"They are like their own beer: froth on top, dregs at the bottom, the middle excellent."
- Voltaire, referring to the British
In 1773, a group of Bostonians, (a level-headed group of Americans as any - "Nomar!") decided having a country of their own would be, quote, "really cool."
In order to be granted a country, one of two things needs to happen: win a war or ask the United Nations. Since latter would not exist for another 170-odd years, the former was the only option.
Since our ill-tempered forbearers couldn't find an archduke to assassinate, they threw tea into a harbor. Years later, New York City was a capital, George III was replaced by George I and the count down to Mark Twain, Al Capone and mood rings began.
The colonies became the United States, a separate nation with a separate culture from the motherland. And that tortured prelude explains why a trip to London is so unique compared to, say, Missoula, Mont. or Abliene, Texas.
This trip was not some pretentious effort to "find myself" in a foreign culture. When there's a Starbucks and its European clone counterpart, Pret A Manager, on alternating corners, that's a little difficult. London is not quite Tibet. This was a trip to visit a friend and a city of unparalleled history and importance.
And burn through lots and lots of money.
You know how we mock the Canadian dollar as mere Monopoly money? In Great Britain, the American dollar plays catch to the English pound's pitch. The horror of living in a hideously expensive metropolis is magnified when you realize that five-pound gin and tonic is more like $7.50 or $8.
(We interrupt this narrative to bring you a rant courtesy of "Monday Night Football's" Dennis Miller.) My wallet was more porous than the Maginot Line after a von Bock blitzkerg with De Gaulle and Petain arguing over which one of them gets to tell the Mona Lisa to stop smiling: Da Vinci was not that glad to see her. (End Miller time.)
As a suburban boy, I'm used to arching my neck like a great, gawking pelican at the dizzying heights of buildings. With some exceptions, London edifices do not stretch to the sky like ours.
And for good reason. Anyone fool hardy enough to spend too much time eyeing the sky is going to have an intimate rendezvous with a taxi cab grill. While perhaps the progenitors of the English language, they have yet to develop the phrase, "Right of way."
A cab in London does not stop for pedestrians. A cab does not slow down. If the Queen dropped her Fergie voodoo doll in the road and stooped to retrieve it, she'd have grill imprints on her butt. To encourage you to cross the road, cabbies massage your shins with their bumpers ever so lightly. Perhaps that is why so many Londoners take the subway or "Underground" or "Tube."
Though never having experienced New York's or Washington's or Jefferson City's subway system, I feel confident in proclaiming the London Underground the best mass transit system in the world, ever.
The trains arrived about every minute opposed to every five or ten minutes or never. Signs were highly visible and helpful in finding the way out to street level, the way to a different line, the way to San Jose, etc. Soothing, quite-British tones implore you to, "Mind the gap between the train and the platform." An English-to-American translation might sound: "Yo, watch the freakin' step, moron. Jets rule!"
It was that overall civil tone that pleasantly surprised the most. There was a palpable sense of respect from the citizenry for each other and the city. Don't get me wrong; London isn't teeming with deliriously happy Oompa-Loompas, munchkins or Eloi. But they have mastered the basic concept of civility and cleanliness.
For example, due to the pervasive threat of IRA attacks, there are almost no garbage cans in London. Yet the streets are far cleaner than any city I've ever been in. If we tried to apply the "less garbage cans=less garbage" theorem in America, this country would look like the Death Star garbage masher in a week's time. The Jersey Sludge Monster would be president for life.
Whenever we asked people on the street a question, they willingly helped us. "Do you know where (blank) is?" was our most frequent inquiry. Coming in close second and third was "Could you repeat that?" and "I don't understand your God-awful butchering of the language. Could you repeat that?"
The kindness that most benefited me was the signs warning of low ceilings, overhangs and various other dangling objects. Our ancestors were comparatively shorter, and London is an old city, so things are a lot smaller. For a tall guy like me (How tall? I'd be the tallest president ever), London is a hazardous place. I now feel a sense of empathy with King Kong as the biplanes buzzed around him.
We did all the touristy things: Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, etc. But as interesting was seeing how a different group of people (i.e. non-Americans), achieve the same goals (functioning municipal services, basic law and order, etc.). Leicester Square looks a lot like Times Square. When they say "toilet," we say "rest room." When they say "bangers and mash," we say "sausage and potatoes." When they say "socialized health care," I hear a truck backing up.
While I couldn't image living anywhere but America, England, or at least London, is quite cool. May her flag fly forever.
