Drinking Carthay: August 2013

This is the story of how two Southlanders crossed the pond to attend a London wedding, eat a lot of snails, have breakfast on fake Baker Street, drink a lot of beer, witness dawntime folk dancing at Hogwarts, consume a lot of croissants, spend a fortune on what was once peasant food, and try to get to the crux of just what is wrong with the French.

This post has nothing to do with Carthay, but as I already own this url it's as good a repository of this tale as anywhere else.

In late April and early May Silvia and I found ourselves venturing to London, Oxford, Chessy and Paris. This would be her first time to France and my first time using my passport at all.

Some of these notes were composed along the way. Some were made in recollection. Most of it is accurate.

You are heartily encouraged to click on all photos as you go - they should be observed in as large a fashion as possible. You are warned that this entry may be offensive to the politically correct and vegetarians. You are also encouraged to grab a sandwich or drink and get comfortable. Alternatively, treat this as a serial and come back to read it day by day. The choice is yours. Are you sitting comfortably? Good. Alons-y!

Day One...

One reaches the Heathrow Underground station without hardly seeing the sky after alighting from one's plane. The first time I saw England, truly, was when our tube emerged from darkness around Harlow and I saw a green field in the distance with white-garbed cricket players. The sight was even more charming than the congestions of obsolescent chimneys.

It wasn't until we were well along on the tube that I came to accept that the entire trip would not be unbearable olfactory torture.

Not having UK passports, we spent the first leg of our journey queued up with the other aliens, most of which appeared to be from India, the Caribbean or North Africa, and smelled horrifying. Those garbed in the most admirable sartorial elegance were proportionately well-mannered for cultures in which denying another person the smell of ones person or breath is discourteous. If all of Britain was as odious as Baggage Claims and Customs I was going to Fedex myself home.

Increasingly sardine-like packing on the Underground assuaged my fears that the average Londoner was this ripe; happily, most foreigners don't smell, just some.

"Oh good, the first picture you're taking on the entire trip is of me trying to figure out where the hell we are."

Travel tip: bring a pocket pack of sanitizing wipes along with you for venturing on the London Underground. You're going to be grabbing onto handles and poles that hundreds of travelers have been groping before you that day. My penchant for echinacea and compulsive hand-cleaning are partly responsible for my not getting a cold during the entire trip. The other reason? I drank too much alcohol to allow any disease to survive.

We alighted at Tufnell Park and followed Bela's emailed instructions on how to get to their flat. Simon greeted us at the door while simultaneously calling a cab so Silvia could get to Bela's "Hen Do," in progress. Silvia did a quick change in the kitchen, which would end up being our personal bivouac. Years ago when Bela and Simon visited California they slept on an air mattress in Silvia's kitchen. When we visited London we slept on an air mattress in their kitchen, creating a tidy symmetry.

Bela's bachelorette party was at a burlesque show. Silvia would later tell me about the woman who stapled things to herself and the performer who smeared pie on her person.

Simon took me, his soon to be brother in law, his soon to be niece and Jean Luc (Bela and Simon's dog) to the pizza place around the corner. My pizza had an egg in the center. Simon demonstrated the fun in drenching one's pizza in chili oil. We spent pretty much the entire evening talking about food. I shared a few highlights of the laundry list of things I was hoping to ingest while abroad, many of which I missed out on (I was particularly hoping to try eel pie).

At the corner pub, Junction Tavern, Simon introduced me to my first proper pint of bitter. Enjoying 'Hogs Back Brewery Tea' was something of a revelation. I remarked at the temperature. It was what Americans sometimes refer to as "warm beer" but what Simon indicated was cellar temperature. It's marvelous. Why does beer, or even wine, need to be colder? "You can't taste it that way," pointed out Simon.

I also came to know the whimsey of communicating with the English. It took me a moment to understand, after I asked for a second bitter and the bartender told me it was "finnish," that he actually meant that particular tap was done for the night, not that the beer was from Finland.

Did you know that Doctor Who was, in its classic era, popular among gay men? I didn't until Simon told me. The Doctor's alien nature (and possibly his penchant for garish garb?) made him a sympathetic icon for homosexual englishmen whose love dare not speak its name.

We rejoined the girls who'd returned from their debaucherous evening. Merriment ensued in Bela and Simon's parlor. I continued drinking, making sure that no glass left idle by the small hours contained aught but oxygen.

Day Two...

Sunday found me punished with a vertiginous endorphin crash. We were up and appearing human by 11 or so. Bela suggested we imbibe a 'full english' at Stingray on the corner (the same place we had pizza the evening before) as grease is good for sopping up excess alcohol. I didn't feel whole for the rest of the day, regardless.

Simon escorted us to the enormous Camden Market and 'Horse Stables.' In its origin it was a bazaar, gypsy trade route, equestrian center and ironworks. Or at least that's what I assume, given the imposing presence of horse and ironsmith statues throughout. I've made no effort to research the truth as I would find it inconvenient should the facts contradict the fictional history I've imagined.

It is incredibly byzantine; just when you think you've reached its border it sprawls out into a pocket of another hundred stalls and vendors. It's estimated that the Market absorbs around 100,000 visitors a week. It is also decidedly where to shop if you're a freak. We visited no less than four gothic clothing stores.

The stench of the populace reared its ugly head again at the market in pockets. You can always tell if a Somalian is nearby by the sudden overwhelming bouts of nausea that spring from nowhere while immersed in crowds.

Happily, I was able to find some mulled wine to take the edge off.

The Camden Market also includes Cyberdog, a mind-blowing rave clothing store with a queue to enter, go-go dancers on the sales floor and a more impressive ambiance than found in any Los Angeles club; Pepsi challenge it, I dare you.

Later, at the St John's Tavern, we met up with more of Bela's family. Her uncle and aunt embody all that is charming in Americans' ambivalence towards sophistication. They are Floridian, Harley Davidson shirt-wearing, bombastic, self-described rednecks. They're not homophobic klansmen, though, they're just quite comfortable with being who they are.

Jean Luc always practices his sad faces around the dinner table. Bela and Simon have to watch him like a hawk or he will, in a split second, devour something off the sidewalk that his kidneys won't abide. Our walks were regularly dotted with Bela or Simon removing random items from his mouth. Needless to say, his pathos never yields table scraps, for his own good.

At St John's I finally got to indulge some of the epicuriousity that had been fermenting since we'd purchased our plane tickets. Rather than an entree, I asked to be brought three appetizers.

Jellied pig's head. Pâté-like in flavor - made enjoyable when paired with the pickled red cabbage.

Snails on toast. Nothing particularly anglo or rare about this dish, but warm, delicate in taste, and well-textured.

Pickled whelks. My favorite discovery. One of the dishes that would stand out and haunt my taste buds forever more. Pungent, briny, chewy. I never thought that preserved sea snails would be so satisfying. If it takes another trip to London I will have pickled whelks again in my lifetime.

Silvia ordered a very enjoyable treacle tart with clotted cream. If only the rest of the world, or at least my corner of it, could do sweets like the English.

Outdated ignorance would suppose fish and chips to be the national dish. Contemporary wisdom suggests it is chicken tikka masala. As far as I can tell, the most popular food in London is pizza, as I keep seeing pizza of varying quality everywhere I go.

The evening concluded with a nightcap at a rock and roll themed bar called Aces and Eights. Bela's uncle took a shine to it, and likely felt at home bathed in its ambiance.

Day Three...

Monday evening finds me writing in a corner of the Junction Tavern, which is happily just up the road from Bela and Simon's. Of all the pubs and bars I've visited in London, this is my adopted local. Perfectly poured pints, comfortable atmosphere and, on this tranquil Monday evening, jazz on the stereo. Time to make a few notes on the day's adventures.

I didn't sleep well and therefore got up late. When we finally got on the tube a power outage between Stockwell and Morden kept us delayed and then finally stranded around Angel or Moorsgate. The marvelous novelty of the swift and efficient tube was supplanted by dreadful resentment.

