Merry Ole England
Sometimes when my Pop-Pop (grandfather) can't remember a certain bit of
information, he grows frustrated; having seen and done so much hinders his
ability to easily recall everything he knows (which is a lot). Similarly, having seen
two iconic cities in span of five days, I feel like I can't accurately account for all
that I've recently experienced. Nevertheless, I will try.
Saturday morning John, Anthony (from New York, goes to Boston College, my two week travel companion) and I woke up early, strapped on our
backpacks brimming with two weeks worth of clothes, toiletries and other
needed travel goods, and headed for Bergamo airport in Milan. Tram. Train.
Bus. Flight. London.
We got into Stansted airport around 11:00 AM. Our customs official verbally
guided us to the bus depot, where we bought tickets for a coach into the city.
Our first taste of merry ole England was that unique public transport, and I must say
that it tasted of vomit and body odor. Yes, unfortunately for the entire 40
minute trip from airport to city center, the 3 of us endured that most pungent
aroma, a combination of two splendid bodily scents. But we got there. Bus.
Train. Trek. Hostel.
We checked into our hostel, Clink, an old English courthouse recently restored
for the slumbering pleasure of cheap tourists such as ourselves, then went out
to see the town and meet with Binoy and Analise, two of our friends who had
already arrived in the kingdom. Hungry, we stopped at a nearby pub, which by
the way can be found on every block of the city. It's wonderful.
Since, aside from views and maps and meeting new people, trying local food is
one of my favorite tourist practices, I ordered what I believe every newcomer to
Britain is expected to – fish and chips. I was surprised to find that
"chips" are actually fries, and that green peas are an unspoken, yet required,
compliment to this dish, and that it is simply a piece of fried fish, not a fish
sandwich, but other than that, it was everything I expected. I ate it, and it tasted
OK, but when it comes to the fish department, I'd choose salmon over fried cod.
It kind of tasted like a big fish stick.
Moving on, we arrived at the Tower of London, which lies along the River
Thames (the river running through the city), and was where one of the King
Henry's beheaded of couple of his wives. Got to love English history. We didn't
actually go into the building, but we did walk around, reading the historical
plaques conveniently posted by the board of tourism.
Analise, who we had met along with Binoy, organized a walking tour of the city,
along the south end of the river, which she assured us we had to do. It went like
this. Tower Bridge. Globe Theater. Tate Modern Museum. London Eye.
Parliament. Big Ben. Westminster Abbey. Buckingham Palace.
It was dusk when we began this excursion, so by the time we got to London Eye,
the huge ferris wheel near the bridge which extends to Parliament and Big Ben,
it was night. We decided to purchase a ticket for the 30 minute ride, a trip which
takes one quite a few feet in the air and allows a spectacular view of the
metropolis below. My favorite.
That night we dined on Brick Street, an avenue on the northeast outskirts of the
city with an entire strip of Indian restaurants. Brits love Indian food, so you find
these types of places all over, but especially on this concentrated lane. I hadn't
had Indian food since I was 8 years old, when I hated it, but, having waited a
sufficient amount of time, I was ready to try it again. It was great.
That night we went to Ministry of Sound, an enormous, overpriced nightclub for
foolish youngsters like us. We met 4 of Analise's friends who are currently
studying abroad in London, and together the 8 of us made a solid party.
Highlights of the night included dancing in a room that I believe didn't have
walls, just wall sized speakers, and taking pictures with a man dressed as a
Storm Trooper, who apparently didn't get the memo that Halloween was still
one week away.
Sunday we went to the British Museum, an astounding display of artifacts from
all over the world. You need to remember that not so long ago, Britain was an
empire, with power and influence on several continents. During this time, it
seems like they removed their favorite bits of history from the countries of
origin, and relocated them to within the walls of this building. Highlights
included sculptures from the Greek Parthenon and Egyptian relics, including the
Rosetta Stone, the stone used to decipher hieroglyphics.
After this we walked around the city for a little bit, heading to a market area in
the city with plenty of vendors working from small, outdoor stalls, surrounded
of course by restaurants and taverns. We found one of these establishments
within our desired price range, The Coal Hole I think it was called, and went in.
It was there that I bought my second authentic English meal, which I am sure
my mom would have loved. Sunday Roast (a cherished British tradition) with
vegetables and Yorkshire pudding. It was good, but not nearly as good as what
my mother can make.
With night approaching, we pressed on, stopping shortly at the National Portrait
Gallery, a museum of portraits from old English times (Queen Victoria, her
cousin-husband Prince Albert and the like) to present (Prince Charles and Paul
McCartney). After this brief, unplanned detour, we continued to work towards
the Piccadilly Circus area, which is the tourist heart of the downtown, something
comparable to Times Square in New York. Having never been to Times Square, I
thought the plaza was awesome and took many more pictures than my eastern-
American companions.
