GREAT BRITAIN...OR IS IT THE UK?

DAY 1

Part I - I’ve Arrived!

I get to England the day of my 32^nd birthday. I am meeting my mom, who had flown out a few days prior to me, at our cousin's house in London. I left California at 9 o’clock in the morning the day before. One layover, 15 hours, two awful movies, two even worse meals, a horribly boring novel, and not a single wink of sleep later I arrive in London.
I am already feeling incredibly pleased with myself for having previously figured out how to get to my cousin’s house from the airport using the ‘tubes’ and buses, instead of the shockingly expensive train/taxi combo my mom used. I emerge from customs with my tube map in hand and am immediately stopped by a guy with an irresistible accent offering me a train ticket on the Heathrow Express. 
“Well…” I hesitate “I was planning on taking the tubes” I proudly show him my map.
“The tubes? Now?? Honey, you know it is rush hour, don’t you?” He shakes his head sadly at me. “You will never make it at this time. The Heathrow Express takes you straight to Paddington. 15 minutes. It is really your only choice. Tell you what…I will make you a special deal. One way, 18 pounds.”
I quickly calculate this in my head, that is somewhere in the vicinity of 23 to 36 dollars…or would it be more like 40??
“I’ll take it!” I say quickly, before he notices me confusedly counting on my fingers.
“Brilliant” he hands me the ticket. He thinks I’m brilliant? I am rather brilliant, aren’t I? Pleased, I reward him with a huge smile and a gushing thank you. This is before I realize how loosely British people use this term. It is their response to almost anything.
Okay so I caved on the tubes, but that just made sense. I mean I never would have made it at rush hour, and plus he gave me a special deal. I will still definitely take a bus instead of a taxi, thus saving something like 20 to 100 dollars.
Express train to Paddington, check. Exit Paddington station to see a sign saying buses with an arrow pointing in what appears to be the direction up. Hmmm. I glance around until I see some stairs. That must be the way! After dragging my suitcase up 2 flights of stairs I find myself in something called Pumpkin Café (where I become temporarily distracted by the idea of a slice of pumpkin pie) but alas no bus stop anywhere in sight. Alright, I reassure myself, just head outside, circle the station if you have to and you will be bound to run into the bus stop. I follow my fool proof plan but instead of seeing an actual bus stop I only see about 45 buses zooming around me. None of which are the number 6 that I am supposed to take. No problem. Google maps clearly showed that you could take the 6 from Paddington direct to my cousins. I resist temptation and walk past a long row of taxis.
“Excuse me” I stop a guy on the street trying to give me a flyer “Can you tell me how to get to the number 6 bus stop?” He silently shoves the flyer in my face. “Um, no thank you” I say “can you just please direct me to the nearest bus stop?" He forcibly puts the flyer in my hand. "Alright alright! I will take your stupid flyer. There, are you happy? Now can you please tell me where the bus stop is?” But he has already turned to force a flyer at the next passerby.
I finally find a friendly face to direct me to a bus stop. Quite shockingly the 6 does not pass through this stop and no one I ask seems to have ever heard of bus 6. In the far distance I can see a long line of buses. Maybe it is over there, suggests one of the people at the bus stop. Yeah, I think hopefully, it has to be! I set off with my trusty roller suitcase in tow. This is one of those amazing suitcases that you can push, pull, or just lightly guide along next to you. Unfortunately, my suitcase is as American as I am and appears to have no idea what to do on a cobblestone street. By the time I get to the line of buses I am utterly exhausted and completely starving. No matter, I will soon be on bus 6 and arrive to bask in my mother and cousin’s proud amazement at my shrewdness in finding my way around the streets of London. I come to a sign announcing that this is not a bus stop for passenger pick-up, this is a bus stop for buses. Huh?? I glance down a long line of empty buses with the drivers either sleeping, smoking, or eating yogurt. Oh good god. I sink down onto the curb. The thought of dragging my suitcase in defeat back to the station to take a taxi is just too heartbreaking to think about. Okay, if I can just get something to eat and a beer I will be able to come up with another plan. London is supposed to be full of pubs, right? I glance eagerly around. Nothing but charming cobblestone streets of ‘flats’ in every direction. I sit back down on the curb, utterly dejected and put my head on my knees.
“Miss? Are you lost?” The driver in the bus closest to me is peering at me in concern over his half eaten carton of yogurt.
“Um, kind of” I say “I’m looking for bus 6? Have you heard of it?” At this point I am thinking I looked at a Google map of the wrong country and bus 6 doesn’t even exist here.
“Yeah of course! But there is no bus 6 stop anywhere around here. You have to go about 4 blocks over, to Edgeware Road” I look doubtfully at my suitcase, the cobblestones, and the direction he is pointing.
“Okay…thank you” I put my head back down. Maybe I will just rest here for a little bit.
“Miss?”
Jesus, what now?
“Where are you from?”
“California”
“California!” he whistles “What is your name?”
“Dayna” I say, a little uncertain about the direction this is going.
“Tina!!!! Oh boy! Tina from California!” He is grinning like he just won the lottery or something.
“Um, actually it is Dayna”
“Tina!!!! Oh I have always wanted to meet a Tina from California!”
Do English people think that Tina is some kind of common Californian name? I am about to correct him again when he offers me a ride to bus stop 6. Tina it is!
I feel mildly worried when I climb in the empty bus that he will try to abduct me but figure it is well worth the risk. Besides, how fast can a bus go? I can always just jump out if I have to.
“Tina, Tina, Tina” he blathers happily as we zoom off.
“Yep!” I smile “That’s me, Tina from California”
“I’m Winston” he chirps, while flying by bus stops of people frantically trying to wave him down. After several minutes of small talk and me becoming increasingly worried that I am in fact being kidnapped he screeches to a halt. “There you go” He points ahead. “Bus 6” There it is!
“Oh my god! Thank you Winston! Thank you!” I am overwhelmed by gratitude. As I wave goodbye to Winston I can’t help but think how nice English people are. And how smart and capable I am. If I was ever on The Amazing Race I would seriously kill it.
“Miss, you need to buy your ticket before you get on the bus” Bus driver 6 informs me as I board.
“Huh? Where?? What?”
“At the tube and train stations, and at some bus stops. But not this one. Now if you don’t have a ticket you need to get off my bus. Now”
God damn it.



Part II – Birthday Dinner For Me!

After a few minor mishaps I arrive successfully at my cousins. The only thing I can think about is eating.
“Would you like some toast?” my mom asks sweetly.
Toast?? Are you kidding me?
“Yeah…toast isn’t going to cut it right now Mom. Where is the nearest pub? I want a beer. And something with bangers and mash!” I don’t know what either of those things are, but I read about them in my Lonely Planet guidebook and I like the sound of them.
I have been warned that the food in England is absolutely awful, so I am expecting the worst when I order a chicken pie with mushrooms and ‘mash’. I don’t know if it is just the fact that I haven’t ate in over 4 hours or what, but the pie is incredible! Flaky, delicious crust stuffed with rotisserie style chicken, mushrooms, peas, and a creamy sauce. Like a chicken pot pie, but better. Mash turns out to be yummy mashed potatoes. (In retrospect, this seems fairly obvious) The local beer is a little warm for my taste, but I am feeling forgiving, and will shortly discover that this is the way English beer is served anyway.
My mom asks me if I want to try to sleep for a little while. I decide to try to power through the day and just go to bed at night so I will be on a normal schedule. I have never actually had jet lag but am utterly terrified of it and heard this is the best way to avoid it. The rest of the day is spent exploring the neighborhood around my cousin’s house. The weather is another thing I have been warned to look out for in England, but so far it is sunny and beautiful.
We buy something called prepaid Oyster cards at the post office. These are the way the locals ride the buses and tubes instead of buying a ticket every time.
“You can’t just buy a ticket on the bus?” my mom asks in surprise.
“Oh no,” I tell her smugly “You have to buy them ahead of time.” I shake my head at her lack of knowledge.
We also buy an adapter for American plugs, which after some amount of arguing with the clerk I finally admit will work after he takes my camera charger and fits it perfectly in.
“Still looks funny though” I mutter under my breath as I pay for it.
We head back to my cousin’s where he has planned a dinner party in honor of my birthday. Well, it might not be exactly for my birthday but we all agree to pretend it is. An interesting assortment of people soon arrive to celebrate my special day. We enjoy incredible homemade Indian food made by a beautiful Welsh woman dressed like a Greek goddess, charming conversation, and lots of wine. I feel exactly as if I am in a TV movie about England. Each person at the table fits a perfect ideal of what I think people in Britain are like. The dinner ends with a traditional crumble as my birthday cake, upon which my cousin has placed a candle that looks like a lit flare gun. I stare nervously at it as everyone sings me happy birthday (to my great disappointment there is not a special British version of the song.) Just as they get to the third verse the candle bursts open into a lotus flower with each petal ending in a tiny burning candle. Everyone gasps in amazement. Without doubt, the most impressive candle that has ever existed.
All in all, a fantastic first day in Great Britain…or is it the UK?

