Foggy London Town

In my brief yet exhausting 72-hour stay in Marrakech in 2011, my fair coloring made such an impact in the souks that men would mutter “Fish and chips” to me as I wandered past them in a slightly irritated fashion, most likely in the futile pursuit of the nearest exit or air conditioned room. I never attained either, but the nickname has stuck with me to this day. Yes, I’m white. Yes, if office supplies were genetic sequences, I’d be a manila folder. And yes, as the Moroccans so astutely noted, nearly all of my ancestors hail from the United Kingdom. We turn lavender when cold, pink when warm, red when happy or drunk and there’s absolutely nothing that can be done about it, because believe me I've tried. Two years following my trip to the land of the eternally tan, I made a bit of a pilgrimage (slight double entendre since my father reminds me that in addition to having a family member named Orilla I also have ancestors who arrived to the so-called New World via the Mayflower) to the isle of the perennially pink. In other words, I went to London. And I didn’t want to leave.

whiteness, moroccan, head lice

We arrived (we being myself and Siddhi, who has recently shed her hair blonde extensions for a real personality) at around nine in the morning on Friday and it truly seemed like a pseudo-homecoming, which basically translates as “if you go to a cafe you can actually find fruit smoothies”. Slurped down some berry concoction, basking in my much pined for Anglo culture. I know I make it sound as if Madrid is a Mediterranean Pyongyang, but coffee and pork get a bit old after a while.

Made our way to the hostel and then to a walking tour of London. Was struck by how uninspired our tour guide was, though I think that’s simply due to the fact that my guide in Paris was a New York ex-pat getting his doctorate in philosophy and spent around half an hour discussing successful communal societies in Paris that no one ever discusses--kind of difficult to compete with, especially when it seemed as if this current tour guide, Mark, was getting his PhD in hair coiffing. At this point, my eyes had grown heavy from the early flight and my sense of humor had dwindled to that of a child or senile old man. For instance, when Mark asked if anyone knew anything about Henry VIII, I shot my hand up in the air and cried “Yes! He had gout and disliked climbing up staircases!” Mark and my peers remained silent. I, however, cracked up. 

...

The tour ended on a banal note (at least he was consistent), as Mark treated us to an insipid recitation of the Guy Fawkes rhyme and a reminder that giving these tours is how he makes a living, so all tips would be soundly appreciated. Mine was that watching V for Vendetta 20 times isn’t good for the mind or soul.

After stopping in for a pint at a nearby pub, Siddhi and I headed to dinner at some restaurant whose claim to fame was that its seared ahi tuna had appeared in an episode of Sex and the City as Carrie’s crop top. Kidding about the latter bit; but the restaurant was remarkable and about five years and figures in my future. Following a tab that nearly made my eyes pop into my guava cocktail, we made our way to Leicester Square for a night out with some of Siddhi’s friends. 

english friends; no longer the palest person in the room

It was there that I met Jaegerbomb for the first time, along with vodka and skittles and most likely other beverages which I cannot recall at the moment. Remained surprisingly coherent in speech and candor, and only had to pay for one round of drinks (thanks, Adam and Emma). Took the metro back home and after a 24-hour day passed the fuck out.

Next morning was even better, though mainly because I woke up sans hangover. Siddhi and I headed to South Kensington (this is where I would live if given the choice -- I described it recently as “life in the city but without the rats”) for some crepes and museum time before heading over to see the Book of Mormon at 2. As it happened, we had booked a box seat for the production and were brought to our seats, where a bottle of champagne and chocolate awaited us. Pleasant mistake. This followed a pre-play pint in the park, so I found the opening scenes particularly funny. In general, “Book of Mormon” was much heavier than I had anticipated (they delve into the tradition of female circumcision, homosexuality and sexual repression while tap dancing) but overall was pleased with how its writers managed to fillet the Mormon Church in a way that was neither lazy nor contrived. 

Following that, we happened upon an annual record party (basically a British botellon with house music: aka binge drinking on the streets to celebrate the release of a new album) on our way to a vegetarian restaurant called Mildred’s, where I had the most decadent veggie burger of my life. It was also here that Siddhi told me everything about her family -- let’s just say that for me to only have her occasional pretensions and patronizing remarks to complain about, she’s been a complete success. From here, we ventured to Shoreditch to meet up with Loren, my roommate from Granada. Unlike the two of us, she wasn’t in love with London in the slightest; rather, she thought it was expensive, overrated and couldn’t wait to get the hell out. A 72-hour stay doesn’t come close to one’s relationship with London post-honeymoon, I guess. Was lovely to see her, though to be quite honest the conversation grew a bit cold after around an hour had passed and we had reminisced all we could about The Old Times In Granada before gagging. I reached for everything I could and tossed it into the conversational ring, but I suppose there occasionally comes a point when two peoples’ lives simply don’t intersect anymore and it’s futile to try and hold them together. Funny how contingent one’s relationship with another person is on time and place.

