The People You Meet While Traveling Are The Most Interesting You Will Find

THOUGHT ONE

In my perfect world, the women are not all blondes. I, surprisingly, do not have a six-pack, nor are my clothes made of Milk Chocolate Digestives (as practical, stylish, and tasty as they would be). My idea of Utopia still has poverty, war, and hatred, and nobody lives forever. Everything there is now would still be, except for one thing. Rolling backpacks.

Celebrating my 20th birthday two weeks ago, I couldn't help but be nostalgic. 20, after all, is some sort of accomplishment. Though I hardly remember it, computers took up entire tables, the Tea Party referred only to an event some 200 years prior, and paying rent was an act that was simply beyond comprehension. Elementary school meant carrying a small backpack filled with sharpened pencils, countless notebooks, rulers, protractors, safety scissors and numerous other things from the back-to-school list that the teacher had anyway. Middle school added a fancy calculator, notebooks with multiple subjects, and a daily planner, while high school meant the end of the backpack and the beginning of car keys, iced coffee and an IPod. Some high school kids, however, didn't abandon the backpack. Instead, they simply got lazier and decided to put it on wheels.

Some objects are called what they are for a reason. A hair dryer dries hair. A vacuum vacuums.  A phone charger charges a phone and steering wheel steers. A backpack is a pack that goes on the back. Add wheels, and it becomes luggage.


THOUGHT TWO

The people you meet while traveling are the most interesting you will find.

1. Walking through Vondelpark in Amsterdam, my friends and I got hungry. Spotting a vendor across the way, we hurried over. The cart was decorated in vivid colors and had American pop music blaring loudly. A red awning, displaying the contents of the cart, including PASTA BASTA, hung uncomfortably low. After purchasing "hot dogs" and greedily scarfing them down, the vendor, a portly man named Salvatore (or possibly Salvador) asked us where we were from. We responded America, and a smile spread across his face.

It's easy to imagine that the rest of the world really hates America, but the ones who have actually been there seem to love it.

"Yes!" Salvatore cried.
"Have you been there?" we asked.
"Oh yes, yes, yes. Lessa see..."

It is at this point that I should mention Salvatore is Italian. Very, stereotypically, Italian.

"Ifa bean to, uh, Boston, Newa York, Shkako, Los Vegos..." he explained.
"And where was your favorite?"
"Los Vegos."

Feeling comfortable enough, a friend inquired about the curious BASTA after the familiar PASTA on his awning.

"Oh, yes, I eggsplain."
"What does it mean?" my friend interjected.
Salvatore (or possibly Luigi) got very serious. "Un momento. Explique." We got very quiet, thought it was difficult to hide our laughter. "Pasta. Youa know pasta? Yes. Pasta.. basta! Basta iss, uh, banfagool! Fuck you! The Godfatha!"
"Oh!" we laughed, though I am pretty sure none of us got it.


2. After venturing to the Aran Islands off the coast of West Ireland, I took a coach back into Galway. As it was getting darker and I had spent the day biking, I decided to try and close my eyes. Every time I did, however, I kept seeing something flash to my left. I eventually realized a man was moving his hands, quite quickly. I also eventually realized that this man was crossing himself every time we passed a church.

This is Ireland. There are many churches.

The cynical side of me wanted him to miss one. I was rewarded when we passed a house on fire.

Peekaboo

I've never been one for throwing up. It's not the result that I dislike, but rather the process. In the same way a trypanophobic becomes anxious when they hear the steps taken for a flu shot or blood test, I am instantly repulsed when a story begins, "And while my head was in the toilet...". My insides begin to churn, threatening to do that which I hate most, and I must cut the speaker off with a frantic wave of my hand.

The same thing happens whenever I hear people eat. I was raised by the strict rule to always chew with my mouth closed. Even oatmeal, which practically slides down the throat, was to be eaten silently. For years, food had only texture and taste. It seemed like all my friends were taught the same thing because it took the college dining hall for me to finally hear the symphony that had been so muted all those years. And what a discordant tune it played.