DAY 2 

It’s Official, The British Love Me

I wake up to another beautiful day. The sky is huge and blue and filled with puffy white clouds. The majority of the day is spent in my cousin’s garden (British word for backyard) where my obsession with wisteria begins. I have seen some sad wisteria plants growing in California that mostly just resemble a bare stick with a few sparse purple flowers hanging off it. The wisteria in England grows over houses and terraces like a weed and produces big puffy flowers of a gorgeous pale lavender hue. Every time I come across it I just want to take endless pictures. My cousin also grows white lilac in his garden that I want to spend the rest of my life smelling. I literally cannot get enough of it.
After a relaxing day of visiting and staring at flowers I decide it is time for some action. My cousin recommends a local joint but declines to go with us. My mom and I arrive and sit at the bar. After ordering drinks we tell the bartender we would also like to order food.
“Okay” he says “We have plenty of nice tables for you to sit at and enjoy your food.” He gestures around the place.
“Oh. But can’t we just eat here at the bar?” I ask with a winning smile. I have already got comfortable in my seat and I really don’t want to have to go to the trouble of getting up and moving.
“At the bar? Uh I guess” He seems both surprised and slightly horrified. Maybe people don’t do that here I worry. But I refuse to back down now.
I order some gnocchi with wild mushrooms and my mom orders a mango sorbet. Now this is weird in the states too, but the fact that she is ordering dessert for dinner is really throwing this guy for a loop. He looks at us like we are complete freaks and walks away to put our order in.
As we are eating our meal the place starts to fill up. Turns out that in England you order everything from the bar, food and drinks alike. There appears to be no equivalent to a cocktail waitress. I start to see why the guy did not want us to eat at the bar as we seem to be in the way of everyone that comes up to order. Nervously I finish my gnocchi, which isn’t fantastic but definitely isn’t bad, as quickly as possible.
My mom goes out to smoke a cigarette after her filling meal of sorbet. I am desperate to get back in the good graces of the locals.
“So,” I say to the bartender “This is my first time here in England”
He gives me a look that says no shit.
“Yeah, what are you here for? Holiday?” Luckily I already know that holiday means vacation here, not an actual holiday, so I am not completely confused.
“Yep!” I chirp “For my birthday.”
“Your birthday?” he somewhat perks up “Well then I guess we should take birthday shots.”
Now we’re talking!
“Yes! What kind of tequila do you have?”
“Jose Cuervo”
“Uh…any other brands?”
“No.” I can tell he is getting annoyed with me again “Just Jose Cuervo.”
I am starting to see why all the British people I know hate tequila.
“Okay! Um maybe I will just have a shot of Jager.”
This seems to meet with his approval. He decides to have one of the same and calls the other bartender over to take one with us.
At this point my mom comes back in and decides her shot will be tequila. Before I can tell her she really doesn’t want to do that her shot is being poured. She asks for a lime and salt. The bartender gives her a slice of orange and cinnamon instead. (Turns out that this is not a typical British thing, as I assume at first. Supposedly the bartender learned it in Greece, but I have yet to meet another person who can collaborate this.)
My mom loves it and praises the bartender over and over for his genius. He is completely won over by her flattery and we quickly become the two most popular people at the bar. People surround us as the night goes on, intrigued by our exotic American accents. My mom and I graciously answer question after question about what it is like in California.
After several more rounds of birthday shots my mom notices a man at the bar with a guitar case next to him. My mom is the biggest sucker for live music that I have ever met. There is nothing she loves more. Since she is significantly buzzed by now she begins to beg him to sing her a song.
“No, no” he says shyly with a thick French accent “I only play here on Wednesday nights, I am not playing tonight.”
His two friends pick up on the conversation and offer to take us to their place next door where they can all sing us a song. My mom looks at me hopefully. I glance at the three of them with great suspicion.
“It is right next door” the English one reassures me “We will sing a couple songs and come right back.”
I can tell my mom is dying to go by the way she is jumping up and down in excitement. I do a scan of the situation. If shit goes down I can easily take the Frenchman in the vest. The scruffy English guy could go either way.  He looks nice enough but you never know. The third guy is a big Jamaican and the only thing that makes me sure of having a chance against him is my deadly skills in the art of karate.
“Okay,” I agree “Let’s go.”
We go outside, and although I am half expecting them to take us down the street for blocks until we reach a dark alley, it turns out their place is literally right next door to the pub. They also turn out to be really talented. After two great songs and enthusiastic cheering from my mom they encourage her to sing too.  This is not the best idea since everyone in my family is notorious for having truly awful singing voices.
“I can’t” she says. Although I know this is true, they do not, and keep pushing her.
“Who is one of your favorites?” the French guy asks
“Eric Clapton” she says immediately. Oh crap, is she actually going to do this? I move slightly away from her on the couch.
The French guy begins playing Tears in Heaven on his guitar. He starts singing softly and motions her to sing along. Here we go I think.
She begins to sing in a whisper. It is oddly touching and slightly haunting. They sing the whole song together with her never getting louder than that whisper.
“Was that okay?” she asks me nervously.
“It guess it could have been much worse” I say diplomatically as I covertly wipe away a tear.
I notice that there is a rabbit in a cage in the corner of the room. I have this bizarre inclination to pet any animal I come across in a cage. Doesn’t matter if it is a fluffy rabbit, a snake, or a tarantula. I have to pet it. As I stroke the rabbit’s ears he closes his eyes in bliss.
“Wow” the English guy says “He doesn’t usually really like people that much” I sense a hint of jealousy in his voice.
“Oh” I joke “I am like the bunny whisperer”
They all stare at me blankly.
“You know, the Bunny Whisperer?” Come on that joke has to be universal, right? Hilarious in any country? No response. (As the trip goes on I discover more and more that my brilliant American wit is almost entirely lost on the Brits)
As my mom and I take our leave and head back to my cousins I am pleased with my second day in England. Even though the people appear to have no sense of humor it is obvious that they absolutely love me and my mother. And that just feels good.

DAY 3

Part I - Royal Wedding Madness

Today is Royal Wedding day. I’ve decided that this would be a good day to get out of London and check out Canterbury. Everyone I tell this plan to reacts as if I am insane.
"You do realize there is a wedding going on don't you?" they exclaim. "You cannot travel on Royal Wedding Day!"
I don't quite understand this. Does it mean I literally can't travel? I have already bought a train ticket for this day. Is this just a scam played on tourists? Is there not even going to be a train? Or are people just saying that because they are appalled I won't actually be watching the wedding? I sense strongly that the only way I will be truly accepted in this country is if I buy a little British flag with Kate and Will's face in the center of it and wave it around in joyous rapture while counting down the seconds to the televised debut of the ceremony.
The problem is I don't want to do this. I refuse to be a part of this madness. I decide the best idea is to go to Canterbury as planned and then tell everyone "Yes I did watch the wedding! Oh my god she was so beautiful! The whole thing was brilliant, just brilliant."
My cousin is leaving for a trip to America (ironically enough) so my mom and I are going to go on to my other cousins in southeast England after Canterbury. After a regretful goodbye (I only got to spend two days with him, and would really have liked to get to know him more) I meet my mom at the front door. She has a suitcase next to her that is roughly the size of a small pony.
This is my first time traveling with my mom and I can tell already we are going to be hitting a few road blocks along the way.
"Uh...Mom? You know we are going to be on buses. And going through the tube stations...where there will be stairs?"
She gives me a withering look. "This is the only suitcase I have. I will get a smaller one when we have time"
One bus ride, two tubes, four flights of stairs, and a quickly developing migraine headache later, my mom hates her suitcase as much as I do. Once we get to the train station we still have over an hour before our train leaves for Canterbury so we decide to explore the surrounding area. We agree to take turns watching our suitcases. I head out first.
The train station is smack in the middle of central London and the wedding procession will be going right through here in a few hours. The streets are filled with thousands of people holding British flags and wearing hats with the flag printed on it. I even see several people who have the British flag painted on their actual faces. There are vendors every few steps selling commemorative materials plastered with the soon to be married couples faces and names. I begin to feel moved by all this passion. Hoards of children rush past me with their parents, each clutching a flag tightly in their little fists. Everyone is smiling, and you can literally feel the festivity in the air. I suddenly desperately want to be a part of it. It is everything I can do not to grab a flag out of the old woman's hand next to me and join the procession. I start wondering where and how to get my own face painted with the British flag.
I head back to my mom. "How is it out there?" she asks
"Awesome!" I reply breathlessly. I am entirely caught up in the moment, loving London, loving all those proud, patriotic people out there, and mostly loving myself for having the good sense to be in London right at this very moment.
With a certain amount of regret, we get on our train to Canterbury. I sit back in my seat and watch the scenery go by. About 10 minutes into the ride we are out of the city and are going through a field of dazzling yellow flowers. They go on and on for miles. I am completely mesmerized. In between the fields of gold there are patches of green grass where fluffy white sheep graze peacefully as their babies frolic around them. Every time I see a little baby lamb running around I can't keep the smile from my face. Ice Cube is blaring on my headphones and it is the perfect background music to this tranquil scene. "You can do it, put your back into it" I sing softly as we barrel along.
We reach Canterbury and run into a slight problem when we find that the train station has nowhere to store our luggage. The plan had been to leave our luggage at the train station, explore Canterbury for the day, and then take a train on to my cousins in Hastings. There would be no possible way of exploring anything now with my mom’s suitcase in tow. And from what I can see of Canterbury it consists entirely of cobblestones...which means my suitcase is going to pose problems as well. We head outside to try to come up with a solution.
Next to the train station is what looks like a huge barn. There is a sign on it that says Goods Shed market and restaurant.
"Let's go in there!" I tell my mom. My mid morning snack was an hour ago and I am more than ready for lunch time.
Inside, the building is large and airy. The walls are all brick and there are stalls lined along the center of the room selling all kinds of local wares. There is a butcher, a cheese maker, baker, and a candlestick maker (I am not making this up). Beautiful flowers and fresh produce spill out of wooden crates. I instantly love the place. The restaurant portion is slightly above the market and uses the fresh products being sold down there. We have an incredible meal of a spring greens salad, sweet pea soup, and an amazing dish of chickpeas and capers. This plus the refreshing glass of Viognier I just had has made me feel light and relaxed. Even though we still have no idea what we are going to do with our luggage I have a good feeling it will work out somehow.
We had told the waitress we were planning on visiting the cathedral after lunch, and as we are attempting to squeeze my mom's suitcase past the stalls on our way out she stops us.
"What are you going to do with your luggage while you are at the cathedral?" she asks us.
"We aren't sure"
"You are more than welcome to leave it in our downstairs here" she tells us.
I am again blown away by the generosity of the people in this country.
After effusive thank yous we head to the cathedral. Canterbury fulfills all of my greatest Harry Potter fantasies. The streets are narrow and filled with pubs called things like 'The Black Griffin’ The cathedral is huge and awe inspiring and behind it is an exclusive private school where kids are dressed in Hogwarts like uniforms. By the time we are on the train headed to Hastings I am seriously considering changing my name to Hermione, buying a cape, and moving to England.