Silvia applied herself to learning the London bus system and eventually got us to London Bridge, stop the first.

In London (as in Paris, we'd later discover) outsiders and tourists are identified by their obedience to Walk and Halt lights at intersections; locals are identified by their complete apathy towards them.

At every crosswalk in London, painted on the curb are the words 'Look Right,' to remind visitors to this cosmopolitan capital that they're in one of the few places in the world where cars drive on the left side of the road. These warnings (but mostly Silvia) prevented me from being flattened by a couple taxis.

Travel tip: before you arrive in London, order an Oyster Card online and have it mailed to you, like Silvia did, enabling you to go straight to the tube once you land. Oyster Cards are easy to use, easy to refill at any tube stop, and good on both the Underground and buses. But remember, as Bela advised us: tap your Oyster Card only when you get on the bus, not when getting off (which you would do on the tube). And oh yes, very important: stay away from the Underground during rush hour at all costs.

From London Bridge we huffed it on foot towards the Tate Modern.

The Tate is joined on one side by the Millennium Bridge. You may recall seeing it destroyed in the opening sequence of 'The Half-Blood Prince.'

It's helpful not to compare the Tate Modern to institutions like LACMA or the Art Institute of Chicago, as those other physically significant collections showcase not only modern but classic pieces; one feels like they're getting a more comprehensive and coherent experience when taking in rococo along with Pollack. In a place like the Tate one can feel like they're traveling along an inexorable stream of increasingly unrepresentative abstraction until finally settling on the cynical resolve that the artists and curators are just jerking you around.

Nevertheless, the Tate contained several significant pieces, including a respectable collection of Mark Rothko I was elated to find as well as Monet's 'Water Lilies' (not pictured).

The Tate features a collection of works we were both very taken with by 'photomonteur' John Hartfeld, an original dadaist who changed his name from Helmut Hertzfeld in protest of Germany's growing militaristic nationalism. His works essentially comprise a bold series of parodic attacks on Hitler and National Socialism.

The single piece I was most fascinated by was 'Portrait of a Young Woman' by Meredith Frampton. The first thing that strikes the viewer is the stunning realism and technique. Then there's something else, less tangible, that makes the viewer feel something is either askew or atypical about this image. It is probably Frampton's depiction of the bold, handsome young woman not as an ancillary aspect of the composition but as an imposing, space-filling entity within the frame. Frampton created this technical exercise as a kind of therapeutic relief from commissions.

Silvia also found a large three dimensional piece made from a woven rope-like material called 'Trap.' Here you see Silvia doing her best Admiral Ackbar.

We began collecting icons after the Tate. Along the Millennium Bridge we spotted the Shard. If you don't understand why it was serendipitous for Silvia to be wearing her Doctor Whooves shirt to display in its proximity then you haven't seen 'The Bells of St John' yet.

At the opposite end of the bridge is St Paul's cathedral. We could find no one to sell us bird seed; we would have happily paid more than tuppence a bag.

I remember anticipating, rightly, that any photo taken would fail to capture the imposing massiveness of the cathedral.

After a heroic amount of walking we settled into a quiet (aside from some shouting) spot for lunch, El Vino Co. Ltd. Wine Merchant (est 1879). Silvia ordered mushroom soup, I ordered the mackerel with vegetables special with a glass of the house red.

Present in the establishment were the bartender, Silvia, our waitress, the cook downstairs, and myself. The relaxing atmosphere lasted up until a faint buzzer sounded behind the bar, causing the waitress to shatter her beatific demeanor and begin screaming "Oh for - can't even come up the stairs?! Hannah!" she shouted, clomping out of the room and down the spiral, "I'm gonna kill you!!"

Silvia's soup appeared at first to satiate her hunger. I only discovered later that her continued consumption was due to her ravenous appetite overpowering her revulsion. I found my mackerel satisfying, but only on account of how much I enjoy salty flavors. The average person would've likely found the entire affair over-seasoned.

We saw the Eye of London, the Clock Tower (which most people refer to by the misnomer assigned correctly to one of its bells) and a myriad of historic buildings, gardens and monuments.

One of the things I love best about London is the sprawl of historic buildings of utility rather than austerity. Classic architecture that inspires awe and admiration in us is just another place where the English go to punch a clock or count beans.

Silvia later navigated us towards a location she knew I very much wanted to visit, which first involved navigating our way through aptly named Picadilly Circus: the Hollywood Boulevard of London - simply less sad, decrepit and destitute.

(I later asked where all the screaming maniacs covered in their own filth were; they were conspicuously absent. "They've been pushed out. A big campaign that started years ago - they got rid of them and used teams of undercover agents to capture all the pickpockets." Picadilly Circus is now merely tawdry, not soul-destroying outside of its bombastic commercialism, and not quite as life or property-threatening.)

We finally arrived at Brindisa Tapas Soho, a small eatery of zero tourist or typical interest. Why did Silvia know I was dying to visit? Because this was the location they pretended was an italian restaurant in 'A Study in Pink,' which I have watched as much or more than any of my favorite feature films. Brindisa is now nearly unrecognizable from 'Angelo's,' the only surviving decorative element being the hanging lamps in the multi-paned window. Getting a seat near the front was not a conceivable option; the place bustles.

"Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house for you, and for your date."
"I'm not his date."

I found the food to be great fun, especially the ox cheeks (seen below). Silvia found the food so excessively oily that it upset her stomach. She sat through it without protestation, naturally, because she's a giver.

"What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out 22 Northumberland St Please come"

Across from Brindisa's is a pub called 'John Snow.'

Happily, the tube was fully functioning when we made our way to Tottenham, alighting at Tufnell.

The tube map radiates outward in 'zone' shells of diminishing insanity. The central sphere, Zone 1, is the madness of London Bridge, Leicester, Picadilly Circus, Bank, etc. Within this sphere all the men on the street are bankers and dress as such. Grey suits, white shirts, dark ties, trim figures, youth and vigor. All of the City Boys look angular with good bone structure, while all the men outside Zone 1 look like tertiary thugs in a Guy Ritchie caper.

They saturate the streets of 'The City,' thousands upon thousands of them. Why any capital anywhere could need such a surplus of people to push numbers around in malignant patterns I'll never understand. Naturally, that's why I'm not a banker. Sadly, I'm simple.

Anyway, Bela and Simon's flat is happily on the outer shell of the second zone, there being a total of six.

... The final bell has been rung here at Juction Tavern, though there are only four of us left. Time to go.

Day Four...

Tuesday morning finds us on the train to Oxford. My fob watch tells me it is exactly 11am. I got up around 7 and had a bath. We've since taken 3 tube trains to Paddington Station and boarded the above-ground rail line whose terminus will be Oxford in just over an hour. I have only had an apple to eat so far today. I am starving. Still, it could be worse. We could be on the bus, which would take over two hours.

12:30pm and we're already having a pint at the Eagle and Child (Bird and Baby to the Inklings and the locals). You'll know all about the Inklings - Tolkien and Lewis and Williams et al; this was where they gathered to swallow ale and inhale tobacco while sharing their latest scribblings. This is my singular Oxford must-see location and Jamie has walked us there straight from the train. I love the smell and the close rooms. This one is now competing for my pub affections.

Jamie was one of Silvia's Humboldt friends. She met us at the train station, which is just across the lot from their pad. We're waiting for Jamie's wife Tanya to join us so calamari and garlic bread are tiding us over.

Tanya has joined us now. I've ordered venison bangers and mash.

Silvia collects Humboldt lesbians. She's got a couple stashed away in Washington as well. Good job, Hon.

After lunch they let me take a brief tour of Christ Church College, which is old hat to the three of them. Admission is eight pounds. Entry was delayed by an enormous group of Asian tourists trying to find discounts.