Scrambled eggs sloshed around mouths in the morning. Soup was slurped with all the subtlety of Liberace. Dinner casseroles lapped against teeth and water was gulped like waves crashing on shore. It was disgusting. Potato chips, corn on the cob, and carrots will inevitably make some noise. But a baked potato? Corn off the cob? Stewed carrots? Some meals all I could do was sit and listen; watching wasn't even necessary.

It's these little things, like the squishing of gum between teeth, that upset people the most. I know a girl who can't stand the word "ointment." Something about the way the vowels meet the consonants and the taste it leaves in her mouth. Another girl I know is so troubled by feet that she can't touch them, let alone have hers touched. And yet another friend can't pee in public because the urinals are just too close. So when I went into a British bathroom the other day to find a trough, I instantly thought of my friend.

If you think of pigs when you read the word trough, you're not alone. The first definition many dictionaries give is a receptacle for feeding animals. Unlike a dog bowl, however, troughs are not very customizable. You could paint one, sure, but it will still be a long, deep box with an open top. You could build it out of wood, I suppose, or plastic, maybe even metal, like the one I encountered, but it will still be communal. You could even take a trough you found on a farm, clean it up (though what's the point?) and place it in the basement of a bar in Bath, England, if you wanted to save yourself the trouble of looking up Trough Suppliers in the phone-book.

In any case, a trough does not qualify as a urinal.

I was horrified. Made of thin sheet metal it stood on four equally thin legs. It was six feet long and a foot and a half wide. The back was a single piece, somewhat reflective, and glistened with trickles of water that flowed in a constant stream from a little pipe punctured with multiple holes. In the center of the base was a small circular drain, no wider than a few inches, though it might as well have been the size of a pin, as an inch of what I can only describe as liquid spanned the entire container. Before anyone else had a chance to come in, I quickly did my business and turned to wash my hands. This wall was no better than the last.

Adjacent to the sink was a coin operated dispenser, mounted high up on the wall. In America, or any normal place, one might have their choice of a fragrance sample or pain reliever. Here, I was to choose between a Vibrating Cock Ring or pills to "keep your pecker up longer."

I ran back up to my table and quickly told my friends of the sadomasochistic dungeon in the basement.

"Yeah, that's what it's like here," replied a male friend.
"Everywhere?" I asked.
"Pretty much."

I was blown away. What about privacy? What about decency? What about the two-stall rule?

If you don't know about the two-stall rule, let me explain. It is a generally accepted practice that men do not pee next to each other. If there are four urinals and the ones on each end are out of order, a man will wait to pee if someone else is already there. Always. But not in England. I can count on on hand the number of restrooms I've encountered where urinals are divided. I need ten hands, however, to count the number of restrooms that place full length mirrors behind urinals. I've caught glimpses of men looking at me in these mirrors, only to realize they were fixing their hair.

I suppose, in time, I'll come to accept this complete invasion of personal space. Millions of British men do it every day. It will take some getting used to, at first, just like it did at meal times in the dining hall. I suppose I may even get back to America, enter a bathroom, and feel a sense of longing for the camaraderie I experienced here. Buying a small packet of breath mints from a wall dispenser, I'll shake them sadly, wishing they would vibrate or help enhance something, anything.

And still, I will always be just a little put off when peeing in a trough.

A Woman In A Cape Passed Me By

A woman in a cape passed me by today. Not a short, over the shoulder shawl, mind you. A cape. A full blown, if I hadn't have seen your $150 shoes I'd think you were crazy, cape. But that wasn't what bothered me. Nor was it the elaborate head wrap she had on. I hardly noticed the skin-tight leggings and I wasn't even that annoyed by the black and blue color palette she chose this morning, softly saying to herself, "Yes, this matches."

Instead, what made me angry, what made me fume all the way to the Tube station on a beautiful September day was the fact that she walked by me with a slight smirk. A smirk telling me and the rest of the world, "It's a beautiful September day. And I'm wearing a cape."

Maybe she had just bought it at Harrods. Maybe her mother sent it to her after spending weeks painfully hand stitching it, after weeks painfully hand spinning the thread. Maybe it was a going away present from a friend or boyfriend; her flight to a distant land where capes are the norm leaving in an hour. Maybe she just wanted to show it off.