Part II – Pesto Equals Good

We have arrived at my cousin and his wife’s house in Hastings. After a tour of their spectacularly historic old house and stunning gardens we settle into the kitchen for dinner. My cousin makes pesto pasta using the leaves of a local wild garlic plant. As soon as I taste my first bite I am in heaven. It is the best pesto I have ever had. There is a great bottle of red wine to accompany it and we are deep in conversation when a thunder storm begins. The thunder booms impressively, raindrops patter on the roof, and I feel perfectly and completely content.

DAY 4

My Very Own Woods

Day 4 is another bright, beautiful day. The rain from the night before makes everything vibrantly green and fresh and sparkling. We spend the first half of the day driving around the countryside with my cousin and his wife and visit a garden with some of the most spectacular flowers I’ve seen yet.
For lunch we head to a tourist trap of a medieval town called Rye that I had read about in my guidebook. Rye is supposed to be famous for its scallops, and since I am a huge fan of scallops I am eager to give them a try. We sit in the sun drenched back patio of a charming little pub as we wait for our food. I am enjoying a fabulous glass of Chenin Blanc and am deeply engrossed in a stimulating conversation with my cousin about parasites when our food comes. I peer at my scallops in confusion. There are little fleshy pieces of muscle hanging off them that I have never seen before.
“What is this?” I asked my cousin, prodding gingerly at one of the strange attachments with my fork.
“That’s the foot” he tells me, as if this should be perfectly obvious.
“Is this what scallops in England always look like?” I ask doubtfully “Can I…eat…the foot?”
“Yes” his wife tells me.
This fascinates me. I have eaten scallops literally hundreds of times in America and I have never seen this before. Who is going to all the trouble of removing the ‘foot’ for American consumers? Does someone think we are too finicky to handle this nasty fleshy bulb?
My mom has just come back from the bathroom. She stares at my plate in horror.
“What is that?”
“Scallops” I say. “You want some?”
She shudders “Absolutely not”
I dig in. Despite the fact that I feel like I am eating someone’s tongue the scallops are delicious.
After lunch we explore the streets. I take countless more pictures of wisteria and trip over more than one cobblestone. I am beginning to think I like the idea of cobblestones much more than I like cobblestones themselves.
On the way back we stop at the 9 acres of woods my cousin and his wife have purchased. I wonder if this is a common phenomenon here. In America people buy things like used motor homes and Playstation 3s and Bowflexs. Maybe in England you save up and buy a woods. I like it. I begin thinking about where to purchase my own woods and how I will finally be able to realize my lifelong dream of having a tree house, Punky Brewster style.
I am fortunate enough to be here at the time of year that the bluebells are in bloom. I have never seen a bluebell forest before and it quickly overtakes wisteria as my favorite flower ever. The woods are carpeted in a sea of delicate blue flowers, and it is with some effort that I resist the urge to dive into them. My mom is equally enchanted and picks as many as her hands can hold. As we walk back to the car bunnies bounce around us and I feel like I am in a fairy tale.
We finish the day off with a big, satisfying meal of Indian food where I meet 5 or 6 cousins I have never met before. I am as entranced with everyone’s accents as I was with the bluebells and wonder how much it would cost me to hire a voice coach so I can sound just like them. Maybe that will be my next investment…after I purchase my woods of course.

DAY 5

A Pickle Is Not A Pickle

Today is May Day, the first day of May, otherwise known as Beltaine. We decide to head up to the ruins where the Battle of Hastings took place in 1066 to watch a bunch of kids dance around a May pole. I am not entirely keen on this idea at first, but after several beers and an apple cider I begin to get more in the spirit of things. This tradition of dancing around a May pole and crowning a May queen has been going on for centuries here and you can almost taste the history in the air. All the women, including me, have garlands in their hair and it feels like the Renaissance Faire…only for real. The ruins of the fort behind us and The English Channel shimmering in the distance in front of us provide an incomparable backdrop to the scene.
After the revelries we head back down into the old town for some fish and chips. I am excited because this will be my first time eating them in England. We enter a slightly rundown shack right by the pier. I place my order and then see several big jars by the cash register. Two of them hold unidentifiable white things but the third is filled with giant pickles. Yum!
“I will take a pickle also” I tell the guy as he is ringing up my order.
“A pickle what?” he asks
“A…pickle…what?” I repeat dumbly. I literally have no idea how to answer this question.
“Pickle what?” he is getting impatient with me. I rack my brain frantically for what could be an appropriate answer. After several seconds of me standing in silence with my mouth slightly open he comes to the conclusion that I am a complete imbecile.
He points to the first big jar of floating white things “Pickle’d egg?” he says as slowly as possible, “Or pickle’d onion?” touches the second jar.
“The one in the middle” I say pointing to the jar of actual pickles.
“Ah. The gherkin” he glares at me as he fishes one out.
Gherkin??? “It’s a PICKLE!!!!!!!” I scream silently in my mind as I sweetly tell him thank you.
“Can I get some ketchup please?”
“It is 10 pence a packet, how many do you want?”
Although I vaguely remember learning that they charge for ketchup in Europe from the movie Pulp Fiction, I can’t believe this is true. I am certain the guy is just doing this as revenge for the pickle incident, but my cousin assures me it is normal. On principle I refuse to pay for ketchup. It would be like paying for ice in my soda or something. Packaged ketchup should be free and that is just the way it is.
At this point I am seriously holding up the line. My mom is as exasperated with me as everyone else. She fishes 10p out of her purse and hands it to the guy. This poses two problems for me. First, I had just resolved to never take ketchup that is not free. Second, one package of ketchup is not going to do anything for me. I am a 6 package minimum type of girl. I give the package to my little 9 year old cousin and drench my fish and fries in vinegar instead, which as far as I can tell is free. This seems like a good solution until I get outside and find the vinegar has entirely soaked through the paper wrapping holding my food (you don’t get a plate here) By the time I finish, I have fish and vinegar soaked pieces of paper all over me. As we walk towards some carnival rides by the pier I am surrounded by a flock of seagulls trying to pick bits off me. I am secretly petrified by birds, but try to keep my cool. I don’t want to make a fool of myself or anything.
My little cousin wants me to go on one of the rides with her. I look up at it doubtfully. It is one of those rides where you are in a seat that spins in every direction, and is attached to a large arm that is rotating every which way possible. I love roller coasters but when I think of the beers, cider, greasy fish, and gallon of vinegar in my stomach this one just doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not to mention I know nothing about the English engineers who put this thing together. At least at a carnival in America I can see the drunken, toothless man securing the bolts with my own two eyes.
I distract her with the bumper cars. Although she is much too smart to fall for this tactic no one can resist bumper cars. There is something of a power struggle when we both want to drive but I decide to graciously let her take the wheel once I notice people staring at me in disapproval. We have a blast trying to bump my mom and her dad as hard as possible.
She wants to ride the carousal next. I figure there is no risk in that. She has me sit next to her in a little bowl shaped chair. I desperately want to ride on one of the horses, but I am an adult, and finally give in to her pleas. I sit back as the carousal starts to slowly move. The sea breeze is blowing on my face, the sun is shining, and I close my eyes and imagine I am on the beautiful white plaster horse bobbing up and down next to me.
A devious giggle breaks into my fantasy and I open my eyes as she starts moving the little disk in the center of our chair. Next thing I know we are spinning around at lightning speed. Now when I was a kid I loved the tea cups at Disneyland as much as anyone. But I’ve already explained the current contents of my stomach and the last thing I need right now is to be spun in a circle. After a seemingly never ending 2 minutes we come to a stop. She gleefully jumps up and sways her way off the carousal. I walk as slowly and carefully as possible off and don’t think of one other thing for the next 2 hours except ‘please don’t puke, please don’t puke’
By the time my mom and I go on a walk with my cousin and his wife later that afternoon I am significantly recovered. We walk along a babbling brook, the trees are almost too green to be real, and I swear I see a little gnome playing in the rocks. We reach a rickety old wooden swing, and as we take turns swinging on it all feels right in the world again. In fact, I think it may be dinner time and I am ravenous. Fish and chips, anyone?

DAY 6

Watch Out For Stags And Hens…And Naked Green People 

This turns out to be one of the most unusual, memorable days of the trip. We are still in Hastings and there are two things of note going on at once. One is an ancient pagan celebration called Jack in the Green. It involves welcoming in the spring, wearing green, and Morris dancing. The second is a bike fest. Bikers cruise in from all over the country, and park their hundreds, maybe thousands, of bikes along the boardwalk. Everyone, bikers and pagans alike, is drinking.
We start by watching the locals get ready for Jack in the Green. There will be a parade throughout the entire town, leading up to the ruins where everyone proceeds to rip the ‘Jack’ to pieces. I am not entirely clear on what this means, or even on who or what the Jack is. What I do know is that the people are going all out with their costumes. Everyone is dressed in green and there is an assortment of dead animal parts and pelts covering people’s heads and bodies. My favorite is a man wearing nothing but speedos, his body painted entirely in green with a smashed watermelon on top of his head, dripping juice all over him. There are enormous paper mache figures that have been made for the parade - kings and queens, and what appears to be a mermaid (no clue where this fits in, but she is most definitely green)
The parade goes directly by my cousin and his wife’s house so we head back to their front porch to watch it. I normally think parades are incredibly dull but this one is exceptionally entertaining. There are drums and dancing and all those bizarrely fabulous outfits. I begin to seriously consider converting to Paganism. I am worried though that back in America, without the charming accents and years of history behind it, the pagans will just turn out to be a bunch of strange women who watched the movie The Craft one too many times.
After the parade we walk down to the ocean to check out the other side of things. The streets are narrow and winding, and lined on both side with pubs and shops. There are vendors outside cooking up all kinds of delicious street food. People are dancing, celebrating, and drinking whichever direction you turn.