I think now is a pretty good time to sum up my opinion of London. Pretty much,
I loved it. It has history - buildings like the Tower of London and the Globe
Theater - night life - taverns and clubs spread out all over the place – culture -
museums, musicians, theaters and more production advertisements than any
place I have ever been - and class. I can definitely picture myself returning for
an extended period of time.
Anyhow, after Piccadilly Circus we headed back to our hostel, stopping of
course at Kings Cross station, which for you Harry Potter fans should ring a bell
as the famous location of the illusive Platform 9 ¾. We took a picture, but for
some reason couldn't break through the threshold to board the Hogwarts
Express. Bummer.
That night only us gentlemen hit the town. We met some British guys on a train
towards the Soho area (where most of the late night clubs are) who enjoyed our
American accents and asked us where we were going. We didn't really know, so
they invited us to come with them. Here's their story. They are Londoners who
head to a party island in Greece every summer to bartend and, well, party. On
that particular night they were headed for a Greek bartender reunion which we,
fortunately, were extended an invitation to. We went and it rocked. I was
probably one of the least attractive people in the club, which I don't say often,
feeling fairly confident about my general appearance. However, where we were,
an underground bar known as the Roadhouse with American artifacts decorating
the walls and bartenders decked in new-age tuxedos, every single girl was
fantastic looking. We made sure to thank our new cross-continental friends.
Also, on this particular night, an international bartending competition was going
on, on a stage by the dance floor. Think Tom Cruise in Cocktail on steroids. The
competitors, who appeared one at a time for a 5 minute performance, were
literally juggling bottles and glasses with their hands, elbows and faces. One guy
threw a pint glass into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, poured a full
beer, tossed this up onto his chin, and then back to the back of his hand with
ease. Again, literally. I wonder how many glasses he broke practicing.
Monday our main event was the Tate Modern Museum, a huge collection of
works, separated not by time period, but by type. A one-pound audio tour was
well worth the money, describing the most famous works that, without the
guide, probably would have baffled us (you know how modern art can be).
John, Anthony and I stopped for pizza (enough with the English food) and then
John headed back to Milan in order to be back for an exam that I thankfully
don't have to take. Now Anthony and I were the only remaining Bocconi
travelers in the city (Analise and Binoy had caught an earlier flight to Dublin), so
we went out to see some of the things in the day that we had already witnessed
at night.
Heading to Westminster Abbey, we arrived only to find it had closed minutes
before. Instead, we walked into the gift shop and took sad pictures with the
postcards, visually commemorating our disappointment. Continuing on, we
reached Buckingham Palace, which is sort of like the White House in that you
can only see it from a distance. It is large and white and surrounded by a big,
black gate. Another small let down was our newfound knowledge that taking
pictures with the guards and their famous headwear is impossible; you can
really only see them from afar, manning their posts by the palace, holding guns
that will never need to be used except as props for tourist photos.
information, he grows frustrated; having seen and done so much hinders his
ability to easily recall everything he knows (which is a lot). Similarly, having seen
two iconic cities in span of five days, I feel like I can't accurately account for all
that I've recently experienced. Nevertheless, I will try.
Saturday morning John, Anthony (from New York, goes to Boston College, my two week travel companion) and I woke up early, strapped on our
backpacks brimming with two weeks worth of clothes, toiletries and other
needed travel goods, and headed for Bergamo airport in Milan. Tram. Train.
Bus. Flight. London.
We got into Stansted airport around 11:00 AM. Our customs official verbally
guided us to the bus depot, where we bought tickets for a coach into the city.
Our first taste of merry ole England was that unique public transport, and I must say
that it tasted of vomit and body odor. Yes, unfortunately for the entire 40
minute trip from airport to city center, the 3 of us endured that most pungent
aroma, a combination of two splendid bodily scents. But we got there. Bus.
Train. Trek. Hostel.
We checked into our hostel, Clink, an old English courthouse recently restored
for the slumbering pleasure of cheap tourists such as ourselves, then went out
to see the town and meet with Binoy and Analise, two of our friends who had
already arrived in the kingdom. Hungry, we stopped at a nearby pub, which by
the way can be found on every block of the city. It's wonderful.