Sunday, by far, was my favorite day in London. Woke up again without a hangover and headed toward Camden town, where it seemed that there was some sort of tax-based incentive for businesses and their clerks to present themselves as extras from a failed Ramones music video. Crowded streets were awash with studded leather jackets, combat boots and technicolor mohawks, and I stuck out like, well, a girl wearing a floral dress and black suede wedges. Decided after an emotionally exhausting haggle at a dress shop that I would never go to Thailand and rewarded my troubles with the most fantastic apple cider my tastebuds had the pleasure of experiencing.

That evening, I experienced Notting Hill. The neighborhood has always held a warm spot in my heart (well, it’s all warm given internal body temperatures but you know what I mean) thanks to my childhood affinity for Julia Roberts films and my lifelong passion for the intellectually and emotionally enriching works of Hugh Grant, and I am happy to say that not a single part of my trip there called my beliefs into question. Made our way to the Electric Cinema (to which you, too, can become a member for a mere two thousand a year) and it’s my pleasure to report that I lost 30 pounds just by watching a movie! Bad joke aside, it truly made me envious of the one percent. I presented my ticket and was subsequently ushered to my “seat”, which was actually a plush velvet-covered sofa that came with a cashmere blanket and bottle of red wine. Naturally, only garbanzo bean paste could make this situation any better, so  I enjoyed “Place Beyond the Pines” with pinot and hummus.

Movies for the one percent

On our way to the theater (or theatre, I should say), Siddhi and I happened upon a bar that featured an impressive pile of hay and men and women in cowboy hats. I couldn't help but feel the subtle, nostalgic twinges of life back home in the holler, of warm summer nights spent with my toothless, banjo-pluckin’ ma and pa and my jackrabbit, Colby Rae, or whatever the hell else Siddhi thinks life in Kentucky is like. Obviously decided to head there following the movie, even in spite of the fact neither of us know how to do-si-do. Best decision I made that weekend.

Upon entering, I had two people propose to me, one of which came after I simply said my name and where I was from.  The theme, as if it weren’t already abundantly clear, was a hoedown; the occasion was the bar owner's birthday. Given my Kentucky authenticity, various patrons treated me to mint juleps all night, along with questions about what Life is like in Kentucky. Initially offered genuine, “We’re not so different, you and I” responses, but that quickly grew boring and so I started to recite the plot of Coal Miner’s Daughter to everyone who asked in hopes that someone would call me on it. Only one person did, and it was the same person with whom I ended up discussing why Morocco fared so differently during the Arab Spring (he was from London and had Moroccan roots and was very well spoken in spite of his cowboy hat). Was subsequently brought to my attention that the Daisy Duke-shorted MALE bartender was standing atop the counter and pretending to lasso the nearby keg, asking where the girl from Kentucky was. Shit.

Marrakech pointed to me (love when things go full-circle), and said that we could finish our discussion on the National Healthcare System later, that I needed to meet the owner and try his bourbon. But before I could leave, I heard the spurs of a squat, portly and pink-in-the-face male approach. A most likely overpriced golden star adorned his right breast pocket. It read, fittingly enough, “Sheriff Burger”. “So I hear you’re a Yank from Kentucky,” he said. “Want some Maker’s Mark?”

Obviously.

Sheriff Burger sauntered back to the bar in such a way I’ve only seen done by my grandmother’s 20-pounds overweight corgi and returned with a bottle of Maker’s specifically blended for his bar. “Meh and the Samuels’ go weh back, ye know; in meh eighth time teh Lou-eh-ville made meh way to the distilleh-ree and got meh meh own blend of bahr-bun weh-skeh. Love that ci-teh. Tried to steal one of em red pehn-guins from that art hotel 21C once but couldn’t fet it in the elevator...oh my, ye drank that awfully fast. You and yehr friend want some more?”

Again, yes.

Spent the better part of an hour onward discussing various Louisville-centric things (re: Morning Jacket, My; University of Louisville’s basketball team ((was shocked how much I knew; thanks social media osmosis)); Forecastle and the illustrious Hot Brown), and inevitably the Second Amendment because it seems I am incapable of carrying a conversation that does not include some sort of history or political lesson. Anyway, by the time we both had begun to eviscerate Wayne LaPierre, a downy-cheeked Daisy Duke approached and told us that he was tired, the bar had closed about 15 minutes ago and it was time for the chit chat to cease. Sheriff Burger and I exchanged contact information (not in a creepy way, I assure you; I got the impression that he loved bourbon more than he loved women; I just realized that he was obviously a pretty successful business man ((was going to China the next Tuesday)) and figured he could prove a useful contact in the future). Siddhi and I then spilled out of the bar and made our cold journey home.

As usual, I run out of steam after I toss around 2,000 consecutive words onto the page. Will try to write about the David Bowie exhibit tomorrow.