The beach itself goes on for miles and consists entirely of rocks and pebbles, there is no sand. The rocks are smooth, and come in a wide variety of colors, shapes, and sizes. Lined up along the beach there are rows and rows of motorcycles and men dressed in leather. It is pretty much as opposite as you can get from the parade crowd, and I wonder if there will be any intermixing later. I picture green women with leather jackets slung over their shoulders, and tough bikers with beautiful garlands of ivy wrapped around their heads.
Unfortunately I never get to see this with my own eyes because we have a train to catch back to London. My cousin’s wife helped my mom and I book our train tickets online for our next few days of travel. We had tried to do this previously on our own, but it didn’t quite work out. When you go to put your credit card info on the website it asks for your billing address. The line where you would put in a zip code is labeled post code. Every you try to put in your zip code it says ‘this is an invalid postcode’. It is unbelievably frustrating and ends with me screaming at the computer “That’s because it’s not a f**king postcode, it’s a zip code!!!!!!” This does nobody any good.
Luckily she knows an alternative website and we are soon on our way back to London. We stop at Trafalgar Square on the way back to my London cousin’s house. (He is kind enough to let us stay there while he is in America) The square is interesting; there are numerous statues, structures, and fountains worth checking out. The problem is I am freezing. The wind is howling through the square and I am chilled to the bone. Plus I have really sensitive ears and they are throbbing from the cold. I resolve to walk into the first place we see for some liquid fire to help warm me up.
The first place we come across has a name like Aaardvarrk. I have a vague suspicion it translates to deer blood, or something similarly sinister. Inside, the place is very tastefully decorated with an assortment of giant white stags (hopefully the sarcasm is implied here) Some of them are life size, some small, and some are just the heads hanging on the wall. All of them are white and are either made from plaster or wicker. A few of them even light up.
I remember reading in my Lonely Planet guidebook about something called ‘stag and hen parties’ that take place throughout England. I have no idea what this means, but it sounds slightly ominous, and I am worried I just accidentally walked into one. I look around nervously for a stuffed hen, but it is just white stags as far as the eye can see.
I relax and try black pudding (sausage made with congealed blood) for the first time and surprisingly love it. By the time we head back to my cousins I am warm and comfortably full, but still very curious about these so called stag and hen parties. I resolve to find out exactly what one is before the trip is over.

DAY 7

My Hat Is Better Than Yours!

My mom and I are headed to Bath today. She decides to borrow a smaller suitcase from my cousin so we don’t have to deal with her monster of a bag. The one she chooses appears to be the very first prototype for wheeled luggage. It has 4 tiny little wheels that do nothing but spin in useless circles.
“Are you sure?” I ask her doubtfully
“Yep! It is perfect. Anything but that other bag I had”
Within 20 minutes the bag is already missing one wheel.
By the time we reach our bed and breakfast in Bath it is down to 2 wheels, my mom’s leg is covered with bruises where it has banged into her, and there is a worry some hole developing in the bottom corner.
“I hate this f**king bag” she says savagely. I start to make a joke but one look at the fury on her face and I decide to let this one slide.
Our bed and breakfast is gorgeous. We are traveling on a budget so we weren’t expecting much from the place, but it is amazing. It is an old Italian style mansion, the garden outside is stunning (wisteria!), and the people could not be any nicer to us. My mom’s mood improves and we head out to explore the town.
Bath is an ancient Roman spa town. There is an impressive abbey in the center of town, and you can still visit the bath houses the Romans used. We wander up and down the winding streets, taking in the sights, stopping in as many pubs as we can, and even have a picnic in one of the parks.
Towards the end of afternoon we walk by a hat store. I remember my cold ears from the night before and decide to get a warm hat.
My head is on the large side and I end up with the choice of a hat that is too small, or one slightly too big. I go with the big one, figuring that will prove more comfortable in the long run. The downside to this is the hat sticks up about 3 inches past the top of my head. I am concerned about looking like an idiot until I see the hat my mom has chosen.
“It is hand made in Tibet” she says proudly.
The hat looks like it was hand made by a 7 year old girl scout at her first craft fair. It ends in a point at the top of her head, has a giant pink knit flower on it, and ties in a bow under her chin.
I burst into hysterical laughter.
“You don’t look so hot yourself, you know” she informs me.
I do know this but no way am I admitting it.
“My hat is specially made for mountain climbers” I lie “It is made of the most effective wind blocking material on EARTH”
 We each stubbornly pretend that we absolutely love the hat we’ve picked out. Word to the wise, do not go hat shopping after a pub crawl.
We hit the town to show off our new looks. Unfortunately Bath completely dies by 8 o’clock and we are the only people on the streets (or possibly people are just running in the other direction at the sight of us) Dejected, we head back to the B&B and go to bed.
“Uh, are you going to wear that hat the whole trip?” I ask my mom.
She giggles “Yep. I love it. What about yours?”
“Oh yeah. Warmest hat ever.”
We plan on going to Wales the next day. I can only imagine what the Welsh will make of us.

DAY 8

Part I - I Am The Chosen One

I wake up with a pounding headache.
“Ugh. I should not have tried on so many hats” I moan.
My mom smirks at me.
We head to the dining room for our free breakfast.
“This better not be one of those where all you get is a shitty pastry and fake OJ” I mutter under my breath.
I needn’t have worried. Not only is there fresh fruit, yogurt, and an assortment of granola, but we are asked if we would also like a ‘full’ English breakfast. We have no idea what this means but we both definitely want it.
“Would you like brown sauce or ketchup with that?”
“Both” I say quickly. I love sauce. All sauce, any sauce, as much as I can get of it.
15 minutes later we are presented with a plate covered in sausage, Canadian bacon, 2 poached eggs, baked beans (?!), mushrooms, and grilled tomatoes.
“Awesome” I say as I pour the brown sauce and ketchup all over mine. Brown sauce tastes as if Heinz 57 and A1 sauce had a love child and I am immediately hooked on it.
My head still hurts after finishing, but my stomach is very happy.
We decide to go to Stonehenge before departing for Wales. We are relatively close to it, and it seems like one of those things you are supposed to do if you can. Neither of us are expecting too much from it.
After seeing tour groups of people wearing matching color coordinated hats on a previous trip to China, I had resolved never to take an organized tour under any circumstance. However, a group tour was the quickest, cheapest, easiest way to get to Stonehenge from Bath and I decide to make an exception.
We wait for our bus with a group of 10 other people, all appearing to be over the age of 90. When a bright purple bus pulls up covered with the words ‘Stonehenge!’ and ‘Group Tours!’ it is all I can do not to run away. Luckily we are not forced to wear matching hats or t-shirts and I decide to just go with it.
 The bumpy bus ride does nothing for my headache and by the time we reach Stonehenge I am not in the greatest of moods. All I want is to have a photo of me taken in front of the stones to prove I’ve been there and then to get the hell out.
Once we walk out to the stone circle an eerie calm descends over me. Despite the crowds of people around me I feel that I am the only one there. It is just me and the stones. There really is a mystical feeling of power that you can sense. I stay for the entire hour the tour has allotted for us and absorb the history of the place. I can’t believe how deeply moved I feel.
Before we get back on the bus I stand next to a waist high chain link fence waiting for my mom to get out of the bathroom. The biggest black bird I have ever seen lands directly in front of me. My first reaction is to run screaming as I have a slight phobia of birds with giant beaks. But I notice the bird is looking at me meaningfully. As I stare into its beady black eyes I feel exactly as if I am in that movie Beastmaster. I give the bird a nod to show I understand I am the chosen one. We share an intense couple of minutes staring at each other before he flies away.
“Were you just talking to that bird??” my mom asks as she comes out of the bathroom. She is looking at me strangely.
“What? NO! Why would I be talking to a bird? That would be crazy. Jeez.”
I look up in the sky and give the bird a furtive wave good bye as we get back on the tour bus.
We have a two hour wait at a bus stop in a nearby city called Bristol before we are headed to Cardiff, the capitol of Wales. This is the grittiest place we have been so far in England. The bus station is in what looks to be the worst area of the city. There are homeless people and drug addicts hanging around the station. I feel a small surge of excitement to be among the down and out here. We are without question the only tourists in the place. As I am sitting in the station a drug addict comes up to me and asks for 9 pence. This seems a very specific request and I want to give it to him. People in this country have been so generous to us and I feel the least I can do is give back. Plus it will be good for my karma. The trouble is it will take me awhile to figure out what 9 pence is and I do not want to embarrass myself in front of this crack head.
“I’m sorry, I can’t” I tell him.
I decide to wander around and explore the surrounding area around the bus station. My mom declines to come because her suitcase is on its very last leg. At this point there is only one tiny wheel left and the hole is growing at an alarming rate.
As I walk down a street covered with graffiti it is obvious I am most likely in the most dangerous ghetto in all of England. I can’t help but feel proud of myself for being so brave and fearless. I sense people stopping and staring at me. One person even points. They must sense the same power in me that the bird at Stonehenge did. ‘That’s right people’, I think, ‘take a load in. This is one tough ass American chick walking by you’
When I get back to the bus station I notice the seat I was sitting on before has a smashed brown banana on it. I have a sinking suspicion as I crane around to stare at my backside. Sure enough there is brown banana smeared all over the back of my white pants.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.
“I have banana on my butt!” I exclaim sadly
Karma, you little bitch.

