London, Day 3 -- Harrod's, Hyde Park, and Our Rob

Before I start on Day 3, I have to briefly wrap up Day 2 for you. We did the tourist game during the afternoon, but that night (Monday night), we met up with a real Englishman and did some real English things. The Englishman was Rob, or "Our Rob" as we would soon come to call him.

I met Rob online. Now kids, I do not recommend meeting strangers in foreign countries on the internet and then flying around the world to meet them in person. It's foolhardy, imprudent, and downright peligroso. But hey, what can I say? I walk on the wild side.

So I met Rob online, and when we were planning the trip and our living arrangements in London fell through, he was kind enough to offer his place. I didn't take him up on it -- even I am not that injudicious -- but I did get his number and arrange to meet up so he could show us around. This ranks in the top three best decisions I made on the entire trip (with staying at the Astor Victoria and buying an Oyster card). Monday night, he took us to The Sussex, a cozy pub near Leicester Square, taught us how to say "Leicester," got us fish 'n chips from Rock & Sole, and gave us the nickel 5p tour of Covent Garden and the surrounding area.

The tourist attractions were fun, but we didn't really start enjoying London until we met Rob, not only because he spoke British to us and loaned us his A to Z (/zed/), but because he is an awesome person who went way out of his way to make us feel welcome. Rob, thank you so much! Couldn't have done without you. Your friendship is my favorite favourite souvenir from the whole trip. Even better than the bendy Buckingham Palace guard (and I am pretty damn fond of him).



So Day 3, Tuesday, was a major shopping day. By "shopping", I mostly mean browsing and not actually spending money, but S and I did pass the entire morning in Harrod's. A disproportionate amount of that time was spent in the chocolate department, shown above. I didn't actually buy any chocolates, but I drooled over a lot of them. S bought Turkish Delight for her Narnia-enamored sister, and I purchased a substantial quantity of tea. I may pass some of this along to my sister. If she asks nicely.

After Harrod's, we walked down to the ginormous Whole Foods on High Street Kensington and met Rob on his lunch break. He gets an hour for lunch every day. I get 24 minutes. *seething with jealousy*

Of course, I also get three months off in the summer...

Anyway, we picked up sandwiches and went to Hyde Park to eat. Half the west side of London had the same idea. Everywhere you looked, people were sprinkled in pairs and trios all over the grass, with the occasional loner napping under a tree. The sun was shining, the pigeons were... well, not really singing, but they were there hanging out, too. Glorious day! Londoners may get more than their fair share of rain, but they have a fervent appreciation for the sunshine. When they get it, they drink up every drop!



After lunch, Rob went back beneath the corporate lash, and S and I went to Madame Tussaud's. If you're on your way to London, I suggest you carve a little niche in your itinerary for this famous (yet bizarre) landmark. For those who don't know, Madame Tussaud's claim to fame was making wax likenesses of important people. She started by making death masks during the French Revolution, including those of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, or so the story goes. In the museum in London, they actually have a diorama of her searching through a pile of decapitated bodies, looking for the queen's head. Charming, eh?

Most of Madame Tussaud's isn't that gruesome. They have wax sculptures of a wide variety of celebrities -- actors, athletes, musicians, politicians, royalty -- and the whole purpose of the place is to let tourists pose with them. Seems a little cheesy, but with the proper sense of humor, hours of entertainment ensue. Among my favorites were Tom Cruise -- who looked incredibly lifelike, minus the insanity and hysterical outbursts of laughter -- and Bob Marley. I typically avoid posting pictures of myself on this blog, but Bob and I look so into it here, I can't resist.



Red, red wiii-iiii-iiiine... Stay close to me--ee-eee...

*ahem*

That night we went out with a couple of the roommates -- Canadian Anna and Australian Dave. Relaxed in a little Soho pub for a while, then found a club and danced the night away. Our table happened to be in front of a mirror that rose the whole height of the wall, so when we weren't on the dance floor, we got to watch people watching themselves in the mirror. Great fun! The self-proclaimed star of the night was the guy in the green t shown below. He ruled the dance floor with his fair-to-middling looks, his corny dance moves, and his massive ego. Anna couldn't resist the hypnotic spell of his white-clad butt, as documented below.



Green T guy didn't really do it for me, but I had a marvelous time chatting up David. Not to encourage cultural stereotypes, but I really do adore Australians.

London, Day 1 -- The Astor Victoria

Some people collect snow globes, some stamps, and some shot glasses. My grandmother collects those little engraved spoons. I don’t know why.

I collect places.

I collect significant places – places I call “home,” even if only for a short while. My newest place is the Astor Victoria Hostel in London. 71 Belgrave. Room 12. Home.

I’d never stayed in a hostel before this one, and kind of like the first doll I ever had or the first boy I ever kissed, I find it strangely irreplaceable.