Whatever the reason, she was wearing a cape and she knew it. It shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did, but I couldn't get this woman out of my mind. Part of it was the way the cape flowed. It captivated me. Due to her pompous stride, the shear black material billowed in the wind. It was just like the movies. A sinister villain steals away into the shadows with a flourish of his cape, stirring the dust on the cold, stone, castle floor. A magician presents an empty top hat on a small wooden table. With a flick of his cape the hat is now full of rabbits. Batman chases after the Joker through the dark streets of Gotham, cape parallel to the road, aloft and free.

Capes have a certain way about them. A certain quality of movement that no other accessory can quite match. Bracelets fall down arms. Earrings sway back and forth. Capes billow.

She didn't look bad in the cape. In fact, without it she would have looked weird. But it takes a special type of person to actively choose a cape as part of their ensemble. It fascinated me that of all her options she chose what she did.  

Where is she going?
If she's meeting someone, are they wearing a cape too? 
Did a corner of the cape get stuck in the Tube door? I bet she regretted the cape then.

It's not that I am anti-cape. I thoroughly believe a well-placed cape can be quite effective. I am all for self-expression, to whatever lengths one wants to go to, though black-rimmed glasses without frames are never, never okay and no, they don't make you look smarter. All I am asking for is a small level of humility. Yes, I am biased. For years I bought my clothes at Old Navy because three shirts for seven dollars was just too good to pass up. I never spent over $25 on a pair of jeans and would only buy new sneakers if I had ten "Loyalty Bucks" or some other promotion like that. And for years I went around embarrassed by my clothes.

Though I shop a little better now, and I use the term loosely, I am still in the mindset that clothes are just clothes. I can justify paying $18 for a small hand-crafted notebook, but $75 for hand-stitched jeans? You must be out of your mind. Friends show me a worn T-shirt that looks as if it survived Vietnam. "Oh no," they say, "it came like that. It's vintage." Vintage. Your great-grandmother's wedding dress from 1923 is vintage. You, on the other hand, paid $45 for enough material to make a small tea cozy.

I suppose I shouldn't be offended that this women didn't consult me when picking out her outfit for the day. It's possible I mistook the floor-length rectangle of fabric clasped around her neck as a cape when really, she saw it as a jacket. This is Europe after all. And I suppose her smirk may have been in reference to something else. Say, a text message she just received saying the costume party was still on.

And who knows?

She might have been thinking the exact same thing about me. "$60 jeans? I bet he thinks they're vintage."

A Bus Stopped For Me Yesterday

On my way to pick up dinner last night, I decided to take a detour down the street. It was around seven o'clock and the sun was just beginning to set. There was a slight chill in the air, but nothing an American Apparel Unisex Flex Fleece Zip Hoody couldn't handle. It was really quite nice. I passed a few restaurants and shops I hadn't seen before, including a few fruit stands that looked quite promising. The issue of eating fruit as been one of contention in my flat, particularly in regards to not eating enough of it, the result being scurvy. So I was glad to know these stands had be covered.

I continued down the street, hands in my pockets, when a man with a beard approached.

"Excuse me?"
"Yes?"
"Have you seen a basketball court around?"
"Um, yeah... no. Maybe a little farther down the street?"
"In Fulham?"
"Yeah, Fulham."

As the man thanked me and moved away, I reflected on the interaction. It was the second one of its kind that day, the first occurring earlier at a Tube station. A well-dressed woman holding a small, plastic tube map quietly asked, "Excuse me, do you know which train I take to get to ***?"

A word about Tube station names.

Some make sense. Wimbledon on the District Line, London Bridge on the Jubilee and Piccadilly Circus on the Piccadilly. Others do not. Tooting Broadway, Goodge Street and Croxley sound as if a three year old's babbling was recorded and played back as they decided on names. A few are very specific, such as the astoundingly brief Cutty Sark for Maritime Greenwich, while St. John's Wood may either be a forest or a very good double entendre. Either way, minding the gap at Cockfosters is much more interesting than simply getting off at 42nd St.

Regardless, I was a bit confused. Just the other day, an older Asian couple asked a similar question as I waited for my train at Earl's Court. Did I give off a London air? Was I so brimming with Tube-riding confidence that these travelers felt compelled to seek me out, ignoring the hundreds of other riders standing around? Likewise, did the bearded man think me so London savvy to know the location of a basketball court in the winding streets of Fulham?