Part II – Beware Of The Children

Wales has a magical feel to it. It is almost as if you have entered a game of Dungeons and Dragons. There is a huge castle in the middle of the city and a wall topped with an assortment of stone animals. There are red dragons everywhere and the Welsh language (every sign is in both English and Welsh) is decidedly old world and absolutely unreadable with numerous Ws, Ys, and Rs in it. We spend most of the night in a pub called The Goat Major. Everything feels suitably medieval and it is a great end to our day. The only thing ruining the vibe is the music. We hear Grateful Dead, Credence Clearwater, John Mellencamp, and Steve Miller Band. Each song seems more American than the last and it is seriously throwing me off. I am thinking of complaining and requesting something more traditional, but after a few of the local Welsh beers I am happily singing along to every word.
As we are walking back to our bed and breakfast, humming Sweet Home Alabama, we walk by a club. We decide to go in and do some dancing when we notice the people in line. None of them look like they could be more than 16 and some look closer to 12. The girls are all dressed up like they are going to their senior prom. I’m not talking about club clothes, I am talking about prom style dresses. Every single one of the guys looks like they are on steroids, and they all have tiny muscle tees on. Because they all look so young it creates a freaky picture. It is like that show Toddlers in Tiaras. It just does not look right.
“What the hell is going on” my mom whispers.
I look around and see hoards of them coming towards us from every direction. It is like children of the corn.
“Let’s get out of here!” I cry.
We make it back to our room with pounding hearts.
Just as we are starting to relax our door bursts open. We both scream thinking it is the kids coming to get us, by it is just a regular woman who looks confused at the sight of us and walks back out.
My mom and I stare at each other. What just happened?
“Barricade the door!” she tells me. I find myself wishing we had her original suitcase with us. No one would be able to push through that thing. I make due with my suitcase and her ruined bag. I have an uneasy feeling that maybe the Stonehenge raven was an omen of my impending death by Welsh children on steroids. Nah, impossible. I quite obviously had an enormous effect on that bird. I am the Raven Whisperer, I think and fall asleep with a smile on my face. That joke gets me every time

DAY 9

Part I - The Welsh Vs The English Vs The American

We start the day off with a full “Welsh” breakfast. This is, as far as I can tell, exactly the same as a full English breakfast, which is just fine by me. The only difference is the sausage, which we are informed is a local Welsh specialty. It is indeed one of the best sausages I’ve ever had.
Our waiter goes out of his way to make sure we have everything we need, and I decide I like the Welsh every bit as much as I like the English. Well, minus the creepy young adult population of course. The morning is spent exploring the rest of Cardiff. The city is beautiful and even more magical in the daylight. The bay sparkles in the sunshine, and the castle looks straight out of the movies. It is tough to leave, but we have a bus to catch. We have to get back to Bristol to make a flight to Scotland.
As we are getting settled on our bus, the guy in the row in front of us turns around and starts making small talk. He looks exactly like Jeff Daniels’s character from Dumb and Dumber, and the polished British accent coming out of his mouth makes for a hilarious contrast. He asks us a lot of questions about California and about what we think of Britain so far. My mom tells him how amazing the history is in Britain.
“The cathedrals and castles we have been visiting are so old, we don’t really have anything like that in America” she says.
He makes some comments about how the Americans destroyed what history we had by what we did to the American Indians. “You guys really did a number on them” he says, shaking his head sadly.
“Well…really it was you guys” I tell him. I shoot him a big smile to show I mean no harm by this.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, appalled.
I have a moment of panic that I am getting my history messed up. “You know,” I say, just a little uncertainly “The English were really the ones that did a number on the American Indians”
He is staring at me without blinking.
“Uh, like the pilgrims?”
Still staring at me.
“Oh well, and the Spanish too of course. I mean it wasn’t just the English” I say quickly and give him my absolute biggest smile. Unfortunately my smile seems to have the opposite effect I intend. My teeth are on the large side, and although I have managed to somewhat make it work for me back in America, people here stare at them the way you would stare at a car accident. Like they want to look away but can’t, with a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity. I have even been asked twice if my teeth are ‘real’. I get the sense people here think I might bite them.
“I am NOT English” he says loudly, “I’m Welsh”
“Oh” I say, relieved I didn’t make an idiot of myself by getting my history wrong “Well, same difference, right?” I smile again.
He looks so mad I think he would slap me if he wasn’t so scared of my teeth. He turns back around in a huff and I see several other people shaking their heads at me.
Valuable lesson learned, do not call Welsh people English. It is like mistaking a New Yorker for someone from New Jersey, or vice versa. They don’t like it.
I manage to smooth things over by asking questions about Wales, telling more stories about California, and by making sure I keep my lips tightly closed every time I smile. By the time we reach the airport we are all back on good terms and wish each other warm good-byes.

Part II – Long Live David Bowie

We arrive in Edinburgh, Scotland to a cold, wet rain. This seems fitting and my mom and I are both happy about it. It just wouldn’t feel right to land in Scotland on a warm, sunny day. We put our hats on and head out to find a cab.
A friend of the family has kindly agreed to let us stay with her in her Edinburgh flat over the next couple days. As we are waiting for her to open the front door I realize we both still have our hats on. This woman has never met us before and I don’t want to give the wrong impression.
“Quick!” I say to my mom. “Take your hat off!”
We both frantically rip the hats off our heads, so that when she opens the door our hair is sticking up everywhere.
“Hi!!!” my mom and I chorus loudly.
To her everlasting credit, she welcomes us in with open arms.
She has an early morning so decides to stay in while my mom and I hit the town. We share a great dinner, including an amazing risotto made with local shellfish, and then go looking for a happening pub. We head into one that claims to be the most haunted pub in Scotland. It is called The Labyrinth, which is one of my all time favorite movies so I have a good feeling going into the place. At the very least, maybe they will be playing David Bowie inside. Maybe even the soundtrack from the movie! I start to get excited.
The pub is indeed like a maze. We follow winding hallways and seemingly random staircases without seeing a single ghost, or even another person for that matter. We finally end up in a dungeon like room with two girls dancing around a stripper pole. There is no one in there but the two of them and we back slowly out.
“Huh…well I guess I do feel a little haunted” I tell my mom. The place is nothing like the movie and we get out as quick as we can.
The next place we stop in suits us much better.  There is a one man band and the guy is singing his heart out to a classic Erasure song. We get drinks and start making friends. Not one single person we meet is actually from Scotland. There are people from Sweden, Australia, Italy, and from all different places in England.
The singer starts playing a song by Toto and we all join in. As I listen to voices that come from all over the world blessing the rains down in Africa I feel incredibly fortunate to be here. Even though I still haven’t met a Scottish person, Edinburgh has an amazing vibe to it, everyone in the pub is in a great mood, and it is one of those nights that you wish would never end.

DAY 10

Kiss Me, I’m Scottish

We wake up early because we only have one full day in Edinburgh and we want to make the most of it. This isn’t easy because we had a very long night and I am more than a little hungover. As my mom and I start walking to the center of the city we pass through a huge park filled with cherry trees. The trees are all in bloom and we walk under a canopy of beautiful pink flowers. As the petals rain down on us my hangover disappears and I began to get excited for the day.
Edinburgh turns out to be the most beautiful city we have visited yet. Everything about the city is amazing. The architecture is stunning, and the city skyline is like none I have ever seen before. Old stone and brick buildings are interspersed with gothic spires. There are statues everywhere, and everything is covered with a beautiful light green layer of moss. The castle is huge and imposing and is set on a hill overlooking the city. The cobblestone streets are glistening from the latest rain, and in the distance you can see rolling green hills and the sparkling water of the Firth of Forth.
We are completely in love with the city and just wander around taking everything in. We end up on a touristy street full of shops selling kilts and a multitude of things made with Scottish wool. One of the stores has mannequins dressed in sexy kilts set up outside and techno music interspersed with bagpipes blaring from inside. I love it and think I will start a trend of throwing Scottish themed raves as soon as I get home.
When I go in the store I discover that I have a family crest. The shopkeeper informs me that Bennett is an old Scottish name, and I am absolutely elated. I am crazy about this city and feel immensely proud to be a part of it in any way. I suspect she could be lying to me but I buy a bookmark with my family crest on top and later when we pass a pub called Bennett’s I feel convinced it must be true.
We hit up a variety of pubs and restaurants, try Scottish smoked salmon (amazing!), Scottish oysters (disappointing), and Scottish crab (to die for). We go to an art museum, watch a street performer play bagpipes, and then hit up the castle.
After we visit the castle we decide to go whisky tasting. Neither of us likes whisky, but when in Rome, right?
There is a place called The Scotch Whisky Experience that offers tastes of every kind of Scottish Whisky imaginable, has a whisky museum, and even has a theme ride. We head to the bar to do some tasting.
My mom asks the girl behind the bar to give us a taste of her favorite whisky. She looks at us doubtfully and asks if we are whisky drinkers.
“Not exactly” we tell her. She doesn’t think we will be able to handle her favorite whisky and suggests we start out with something a little milder.
“It’s okay” I tell her with a knowing look and a wink “I’m part Scottish”
“Mmm hmmm” she murmurs and decides to pour us both, a taste of her favorite and a taste of a beginner whisky.
I take a big gulp of her favorite. My eyes immediately fill up with tears and my mouth tastes like I just licked the ashes of a 3 day old campfire. That a raccoon had pissed on.
“What do you think?” she asks me.
“Oh” I choke “Really good. Uh can I get a ginger beer please? I’m just a little thirsty”
Ginger beer is the world’s greatest invention. It is like ginger ale, only so much more. But even the deliciousness of ginger beer cannot erase the awfulness going on in my mouth.
I feel obligated to finish both of the whiskies she poured us and my mom isn’t being a whole lot of help. She takes one whiff of each and says no way. The ‘beginner’ whisky isn’t much better than the other one, and by the time we leave I fear my tongue will never be the same.
We head back to the streets and take in every corner possible of Edinburgh. We do an underground tour of the ancient city streets that almost ends in disaster when my mom’s claustrophobia kicks in. She manages to keep it together (just barely) and we meet up with our family friend.
She takes us to an inactive volcano looming over Edinburgh (they charmingly call it a redundant volcano here) Halfway up is a little lake swarming with gulls, herons, and huge majestic swans. The sun breaks through the clouds and we stand there taking it all in.
As I go to bed later that night I know this day will stay with me forever. I vow to make a trip back to Scotland as soon as I can and explore the entire country. I will get a kilt in the pattern of my family crest, learn to play the bagpipes, and develop an appreciation for scotch whisky. Well, maybe not the whisky part, but the rest for sure. I fall soundly asleep to the soothing sounds of bagpipe techno playing in my head.

