December 2010. A blizzard hits Schiphol. Flights from Amsterdam to London are cancelled and train tracks are frozen over. It takes me two days to reach London.
July 2014. I have booked another flight from Amsterdam to London. I'm nervous. I'm clearly cursed and cannot travel between these two countries. However, the third time was the charm and I arrived successfully in London with only a 20 minute delay. But I'm superstitious. How else will this London Curse manifest itself?
It may sound surprising, but England is actually the most challenging place I think I have ever backpacked. Apparently we speak the same language but I find Londoners really hard to understand. For example, why are all these people greeting me by asking me if I am "alright?" Do I not look well? Maybe they are startled by the bags under my eyes because we are staying on the loudest street in London.
Fun fact, there is a rule specified in the UK Ambulance Service Clinical Practice Guidelines (2006) that every ambulance and emergency vehicle sent out between the hours of midnight and 8am must activate their siren and pass directly under the window of the youth hostel on Euston Road. People of London - stop being so accident prone / if you see a crime being committed, try and sort it out amongst yourselves because some of us are trying to sleep.
The supposedly simple solution would be to just shut the hostel window. Trust me, this has been an over-discussed bone of contention between my travel companions. The problem is that the British Air-Conditioning Industry is practically non-existent. I think because the Brits are only used to five days of Summer a year, they never really bother installing any sweet, sweet AC. For those five days a year, the whole country is a sweatbox. We were there for those five days.
So there we are in our non-air-conditioned hostel. The nightly dance goes like this: before going to bed, Nicole shuts the window because she knows the constant barrage of emergency vehicles will keep her awake all night. She drifts off to sleep. Jess starts to overheat, she throws the blanket off of her sweaty body and she looks at the window longingly, anticipating that glorious breeze. She makes eye contact with Kat, who is also awake from the heat. Kat gives her a determined nod and with her permission Jess opens the window. As their body-temperature decreases, they fall into a relaxed slumber. An ambulance speeds past and Nicole wakes with a jolt. She can't sleep with all this noise. She shuts the window. Jess starts to overheat and the vicious cycle repeats. The dance continues for the rest of the night, and the next night, and the next, and the next. As far as first world problems go, this one is pretty devastating.
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| My engaging, enthralling, companions |
So it's little bit sweaty on the tube, big deal right? Cambodia was hotter than this and I survived there for six weeks. But in Asia, you can wear whatever you want. Here in England, they can be a bit snobby. You actually have to wear shoes, and they have to be nice shoes. On our first night together in London, we headed to the 31st floor of The Shard to enjoy some overpriced cocktails and pretend that we're so fancy, you already know. But as we traipsed past the doormen, they warned us that I might not be able to get into the bar because I was wearing canvas shoes. They were the nicest shoes I had. It was either these canvas shoes, thongs, or lesbian joggers. I don't know where 'the Shard' gets off on being so snobby when it sounds like the street-name for a sexual health clinic in Nowra.
We managed to sneak past the eagle-eyed maitre d' and got to the piano bar, which had an admittedly awesome vibe and view. But man, those drinks were expenny. Aside from charging like a wounded bull for a drink (I feel bad using that expression now, FYI) they added a 'discretionary 13.5% service fee' to the bill. What does that mean? Do they mean it is discretionary because they only mention the fee in very small fine print or is it discretionary because businessmen can take their mistresses for a cocktail and the bar staff won't tweet about it? Anyway, when we left the bar we decided to poke our heads into another restaurant to see the view. That maitre d' demanded a reservation and wouldn't let us have a sticky beak without one because - and I quote - "we are a very classy restaurant and your shoes are offensive to our filthy rich clientele."
The London Curse didn't stop me from getting into the country but it did stop me from entering London high-society. So I decided to stick with my people: the theatre crowd. We went to see Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on the West End. Both were great productions but we made the mistake of seeing children's shows during school holidays. London school holiday audiences are obnoxiously rowdy. People talked, kids got up to go to the bathroom, parents discussed how their kids should hold it in next time, people took photos, non-native speakers translated the major plot-points for their kids, and because of the previously stated nation-wide lack of air-conditioning, people faffed about with hand fans. It felt like there was one Veruca Salt on stage and about a dozen in the Grand Circle. The theatre is my happy place, and The London Curse tried to take that away from me.
The Curse reared its ugly head most obtrusively on our day trip to Stonehenge and Bath by conjuring up a storm of traffic. It took us a few more hours than expected to get there, but we made it and I laughed at the idea of the Curse, daring it to try another trick. That would be around the time that my shorts ripped. One moment I am posing in front of the great stone formation and the next thing I know my own personal stones are hanging out of a gaping hole in my pants. We rushed back to the gift shop hoping to buy a pair of shorts but they didn't sell any. They stocked Bort licence plates but no Stonehenge shorts - the Curse works in devious ways. It wasn't until we reached Bath that I was able to buy another pair of boardies and attempt to discretely change into them down a side street. It wasn't a very private moment. To quote a random pedestrian, "Don't be ashamed, mate, we've all been there."
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| Before vigorous posing |
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| After vigorous posing |
Well, Curse, you got me, but I survived. And despite your efforts, we managed to do a lot of successful touristing. I have left London a little more superstitious, a little more self-conscious about my footwear, and a little bit more tanned on a patch on my inner thigh. But at the end of a hard day's night, I get by with a little help from my friends, and I find the strength to let it be.
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| Abbey Road |
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