"It's true what they're saying on the train. Zoe Necrosis has come to Hogwarts."

I eventually found a fellow tourist kind enough to take my picture. Above you see me heading up the grand staircase featured in 'The Sorcerer's Stone,' excited about finally getting sorted.

At the top of the stairs is Christ Church's great dining hall, which served as the direct inspiration for its equivalent at Hogwarts.

At the bottom of the stairs is graffiti - the oldest on record, apparently. The words "no peel" were nailed into the door in protest of Prime Minister Robert Peel (1841 - 1846).

This looks like a fine place for a flying lesson.

Christ Church was amazing, and not just for all the cinema-related locations that've become elements of Hogwarts and the like. The cathedral alone, with its artifacts like 14th century stained glass, was utterly fascinating. I should have requested more time to explore before agreeing to meet the girls at G&D Ice Cream Cafe.

Behold, author Phillip Pullman's Oxford! We found ourselves in Radcliffe Square, drawn to the Radcliffe Camera, which Silvia identified as being in the opening sequence of 'The Golden Compass.' I'm seen in the photo above holding my fob watch in an unsuccessful attempt to represent an alethiometer.

While in the area we twice encountered Oxford's answer to a roving gang of hooligans - a dandy bunch of well-funded youths on Razor Scooters who would occasionally topple down steps on their two-wheelers for our mutual amusement. We could only suspect they were pre-gaming for May Day, an explanation for which will occur shortly...

Bela used to live in Oxford and recommended that we visit the Turf Tavern, which is practically hidden and accessed through a narrow passage sometimes referred to as 'Hell's Pass.' Thomas Hardy wrote about Turf Tavern in 'Jude the Obscure.' It was here that Bill Clinton "did not inhale." It was built and remains contained within one of the few intact and standing 15th century gardens, or so their own copy boasts.

Jamie and Tanya took us on a meandering journey leading to a 100% vegetarian pub which looked very promising aside from having an immobile queue to order and no available seating. Moving along, the girls initially settled for a pub called 'Jude the Obscure,' which was large, wallpapered with American cinema posters and had a menu more suited to an Arby's or TGI Friday's than an establishment with a red brick facade. I suggested to the girls that if they didn't mind I might investigate the seafood place next door (Loch Fyne Bar & Grill), sat down and had a glass of white I can't recall the name of and half a dozen oysters. I hadn't had any premium english shellfish yet.

I felt bad, abandoning them to Oxford's answer to Applebee's (the menu containing an 'Under 700 Calories' section) while I sat down in a tranquil, dignified establishment; that is, until I started eating the oysters they brought me. They were accompanied by a dish of pickled red onion, a relish of some sort and a small vessel of tabasco, which I sampled, but found that in the end a good oyster just needs its foot separated from the shell and a squeeze of lemon. They come good.

I'm using Loch Fyne's stock photo because Silvia's camera was in her pocket next door.

I felt so bad about leaving the girls, in fact, that I ordered another four oysters and a half glass of white to take the edge off my guilt. Unfortunately, these tasted better than the first six. Fortunately, I was satiated.

I love the fact that the young french couple filling out Oxford post cards next to me thought my snack was "deesgusting."

Jamie and Tanya took us back to their place, of which we were in awe. They are the cleanest people we know and their apartment looks like it's been furnished for exhibit but not yet inhabited.

They set out a comfortable air mattress for us. "Which side do you want, hon?" I asked. "The center!" she replied.

Silvia attempted to slumber while I stayed up watching some Stephen Fry-hosted program I wish was aired in the States and commercials for something called Corsodyl: "For People Who Spit Blood When They Brush Their Teeth."

In just a few hours Jamie would be waking us and the festivities would begin.

Day Five...

We're on our way back to London now - Silvia's passed out next to me on the train - having successfully attended May Morning, an Oxford tradition. As anachronistic happenings go it has a decidedly anglo flavor, in that it's difficult to tell where Christian reverence ends and pagan revelry begins.

On the last evening of April (being last night) many of the Oxford students attend May Balls, and the more adventurous turn it into an all-night endurance feat. At 6am everyone gathers at Magdalen College (pronounced "maudlin" unless you want to be other'd as an outsider) to hear the choir which sings from the tower rooftop following the punctual ringing of the bells.

Though impressive in range and projection, hearing the chorus acutely requires arriving early, which we did not. Thus what we heard was not as much the chorus as the bleeting crowd of youths unaccustomed to any span of time exceeding a few seconds not immediately gratified by an inane status update, inarticulate grunt, caterwauling white whine or narcissistic solicitation of undeserved attention.

Regardless of my curmudgeonly annoyance at millenials, the singing is indeed quality. It lasts about 14 minutes. Then the Morris dancers lead a procession into Radcliffe Square and the party begins.

Most troupes of Morris dancers have within their group a designated 'fool' who cannot keep step, stay in line or dress appropriately. I would love to have this job. This is not to say that the hip-flasking dancers keeping perfect step weren't having a good time.

There was even one company of Morris-dancing young ladies. Yes, they were hot.

One quick glance reveals at first appraisal just who the people that join a Morris 'side' (which means troupe) are and would be back home: D&D playing anachronistic nerds and faire folk.

I particularly respected and admired the young man in orange pants above, as he was the only person dancing to the brass band but kept shuffling about all the same because he don't give a fuck.

When the dancing wears off everyone heads to one of the many pubs open early that morning for a few more pints and a full English. We opted for the Crown Oxford. This was not my last full English on this trip. It's going to be quite a while until I want another.

Then everyone goes home and takes a nap.

I'm disinterested in napping, so instead I'll tell you about Lieutenant General Augustus Henry Fox Pitt-Rivers (1827 - 1900).

During his career he made significant improvements to the British army and began a self-styled collection of weaponry, foreign and domestic. The collection began absorbing anthropological artifacts that weren't exclusively weapons. He donated it to Oxford in 1883 before going on to his great reward and it is now the centerpiece of the Museum of Natural History. The collection, which has been expanded for another century following Pitt-Rivers' death, is staggering. The weapons collection, which begins with the most primitive of spears, continues as far as an Israeli Uzi from 1988.

The photo above of the Pitt-Rivers collection was one I stole from the Internet because I failed to take one during our visit.

I did manage, however, to take a picture of the humorous figures on the museum's commode doors.

The Oxford Museum of Natural History's specimens are very impressive as well.

Unfortunately, most of it was inaccessible due to construction. Some of the dinosaurs were in Laura Palmer mode.

This is where we went following breakfast at the Crown Tavern.

Now we're on our way back to London and utterly exhausted.

All the things they say about charm and beauty of Oxford are true. Returning to London doesn't feel so much like leaving Fantasyland for Tomorrowland but rather the parking structure.

The big family dinner is tonight. Silvia and I are invited.
Since we're on our way back to London I'll take a moment to tell you about Bela and Simon.

Aside from giving us a place to stay in London, they also gave us a christening. They named us Silly and Snorey. Silvia's the Muppet fan prone to bouts of sillyness who sometimes laughs uncontrollably if I mime one of my hands eating the other set of fingers or if someone snort-laughs. I'm "Snorey" because I've been known to wake myself up with the saw in the back of my throat, which usually gets worse the more I've had to drink that evening.

Bela and Simon met on a train on the way to Paris, which would resemble a cinematic meet-cute were it not for the fact that they had both been recently bereaved (which still sounds like a Meg Ryan film but never mind). They were heading for a gig. They're both musicians. They're the best kind of musicians, in that they never talk about music. I actually had to Internet-stalk them to find out about that aspect of their lives. The only evidence I witnessed of their avocation were a few guitars in the parlor corner and a reference Bela made to anxiety, comparing and contrasting the ease of performing in front of thousands at a festival verses the stress of addressing a small group of people.

If I find myself missing London I can always look at The Vatican Cellars' video, which features Simon, other band mates, Bela and Jean Luc.