DAY 11

Part I - Close Call

We are going to spend our eleventh day in York, a former Viking town in the northern part of England. We hop on a train early in the morning. The train route runs along the North Sea in Scotland, which makes for great window watching. We will have about 6 hours in York, and then are taking another train on to Cambridge.
By this point in time my mom has acquired a new suitcase. She bought it at a department store back in Wales. It was the only one in the whole store under 200 US dollars. The reason it was marked down is because it is the brightest, most obnoxious shade of pink imaginable. When we pay to store it at the train station in York, the attendant smirks at it. “Nice bag” he says.
You have no idea, I think.
York has a beautiful cathedral, and great narrow cobblestone streets to explore. We enjoy a delicious lunch, visit a beautiful park, and wander around the streets, stopping in three different pubs that each claim to be the oldest pub in York.
One of the things York is famous for is the protective walls that still surround the interior part of the city. We have almost 2 hours before our train and I want to walk along those walls. The map says it is about a two mile walk. It seems like a cool way to see the whole city and a good way to get some exercise. My mom doesn’t seem too enthusiastic about it, but she agrees to come along.
The first part of the walk goes well. It is a beautiful day, we are high above the city, and the views are fantastic.
The problem is it is very slow going. There are people jamming it up and it is taking a lot longer than two miles should. About half way around I start to think we might miss our train. I tell my mom we should start picking up the pace a little.
After about five minutes at a brisk walk my mom begins to get hot. She takes off her big sweater and wraps it around her waist. I am getting warm too and I take off my jacket. We keep walking a little ways more when she stops and takes her long sleeved top off. She now has on only a tank top, her face is red, and she looks pissed.
Another few minutes and she stops and looks like she is contemplating stripping down to her bra. The wall is crowded with old people and kids and I don’t know how well people will react to that.
“Mom, let’s just keep walking” I try to urge her on.
“Do you think we will miss our train?” she asks me.
I consider the time and the fact that we still have to get our luggage. “Well…we might”
She looks shocked “What will happen if we miss it?”
“We will just have to try to get another one” I say.
I don’t think this sounds like that bad of a scenario, but my mom reacts like I just told her we would be tortured in an Iraqi POW camp.
“Oh.My.God.” she says and heads off at a dead sprint.
She is shoving past people left and right and I have no idea whether I should try to follow her or not. I am very tempted to just let her go, but she literally has the worst sense of direction of anyone I’ve ever met, and I suspect if I do I will never see her again. I start jogging after her and apologizing to the aftermath of scattered, frightened people she leaves behind.
When we get to the train station she instructs me to find out what platform our train leaves from while she gets our luggage. As I am searching for Cambridge on the departures screen I hear her shouting from clear across the station.
“I need our luggage quick!!! WE ARE GOING TO MISS OUR TRAIN!!!!!!”
By the time she comes running up to me with our bags I cannot stop laughing. Tears are running down my face as we make our way to the right platform, but it is not until we are safely on the train that she can finally join me in the laughter. The people across from us look at us nervously. We are red faced, drenched in sweat, and laughing hysterically.

 
Part II – Isn’t Spanish The Same As Mexican?

We check into our bed and breakfast in Cambridge, where our room is literally the size of a walk in closet. If my mom would have had her original bag it seriously wouldn’t have fit. The location is good though, and we walk to the center of town to find something to eat. We walk by a Spanish restaurant that is nicely decorated and packed with people. We figure that is a good sign and head in.
I order us a variety of tapas and some white Italian wine. Once the waiter walks away my mom asks me when we will get our chips and salsa. Apparently she thinks Mexican and Spanish restaurants are the same thing. I find this hilarious, but I actually do wish we had some chips and salsa coming to us, especially when the food comes and turns out to be completely inedible. The Manchego cheese both looks and tastes like slimy rubber, the shrimp is literally rotten, and our wine appears to be fermented. I had been warned to stay away from Mexican restaurants at all costs while in England, but I thought Spanish should be okay. (We find out later that the place is a chain restaurant, like an Applebees or something, and is only really popular amongst the college kids. Or idiot tourists like us who don’t know any better.)
We go back to the bed and breakfast tired, grumpy, and still hungry. I cheer up though when I remember my mom darting around the city walls of York. I fall asleep still giggling every time I picture the look on her face when I told her we might miss our train. God only knows what would have happened if we actually did.

DAY 12

Part I - Please Don’t Pee On Me!

The main reason we are here in Cambridge is to fulfill my fantasy of punting along the River Cambridge while drinking wine and eating strawberries. Punting consists of standing at the end of a punt, which is essentially a row boat, and moving and steering it with the help of a long pole that you push into the mud and then lift out of the water in one graceful movement. I read in my guidebook that punting is much more difficult than it looks, and a lot of people end up falling in the river. I just know that I will be naturally and immediately amazing at it.
Today is Mother’s Day (although interestingly enough not in England) and I convince the people at the B&B to allow me to bring my mom her full English breakfast in bed. After a leisurely breakfast we meet up with a friend who has come from London to go punting with us. We head to a store to buy supplies, i.e. wine and strawberries. Unfortunately strawberries are nowhere to be found and we have to make due with a bag of strawberry flavored sweets my mom finds (she is developing a bizarre obsession with buying every bag of British candy she comes across) and a bottle of screw top wine.
Although the forecast predicted some rain the day looks beautiful with blue skies and puffy white clouds. As soon as we near the river we are approached by a guy who asks us if we want to go punting. He must be able to tell that I will be a skilled punter just by looking at me. (This is before I learn that they ask every man, woman, child, and dog who walks by if they want to try punting.)
When we tell him that we want to take our own punt out he asks if we have ever tried punting before.
“Well…no, but I read all about it in my guidebook.” I inform him.
“Once, about 10 years ago. I was pretty drunk though, so don’t remember much.” My friend says.
My mom just shakes her head. 
Apparently none of this counts as suitable experience because he recommends we go out with a guide. He assures us we will still be able to try punting ourselves, but this way we will have someone to show us how to do it correctly.
He directs us to a punt that already has a few people in it and we get in. The seats are comfortable and put you in a natural reclining position. Just as we are getting ready to set off a woman with two small children comes up and begins to board the punt.
“Crap” my mom whispers, “Now we won’t be able to punt ourselves”
“What!? Why?” I demand.
“Because if we crash we could hurt those two little kids.”
God damn it. I realize she is right. The woman and her two kids sit down right across from us. I glare at the little boy as he adorably announces that he is five and his brother is two.
Oh well, I think, I will just enjoy my wine and strawberry candy and will rent my own punt later in the afternoon. Just as I am unscrewing the wine my friend says softly, “Well I guess we can’t drink the wine now either.”
Huh?
“You can’t drink wine straight out of a bottle in front of 2 little children.”
You can’t? Is that kind of thing frowned upon here in England? I am tempted to do it anyways, but I don’t want to be blamed for scarring the kids for life or something.
I reluctantly put the bottle back in my purse. All of my dreams for the day are seriously going up in smoke, I think angrily.
We glide along the river and our guide makes witty commentary about the Cambridge colleges we go by. We pass by a duck and her unbelievably cute baby ducklings, the river and the campus are beautiful, and despite my disappointments I am beginning to really enjoy myself. I lean back, stretch my legs out and let the gentle breeze blow on my face, and the sunshine warm my skin.
Just then I notice the little 5 year old boy standing up in the seat across from me and start taking off his pants. What is he doing? I wonder in confusion. He can’t be…he’s not going to…yep he is. He is going to take a piss right here in the punt.
The mom notices what is happening, grabs a diaper from her bag and tries to catch the stream of pee in the diaper. This works horribly and there is piss splashing everywhere.
OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod. If it splashes on me I am going to lose it.
I just cannot believe this little monster is peeing right in front of me. I need to move my feet, I think frantically, but I am frozen in horror. My mom nudges me and I snap out of it just in time and yank them out of the way. When he finally finishes, his mom nonchalantly puts the pee soaked diaper back in her purse and the kid pulls his pants back up and sits down in the pee puddle he created all over the seat.
I feel utterly horrified. My mom and friend both look mildly surprised and disgusted but nothing compared to what I feel. The kid starts sucking on his fingers and I realize that I will be the one scarred for life.
Once we get off the punt I try to shake off the incident and move on with the day. We head to a restaurant so I can try my first Sunday roast. This consists of roast beef, vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding. Yorkshire pudding is kind of like a biscuit where the center has fallen in. I want brown sauce with it but am informed you eat Sunday roast with mustard. The mustard is wonderfully spicy, similar to a horseradish. I smear about half a jar all over everything on my plate before I notice that everyone else makes a neat little pile of mustard on the side and gingerly dips their meat in it.
“Ah crap, am I going to have to pay for all that mustard?” I ask, remembering what happened with the ketchup.
My friend looks both slightly amused and slightly embarrassed for me “No, you don’t have to pay for it.”
Awesome. I put a little extra on my plate for good measure.
We decide to explore Canterbury a bit and then head out on our own punt. I still haven’t given up on trying it out.
We head into King’s Chapel, which is famous for having one of the largest fan vaulted ceilings in the world. It is very impressive, and the stained glass windows are gorgeous, but by this time all the chapels and cathedrals are beginning to look exactly alike. I am starting to understand why people say ‘if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.’
Somehow we get on the subject of a drink called Pimm’s. Apparently it is a staple drink in England that all sophisticated people such as myself simply must try. We head to a pub called The Eagle, which is famous for being the place where Watson and Crick first announced they had discovered DNA. I love this and feel like something of a genius myself for discovering this information.
Pimm’s turns out to be a little sweet for my taste, but I gamely suck down a couple of them and a half pint or two of a local ale. Thus fortified, we head out to try our hand at punting. When we exit the pub I stare at the sky in dismay. It is quickly turning a dark shade of grey and the wind is picking up speed by the second. We reluctantly rule punting out.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in a local farmers market, a sweets shop (per my mom’s new obsession), and checking out some more local sights.
I am disappointed as we drive back to London to have missed out on punting, but I figure I will have another chance at some point in my life. And at least this way I can continue with my delusion that I will be excellent at it.

Part II – I’m King Of The World!

