Friends, Fire Alarms and Yorkie Bars: Bob and Elyse’s Continued Adventures in London

…Or at least, I hoped I was going to sleep. It turns out that wherever I go, fire alarms are bound to follow. A little after 1 a.m., the entire hotel was woken up by blaring sirens. After some confusion, we joined the other guests in the lobby for a good fifteen minutes, while a fire truck arrived and the hotel staff scurried about and panicked. Finally, they figured out how to turn the alarms off, and everyone returned to their rooms, at least until the fire alarm hiccupped ten minutes later. I wish I could say that was the last time this happened, but that wouldn’t be true. Oh well. As my dad remarked, it was a great way to meet other hotel guests…

After sleeping not quite enough to make up for the disturbance, we had a complimentary continental breakfast at the hotel and set off for Westminster, where Parliament meets. We were not able to get inside since we hadn’t thought to stop by the American Embassy and request forms that would give us the ambassador’s permission to take a tour, but it was a nice try. We walked to the National Portrait Gallery after that and spent a few hours browsing portraits of famous people of all eras from the Tudors to the Beatles. (But we stopped before we got to the Twiggy exhibit.) I found the famous portrait of Jane Austen, although it was much smaller than I anticipated. The museum was a great British history refresher, and I could easily have spent another hour or two wandering around. There are just that many famous portraits there.

We returned to the hotel for the afternoon and watched Friends while eating Yorkie bars, two activities that were to be repeated so often that they characterize the entire trip for me. It was incredibly rare to find an hour where the sitcom Friends was not playing on one channel or another, and after two and a half months of barely laying eyes on a tv, I enjoyed every cheesy moment. And as for the Yorkie bars…well, they’re so good, we couldn’t justify NOT eating them. (For you poor souls who have never tasted the goodness that is a Yorkie bar, it’s a massive chocolate bar made of European chocolate, which obviously makes it superior to anything made in the States.)

We found a cute little Italian restaurant for dinner with a surprisingly friendly waiter. (I’m generalizing, but I’ve found Londoners are not quite as warm and helpful as Brightoners…or is it Brightonites?) Our last stop of the evening was quite possibly the best: the musical Billy Elliot at the Victoria Palace Theatre. “Wow” is the only word in the English language to describe the show, and it doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s a heartwarming story to begin with, and the entire show was very well-produced. The acting was wonderful, especially from young Billy, who carried the show despite how demanding the role is (he was in almost every scene). Yes, the accents were difficult to understand, I didn’t get some of the British pop culture references, and I didn’t leave the theater humming any of the songs. BUT, the dancing was incredible, and every number was well-choreographed. I don’t like ballet, but even I appreciated the beautiful dance featuring both young and old Elliot. I heartily recommend it. After another Yorkie and more Friends, we called it a night, and fortunately we were not disturbed by any more fire alarms.

We started off Saturday with a great breakfast at a nice French place (we were actually in England, not another European country, despite our culinary decisions) with Riki and Iris, who, I should add, was very well-behaved and succeeded in charming not only my dad but also the woman at the table next to us. Afterward, my dad and I managed to navigate our way to Paddington Station and took a train to Oxford, where we hopped on a double-decker bus to Blenheim Palace, next to the tiny village of Woodstock.

Blenheim Palace (pronounced BLEN-em, not Blen-HEIM) is perhaps not as grand as Windsor, but if I can’t reach a satisfactory agreement with the Queen, I will certainly ask the 11th Duke of Marlborough if I can move in, as it has been his family’s home since the early 18th century, when his ancestor, John Churchill, was rewarded for winning the Battle of Blenheim. A title, an estate and money to build a house, all for one military victory? Where do I sign up?

We took an interesting tour of the first floor, led by a woman who seemed to forget that she wasn’t in a classroom (“And one more time, when did the battle of Blenheim occur? August 13th 1704!”) Still, she knew interesting facts, although she refused to comment on what “wicked” things the 5th and 6th Dukes did. It is now my mission in life to discover why their papers had to be burned after they died… The rooms were ornate and beautifully decorated, as I’ve come to expect palaces to be. Before we got to the upper floors, we passed by two replicas of the palace, one built entirely of matchsticks and the other was a cake (from the 1950s). Someone had too much time on their hands.

Finances must be tight, because our tour guide for the second floor was not a person but an animated ghost. Literally, she was a screen on the wall, but she talked and walked (admittedly two dimensionally) just like a real person. Coincidentally, the doors to the next room always opened just after she finished speaking. She told more little tidbits and stories about previous residents that made the place come alive, so I forgave her for not existing. We took a brief break for tea and a scone, as well as a Diet Coke for my dad, obviously. He discovered that like chocolate, Diet Pepsi in England tastes different from Diet Pepsi back home. Unfortunately, unlike chocolate, he deemed English Pepsi inferior to American Pepsi, so he had to stick to Diet Coke. Life is tough when you visit your daughter in England…

Like I wrote last week, my dad must be among the luckiest people on the face of the Earth, because the day we visited Blenheim, the Duke and Duchess were out, so we were able to tour their “private” apartments. I put private in quotation marks because they’re not REALLY private. They were as polished, ornate, impersonal and cold as the rest of the house. I (kind of) joke about wanting to live in a palace, but in all honestly, I don’t know how anyone could feel comfortable living there. It’s like a museum, and the rooms don’t feel lived in at all. Besides, it must be awfully hard to feel like you have any privacy when your ancestors’ portraits are staring at you no matter what room you’re in.