Since, aside from views and maps and meeting new people, trying local food is
one of my favorite tourist practices, I ordered what I believe every newcomer to
Britain is expected to – fish and chips. I was surprised to find that
"chips" are actually fries, and that green peas are an unspoken, yet required,
compliment to this dish, and that it is simply a piece of fried fish, not a fish
sandwich, but other than that, it was everything I expected. I ate it, and it tasted
OK, but when it comes to the fish department, I'd choose salmon over fried cod.
It kind of tasted like a big fish stick.
Moving on, we arrived at the Tower of London, which lies along the River
Thames (the river running through the city), and was where one of the King
Henry's beheaded of couple of his wives. Got to love English history. We didn't
actually go into the building, but we did walk around, reading the historical
plaques conveniently posted by the board of tourism.
Analise, who we had met along with Binoy, organized a walking tour of the city,
along the south end of the river, which she assured us we had to do. It went like
this. Tower Bridge. Globe Theater. Tate Modern Museum. London Eye.
Parliament. Big Ben. Westminster Abbey. Buckingham Palace.
It was dusk when we began this excursion, so by the time we got to London Eye,
the huge ferris wheel near the bridge which extends to Parliament and Big Ben,
it was night. We decided to purchase a ticket for the 30 minute ride, a trip which
takes one quite a few feet in the air and allows a spectacular view of the
metropolis below. My favorite.
That night we dined on Brick Street, an avenue on the northeast outskirts of the
city with an entire strip of Indian restaurants. Brits love Indian food, so you find
these types of places all over, but especially on this concentrated lane. I hadn't
had Indian food since I was 8 years old, when I hated it, but, having waited a
sufficient amount of time, I was ready to try it again. It was great.
That night we went to Ministry of Sound, an enormous, overpriced nightclub for
foolish youngsters like us. We met 4 of Analise's friends who are currently
studying abroad in London, and together the 8 of us made a solid party.
Highlights of the night included dancing in a room that I believe didn't have
walls, just wall sized speakers, and taking pictures with a man dressed as a
Storm Trooper, who apparently didn't get the memo that Halloween was still
one week away.
Sunday we went to the British Museum, an astounding display of artifacts from
all over the world. You need to remember that not so long ago, Britain was an
empire, with power and influence on several continents. During this time, it
seems like they removed their favorite bits of history from the countries of
origin, and relocated them to within the walls of this building. Highlights
included sculptures from the Greek Parthenon and Egyptian relics, including the
Rosetta Stone, the stone used to decipher hieroglyphics.
After this we walked around the city for a little bit, heading to a market area in
the city with plenty of vendors working from small, outdoor stalls, surrounded
of course by restaurants and taverns. We found one of these establishments
within our desired price range, The Coal Hole I think it was called, and went in.
It was there that I bought my second authentic English meal, which I am sure
my mom would have loved. Sunday Roast (a cherished British tradition) with
vegetables and Yorkshire pudding. It was good, but not nearly as good as what
my mother can make.
With night approaching, we pressed on, stopping shortly at the National Portrait
Gallery, a museum of portraits from old English times (Queen Victoria, her
cousin-husband Prince Albert and the like) to present (Prince Charles and Paul
McCartney). After this brief, unplanned detour, we continued to work towards
the Piccadilly Circus area, which is the tourist heart of the downtown, something
comparable to Times Square in New York. Having never been to Times Square, I
thought the plaza was awesome and took many more pictures than my eastern-
American companions.
I think now is a pretty good time to sum up my opinion of London. Pretty much,
I loved it. It has history - buildings like the Tower of London and the Globe
Theater - night life - taverns and clubs spread out all over the place – culture -
museums, musicians, theaters and more production advertisements than any
place I have ever been - and class. I can definitely picture myself returning for
an extended period of time.
Anyhow, after Piccadilly Circus we headed back to our hostel, stopping of
course at Kings Cross station, which for you Harry Potter fans should ring a bell
as the famous location of the illusive Platform 9 ¾. We took a picture, but for
some reason couldn't break through the threshold to board the Hogwarts
Express. Bummer.
That night only us gentlemen hit the town. We met some British guys on a train
towards the Soho area (where most of the late night clubs are) who enjoyed our
American accents and asked us where we were going. We didn't really know, so
they invited us to come with them. Here's their story. They are Londoners who
head to a party island in Greece every summer to bartend and, well, party. On
that particular night they were headed for a Greek bartender reunion which we,
fortunately, were extended an invitation to. We went and it rocked. I was
probably one of the least attractive people in the club, which I don't say often,
feeling fairly confident about my general appearance. However, where we were,
an underground bar known as the Roadhouse with American artifacts decorating
the walls and bartenders decked in new-age tuxedos, every single girl was
fantastic looking. We made sure to thank our new cross-continental friends.
