“In fact,” she added, “I’m dying to go to this one.” Tess thumbed through her book and stopped when she found what she had been looking for. She turned the book around to face me.
I leaned across the table for a closer look. “The Dungeon Museum?”
“Yep. ‘Gruesome events that span two thousand years of London’s history’,” she read aloud. “A museum of simulated horror from history.”
I felt despair as I sunk back onto the bench. Tess looked at me with a glimmer in her eyes. “What do you think?”
I quickly shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’ll never be able to sleep again. Especially here,” I whispered. I pointed my chin towards an overweight guy who was cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Something that resembled a dog collar was wrapped around his neck and had a chain that connected to piercings in his ear and nose.
“Yikes,” Tess said with grimace.
“Yeah ... terror’s not my thing.”
“Okay, fair enough.” Tess handed me the book. “You pick.”
I took the book and turned the page. “How about the Tower of London, famous for the execution of Anne Boleyn? I’ve become obsessed since I read The Other Boleyn Girl.”
I filled Tess in on the tragic lives of the Boleyn sisters. She had been nodding her head politely, but I noticed that her eyes had glazed over.
“Or ... we can do a little shopping?”
Tess clapped her hands with delight. “Now you’re talking. I’m dying to see the secondhand shops on Portobello Road.”
Although, I had more of a firsthand experience in mind, I was happy to find something we would both enjoy.
She told me about a store called The Cloth Shop, where she had hoped to pick up some unique fabrics for her sewing. We headed in that direction and stopped in a few of the thrift shops along the way. While Tess found Nirvana perusing racks of worn clothing, I, on the other hand, felt like I needed to shower upon leaving each store.
“Tell me again what it is that you like about used clothing?” I hung a frayed skirt back up on a rack and reached into my bag for a bottle of sanitizer.
“They’re vintage,” Tess corrected, “and they’re clean!” She held up a sleeveless shirt missing a button. “You can’t find these kinds of things in department stores.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I muttered.
She shot me an amused look. “I heard that.”
I smiled and squirted Purell into my cupped palm. “Tess.” I paused to swallow. “Would you mind if we went our separate ways for a few hours?”
“You mean hang out alone?” Tess peered at me from behind a pile of hats and pushed out her lower lip in a pout.
“Well ... even though we’ll be flying out of London at the end of the trip, we’re only here for two days this time around. I kind of think we both should see what we want to see. Don’t you?” I said apprehensively.
“I guess... Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I’d like to pop into a museum or an old church. Get a little culture.”
Tess suddenly looked like she had just dodged a bullet. She pulled a pair of jeans from the rack and nodded enthusiastically. “You’re right. It’s probably best we go our separate ways. Maybe I’ll hit that Dungeon Museum after all,” she mused.
She turned to face the pile of clothes that spilled out of her cart. “When you do find that church, please say a prayer for me that I don’t lose my shirt in this store.”
“That might not be such a bad thing.” I pointed to one of the faded shirts she had selected and wrinkled my nose.
“Keep an open mind, Aunt Lu,” Tess sang, hitting me with the hanger.
“I know, I know. You’re right. I’m probably just jealous.” I eyed Tess in the mirror, watching her button the shirt over her own. “Actually, there’s no probably involved. I am jealous. That,”—I waved a finger in the air up and down her body—“was never a look I could pull off. If I tried, that’s exactly what I would look like: a woman trying to look like you, or even her, for that matter.” I pointed to a mannequin sporting a basketball shirtdress and a fedora.
Tess laughed. “Halloween in June? She can’t even pull it off.”
“I’ll just continue to play it safe and hide my lack of individuality behind designer logos,” I sniffed, fishing through my Louis Vuitton wallet on a chain for a lip gloss. “Don’t be fooled by these LV logos. You might think they stand for Louis Vuitton, but they’re really screaming “lacking variety” like an obnoxious sounding parrot.” I swung my bag with its colored logos like a lasso and threw it around the mannequin’s neck.