If rock and roll is more your style than folk-noir then Bela's old act, the Schla La Las, will appeal more to your taste (as well as those who enjoy Lego animation).

...

Alright, so I took a nap after all.

We are seated in a private room upstairs in The Somers Town Coffee House. It's family dinner night. They've prepared a prix fixe menu for the room, which is accessed via a hidden door that nearly looks like a bookcase. We've ordered three rounds of drinks that fell into the Twilight Zone.

The fact that Simon's name is Simon is indicative of just how wonderfully English he is. His family, I'm happy to find out, is equally as English. Bela's family is equally as American.

In olden times a marriage was oftentimes a peace brokering between rival clans or nations. This is why it's actually improper to say "congratulations" to the bride. She was oftentimes getting the short end of the deal; "congratulations" was the appropriate thing to say to the groom, who was usually older and deriving the boon of a younger bird. "Good luck" was what one said to the bride. But anyway, the amicable and gregarious bread breaking that Silvia and I have the privilege of participating in feels like a great accord being built between our two nations. Peace at last between the colonies and Crown!

I enjoyed talking with Peter, Simon's father, who's a very knowledgeable fan of Steinbeck. There aren't many people who can appreciate my anecdotes about literary pilgrimages to Cannery Row. I was ashamed to find out that the two programs which stand out in his mind as endemic of American television are 'Two And A Half Men' (which he likes) and 'Man Vs Food' (which baffles him).

Sadly, I didn't take notes regarding what we ate. Apparently we took pictures, though.

Naturally we regaled our friends with our recent adventures in Oxford. Imagine my surprise when Simon rolled his eyes at the mention of Morris dancing. Whereas Silvia and I found it charming and whimsical, Simon informed us that the vast majority of the British population consider it an embarrassment:

"Like someone once said, you should try everything once except incest and folk dancing."

Day Six...

The day before the wedding.

Thursday morning began with what was, apart from Bela and Simon's wedding, the crux of the entire trip (for me): visiting Speedy's Sandwich Bar & Cafe.

It's easy to find. We took the tube from Tufnell Park to Euston, walked one block, turned the corner onto Gower Street and instantly found ourselves transported to Baker Street. There was an ever so slight electric shock realizing we were at 221B suddenly (which is actually 187 when not in production).

If you don't recognize the facade something must be done at once. 'A Study in Pink' is on Netflix Streaming at the time of this writing - go watch it. That being accomplished, you will be welcome back into my life and existence.

Speedy's is open for breakfast and lunch and, apart from the occasional Japanese girl taking a photo from the exterior and not exploring further, not much of a tourist stop. The majority of those who stop in are local workmen in reflective safety clothing there to fuel up for the day ahead (rather than discuss their favorite ships or "otp" - terms that are meaningless if you're not on tumblr, so don't be concerned if you don't recognize them).

We each had a Spanish Omelet. Speedy's actually does a properly made omelet, which you can't really get in the states. I also had a side of black pudding (something I loath not being able to eat at home) and a cup of black coffee.

I promised Dom, one of the people watching my apartment and feeding my pets in my absence, that I'd bring him a souvenir from Speedy's; he had specifically asked for one of their menus. Speedy's does not have disposable paper menus, only a small stack of laminated plastic permanents that it would be improper to abscond with. There was nothing disposable to be had that was marked with the uniqueness of the location, not an item to be pocketed that had the location's name, and they surprisingly have no souvenirs for sale of any kind.

I asked the woman behind the counter if they had any take away menus, say to keep in an office. She asked me to wait a moment. A minute later the owner - whom I'm pretty sure appears in the background of 'A Scandal in Belgravia' - warmly invited me to sit down at a table and then opened up a large file folder so we could look at the many options available for creating a custom catering menu for wherever it was I worked. Shit.

A few awkward sentences later I told him flat out that I didn't want to deceive him, that I was really only out for a souvenir that I promised to a friend back home. Thankfully his deflation as he closed the notebook lasted only a moment. I asked if there was any possibility of buying one of his permanent menus. They don't have many of them and don't have them printed in large quantities, so they are costly to make and short in supply, but I'm also not the first person to have made this request. After rustling through some boxes on top of a refrigerator he allowed me to purchase two menus at £7 apiece, which I was gratefully happy to pay.

In the face of a functional, very busy sandwich shop and its blue collar clientele I kept my fanboy fanaticism in check until we left, only then feeling the accelerated rush one feels when visiting a landmark they anticipate the world embracing for years; the entire affair was done so quickly and efficiently, the venue so utilitarian and without airs that I hadn't a moment to realize or feel that I was in a place that would live in fandom's popular imagination for decades.

If you look closely you'll notice that the milk jug above is 'Watson's.' Just saying.

Travel tip: if you find yourself visiting Speedy's for fandom purposes, don't just stop and take a picture. Go in and eat. Have a cup of coffee, which is actually quite good.

After breakfast we found a basement used bookstore. Silvia had me pose with a Phillip Pullman book we were unaware of (to remind herself to look it up later), just as we were unaware that the television adaptation apparently stars Billie Piper.

I picked up a collection of Byron's poetry because we were in England.

Silvia met up with Bela and her sister a few blocks away. They went off for a day of lady stuff, as ladies do the day before a wedding.

I walked a few blocks to see the British Museum.

Travel tip: many of England's museums have free admission. We certainly didn't pay aught but a donation during our stay.

One of the more interesting items in the British Museum is one of the legendary crystal skulls, and its back story is much more interesting than the fourth Indiana Jones film.

It was sold at Tiffany's in 1897 and believed to be from ancient Mexico. In fact, microscopic analysis of the skull reveals tool marks that suggest it was carved just a few decades before it was sold. It's a legendary fake, much like the fourth Indiana Jones film, which we've all agreed to pretend wasn't actually made.

Later that evening Silvia agreed to try eating at the Junction Tavern by Bela and Simon's, which I'd been curious about since glimpsing one of their food menus while grabbing a pint.

On the way we said good evening to the Constable, or rather the black cat always on patrol whom we decided was the neighborhood watchman and therefore christened "Constable." He's always near his perch, keeping an eye out. Simon later identified him as the cat that enjoys taunting Jean Luc and then leaping just out of reach.

This dinner at the Junction Tavern was the best meal I had during the entire trip. If I may jump ahead and spoil one of the revelations to come later: Paris provided for some unique and interesting delectables, but all in all, the best food I had was in London.

Aperitif: Amontillado sherry.
Starter: Steamed mussels in a chili, garlic and tomato broth.
Main: Whole sea bream, saute potatoes, caponata.
Desert: Mixed berry Eton mess.
Digestif: Sticky Chardonnay.

I took zero notes on Silvia's meal as I was entirely consumed with my own.

These are the singular mussels that will ruin me for any others for the rest of my life; all others will be judged against their memory, and either measure up to them or be "okay, but nothing like what I had at Junction Tavern." I've never enjoyed mussels more than in this simple preparation.

I'd never had sea bream before. This was a delightful whitefish, delicately seasoned and flavored, the flesh sliding gently off the bones at a fork's touch.

The Eton mess is a traditional English dessert. Its appearance belies just how heavy it is not. We may have polished it off in less than a minute.

Day Seven...

The day of the wedding.

It was a "no boys allowed" morning. Simon and I scrubbed our carcases early, put on our suits and took Jean Luc to his appointment at the groomer's. Silvia would remain behind with Bela to be joined by more female company that they might conduct whatever clandestine feminine rituals occur on these occasions.

A healthy stretch of the legs and manny passers-by lay between the three of us and the dog groomer's. Simon had his bow tie and fancy blue suit (which may have only been blue in my memory, as it seems to be more gray-ish in photos). I looked like a reject from Reservoir Dogs in my black suit, black tie and white shirt.

"I wonder what backstory people are creating in their minds when they pass by the three of us."