After grateful thank yous to our friend for the ride back to my cousin’s house, I offer to take my mom out to a mother’s day dinner. We choose an Italian restaurant in downtown London. I really want to ride on the upper level of the double decker bus we take on the way there, but it is completely full.
Our dinner is delicious, and I even manage to convince my mom to try octopus, which surprisingly she likes. We wander around the city a bit after dinner and then hop on a bus to head back to my cousins.
I race up the stairs of the bus and to my delight, except for a homeless guy in the very back, the whole top deck of the bus is empty. My mom and I each take up a row of our own in the very front. I crane my neck to look down, the cars below us seem miles away. I can easily see in people’s second and third story windows.
“This is awesome” I whisper to my mom.
The bus takes off with a lurch. Our bus driver turns out to be either really drunk, or just plain crazy. He is flying down the street, narrowly missing cars and buses around us, screeching to a sudden halt at the bus stops. As we careen around a turn I almost fall right out of my seat, but manage to grab the back of the seat and hold on.  My mom smacks her head into the window in the seat across from me. For a heart stopping second it seems that the bus may tip over.
“Jesus!” my mom gasps.
“Learn how to drive!” the homeless man hollers at the bus driver.
I love it though. I want to scream at him to go faster. To just run right over the top of those tiny cars in front of us. It proves a serious challenge to stay in my seat every time he turns a corner. I am completely exhilarated. I may not have been able to try punting today but thanks to the crazy ass driver of bus 6, I have proved that I do indeed have excellent balance, quick reflexes, and incredible upper body strength. My thirst for adventure has been temporarily sated. At least until tomorrow…

DAY 13

Going Into The Squatter Business

The day starts off dramatically when we wake up to my cousin’s maid thinking we are squatters. We resolve the situation quickly and I learn the valuable piece of information that squatting is legal in England. Apparently, if you leave a window or a door open while you are gone from your house and a squatter takes over it is very difficult, even impossible, to get them out.
My mom claims she knows about squatter’s rights from when she lived in London over 30 years ago, and the maid verifies it as being true. I am filled with questions.
“So, like what if someone went out to get their mail and they left their front door open and I quickly ran in? Does that make it my house then?”
“I don’t know,” my mom says. “I’m not even sure if they have mailboxes here. I think the post just goes in the slot on their front doors”
“Once I’m in,” I continue. “What happens if I have to go to the grocery store or something? Can they take the house back? Can I call a locksmith and tell him I am a squatter and have him change the locks? Is he legally required to?”
My mom sighs “I don’t know”
“Who pays the utilities? Do I have to switch them over into my name? What if I want to redecorate? Can I do that? Can I have a house party there? What about pets? Can I have pets? Can I get a roommate? Do you think I could squat in more than one house at once?”
“Don’t we have to leave?” my mom asks, hoping to shut me up.
We do in fact have to leave. We are meeting a childhood friend of mine for lunch in East London. She has been living in London for years and has recently married and had a baby.
As we are on the tube over I realize she may expect me to hold the new baby. Now I like babies just as much as the next person, but holding newborns makes me very nervous. I frantically rack my brain for a plausible excuse.
‘Oh I really shouldn’t. I am just getting over a terrible case of mono.’
‘I’m a dropper.’
‘I’ve just been handling livestock, so…’
I decide to go with the dropping excuse. No responsible parent would ever hand over their baby to a known dropper. Luckily though, this friend has known me for many years and the baby holding issue never comes up. Plus the baby is firmly encased in a sling that goes around her neck and it looks incredibly challenging to ever get him out of there.
She and her husband take us to a Mexican restaurant for lunch. I am reluctant because of what I had heard about the Mexican food in England, but they assure us that the place is really good. It turns out to be incredible and has some of the best hot sauce I’ve ever tried. My friend tells me this is a relatively recent phenomenon, that 5 years ago you couldn’t get edible Mexican food in London but it is slowly starting to catch on.
After lunch we walk around the docks of East London and my friend and her husband tell us interesting bits of history about the neighborhood. She is one of those people that I can go 10 years without seeing, but instantly feel comfortable with each other, like no time has passed at all. We make plans to have lunch again the next day and then hug goodbye.
My mom and I hop on a boat back to central London to meet my cousin from Hastings for a drink. I really bonded with this cousin and am excited to see him one more time. We are supposed to meet him at a place called The Groucho Club, which my friend has informed us is a very exclusive Members Only Club.
In America I wouldn’t be caught dead in a ‘Members Only Club’, but in England I absolutely love this idea and hope desperately that I get a special jacket to wear.
The boat ride is down the Thames and seems like a cool way to see some sights. We buy tickets and wait for our boat. My mom wants to be responsible for holding the tickets.
“Are you sure?” I ask doubtfully. She has so far lost almost everything I have given her to hold this entire trip.
“Yes, trust me” she says.
The river is a dark, dirty brown, but the sky has the most magnificent clouds I’ve seen yet and the bridges and buildings lining the water are amazing. I love being on a boat and am standing at the back enjoying the breeze and the view, when a guy comes around to check tickets. My mom hands him ours.
He scrutinizes it for a few seconds.
“Mam, this is a Cardiff bus pass.”
Oh Christ, I think.
“That’s impossible!” she exclaims. “I just bought tickets for this boat and that is what the man gave me.”
“Have you been to Cardiff recently?” he asks her.
My mom nods reluctantly.
“Then I think this is your bus pass from there. I need to see your boat tickets.”
“But that is what he gave me for a boat ticket” she says stubbornly.
I listen with interest. What does she think is going to happen? That she is going to make this guy believe that the ticket agent at the boat dock in East London gave her a bus pass from Cardiff, Wales? And, seriously where are our tickets?
“Mom, can you look in your purse? Or your pockets?”
“I swear to God, that is what he gave me!” she cries.
I have to give her credit for sheer persistence.
Although we never manage to find the tickets, the boat guy lets us slide. Even though he obviously knows better I think he is half convinced that my mom is telling the truth about the bus pass. I’m just irritated because where was that bus pass when we needed it back in Wales?
Once we get off the boat we head to Soho, where the Groucho Club is located. Soho has a very cool, artsy vibe to it, and even though I do not get a Members Only jacket we still have a great time in The Groucho Club.
My mom, our cousin, and I share a delicious bottle of an Italian white wine, while he keeps us entertained with stories about our family history. The waitress brings us a bowl of what looks like pretzel sticks. I pop a few in my mouth.
“Uck, what is this? It is disgusting!”
“Those are Twiglets.” My cousin says.
Twiglets are similar in texture to a pretzel, but have a Marmite flavor to them. They have a god awful bitter taste.
I gulp some wine to get the taste out of my mouth.
My cousin continues his story about visiting our relatives in Syria.
“I thought you didn’t like those” my mom says as I eat more Twiglets.
“I HATE them” I agree vehemently.
“Then stop eating them” she says.
But that is the funny thing about Twiglets. You can’t.
The three of us leave the club and walk to the nearest tube station. We pass through Chinatown on the way.
I absolutely love seeing Chinatowns in different countries. It fascinates me that no matter where you are in the world Chinatown will always look the same. The vibrant red colors, the smells, the Chinese writing, the sounds, the beautiful Chinese lanterns. In London Chinatown the only way you know you are still in England is the huge banner with the new Royal couples face on it strung across the street.
After sad hugs and kisses goodbye – who knows when we will see each other again – my cousin gets on a train back to Hastings and my mom and I get on a tube to North London. We are having dinner with a friend of hers from when she used to live here. She hasn’t seen him in 37 years.
London is divided into four Zones. Zone 1 is the center of the city, Zone 2 is perfectly acceptable to visit or live in, Zone 3 is considered to be the far outer reaches of the city, and Zone 4 is so remote that I have yet to meet a person who has ever actually been there. I am not entirely sure if it even exists. My mom’s friend lives on the border of Zone 2 and 3 so I have prepared myself for a long subway ride, but within 15 minutes we arrive.
I am expecting a somewhat dull evening, but my mom’s friend and his long time girlfriend turn out to be utterly charming and entertaining. They take us to a little Italian restaurant in their neighborhood where I eat the best grilled calamari I have ever had in my entire life. It is unbelievably tender, just lightly grilled with olive oil, fresh red peppers, and lemon.

As my mom and I ride back to my cousins, we are both filled with sadness that tomorrow will be our last full day in England. The trip has flown by and neither of us feels ready to leave.  I vow to keep my eyes open for any squatting opportunities tomorrow so we can stay forever.

                                            

DAY 14

Part I - I’m Gonna Be Huge In Japan

Since today is our last day we spend the first half of it frantically trying to see everything we possibly can. By noon we have hit up Piccadilly Circus (London’s equivalent to Times Square), Regent Street (equivalent to 5^th Ave), The Marble Arch (a large white arch that seems horribly misplaced on a busy London street), and three parks. By the time we reach Buckingham Palace we are both tired and crabby. All I had for breakfast was a yogurt and it feels like I haven’t eaten in weeks. We snap a few obligatory pictures and then get on a tube to meet my childhood friend and her husband for lunch.
The plan is to meet near Brick Lane and then to eat at one of their favorite Indian restaurants. I love Indian food and heard if you know where to go in London you can find some of the best Indian food in the world. I am grateful to have locals to show us where to go, especially when we get to Brick Lane and realize there are endless blocks of curry houses all claiming to be the greatest in England. Although the street is something of a tourist trap it still retains a charm to it. The smell of curry is strong, the street is loud and busy, and the restaurant owners aggressively trying to get you to enter their establishment simply adds to the experience.
Once we get further up the street, it starts to remind me of Venice Beach, in California. There are hip record stores, tattoo parlors, awesome graffiti on the walls, and sculptures of psychodelic mushrooms on some of the buildings roofs. Reggae music drifts out of one of the clubs we walk by.
As we are walking a man stops me and asks if he can take my picture. He tells me he works for a Japanese fashion magazine and is doing a feature on how women dress in London. I am a little unsure but decide to go ahead and let him take my picture. As soon as he is done I start to walk off but he stops me. He has whipped out a notebook and starts asking me questions about where I am from, my occupation, and my age.
Now that he has gotten closer to me he is starting to look at my clothes somewhat doubtfully. “Who makes your shirt?” he asks.
“Uh…” As I look down at the long sleeved black shirt I am wearing, we both notice a hole in the left sleeve at the same time. I quickly put my hand behind my back.
“I’ve had it for awhile” I explain lamely.
“We will just call that ‘Vintage’,” he says as he jots something down in his notebook “What about your skirt?”
“Banana Republic” I say proudly. I got the skirt from the sales rack at Banana Republic for 40 bucks and it is by far the nicest thing I am wearing.
He does not look impressed. “The purse?” he asks me hopefully.
“Oh…that came from Target” He has never heard of Target and I try my best to portray it as an awesome store in America that all the hip people shop at.
He has completely stopped writing in his notebook. “Your boots?”
My boots are pieces of shit that I got at a clearance sale at Kohl’s. I frantically rack my brain for a cool designer I could tell him, but my mind is a blank.
“My boots? Well…they are also Vintage.” He puts his notebook and camera back in his bag. “From California” I add desperately.
“Uh huh. Thanks” he says.
“Um…can I get a free copy of that magazine or something? Or, can you just tell me the name of it?” I call after him. He keeps walking without turning back.
I walk over to my friends and mom. My friend’s husband thinks that my face will soon be photo shopped onto people doing unspeakable acts on internet porn sites. My mom thinks that I will be featured in the “What Not to Wear” section of the magazine.
I choose to believe that a whole new generation of Japanese women will be dressing exactly like me, and that millions of little Japanese girls will soon have my poster plastered on their walls. 
The Indian restaurant proves to be everything they have promised and I am in heaven as I scarf down every dish set in front of me.
After lunch we say our good-byes and my mom and I head off to complete our touristy duties.