Laughingly, we said our goodbyes and feeling rather vintage myself, I left Tess deliberating between a ten-year old skirt and a ripped up pair of jeans. I, on the other hand, opted for a little pop culture and went to check out the infamous blue door from the Julia Roberts movie, Notting Hill. Which, I discovered, happened to be black. Feeling rather let down, I hopped onto a tour bus for a quick spin around the city.
* * * *
“Our next stop is Piccadilly Circus, world famous junction of five major streets,” Henry the tour guide spoke into his microphone.
I gathered my belongings, eager to get off the bus and stretch my legs. Henry had handed me a rain poncho when I climbed on top of the open-air double-decker bus two hours ago, and the plastic now clung to my neck. It had been drizzling for most of the tour, but I could see the sun peeking through the clouds. Of course it was. The tour was almost over.
I pulled the poncho over my head and felt my earlobe pull as the plastic tangled up in my gold hoop earring. If only I could’ve kept the damn poncho over my head. My shoulder length hair was a frizzy mess, and I kicked myself for not packing a hat.
“It would be quite the challenge to find a glitzier, busier place in London,” Henry’s voice boomed across the bus. Even with the microphone, it was still a struggle to hear his voice over a band of political protesters in the street. I strained to concentrate as he continued to speak.
“Walk a block or two and you will hit some of our poshest stores,” he said and paused, with a finger in the air. “In fact, the name Piccadilly actually originates from a seventeenth century frilled collar named piccadil.” The protesters’ chants began to fade as the bus moved along.
“Interesting,” I mumbled. I gave a sideways glance to the woman who had been sitting beside me since I had gotten on at the Notting Hill stop. My voice sounded raspy to my own ears, probably because it had been hours since I had spoken to anyone. I cleared my throat.
“Here I thought it had been named after a pickle.” I scribbled notes on a pamphlet I had received when I purchased my ticket.
“And Circus comes from the Latin word circle,” Henry continued. “A round open space at a street junction.” The bus began to slow down.
“Here I thought it was ‘cause of the freak show that comes here,” my neighbor said. She nudged me with a dry, wrinkled elbow. She had coral painted nails, tan leathered skin and from the sound of her southern accent, I guessed she was from Georgia or maybe Alabama. A Disney World sweatshirt stretched across her large breasts. She pointed her chin towards the crowd that had gathered in front of the Piccadilly fountain. “Will ya look yonder?” Her eyes widened in horror. “Didja evah?”
I followed her gaze. I saw two men holding hands, one man with an earring in his nose and the other with pink hair. Slightly offbeat, but a circus act? Hardly.
“Here we are,” Henry announced, rescuing me from a response. “Piccadilly Circus—home of the longest billboard in the world!”
He waved his arm with flourish into the air as the bus came to a screeching halt underneath a massive billboard. Henry stumbled backwards into one of railings but didn’t seem to be rattled in the slightest. “Piccadilly Circus has been compared to New York’s Times Square. A virtual twin sister,” he smiled with pride. His face may have actually radiated more light than the sign that hovered over his head.
“Well, there y
a go,” my neighbor said. She gazed around with a critical eye. “That city’s loaded with crazies. I went there once and was nervous as a whore in church.”
I made a face, but just couldn’t even bring myself to acknowledge her ignorance. She was probably also the type who thought all New Yorkers carried a gun. I stood up and walked toward the exit, taking in the sights around me. There were many fluorescent signs, a video display, lots of pigeons... Yes, I could see many similarities between the two tourist attractions, but Piccadilly didn’t have the same feeling as Times Square. Piccadilly had a cool fountain, but there was no Naked Cowboy strumming on a guitar like the one I saw daily in New York.
I thrust a five euro bill into Henry’s hand and climbed off the bus. The sun was completely shining now, and I reached into my bag for my sunglasses. Now, if only my mood would turn a bit brighter, I thought wistfully as my feet hit the sidewalk. I threw on my sunglasses and began to walk.