"They're thinking it's the two of us that're married," replied Simon, "and that Jean Luc is our gayby." Say what you will, we are a handsome-looking family. "I'd probably let you be the husband," Simon added, generously.

We dropped off Jean Luc and Simon plotted a bus course to meet his groomsmen. We rode at the front and top of a double decker, which was very exciting (even for Simon, he admitted, after all these years).

I recalled that two nights before we had spotted a pub in Soho called 'John Snow,' and wondered if that name meant anything to Simon. After a few minutes he actually recalled who he was. Per Simon, John Snow was a physician who discovered that cholera spreads through water, and that he in fact found the water pump in Soho from which it was being spread. It would make sense, therefore, that a pub in that specific area be named after him.

At a Holiday Inn we met with Simon's best men Garex and Alex along with John, Garex's husband. The hotel lounge's bartender didn't know how to make a bloody mary. Garex tried to explain how to make one, which didn't help for some reason, so we just settled on drinking tomato juice.

Both John and Garex were renting kilts for the wedding. John gets to wear one because he's a proper Scotsman. Garex is combining the justifications of marrying a Scot and being "a bit Welsh."

John is considering buying his own kilt. I had no idea kilts were a rented, formal item. When I saw what they had changed into it was clear I hadn't really a concept in mind of what a proper kilt looks like.

Alex had learned recently that the obnoxiously ubiquitous "Keep Calm And (Eat At Joe's)" meme has a much more grim back story than we assume. Posters reading "Keep Calm And Carry On" were not, apparently, vintage posters that were posted to corral the public's spirit during the war. They weren't displayed during the war at all. They only came to light a few years ago, in fact. The "Keep Calm..." posters were something that had been prepared to be posted when or if the Germans did fully invade England and everyone was under thumb. The posters which were actually displayed in the street read "Freedom Is In Peril. Defend It With All Your Might" and "Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution Will Bring Us Victory." The unused "Keep Calm..." posters were prepared for the phase wherein British citizens looked out the window and saw goose-stepping Germans in the street.

Another topic of conversation in the hotel lounge were the Council elections. The news feed ran a tally of how many seats each party had secured in each district. Apparently the Conservatives were demonstrably upset at how things were progressing, and the guys drew some amount of enjoyment from that.

"We talk as though all of this is particularly important," said Alex to me, "but this is really about as significant as running for Dog Catcher."

"What is UKIP?" I asked, indicating an unfamiliar acronym on the television alongside other political parties I was more familiar with.

"Oh, that's United Kingdom Independence Party," explained Alex. "They're kind of the fringe, out-there group, a bit like your Tea Party, except UKIP is more like a bunch of small-minded, nosy busybodies who get in everyone's business."

"Actually that sounds exactly like the Tea Party."

I also learned during our chat that Stella Artois, in the United Kingdom, is referred to as "Wife Beater." I explained that a wife-beater in my country refers to a cheap, white tank top. They found this baffling - what did I mean by tank top? I meant a sleeveless shirt with a wide neck. To them, this is called a "vest." To us, I explained, a vest is like the brown item Simon is wearing over his shirt but under his coat, which they call a "waist coat." And it goes around and around...

When we left the hotel for the wedding venue, though bereft of Jean Luc, we now at least had two gentlemen in formal kilts to fancify our procession for the public's viewing enjoyment. If I'm ever famous and travel with an entourage I would like it to resemble us on this day.

It was a small, intimate ceremony. We were very privileged in being invited to attend.

The fellow blowing air through a tube into a keyboard is Alex, from whom I learned a bit about Council politics earlier in the day.

I suppose the advantage of being musicians, and having musician friends, is having people at hand who can play at your wedding.

The ceremony was held at the Westminster City Council Building, a location significant to Bela and Simon's past, having something to do with waiting for buses.

We took a cab to Amico Bio, a small vegetarian Italian restaurant they had booked entirely for their reception. All of the tables and most of the chairs had been stowed away. Silvia and I had managed to make the cut of the 40 people included in their small ceremony. Amico Bio was for the second wave of guests. (The third, largest wave would meet at The Princess of Wales pub the following day.)

While other guests arrived three of us meandered into a small courtyard across the narrow road from the restaurant. It was littered with a few moss-covered grave markers worn indistinguishable. Had we not wandered in, and had one of us not been Simon's mother Janice, she would not have mentioned offhand that "Saint Bartholomew's is just around the corner."

"What?! St. Bart's is over there?!" I said, indicating a passage on the opposite side of the yard.

"Oh yes," replied Janice, sweetly pleased that I could be so excited by the mere proximity of a historical building still dotted with craters from the London Blitz.

I rushed over, Janice and Silvia trailing. I paused politely at the William Wallace plaque - "I think he was drawn and quartered near here," noted Janice - and then flew to the facade made iconic in 'The Reichenbach Fall.'

After a moment Silvia figured out why I was so excited. "Oh God, is that the rooftop?" she asked with a wry smile. Yes, this was indeed the location of one of the greatest love scenes in narrative history.

There was the small red brick building somehow essential to the as-yet unrevealed howdunnit. The telephone booth was newly-covered in notes from Johnlock shippers. The place was simply rife with "feels." I got a serious charge from being there, particularly because we came upon it with no intention and entirely by accident. It was more exhilarating than breakfast at Speedy's. Per Silvia: I'm a dork.

When one of Simon's nephews joined us I made him pose for impromptu cosplay. He was very confused, as what we were imitating has not been seen by the public aside from spy footage of the forthcoming episode 'The Empty Hearse.' The photo of me on the bench will also make sense eventually, but not in the calendar year 2013.

Across the street from St. Bart's, by the enormous butcher's market, I saw something incredible: quitting time in London on a holiday weekend Friday. The white collar folk were standing outside a couple pubs, filling the street, most with a pint in their fists. Something I really love about London: the fact that you're allowed to do that.

Anyway, here, finally are John and Garax in their formal kilts.

As for the reception, let it never be said that we didn't dance at their wedding. Photographic evidence confirms I had been dancing with my cake. Simon's brother was also cutting a rug. Simon's nephew appears to have been doing the worm.

Day Eight...

Simon's car was out of the shop and ready for their honeymoon. The plan was to take a 2-seater Bond car (the first, he tells me) to Paris. I'll give you a moment to admire their lives.

Silvia thought I should pose with my adopted local for posterity.

The day was slated originally for the "Hangover Picnic," but the weather forecast threatened precipitation, so they moved the event to The Princess of Wales in Primrose Hill.

The basement is generally used for private events. It's a bit full of Americans today.

Silvia made a new friend.

The 'Banksy Beer Garden' is a tribute to middle class taste.

I tried 'Kozel,' a Czech beer. And now I never have to do that again.

The basement of the Princess feeling a bit full, we went for a walk and took in Primrose Hill.

Day Nine...

This morning we said goodbye to Tufnell Park. We go as the advance guard to France. Bela and Simon will be meeting us in two days as we converge in Paris proper - the 3rd arrondissement, 'The Marais' - until which time Silvia and I will confine ourselves to Chessy, where Eurodisney is located and I expect we'll have less difficulty getting about as boorish American yobbos.

We are now aboard the Eurorail. Silvia is reading 'Sacre Bleu' by Christopher Moore. What's initially surprising about this rail is that it ascends and descends so rapidly as to cause frequent appreciable inner-ear pressure shifts as when one would be flying or taking the Sears Tower elevator.

Poor Silvia's had a cold for two days. I'm fine so far.

The Eurorail moves so swiftly that the track itself actually banks at curves.

Train musing: artifact of being a Californian: it feels peculiar to have gone over a week without driving my car. I have such a symbiotic daily relationship with it that I find myself almost missing it.

Five minutes to noon - we have been told we are now in France. The French announcement is now preceding the English translation. I had no awareness whatsoever of which tunnel marked our crossing the Channel.