Little did these people know that every time I leave my flat I do so with the gruesome knowledge I may never return. Things get sketchy here earlier than in America. I still only just know my way to the Tube and from there the London Centre seems like an impossible destination. One day I know I'll look left than right while crossing the street and be hit by a BMW or Mercedes. Buying liquor is like crossing the border with marijuana stashed away behind the steering wheel. Play it cool and they'll accept the American ID. Show even the slightest hesitation and kiss that Guinness goodbye. My greatest fear is that everyone will see just how un-British I am, even before I open my mouth to say AD-ver-tize-ment, and have me deported for this or that.

The weight of these interactions and fear of life in a big city were with me as I turned to cross the street after watching the bearded man walk away.

For those who don't know, London is littered with Zebra Crossings. In appearance, these crossings are exactly the same as cross walks in America. In practice, these crossings are different as cars actually stop for pedestrians. And so it happened that a large, red, double-decker bus screeched to a halt, just for me.

I couldn't help but feel a little bit special, until I saw a little old lady pushing a basket on wheels past the cars of North End Road, just as Moses parted the Red Sea. At least people ask me for directions, I thought.

It may seem like a little thing, but crossing the street with the full knowledge every car and motorbike will stop, as long as you're in the designated area, is quite exhilarating. The last time I felt that way was in Wisconsin, where one could probably get away with murder, lest the jury feel guilty for making the defendant sad and unhappy.

All over London I have noticed this heightened sense of courtesy.

A woman briskly pushing a stroller down the sidewalk says, "Excuse me" to an older gentleman in front of her, walking considerably slower. "Pardon me, ma'am," he says, stepping aside.

A construction worker moving quickly through the aisles of Tesco knocks a few boxes of cake of the shelf and the woman nearest to him helps clear them away.

A young man sitting on the Tube gives his seat to an elderly woman. He sits again after she leaves, only to get up once more when another such woman boards moments later.

It's not that this doesn't happen back home. It's just that it happens so rarely I pay more attention to it here. And there really is no explanation. Feel free to bring technology and its consuming effect on us into it if you want. Or the fast pace of America versus the leisurely stroll of dreary, old London. I'm not sure it matters exactly why people are (or seem to be) more polite. It's just something we can all work to be better at.

Now if you excuse me, I see some lost tourists outside my window. I'm sure they'll need directions to the Tube.

British Men Don't Wear Wedding Rings

It's odd what is assumed in London. All men are happily married with two kids. The Tube is a sacred place reserved for reading and watching dark tunnels go by. All people can navigate a sidewalk, even when staring intensely at phone screens and iPods.

I first noticed this phenomenon when a middle aged couple, clearly tourists and clearly American, got on the Tube. The bright pastels and large camera hung around the neck isn't, strangely, what gave them away. Rather, it was the gold band on the left hand of the man. Only after did I notice their day passes and vaguely Neutral American dialects. Isn't it interesting what people feel they have to show the rest of the world? Europeans, so far as I have observed, don't feel this need too strongly. Men go around unburdened by rings (though women do sport rather hefty rocks) and little is said. I couldn't help but wonder if this becomes a problem, say, in a pub.

Here, people seem to be content by what should be, rather than what may be. In America, it is just the opposite. Splashed everywhere are warnings and caution signs. Little credit is given to common sense. In London, it seems few feel the need to scribble graffiti on the Tube windows. What does it really accomplish, anyway?

Little does London know, however, that we are taught at IC to live in the present. It makes sense, after-all. What's done is done, and we must live with the aftermath, for good or bad. It strengths our resolve to do what makes us happy and puts us in the scene with our partner so we can't shy away from the given circumstances, however uncomfortable. But I've noticed a rather different sentiment here. A sentiment I'm not sure I totally understand. A sentiment vaguely resembling living in the future.

It's a hard concept to grasp. How can we experience something that hasn't happened yet? I'm not pretending to have the answer. That's not what this post is about. In fact, I may end up talking myself in circles only to arrive at the same answer I would have had I taken the opposite approach.