Throughout the tour, I had started to feel a little anxiety about the hostel. I had become rather exhausted and was really feeling the effects of no sleep. I reminded myself that this was all part of the experience and my chance to re-do my structured past. It didn’t matter that we were staying in a dormitory setting. If this was the most affordable way to travel Europe, then so be it. The last time I checked, my name wasn’t Paris Hilton.
Yet, I couldn’t help but worry about how we were going to sleep that night. I pictured my valuables stuffed into my pajama pockets, nearly suffocating in my hooded cocoon sack with every toss and turn. Just thinking about the dirty bodies that have slept in the bunk I’d been assigned gave me a head to toe itch.
And as much as I wanted to scrub my body clean after we’d gotten off the plane, I came to the conclusion I was probably cleaner not taking a shower. Our loo looked like it had never been introduced to bleach. How on earth was I going to beautify?
We hadn’t been gone for twenty-four hours, and already, I felt like the American Werewolf in London. I had a handful of stray eyebrow hairs, a sprinkle of clogged pores, and after sightseeing in the rain, my hair that was formerly just greasy, had turned into a greasy poof.
I took out my phone and dialed Tess’s number. I tapped my foot impatiently while listening to the ringing in my ear. I hadn’t heard from her since we parted ways, and I hoped that she was okay.
“Aunt Lu? Hi!” Tess’s voice boomed through my phone. She sounded more than okay, and I wondered where she was and what she was doing.
“Hi!” I exclaimed, forcing myself to meet her level of enthusiasm. “Where are you?”
“At a pub,” Tess replied matter-of-factly.
“Did the Tower of Terror drive you to drink?” I smiled.
“No.” Tess laughed into the phone. “I actually met a couple of guys from Chicago of all places. They seem really cool.”
“One is actually pretty cute,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Come join us.” Her voice sounded so hopeful I knew I couldn’t say no.
“I think a drink is exactly what Dr. Jekyll ordered,” I replied.
“Yay! We’re at the Queen’s Head on Knightsbridge. Kind of where we caught the bus this morning. By Harrods. And don’t get any ideas. I promise we’ll go to there tomorrow, together.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I smiled. “See you soon.”
One hour later, I walked towards the pub, feeling slightly uplifted. I had passed Burberry on my walk over and picked up a new hat and sandals, which I had somehow managed to convince myself were authentic to London. I never shop at Burberry New York, but how could I pass up Burberry London? My new purchases made me feel like a real Brit.
I probably could’ve saved money and just bought a blow dryer, but there was nothing in the world like retail therapy. I couldn’t wait to wash my hair and rid my locks from icky airplane germs. Only then would my head be worthy of the hat’s fine silk lining.
I strolled down the street and paused in front of a general store that sat beside the pub. I peered in the window and caught myself in the reflection. My hands flew to my head and tried to smooth my wild hair down.
The window display held a mannequin family. They sported some pretty funky sunglasses as they picnicked on a teak table. The store seemed to have everything under the sun, so I wondered if they happened to sell a computer charger because I’d left mine back in New York.
Since I was living in a commune, I was hauling my dead laptop in my bag all day rather than risk it being borrowed by one of my fellow communers. It had literally become a huge pain in the neck. Figuring a laptop that actually worked would make the pain somewhat worthwhile, I walked through the automatic door.
“Hello,” I said, smiling at the clerk behind the register. He was an elderly man who looked like he should have already retired. Years ago. “I’m looking for a charger for my Mac. Do you by any chance carry those?”
The guy scratched his bald head and gave me a sideways look. I self-consciously tucked my hair behind my ears. “For your Mac?” He looked rather perplexed.
“Yes.”
“Mac n tosh?”
I nodded politely, inhaling slowly through my nose. Why was it so odd to charge a Mac? Were laptops solar-powered in London?
The man tapped a wrinkled finger to his lips for a moment. “I will be right back.” He slowly disappeared through the double doors behind him.
When he returned several minutes later, he had a small plastic boot mat in hand. “Err, I’m sorry, ma’am. This is all we have, but if you fold your coat, you can probably use this as a charger.”
I shook my head in confusion. “What? I need a charger for my Mac. My computer—I don’t get it.” I wondered if Brits were all stuffy PC users.