We really didn't have any idea how to get from the Chessy station to our hotel aside from paying a substantial sum to a surly cab driver. So we dragged our suitcases on foot for several miles across roads without sidewalks to get to the Park & Suites.

Travel tip: if you're bound and determined to visit Eurodisney, stay at Park & Suites Prestige Val d'Europe. I paid a fraction of what it would have cost to stay at one of the Resort's hotels, it has a shuttle to take you to and from the Parks, the well-dressed staff is helpful and courteous, and the rooms are clean and modern. But before you decide to take the trip at all, read about our experience...

We unpacked and unwound, and finding that there was no place to eat or find consumable materials anywhere around we took the hotel's shuttle back to Disney Village (which is like Anaheim's Downtown Disney) in search of food. There was nothing promising, really. In fact, most options looked pretty dismal. They have a 50's diner called Annette's where the waitresses get about on roller skates... inside. Sometimes simulacra frightens me. So we settled on Earl of Sandwich.

In one of the resort's hotels I found a lounge and a cocktail that may or may not have been called Lañador and consisted of Zubrowka vodka, buffalo herbs, Soho Glass Liqueur, apple juice, cranberry nectar and Monin macaroon syrup. Not unpleasant, but not exactly intoxicating.

Disney Village kept putting up obstacles to prevent me from getting inebriated. Silvia went hunting for pins to trade for her sister while I took dubious steps towards achieving something resembling a respectable buzz.

In a sports bar I tried something called Skoll Tuborg, which seems to be a malt-liquor type concoction with vodka and citrus. It tastes like a combination of Seagram's and hostility.

At this point I began writing comments about the people around me which I won't bother to transcribe here.

When we got back to the hotel things became happier and darker at the same time.

Seated at the Park & Suite's tiny lounge bar was myself and one other cockney bloke who asked me from several barstools away if I was going to Disneyland (in what I perceived was a provoking tone). I basically said I didn't want any trouble. He dismissed my response and the next thing I know we were seated next to each other and best mates.

You know those really obnoxious drunks who pull out their cell phones in a quiet place and, assaulting the ambient soundtrack, force everyone around to listen to their favorite jungle track? I hate those people. That was us.

He kept repeatedly playing the same track from someone called Darren J (or possibly Hype D) and we were rocking out, dancing in our seats. I normally can't stand drum 'n bass or jungle. Stupid, stupid English with their buying me drinks.

Infinite apologies are owed to the bartender who had to serve the stupid Septic and Chav.

Eventually I materialized in our hotel room on the sofa. Silvia heard a loud bang and then found me vomiting on the floor, which miraculously was hardwood. She covered it with a towel and then stopped me from being helpful by using the sheets.

Day Ten...

I woke up drunk and in the worst possible shape to handle Eurodisney. I blame the English rather than myself somehow.

Breakfast was Starbucks. I ate way too much.

It was something of a culture shock to repeatedly enter the men's restroom and find female janitorial staff going about their business while men went about theirs. Neither gender was phased by the presence of the other.

It was annoying to find that drinking fountains are virtually nonexistent in Disneyland Paris.

We did a bit of exploring and Silvia found a hedge maze (of sorts).

The first attraction we saw was their version of Space Mountain, which is liken-able to the Aerosmith roller coaster in Florida. It loops a couple times and is remarkably turbulent. I think you can see where this is headed for me.

The rain showed no signs of letting up so I left Silvia to explore the other park across from Disneyland - whatever it's called, it's the least visited Disney theme park in the world - while I went back to the hotel to exchange my loafers for boots, grab my coat, drink too much water and vomit. I was perilously dizzy for the next several hours.

When I returned we visited Phantom Manor, which is in a kind of Boot Hill setting.

The layout of the ride exactly mirrors the Haunted Mansion, and the progression of scenes is very similar to the original version in Anaheim... until you get past the attic sequence. Here the macabre bridal theme switches to a janky old west setting that is very creepy and has the feel of a seaside haunted house attraction.

Phantom Manor revealed to us one of the paramount faults with Eurodisney - the French don't seem to give a shit about its upkeep. The lighting effects were ugly and without subtlety, the animatronics were showing clear signs of neglect, and there were entire scenes (such as the second half of the ghostly ballroom) where the soundtrack was simply absent. These things would be corrected overnight in Anaheim. Call us spoiled, but there it is.

Their Pirates of the Caribbean is simply pathetic. The entire ride, with its barely-functioning animatronics, is of a quality one expects from Knotts Berry Farm.

The Indiana Jones themed ride is a small, outdoors coaster that loops and pummels the sides of ones head to the point of concussion.

The most surprising disappointment we had with the entire park was with the food. It was horrible.

We'd been given recommendations to try their equivalent of the Blue Bayou, which I believe is called the Blue Lagoon, but Silvia was unable to find anything on the menu she could eat. Neither of us had the appetite or the motivation to sit down at one of the premium establishments which seemed to have a side of foie gras with everything, so we settled on the common food, or at least that which was left to choose from apart from all the buffets. We've been accustomed to the fact that the common, convenient food found at Disneyland and Downtown Disney is actually pretty good. At Eurodisney it is borderline inedible.

Eurodisney made me a tad homesick for my own Park, and not just because Anaheim is bigger, well-maintained and not full of French people.

The very nature of attraction-boarding is counterintuitive to the French. Europeans don't queue. At all. They just jostle about and stand in front of anyone they can.

Also, everyone smokes, everywhere and at all times, thus creating a nausea-inducing haze one walks through at every turn.

But just so that I don't appear to be a complete stick in the mud, let me tell you about my favorite attraction at Disneyland Paris: the replica of the Nautilus from '20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.' It's a really good likeness, and if you know the film and its sets as well as myself you can really geek out down in that submarine.

There's a very nice replica of Captain Nemo's organ, which is of course not the original one used in the film because that piece resides in the ballroom scene of the Haunted Mansion in Anaheim.

And of course the castle features the park's one quality animatronic, the dragon chained up in the dungeon. So there's that.

So then, in summation: Disneyland Paris: we did it so you don't have to.

Day Eleven...

The first thing we saw when our train arrived at Châtelet-Les Halles were uniformed guards with uzis. Several of them. Their fingers were always poised near the trigger.

We quickly made our way to Gare Du Nord and did not get shot.

The streets were covered with phlegm, presumably because of the populace's smoking habits.

We booked an apartment via AirBNB, a service which allows people to rent out their flats to travelers. A charming trilingual girl named Martina greeted us and gave us our first Parisian pseudo-cheek-kiss. Martina is actually Italian, which we'd never have guessed. She keeps and lets out this second apartment (which appears to have been an ex-tax) both for storage and to avoid having to give it up. Her idea of storage is what many Americans would consider stuffing into a dresser.

I'm quite enamored with this apartment, the top floor view of the small courtyard, and the kitchen noises echoing from below.

We're listening to Martina's CDs right now, among which are two Thelonious Monk albums and everything recorded by Bob Dylan.

Her apartment is decorated with vinyl album covers, a couple movie posters, postcards, a New York subway map, and framed photos of Greta Garbo and Duke Ellington.

The floors are groaning hardwood. The bed is up a few steps in an alcove I repeatedly bump my head against while entering.

It's kind of perfect.

Silvia made contact with Bela and Simon who had settled into their honeymoon suite, of sorts. Having an occasion to celebrate, they were using AirBNB to book what, by Parisian standards, is an enormous flat.

Bela wanted to visit a cafe she had observed on a previous trip, so we did. It may or may not have been called Terrasse D'Archives (or there is some other reason those words are written in this section of my notebook). I finally got to try some real French food, the kind the denizens of the Marais actually consume.

Travel tip: Bela and Simon clearly knew what they were doing by renting a flat that was, with certainty, in the 3rd arrondissement - Le Marais - which is literally "Gay Paree." When in doubt, stay with the gays.

Silvia had some kind of dish involving goat cheese, tomatoes and toast over a balsamic salad.