We poked around the grounds a little bit after our final tour, but it was cold and raining, so I’ll just have to come back someday to see the gardens, which my dad remembers as being beautiful from when he visited 34 years ago. We walked around Oxford for a little bit, and then hopped a train back to London.

After a long and futile search for a Chinese restaurant, we settled for dinner at Henry’s Restaurant and Bar. Real creative name, but at least it’s English. Since my dad makes friends everywhere he goes (because he’s desperately seeking attention, but that’s another story…) we became quite close with our waiter after he recommended the vanilla cheesecake. In case anyone is interested, he is thinking of going to university to study either theology or geology. He is actually only considering one of those options, but we weren’t sure which one, since we each heard a different word. Oh British accents…

Sunday surprised us by being kind of warm and sunny, so we walked to the British Museum, home of the most stolen ancient artifacts in the world. Not that I’m complaining. The collections were very impressive, and we particularly enjoyed the section about clocks. Who knew time could be so interesting? We meandered back to the hotel in the afternoon, spent some quality time with Friends and Yorkie bars, and then rode the London Eye. Chicago has London beat in terms of a picturesque skyline, but as much as it makes me feel like a traitor, I have to admit that the London Eye is cooler than the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. The capsules we rode in vaguely reminded me of a spaceship. :) That night, we finally found Chinatown and ate at a delicious Chinese food buffet before calling it a night.

On Monday, we had a leisurely morning and started out the afternoon with a long walk to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the second largest cathedral in the world, right behind St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. The huge architecture and the tiny artistic details are incredibly impressive, right from the Crypt in the basement to the top of the dome, which we got to see more of when we climbed up 257 steps to a higher level. We had a lot of fun exploring the Cathedral, but we wanted to try to get into Parliament, so we took a taxi back to Westminster, only to discover that there was a two-and-a-half hour wait. Oh well, it was another nice try and clearly not meant to be.

We stopped for more caffeine in the form of tea and Diet Coke (guess who drank what), and after some Friends, er, rest, at the hotel, we set off for Leicester Square and ate tropical pizza and the best burger I’ve had in ages at Garfunkel’s, which was recommended to us by another one of my dad’s new London friends. We then walked across the street to the Gielgud Theatre to see the musical Avenue Q. It can’t quite rival Billy Elliot, but I really enjoyed Avenue Q as well. It was very funny, and although I was skeptical about the puppets, the actors used them very effectively. I’m so glad I had the chance to see some of the best of West End Theatre, and maybe I’ll be lucky and manage to see another show or two before go home.

Tuesday, my dad and I said goodbye, and I returned to Brighton, which after a weekend in London with my dad, was a rather rude awakening. The observant readers among you might remember that I was supposed to leave for the Netherlands on Wednesday and return on Sunday. However, a British Airways cabin crew strike, combined with a really sick Elyse, resulted in a canceled trip. I was able to get a full refund because of the strike, so I’ll hopefully reschedule my trip for sometime in May.

Despite how empty the campus feels, I’ve been keeping myself busy. I had dinner and lunch with my friend Tina and some of her friends, I’ve been working on my two huge essays, the due dates for which are a lot sooner than I realized, and I’ve been hanging out with my neighbor, his girlfriend and his friends, watching movies and singing karaoke. (I’m still terrible at it, but it’s more fun than I gave it credit for, especially singing the cheesy ‘90s songs I remember and love from my childhood.)

Last night, I had another one of those precious American abroad moments. I was once again hanging out with my neighbor and company, and one of his friends was an international student. She instantly knew where I was from, but when I asked her where she was from, she just said Europe, insisting that I’d never heard of her tiny country. After a little prodding, she told me she was from Lithuania. Of course I’ve heard of Lithuania! Who hasn’t heard of Lithuania??? Granted, it’s not the most famous country in the world, but still, I’ve heard of it, give me some credit! However, after some of our later conversations, I see where her skepticism comes from.

I met a guy from Essex who shed more light on the British educational system. He said that every program at every department in the country costs exactly the same thing, three thousand-some odd pounds. All of us American, college-attending students should be very jealous.

A few hours later, I was chatting with the two Lithuanian girls, and one asked, in a matter-of-fact manner and completely without malice, “Is it true that Americans are fat and dumb?” Um…How exactly is one supposed to answer that question? There wasn’t too much I could say about the being fat part, but I tried to explain that stupid people exist everywhere, and this is one department that America (I hope) does not have a monopoly on. The other girl chimed in at that point and asked if high school cliques were as mean as they were on tv (interestingly enough, I had this same conversation with an English guy a few weeks ago). After I tried to expound upon the differences between fiction and reality, she specifically wanted to know if people got their heads flushed in toilets. A discussion about bullying, Columbine and gun violence ensued. It’s not exactly a newsflash, but the U.S. seriously needs to hire an image consultant (or two, or three, or a thousand). That, or produce less trashy television that ends up all over the world. Just an idea…