Also, on this particular night, an international bartending competition was going
on, on a stage by the dance floor. Think Tom Cruise in Cocktail on steroids. The
competitors, who appeared one at a time for a 5 minute performance, were
literally juggling bottles and glasses with their hands, elbows and faces. One guy
threw a pint glass into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, poured a full
beer, tossed this up onto his chin, and then back to the back of his hand with
ease. Again, literally. I wonder how many glasses he broke practicing.
Monday our main event was the Tate Modern Museum, a huge collection of
works, separated not by time period, but by type. A one-pound audio tour was
well worth the money, describing the most famous works that, without the
guide, probably would have baffled us (you know how modern art can be).
John, Anthony and I stopped for pizza (enough with the English food) and then
John headed back to Milan in order to be back for an exam that I thankfully
don't have to take. Now Anthony and I were the only remaining Bocconi
travelers in the city (Analise and Binoy had caught an earlier flight to Dublin), so
we went out to see some of the things in the day that we had already witnessed
at night.
Heading to Westminster Abbey, we arrived only to find it had closed minutes
before. Instead, we walked into the gift shop and took sad pictures with the
postcards, visually commemorating our disappointment. Continuing on, we
reached Buckingham Palace, which is sort of like the White House in that you
can only see it from a distance. It is large and white and surrounded by a big,
black gate. Another small let down was our newfound knowledge that taking
pictures with the guards and their famous headwear is impossible; you can
really only see them from afar, manning their posts by the palace, holding guns
that will never need to be used except as props for tourist photos.
Hopping on a tram, we went to the Camden Markets, a famous area in the north
end of the city with multiple indoor – outdoor malls, each filled with vendors
selling art, trinkets, t-shirts and souvenirs. Finally, we worked our way south-
east to the Victoria Train Station, where at any hour or half-past the hour, we
could catch a coach bus to the airport, our lodging for the evening (yes, we
stayed the night at the airport in order to 1) Avoid paying for a hostel 2) Insure
we caught our early flight and 3) Stay the night at Stansted Airport, which is well
known for its nightly slumber party of travelers).
Before heading to the airport however, we walked deep into a suburban area in
order to find an authentic, English pub, away from the city and any tourist
attractions. We succeeded in entering the Antelope Inn, a cozy, warmly
decorated establishment with a bar, fireplace and shelf of leather bound books
that looked important. It was here that we had 2 drinks and played games of
Jenga, Connect Four and Checkers, before departing at the 11:00 PM closing
time.
The coach back didn't smell, and while I typed about Rome, Anthony slept. We
arrived at the airport and were fascinated by the swoons of sleepers spread out
in the airport's nooks, lying awkwardly on the cold linoleum floor. Emulating
these seasoned veterans, we found our own spot behind a ticket counter near a
heating vent, and laid out for an uncomfortable night of sleep (hey, it was free).
I actually used the pseudo sleeping bag my father had insisted I bring to Italy,
something he had purchased at a camping store and believed would come in
handy. I must admit that it did, despite my initial disbelief and sarcastic
appreciation.
The next day we continued our journey. Flight. Bus. Dublin.
end of the city with multiple indoor – outdoor malls, each filled with vendors
selling art, trinkets, t-shirts and souvenirs. Finally, we worked our way south-
east to the Victoria Train Station, where at any hour or half-past the hour, we
could catch a coach bus to the airport, our lodging for the evening (yes, we
stayed the night at the airport in order to 1) Avoid paying for a hostel 2) Insure
we caught our early flight and 3) Stay the night at Stansted Airport, which is well
known for its nightly slumber party of travelers).
Before heading to the airport however, we walked deep into a suburban area in
order to find an authentic, English pub, away from the city and any tourist
attractions. We succeeded in entering the Antelope Inn, a cozy, warmly
decorated establishment with a bar, fireplace and shelf of leather bound books
that looked important. It was here that we had 2 drinks and played games of
Jenga, Connect Four and Checkers, before departing at the 11:00 PM closing
time.
The coach back didn't smell, and while I typed about Rome, Anthony slept. We
arrived at the airport and were fascinated by the swoons of sleepers spread out
in the airport's nooks, lying awkwardly on the cold linoleum floor. Emulating
these seasoned veterans, we found our own spot behind a ticket counter near a
heating vent, and laid out for an uncomfortable night of sleep (hey, it was free).
I actually used the pseudo sleeping bag my father had insisted I bring to Italy,
something he had purchased at a camping store and believed would come in
handy. I must admit that it did, despite my initial disbelief and sarcastic
appreciation.
The next day we continued our journey. Flight. Bus. Dublin.
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