When S and I arrived, we were struck by how gorgeous the neighborhood was – a long strip of soaring, white columned buildings, mostly hotels and obviously frequented by tourists. Our hostel – number 71 – had a bright red door, a well-polished gold address plaque, and a printout of Fidel Castro on the door declaring “I stay at the Astor Victoria every time I come to London!” We schlepped our luggage up six narrow flights of stairs to get to our third-floor room and claimed the two empty beds opposite the window.

Of course, it is never the place itself that makes a home. Homes are made up of the people we encounter there, the connections we make with each other, the moments that color a place in our memory. We spent that first afternoon in London exploring the nearby parks and shops and returned home in the evening to meet our roommates, a motley crew of global nomads.

First we met the Frenchman, Victor, a dark, curly-headed fellow who spoke little English and went about with a generally haunted air. He probably would have been handsome if he hadn’t given such a strong impression of a startled rabbit. He blushed and twitched awkwardly at our frequent outbursts of laughter, though they were never at his expense. Attempts to stifle the giggles or explain the jokes only exacerbated his discomfort. He quickly gave up, went out, got drunk, and stumbled back in long after the rest of us had gone to bed. The drink must have helped him feel more comfortable around us; when we woke the next morning, he was stretched out on his bed naked as he came from the womb.

Apart from S and I, another American girl – Lauren – was in our room the first night. She was freshly out of college and had been traveling for three months with a few friends. Her body was going home in two days, but her brain had already shipped out. She sat vacantly on her bed while the rest of us got acquainted. She introduced herself but then barely said a word, evidently uninterested in meeting anyone new or having anything like fun. She must have been exhausted.



Anna had the lower bunk by the window, and she was at the beginning of her adventure, traveling abroad alone for the first time. She had no real plan – just a few vague ideas of places she wanted to go, people she wanted to see. When I first started chatting with her, she talked entirely too fast, giggled too much, and was so clearly in over her head that I thought I might drown just sitting next to her. I know the feeling of diving headfirst into the unknown, so I felt for Anna, but I knew too that once she started meeting people, she’d settle in. Over the course of the week, she got her feet on the ground and her head on straight, and by the time we parted ways, she at least gave the impression of being travel-savvy, even if she still had a lot to learn.

Above Anna was David, an Aussie surfer on a working holiday. Like Anna, he was on his own and anxious to meet people and have adventures, though considerably calmer and more confident than she. He was the sort of person who has obviously grown up in the sun – like guys from Florida or Southern California – the perfect roast marshmallow golden brown with sun-bleached blonde curls. And he smelled like sun-burnt skin and salt water and Linx, as all good Australian men should. That first night, he split his gut laughing when S asked him if meat pies really had meat in them. He then tried to convince her that as a child, he had jumped on the backs of wild kangaroos and ridden them to school. She finally realized he was joking when he said you can steer them with the ears and I couldn’t keep a straight face. We call this “cultural exchange”.

How to Date American Guys: A User's Guide

The footloose Citizen of the World faces many confounding conundrums when circumnavigating the globe and delving into other cultures. Among the most famous are the language barriers, the variances in decorum, and of course, the gender politics.

Of the many grooves I had to get back into when I returned to the States, the groove of American guys was one of the trickiest. They aren't like all the Australians I'd been bumming about with or the Brit I'd been dating, and they certainly weren't like the Japanese guys I was constantly surrounded by at work and at home.

You see, Australian guys are incredibly easy to get along with. The secret is playing along with whatever harebrained schemes they concoct. They want to go drink and smoke pot down by the river like vagabonds? Great idea! They want to spend the first half of a night watching Bruce Lee flicks and the second half kung fu-ing each other’s asses? Wonderful! They want to freak out Japanese people by jogging up the “down” escalators? Brilliant! They want to run blindly through rows of speeding cars? Well, what are we waiting for?!

All an Australian really wants to know is that you’re down with his shenanigans and that he can be himself without fear of criticism from you. As an added bonus, hanging with Aussies will release your own inhibitions as well. You’ll probably find you rather enjoy running through traffic.


Aussie D getting stabbed by one of his mates in a bar. "There's always shenanigans."

A Brit is a more complicated animal. For a British guy – especially a well-educated, cultured British guy – wit is like currency. If you don’t appreciate life's little ironies, you might as well expect him to buy you diamonds with his belly button lint. You are doomed before you've even begun. However, if you are blessed with a natural knack for the drier brand of banter, you’ll probably find that most British guys are f*cking hilarious (or "focking hilarious" if they're from the north of England). All you need do to encourage them is throw a clever quip back, and you’ll be getting on like a proverbial house on fire in no time.