I'm married with children, but no one has made a pass at me yet.
I've taken the Circle Line for twenty years and it's been (relatively) quiet all that time.
I've sent 33 texts and haven't bumped into a small child once.

It quickly becomes about the reaction when something does happen, rather than the something that did. Outside acting class, in the "real world," impulses are squashed every day because of moral and ethical dilemmas. But a dilemma only surfaces, only becomes real, when another is influenced by that dilemma. In America we wait for the impending doom. In London they embrace it. And I have to say, I like that approach.

Stopping at a pub this evening after seeing a show, I wasn't worried what would happen after a few pints. Instead, I was laughing and joking with friends. I learned the British can't make chicken wings to save their lives, but a bartender who asks "Want me to let the Guinness settle a bit?" before pouring the second half of the glass is a true gem. I didn't worry about the pints on the Tube ride home, or as I walked through the dark streets of Fulham, past the alcove where I know sketchy things await. I didn't even worry about the pints as I wrote, edited, and read over this post.

I only worried about them as I pressed "Publish."

Shit.

Bill Bryson Got Here First

It's been four days since I landed in London and I've felt every bit of them. Being here really is like being in another country. And it's not the big things, either. Soft serve ice cream is Cool Whip. Sprite will never quench my thirst. And the 80s have either never left or just arrived.

Depending on which airline one takes to get here, one may or may not notice these small things right away. Back in March, for my first visit here, I was lucky enough to fly British Airways. What a treat. The food was delicious, movie selection varied, and cabin crew as nice as could be. My flight with Virgin Atlantic, on the other hand, was like getting skullfucked (I debated using this word, not because of its graphic content, but because I wasn't sure if it exaggerated how bad the flight was. It doesn't). To begin with, I was not aware that Economy meant Steerage on the Titanic. The extra "three inches of leg room" I read about on Virgins website proved useless, as under the seat in front of me was a large, metal box. Sitting on the aisle next to three lovely British women, one of whom offered me a sweetie, bless her heart, I was constantly bombarded by the cabin crew moving briskly through the cabin. After having my elbow hit for the sixth time, I gave up all hope of "enjoying the flight," as I was told to do over the intercom. Never mind the creepy cartoon flight safety video.

To make a long story short, the food was dreadful, the movie selection featured films that constantly skipped and blurred, and every single female cabin crew member wore eye makeup three inches higher than their brow. Seriously, UK, it's 2010.

But whatever, right? I landed at Heathrow, an airport so big there's no witticism to do it justice, and hailed a taxi to take me to my flat. And this is where London lost me.

1. Motorcyclists should never, NEVER drive as fast and swervey as they do here.
2. All major cities, however, should have bus and taxi lanes that drivers obey.
3. Cars should not be able to make random U-turns wherever they damn well please.
4. London is full of white vans that could only be labeled "sketchy" in the US.

Arriving to my flat £60 poorer I made a few more discoveries.

1. Why be safe when one can be narrow?
2. Hot Water is amazing in London.
3. Screens are for those who wish to feel a breeze and keep bugs out, which apparently no one wishes to do in London.
4. Stall showers were built for people who wish to wash only their upper bodies.

But despite these "cultural differences," I have had a hell of a time so far. How could I not? Even though we like to think we're culturally aware because we have a friend from England, or a classmate from Pakistan who made this awesome authentic dinner one night, or did a report on an African country in 5th grade, the truth is we have no idea until the foreign becomes the norm. Already British pounds are feeling less like Monopoly money and more like the currency of a developed nation. And it was damn fun learning that. A voice goes off inside my head every time I look at the unrefrigerated eggs in the grocery store, but I've eaten them and haven't died yet (try my scrambled eggs, by the way, they're unbelievable). We hear time and time again that the only way to get something fully out of time abroad is to lose yourself in the country. Yes. Absolutely. And no. I will never be British. Try as hard as I want, and believe me I will try, I can never rock the turtleneck, tweed vest, and golf cap. I like my soft serve thick. I like aspartame in my soda. And 2010 will always, always kick the 1980s ass. But none of that means I won't have a good time figuring it all out.

Oh, and if you're wondering what Bill Bryson has to do with preempting my arrival, he simply took the best title for a retrospect on life in the UK and fucked the rest of us. Thanks, Bill.