Simon had veal onglet with chanterelles and potatoes (not pictured).

I got to try a rare treat, if you'll pardon the pun: tartare de boeufe (beef tartare). Yes, you can get this in the Southland if you make the effort to go to Beverly Hills, but here I could order it - not as an appetizer but an entree - and eat it on the sidewalk. Quite simply, minced raw beef held together with raw egg and minced onion. Magnificent. I've often looked at raw slabs of bleeding meat and wanted to know what it would taste like; it's nice to finally have permission.

We drank Cotes Du Rhone Burgundy.

In search of a nightcap we wandered into a place I'd never be able to find my way back to if I tried. I quite enjoyed this place and the shaggy-haired bartender (likely owner) who spoke not a word of English. Simon ordered Pastis, since I'd never had it before, which was enjoyable despite anise being the drink's main flavor motif. He explained that Pastis came into popularity during a period when Absinthe was illegal. There are strong similarities.

Our adopted Parisian local (name unknown) is the kind of place that colors your travel experience if you're very, very lucky. Sometimes a quaint establishment off the beaten path into which you're not beckoned and may not even be welcome can become the highlight of your adventures.

Bela did her best to make peace with Genevieve, the bar's patron canine, and Jean Luc. Neither were really having it.

Paris is a place I might conceivably enjoy more if I knew the language - not in the passing, barely comprehending command most Americans lie about possessing, but fluently. In France I am constantly in the mode of illiterate philistine; a pariah and alien.

Then there's Bela, who is most certainly an asset on these kind of adventures. Her favorite hobby, while in Paris, is looking wait staff in the eye and pronouncing things as poorly as possible with an enormous grin just to watch the subtle moment when the Parisian dies a little bit inside. She can definitely take the edge off being a stranger in a strange land by taking pleasure in being a foreigner.

Day Twelve...

Bela wanted to take us somewhere: Etat Libre D'Orange at 69 rue des Archives.

They're an avante garde perfume shop. The saleswoman began our olfactory journey by handing us samples and suggesting we try to guess what it was, which we could not. 'Secretions Magnifique' is meant to smell like semen.

The shop also features 'Fat Electrician,' 'Tom of Finland,' 'Jasmine and Cigarettes,' and the runner-up among my favorites, 'Cheap Slut.' This last was beaten out only by the scent that bewitched me so much I had to take it home: 'Tilda Swinton.' Tell me you wouldn't want to splash her on now and again.

After parting ways with the newlyweds Silvia and I found ourselves at Notre Dame, which was celebrating its 850th anniversary and therefore had a grandstand erected for the sake of looking at its front facade. There was a queue to join the queue to enter. We passed.

Paris began to rub me the wrong way, which this city in which no one ever cleans up after their dogs had been working on steadily since our arrival.

Travel tip: do not, under any circumstances, accept help from a stranger in Paris. Nobody wants to help you. They're just working you. If someone suggests that they need to buy something on your behalf because your credit card doesn't have a pin and chip or something, indicate you will under no circumstances give them Euros for anything and walk away. Do not ask questions, either. Leave the French alone, and do not engage them. They don't like you, and those who pretend to are working an angle.

And so we found ourselves at the 'Lovers' Bridge' or something. The idea is for couples to (I presume) write their names on a lock, fasten it to a bridge and toss the key in the water. If this strikes you as the stupidest thing you've ever heard of, you're right on the money. The locks are regularly removed and disposed of.

We found the Louvre, but at midday. It was a horrendous spectacle. We left.

Silvia allowed me to work on actively repairing my mood, so we found a sidewalk cafe in the Left Bank where I at pâté and drank wine.

The one thing I'll miss about Paris is the availability of cheap French wine.

I imagine that no respectable trip to Paris is complete without visiting a public park where children cast sailboats into a fountain, so we took a stroll through one.

The Pantheon is indeed inspired by the Parthenon, and it is regretful that we arrived just before business hours concluded, and did not get to see the tomb of Voltaire.

I asked Silvia to take my picture while throwing up the letters 'd' and 'w,' which stand for Dashwood, which is so tied up into a mythology I created involving secret societies (The Order of Five Angels) and cosplay and magical role playing that I won't even broach the broad premise. Suffice to say, the students of Dashwood House know what's up.

"I kind of think of this [the Pantheon] as their Westminster Abbey," commented Silvia.

"They buried intellectuals here," I contributed.

"And thankfully they waited until they died."

We joined Bela and Simon and Jean Luc for dinner at Le Passage Oblique.

I ordered one of the specials, Confit de Canard, which apparently is cooked first slowly then rapidly to encase tenderness in a crispy membrane. It's like eating turkey, only enjoyable.

Day Thirteen...

Travel tip: when in Paris, buy wine. If you happen to pass a small wine shop, go in and buy a random bottle of €17 red and enjoy. Oenophiles tell me the best stuff doesn't leave the country, so you won't be able to drink its like when you get home.

I would imagine that croissants and pastries go without saying. We quickly adopted a patisserie where we would get croissants for breakfast each morning. That's one of the fine things about the pedestrian nature of Parisian life: you can basically eat butter for breakfast and work it off by lunch.

Anyway, Eiffel Tower day:

Bela, Simon and Jean Luc lead us on an extensive hike through the Left Bank, under the Eiffel Tower and along the Champs Elysees.

Travel tip: try not to eat or drink within sight of a landmark or global icon. You'll spend twice as much as you should and be receiving half the quality in exchange.

The Champs Elysees is kind of funny, and reminds me of a chapter I read recently in Anthony Bourdain's 'Medium Raw.' He was recounting the week he spent on the island of St Barth's among the rich and elite and noticed that they would debase themselves and use any amount of influence and pull to garner standing room and overpriced mediocre food at establishments that most people would turn their noses up at, only because it'd been established that a certain place is undoubtedly where their kind go to and spend their time. The Champs Elysees, to my mind, is kind of like this. The cocktails cost three times what they should and are made with cheap ingredients, selection of anything is sparse, and the service lives up to a cartoonish stereotype of neglect and disapproval. This kind of experience isn't offensive or off-putting, to my mind, it's just kind of funny.

This section of Paris also appeals to the kind of bourgeois swine interested in renting a Lamborghini for 20 minutes, as if it were a prostitute, for use on roads in which it cannot actually be opened up. But at least one can be seen driving it.

Travel tip: when in Paris, eat ice cream, pretty much whenever you find it. Above you see me enjoying a cone of blackcurrant sorbet on the Champs Elysees. If you come across a street vendor selling sorbet in obscure flavors, stop and get some.

Apparently Punch and Judy shows still exist, as Silvia attempted to spy on one performed for the offspring of the wealthy and/or nostalgic.

Jean Luc is very much a pack animal. Our staying in his home made him accustomed to the idea that our unit was five in number and should remain as such as much as possible (in case we need to take down a passing bison or defend Bela from a wild Vespa). If anyone wandered off, away from the protection of the pack, he'd become concerned. If Bela, however, separated from the group and went out of visual range, he'd become extremely upset and whimper.

Their custodial arrangement, they explained to us, is that Simon owns Jean Luc and Jean Luc owns Bela.

We made sure to position ourselves such that Bela could get a good picture of one particular tower because we're all twelve years old.

In the early leg of our adventure Bela and Silvia made note of a vegetarian restaurant in the Left Bank and had ambitions of dining there that evening. I had very particular food ambitions of my own. It had openly been my desire to, while in Paris, have the experience of dining in a classically styled French restaurant and sharing a 'plateau de fruits de mer.' Of course, I had no idea this was what it was called. I used vague descriptions, hand gestures and performance art to convey what I wanted, which they happily knew the name of, and set upon fondling their pocket wizards until they found an ideal location that serves it.

So we walked Bela (vegan) and Silvia (vegetarian) to their polite cafe while Simon and I continued onto 'Le Petite Zinc' and bade the ocean be dredged and served to us on a platter, faces intact whenever applicable.

