him I had some time to kill and was looking for a spot to occupy myself. He smiled and politely told me there might be some other venues in the area that I’d like more. At the time I wasn’t sure what he meant but he seemed kind and genuine, so I took the advice. With the tone and attention of a big brother, the bouncer pointed a bit further down the street and said there was a nice bar there that might be more my speed and that I should check it out, if I didn’t like it then I was welcome to come back. I bashfully thanked him and turned to continue to my adventure a few doors down.
Upon entering the recommended bar I was hit with a wave of smoke. Smoking inside in the US had long been banned, but I was now in Europe in the final months of sanctioned indoor smoking. It was a bit surreal, but in a way it added to the experience of being somewhere outside my comfort zone. What was more European than smoking? The bar was loud, crowded, and full of smartly dressed professionals. I loved it instantly. I made my way through the hoards of people and to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic – the only cocktail I knew. I was 19 at the time and felt like the kind of sophisticated lady I hoped to grow up to be one day.
After the bartender slid the drink across the wet bar I was hit with a small wave of anxiety. What was I going to do now? I was a broke student who made it to and from Rome on a budget and a lot of hope, how was I going to nurse the one cocktail I could afford for another few hours? I tried to brush the thoughts away as I found a spot against the wall that allowed for maximum people watching. I quickly noticed a table of 4-5 guys off to my side who had picked up on the fact that I was alone and seemed a bit confused by it. Staggered glances from the group were more obvious than they had intended to be, but I was unfazed.
Before too long a couple of the guys from the aforementioned table who had been curious about my solo presence made their over to see who won the bet on why I was there. None of them got it right as single American girl on a long layover walking around London at night was not the most common of Jeopardy categories.
The guys that had initiated conversation were genuinely interested in why I was there and were making suggestions of what I could do and what was worth seeing this time of night. The conversation was sweet and friendly, but there was one guy who kept popping in and out and seemed completely uninterested in me. Almost bordering on rude with his interruptions and general manners. I think his friends introduced him as he didn’t want to stick around long enough to introduce himself. I vaguely remember his name was Daniel.
Upon entering the recommended bar I was hit with a wave of smoke. Smoking inside in the US had long been banned, but I was now in Europe in the final months of sanctioned indoor smoking. It was a bit surreal, but in a way it added to the experience of being somewhere outside my comfort zone. What was more European than smoking? The bar was loud, crowded, and full of smartly dressed professionals. I loved it instantly. I made my way through the hoards of people and to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic – the only cocktail I knew. I was 19 at the time and felt like the kind of sophisticated lady I hoped to grow up to be one day.
After the bartender slid the drink across the wet bar I was hit with a small wave of anxiety. What was I going to do now? I was a broke student who made it to and from Rome on a budget and a lot of hope, how was I going to nurse the one cocktail I could afford for another few hours? I tried to brush the thoughts away as I found a spot against the wall that allowed for maximum people watching. I quickly noticed a table of 4-5 guys off to my side who had picked up on the fact that I was alone and seemed a bit confused by it. Staggered glances from the group were more obvious than they had intended to be, but I was unfazed.
Before too long a couple of the guys from the aforementioned table who had been curious about my solo presence made their over to see who won the bet on why I was there. None of them got it right as single American girl on a long layover walking around London at night was not the most common of Jeopardy categories. The guys that had initiated conversation were genuinely interested in why I was there and were making suggestions of what I could do and what was worth seeing this time of night. The conversation was sweet and friendly, but there was one guy who kept popping in and out and seemed completely uninterested in me. Almost bordering on rude with his interruptions and general manners. I think his friends introduced him as he didn’t want to stick around long enough to introduce himself. I vaguely remember his name was Daniel.