He stared at me for a moment as I brandished my dead laptop. Then rolling his eyes he pointed over my shoulder. “Of all the waste of time conversations I’ve ever had with daft Americans, this one takes the biscuit. Try aisle five.” He walked off to help another female customer.
“I just don’t speak American,” he shrugged to the woman. She raised an eyebrow at me and bit her lip.
I stood there completely dumbfounded, probably looking rather fit for his accusation. My face burned half from anger and the other half from humiliation.
“AISLE forget it,” I shouted, mocking his nasty tone with a pretend British accent. My ears prickled, and I swallowed hard. I couldn’t believe I had allowed a perfect stranger not only to summon, but to actually release the inner bitch in me.
My embarrassment grew as I heard someone clearing his throat behind me. Anger filled me. Who was going to make fun of me next? Shame on me for letting myself go there, but I certainly wasn’t going to take any more public mortification. I turned around to face a handsome guy who was grinning from ear to ear. I was momentarily taken aback. He may have had the nicest smile I’d ever seen in my life. I had yet to encounter a Brit with such fabulous teeth. I remembered the way I looked and suddenly a wave of insecurity washed over me.
“Ah.” He wagged his finger. “It’s people like you, young lady, who give us Americans a bad name.”
Ah, he was American. That explained the teeth. I wondered whether he was an ex-pat or a vacationer like myself. But what was with the young lady bit? The guy seemed to be in his early thirties.
“Excuse me?” I purposely tried to use my best are-you-talking-to-me tone, but I wasn’t sure whether he was flirting or picking on me.
“I, and probably the rest of the city, knew what you meant. The old timers here in London call raincoats, macs,” he said with a chuckle. “And plates are chargers. I think he thought you were looking for a plate for your raincoat.” He laughed.
My mouth started to drop. It probably was somewhat funny, but I was too embarrassed to be amused. I couldn’t even bring myself to politely fake it. I shut my mouth firmly and spoke through gritted teeth. “So that’s why I give Americans a bad name? Because I didn’t know what a damn raincoat was called?”
“Nooo. That was f
unny. But your attitude?” He paused to give me a sideways look. “Not so much.”
I opened my mouth to speak when he cut me off at the pass. “Smile.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The sun is actually shining here today. What could be so terrible?” He held his hands up and looked at me expectantly.
“Quite a bit,” I snapped. I crossed my arms across my chest and glared at the handsome guy. I wanted desperately to smile, toss my frizzy hair over my shoulder, and laugh, but I just couldn’t. Laugh or toss. Frizzy hair doesn’t exactly go there.
“Just because your day is hunky dory...” I trailed off, unsure of what to say next.
I felt kind of foolish for my bitter behavior. He actually looked like a really nice guy. I groaned inwardly and was about to apologize, but before I could gather my thoughts, he sighed and turned away.
“Um, excuse me,” I said loudly.
Unfortunately, for me, at that very same moment “Penny” was desperately needed in the stock room. The intercom blared through the store and completely drowned my words. I watched him throw on a Yankee baseball hat and disappear through the double doors, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Feeling silly, I waited for him to disappear before my dead Mac and I walked out with my tail between my legs. On a different day, I probably would’ve laughed at this classic example of cultural differences. But unfortunately for me, embarrassment is the same worldwide. And today, I just wasn’t in the mood to laugh at myself with a better-looking member of the opposite sex.
That drink with Tess was sounding better and better. I stepped onto the sidewalk and drew in a breath of not so fresh air. The repugnant smell of body odor and Petrulli oil filled my lungs and its culprit, a young hippie, blocked my path. He shook a cup of loose change in my face, and too nauseated to take another sip of air, I held my breath and walked around him.
An ambulance whizzed by with a siren so unexpectedly loud, I was startled and jumped backwards into a puddle. I shook each foot, hoping to drain the water from my new sandals and listened to the stinky hippie guffaw in the process. Deciding I needed to make that drink a double, I bee-lined to the pub.
Tales From a Broad Page 3