You and your date are given empty plates and a number of tools for prying and cracking. Then they bring a platter of ice covered with oysters, clams, whelks, winkles, crevettes, brown shrimp, and a whole crab, cleaved down the middle. Then you set to work while polishing off a bottle of white. Simon chose a riesling for us, which one would expect to be too sweet for raw shellfish, were it not that this particular vintage was from Alsace and therefore not cloy at all. He's good like that.

Simon had to coach me on the use of some of these tools and what part of what creature to consume. Everything inside the crab is edible, but leave the gills alone, "they're not nice." I discovered that you should set aside the table bread and use it to make sure you're scraping up every morsel of the 'crab butter' that lines the carapace, which is incredible.

I also found out that the most delicious part of a shrimp is usually discarded. Gently pry the head off, stick your finger inside, scoop out the brains, put them in your mouth and be delighted.

Simon commented that these were excellent oysters, and coming from him that's something.

Oysters are a rather peculiar food; or rather, the way we've come to characterize them is. They're an acquired taste, but only because we've relegated them to said category with the industrialization of food. Oysters were a peasant food a century ago. They were a working man's snack that you could get from hawkers on the street. A tidy, zinc-invigorating meal that comes in a handy container. Sometimes restaurants and taverns would shuck oysters for passers-by in order to lure them inside. Now it is only the epicurious who eat oysters while peasants consume ammonia-treated industrial materials that don't technically qualify as food under golden arches.

I can only imagine what the girls thought about how we smelled when we rejoined them.

For desert we queued up at Amorino Gelato. There are 54 of these shops in France and 1 in New York. I had a cone with a combination of tiramisu and macadamia. Remember what I said earlier about ice cream?

We stopped at two different places in search of a nightcap. The first was a learning experience. As I said before, try not to eat or (especially) drink in visual range of a landmark, or in this case, the Seine. We stopped in to a place that, though having a charming atmosphere, charged seven Euros for a bottle of Corona. I don't care it if is technically imported if we're in France - consider the cost after the conversion rate.

It's difficult for me not to be cynical about Paris, as it is largely a tourist trap and requires experience, luck or savvy to actually have a good time. It is possible, though, to find tiny pockets of enjoyment here and there. The romance of Paris is an artifact largely trampled by hoi polloi, both resident and alien, but you can almost see the high watermark where the tide broke and rolled back under the right circumstances. Want to be enchanted by Paris? Wait until nightfall, when the foot traffic has dispersed (assuming you're in a safe area, not Montmartre or something). Go out with friends and share a couple drinks. Wander around the Seine while it's flooding. You just might catch glimpses of charm and romance out of the corner of your eye.

Bela stopped to get a picture of "Le Sack" because we're twelve.

At the location of our second and last nightcap we came upon a revelation. The five of us were enjoying bubbling beverages - prosecco or ale - and having a fine time. At some point there was a smattering of raucous laughter among us. I glanced around at the locals we were surrounded by. Suddenly it hit me (and Silvia as well).

"You know what Parisian life is bereft of?" I asked.

"Joy?" suggested Bela.

"Laughter," Silvia and I answered, simultaneously.

The French don't seem to laugh. Among us, in our cultures, or rather the ones I've known, it's not a good night if there isn't laughter. Parisians don't seem to do that.

"When the French laugh it's more a single resigned sigh at the futility of existence," offered Simon, adding a single stoic "p'ha!" while rolling his eyes and turning his head away.

I don't remember why Simon went back to the flat, whether because Bela asked him to get something or for another reason, but he didn't return. I asked if he'd have to go far, because my orientation and general sense of direction was completely unplugged in Paris. The flat is just around the corner, they told me.

So Bela called Simon. He was at the flat, retching, apparently. He said it felt like food poisoning.

He and I had eaten the exact same things from the exact same plate...

Death was coming.

... But it never came. I felt fine, somehow.

"It only takes one clam," suggested Silvia. I guess we'll never know. He was feeling better the next day.

Day Fourteen...

This was our last chance to see the Louvre, so Silvia decided we'd make an early go of it.

Travel tip: if you're dead set on seeing the Louvre, arrive before it opens. By noon it will be an utter madhouse.

The French don't visit. Most people at the Louvre are Asian or American. Being among other Americans can be just as embarrassing as being among the French can be irritating.

Some Americans ahead of us in line were having leftover pizza for breakfast. They came to Paris to eat pizza, repeatedly. Another American woman ahead of us was complaining about having to stand in a queue to a French security guard. Surely, she insisted, there was another place to enter besides the pyramid? She was assured the line wouldn't take more than 15 minutes. Another American woman inside the museum was complaining about how warm it was inside. It was not warm, it was quite comfortable, she was merely unaccustomed to taking stairs, or walking for that matter. I could go on.

Everyone who has been to the Louvre will try as best they can to impress upon you how enormous it is. Try as they might, they will fail. Even being told and accepting that it would take days - perhaps weeks - to truly see the Louvre, it is literally unfathomable.

Silvia has a penchant for Egyptian artifacts and anthropology, so we dedicated a key portion of our time to that particular collection.

We saw greco-roman artifacts. We traipsed through Napoleon's Apartments.

We decided to avoid the maddening experience of trying to see anything especially iconic save for one particular sculpture Silvia had always wanted to see in person: The Winged Victory of Samothrace.

It was then time to head back to Martina's flat, tidy up, give her the keys and head back to London. Our return flight would depart the next morning from Heathrow. We had only to deal first with the unholy cesspit that is Gare Du Nord.

It was strange that we were looking forward to the comfort and familiarity of London as if it were our home, as if it were a safe refuge from the strange and alien world of the French.

Silvia had taken London to heart long ago. I hadn't expected to follow suit. I hadn't expected my pocket notebook to contain such vitriolic scribbles about France. I will not transcribe them here for fear they might suggest I'm ungrateful for the experience or don't, for better or worse, feel richer for it.

I have friends very like myself who found themselves being completely put off by London and enchanted by Paris. Chance and circumstance could have easily imbued me with identical sentiments, but no one can stand in the same river twice.

At any rate, Silvia generously suggested we take the tube back to Tufnell Park and have dinner at the Junction Tavern one last time. She happily accounted her couscous dish as one of the most enjoyable things she ate during the entire trip. I had some delightful scallops and hake.

The Junction Tavern! Who knew? Part of me hopes never to visit again, for I'd be heartbroken if this unlikely oasis of simple epicurean delights happened to lose its way, as so many places entropically do.

Our last evening in London involved King's Cross Station, so naturally Silvia made the effort to find Platform 9 3/4.

To help me sleep I found, in the liquor store below the pad-a-terre apartment Bela hooked us up with for our last evening, something called WKD (as a last resort, all the pubs being closed). WKD, as far as I can tell, is what people who really don't know how to drink, drink. It made me feel a bit ill the next day. The tube ride to Heathrow was uncomfortable. I was unconscious for most of the flight home.

I had become so accustomed to being surrounded by fit, attractive locals in the pedestrian capitals of London and Paris that I was truly disturbed to arrive back at LAX and, immediately upon disembarkment, be surrounded by waddling mutants with ham planets orbiting their spines. These were not the rubenesque lovelies I came to know in England, this was like when Wall-E boards the Starship Axiom and finds a deformed culture that has forgotten how to walk.

Los Angeles was also in the tail end of a heat wave. It truly felt like we had made a mistake coming home at all.

...

It is now months later and I still seem to miss being there. I wrote this on Bela's Facebook timeline recently:

"I don't know if I miss London, the weather, you guys, or simply the experience of not working, but I've noticed that I talk about Bela and Simon the way a child talks about their last trip to Disneyland."

Garax commented that "it was probably the hot guys in kilts."

Drinking Carthay

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Long Beach

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Bourbon Crusta, Side Car

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

The Adventures of Silly and Snorey