The only advice I've ever gotten about dating Japanese guys is: "Don't date Japanese guys." Students used to tell me this pretty frequently, but even on this side of the pond, I still hear it. Just a few days ago, I was talking to my friend K-ko about her sarari man husband, and she shook her and said, "Never marry a Japanese man." This seems a bit harsh, but the problem with Japanese husbands is that between the long hours they put in at work and the long nights they put in at the izakaya, you never actually see them. It's sort of how I imagine dating a ninja would be, but with less stealth and more abandonment issues.



Before I moved to Japan, I'd only really dated two guys: a soldier and a musician. The Soldier was an idiot and The Musician, like most musicians, was married to The Band. Dating a musician is easy. Simply acknowledge the supremacy of The Band. All things revolve around said Band, at least in so far as The Band or its members don't infringe on the blessed sanctity of The Music, from which all hope and happiness doth spring.

I was under the näive impression that this was particular to my American Musician, but having recently seen the film "Once", I realize it's actually true of musicians worldwide. The scenes at the recording studio gave me particularly strong déjà vu with just a hint of nostalgia.

"Once" is my recommended film of the month, by the way. Here's a little taste:




The first date that I went on after returning from Japan was with a guy called Mike. I consider Mike an "average" American, so he makes a good case study for our purposes here. Mike is typical of many American guys in the following ways:

1. He has been out of the country a handful of times and considers himself "well-traveled," even though all the places he's been are tourist traps and he was completely hammered or a mile high 93% of the time he was there.
   
   
2. He has an unhealthy obsession with the NFL. He has long ago passed out of the realm of Team Spirit and into the kingdom of Rabid Fanaticism, where Peyton Manning reigns supreme and pisses Bud Lite down onto the fawning masses. (I don't really like football, by the way.)
   
   
3. He is NOT funny. The jokes he tells aren't funny. The movies he watches aren't funny. The only thing funny about him is the way he constantly nods like a bobble-head doll, and that is the bad kind of funny. The bobble-head thing is unique to Mike, but the un-funnyness is like a plague in American guys.
   
   
4. He speaks in The Tone. This is not a characteristic of most American guys, but it's reasonably common. The Tone is that particular voice used by people who think they are smarter than you. Now, I've never been stupid, so I don't know how it feels to be spoken to this way by someone who's actually smarter than I am. Maybe it doesn't bother stupid people. I can tell you that it bothers smart people a lot. What's more, it's normally accompanied by a quarrelsome streak a mile wide. That amounts to a guy spewing the most ignorant, close-minded rubbish you've ever heard, then insisting he's merely playing the "Devil's Advocate" and telling you that you need a better sense of humor. Ha!

In short, Mike is kind of a douchebag.



After one dinner with Mike, I was ready to pack my bags and leave the country again. Then I met MJ.

He was a different type of American guy.

MJ was a Roles-Royce of a boyfriend. He looked like a rock star all the time, he had top-shelf taste in everything from films to footwear, and there was an actual orchestra playing in my head every time he kissed me. Okay, sometimes just a string quartet, but still, impressive. He was also intelligent and interesting to talk to. When we met, he'd just returned from backpacking in Europe, and we spent our first several hours together pouring over photographs.



Of course, he was not without his quirks. He was physically incapable of showering in fewer than forty-five minutes. Most men I know shower, shave, and dress in under fifteen, so at first I was a bit put off by MJ's uncommonly involved grooming rituals. Then he stepped out of the shower, and I realized: some things are worth waiting for.

But MJ's most dominant quirk by far was his profound and unfettered love of cars. While this love manifest itself primarily in the care and keeping of his own car, it also extended into anything else with wheels and an engine. Especially anything shiny with wheels and an engine. On one occasion, he took me on a "date" to the NAIAS, and he spent about five hours explaining to me how the whole evolution of mankind has come to glorious fruition in the flawless machine that is the automobile. I'm not much of a car person myself, so I was pretty skeptical going in, but as you can see from the photos, the whole show is designed to make cars look as sexy as possible. Combine that with MJ's impassioned commentary, and it ended up being a pretty memorable day after all.



After MJ moved to LA, I spent time with several different American guys and began to pick up on certain patterns among them. Douchebags of the Mikean variety often give them a bad rap, but I've found that on the whole, American guys are pretty cool. They're fairly laid back and easy to get along with, though you may occasionally find yourself suckered into watching "Dances with Wolves" or a Nicholas Cage movie. Generally, they seem to drink less -- not less often, but in smaller quantities -- leading to the delightful change of having a date who's coherent when you get home from the bar/club/concert/auto exhibition.

The key to an American guy is finding the One Thing in his life that he cares about more than anything else. If it's something you hate (football, for example), then kiss him on the head and walk away because otherwise you'll spend the rest of your relationship arguing with him about it. He is just not the guy for you. However, if his One Thing is something you like or something you could learn to like (perhaps cars), then make his day by asking him about it. Watch in amazement as he lights up like the Hindenburg. You'll soon discover that while they may seem low-key, American guys are intense, wildly passionate, and once settled into something they care about, deeply devoted to its pursuit.