Part II – Underground Rock Star

One of my favorite things about big cities is how dramatically they can change from street to street. I love when you turn a corner and the neighborhood you enter has an entirely different feel from the one you were just in. London has this quality in spades. We leave Brick Lane and enter the Financial District. They are night and day from each other. We are now amongst tall shiny silver buildings, and everyone is rushing around dressed in suits, clutching newspapers opened to what I can only assume is the stock page tightly in their hands.
We have decided to check out the London Tower, Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey so we can feel that we successfully saw all the main sights. I have mapped out the perfect, most efficient route on the tubes so we can make the most of our limited time.
I spot the entrance to the underground station from a mile away and we join the massive crowd. We swipe our pre-paid Oyster cards as quickly and easily as the locals, and find the signs for the Circle line without even pausing. As we walk swiftly through the seemingly never ending tunnel I catch sight of a man standing against the wall with a suitcase and a microphone singing his heart out to Steve Winwood’s ‘Higher Love’, which is one of my all time favorite songs. As I stand there and hum along I marvel at the fact that not one other person stops, or even so much as looks his way. I wonder about his story. What is in his suitcase? Is he a local, or a visitor trying to make some extra cash? Does he travel the world spreading joy by singing classic Winwood tunes in subway stations? Do you have to have a permit or something to sing in the tube tunnels or can anyone do it? 
I am actually running quite low on cash myself and am about to ask if he would be interested in doing a duet, when I realize I have lost my mother. I hurry off to catch up with her before she becomes permanently missing.
 The tube we are taking to the London Tower is the most crowded we have been on yet. We squeeze on and stand right next to the door because it is impossible to get any further. It is hot and smelly and extremely claustrophobic. My mom buries her head in her arm and refuses to look up. I notice the man crammed next to me staring intently at me.
“Hi.” I say and give him a sympathetic smile.
He continues to stare silently straight into my eyes. I feel incredibly uncomfortable and turn my head the other way and look out the window into the underground darkness. I feel much better until I notice that he is now staring directly at my reflection. I decide to get off one stop early. I rouse my mom and we get the hell off the tube. When I look back I see his face smashed against the window still staring.
“What the hell is that about?” My mom asks me.
“I don’t know. I think he wants to kill me.” I don’t feel better till we get up into the sunshine and walk towards London Tower.
London Tower is big and imposing, and has great views looking over the River Thames. The weather is warm and beautiful and the mid afternoon light provides a perfect backdrop by the time we get to Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey.
We spend some time appreciating each of the sights and then head off to meet a friend for dinner in Notting Hill.

Part III – Dance The Night Away…Or Not

We meet our Cambridge friend at his local watering hole in Notting Hill. He gives us a tour of the charming neighborhood and has us pose on the front steps of his parent’s house. He claims it is the house used for Absolutely Fabulous but since neither my mom nor I have ever seen the show it is highly possible he is just playing a trick on us.
He takes us to dinner at a great little restaurant where I order salmon cakes (the British version of salmon patties) and something called an Eton Mess for dessert since I think it sounds funny. It does indeed look like a big mess of whipped cream and berries, but tastes absolutely delicious.
Since this will be my last night in England I want to go big, but my friend has an early morning meeting and my mom wants to go to bed for inexplicable reasons. Luckily, I have a girlfriend from California who is currently living in London who is always up for a good time. She meets us near Portobello Road where the 4 of us plan on having one drink together before splitting up. Unfortunately every single place we try to go is closed. It is only 11 at night but the entire street (which is a fairly famous street in London) is shutting down. My mom hops in a taxi back to my cousins, my one friend heads home to bed, and it is just me and my girlfriend. We are determined to find somewhere to drink and dance. After about 10 more times of us walking into places and being told they are closed we finally find a place that is open. The words ‘arts club’ are in the name of the place, which seems slightly strange to us, but the doorman assures us that there is a DJ playing downstairs and that it is awesome.
We walk down a long dark staircase and enter a low ceilinged room covered in graffiti. It screams dungeon torture chamber and my friend and I look at each other a little uncertainly. Since we have absolutely no other options we figure we will give the place a try. There is a bar in the middle of the room where we order drinks from an extremely bored looking bartender. The only other people in the place are two kids making out at a dirty booth and one guy dancing in front of the DJ, who appears to have fallen asleep at his turntables. We sit down in the corner, catch up with each other, and soak in the bizarreness of the place. We really want to dance but the one guy out there appears to be in the middle of a serious drug trip and he is all over the place. Twirling, swinging his arms, kicking out his legs, and manically gyrating. It doesn’t quite seem worth the risk, especially since the DJ is just playing the same song over and over again.
My friend feels bad that my one big night out in London is a bust, but I don’t care. The place is hilarious and I have fun just talking and hanging out with her.
When we leave she offers to help me find a taxi, but I am determined to find my own way back to my cousins, minus a taxi. Taking a taxi always feels like a defeat to me. Where is the challenge in waving down a taxi?  How does that help me confirm that my street smarts are at the genius level? I decide to take the underground back to my cousin’s neighborhood.
I quickly discover that the tubes are no longer running. I had just assumed in a city like London they would run 24 hours a day. Apparently this is not the case. Lesson learned. No problem, I think, I will just hop on bus 6. I head to the nearest bus stop. Turns out bus 6 doesn’t run at this time of night either.
After fighting off a rising wave of panic, I study the bus time table. There are 2 night buses and according to the map one goes close to my cousin’s street. I think.
When the bus pulls up to the stop I decide to chance it and hop on. There are three people on the bus and all of them are fast asleep. I figure if worse comes to worst I will join them in slumber and find another route in the morning. After about 30 minutes of driving around unfamiliar neighborhoods, the bus starts driving down a street I recognize. My cousin’s house is about 3 blocks over from it. I get off at the next stop and walk the few blocks to my cousins, marveling at how savvy I am. I’m incredibly impressed with my own impressiveness and wake my mom up when I get to the house to tell her all about it. She doesn’t seem nearly as proud as I feel she should be, but I figure she is just jealous. She mutters something about her taxi ride only taking 5 minutes and falls back asleep. I am sad my last night is over, but I am exhausted and I soon join her in slumber.

DAY 15 

A Fond Farewell to Mother England

We have a relatively early flight, so we basically just have to wake up and go. One of our cousins is nice enough to offer us a ride to the train station, where my mom insists we take the Heathrow Express. I say fine as long as she is paying. The day is gray and angry, the worst weather I’ve seen since I’ve been here. I can tell that England is as sad to see me go as I am to leave.
Once we get checked in at the airport we head to a little restaurant so I can have my last full English breakfast and a ginger beer. I enjoy every bite smothered with brown sauce.
On the way to our gate my mom buys more random sweets that she thinks represents England and grabs every single free publication we walk by. By the time we get to the gate she has 6 newspapers and 4 magazines.
“What are you going to do with all those?” I ask her.
“Give them out as souvenirs.”
I take one out of her hand to look at. It is a small independent magazine listing local events. It is also 3 weeks old. I laugh. Who the hell is going to want that as a souvenir?
My seat on the plane turns out to be next to 3 middle aged men from Liverpool who are on their way to Las Vegas for the first time. The one right next to me offers me some Twiglets from an open bag.
I chuckle when I see them. “I better not,” I tell him, “I will end up eating your whole bag!”
The guys have never been out of England and are very excited to go to Vegas. They tell me what they are most looking forward to are the all you can eat buffets. I picture how different Las Vegas will be compared to what they are used to.
This is one of the things I love most about traveling. You get to experience new sights, new people, new food. You do and try things that you would never do at home. You learn things you would never know otherwise. If I didn’t go on this trip I never would have known that Great Britain is the island consisting of England, Wales, and Scotland, and that the United Kingdom is Great Britain plus Northern Ireland. I wouldn’t know that stag and hen parties are what the Brits call bachelor and bachelorette parties. I never would have tasted wild English garlic, authentic peaty Scotch whiskey, or fresh Welsh sausage. When you travel you get to immerse yourself in a new culture, and hopefully you grow and you change, and take home a little of that culture with you.
I picture myself back in the United States, trying to convince my local waitress to serve me baked beans with my breakfast, buying myself a wisteria plant for my backyard, and adding the word ‘brilliant’ to my everyday vocabulary. I think of the guys next to me coming back from Vegas unable to understand why they can no longer eat shrimp with their Belgium waffles and why their local gas station is missing a row of slot machines.
In one way traveling is a little like Twiglets, the more you have of it the more you want. Once you have started it is very hard to stop. I lean back in my seat as we take off and open up the first of the 4 new travel magazines I have bought, eager to get started on planning my next adventure. Should I go ostrich racing in South Africa? Snorkeling in Australia? Eat spiders in Cambodia? Who knows what will happen!