London: In which not much happens, but the little that does is choice

So, London. Finally back in the English-speaking world. I hadn't been to London for more than 12 hours since 2001, so it was nice to be back. Of course, the last time I was in London for more than 12 hours, I was a practicing lawyer with lots of cash and a rolling suitcase on a one week vacation, not a soon to be grad student finishing up several months of travel possessed only of a very large backpack. Very different vibe.

Initial annoyance: I (foolishly) booked a hotel for my first night in town on Expedia. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. Plus, the photos of the hotel seemed fine, and they had room service, which was key, since I was arriving late with no chance to have dinner beforehand (yes, this will be relevant). Upon check-in, I was immediately taken across the street to overflow housing (what hotel has overflow housing?), where I was given the smallest hotel room I've ever seen (seriously) with the tiniest bathroom to match. Starving, I began searching frantically for the room service menu (no luck). So I called the front desk to ask where the menu was. No menu.

ME: Well, is there room service. Because the website says there's room service. FRONT DESK: Yes.
ME: Well, what do you have?
FRONT DESK: Sandwiches.
ME: What kind of sandwiches?
FRONT DESK: We may have vegetable. I'll have to check.
ME: Forget about it.

When a website indicates that a hotel has room service, I take that to mean a menu, some options, and a guy who comes to the room carrying a tray and expecting a tip. Not maybe we have vegetable sandwiches. (Maybe I'm just like my mother/She's never satisfied.)

My other favorite thing about the hotel: it was situated about 10 feet away from a Tube platform, so my room shook every time the train zoomed by. Good times.

Aside from the first night, London was great. I spent the rest of my stay there with my friend Nina, who is lots and lots of fun. I went to Hampton Court Palace my first full day in town, which was just the right amount of cool historical stuff (fitting in rather nicely with my having just read a historical novel about Lady Jane Grey) and lovely soothing rose gardens. I also finally made it to the London Eye. The views are amazing, it's true, but I don't think I go to London for views of that kind. The things I want to see are all on the ground and not terribly high up.

More fun things in London: drinks with Todd and Carol and Jacqueline Kennedy (and of course Nina). Well, technically, Jacqueline Kennedy wasn't having "drinks" with us, as she is a little dog and a teetotaler, but she was allowed in the pub. Todd also let us see his amazing flat in Notting Hill which features (among other crazy rock star things, like his bathroom, which is considerably bigger than the hotel room I mentioned earlier) a garden AND a small house, the sole purpose of which is to give Todd a place to work on and store his mosaics(!?!) Love it. I also got to see a new friend I met in Tonga (not Tongan) who is now in business school in Spain, and who I think is pretty amazing. And not just because he's going to business school to do socially responsible entrepreneurship (although that helps).

Oh, weird conversation I overheard (so not English). While waiting for Nina to get home from work, I decided to have some Indian. Note: the Indian food I had in London was much tastier (and spicier) than anything I got in India. I'm just saying. The restaurant was empty, with the exception of a couple that came after I'd already been seated. Yes, I know that when there's not the general buzz caused by multiple simultaneous conversations, you can hear your fellow diners more easily. You can also hear them more easily when they shout. Basically, an older white American guy was there with his significantly younger West African companion. And the older guy decided that everyone in the restaurant needed to hear every story of every time he or anyone he knew had been gay-bashed, particularly those stories involving West African women doing the bashing (a former paramour of his had ended up in the hospital in this way). His young companion kept trying to make him lower his voice, but the speaker would have none of it (something to do with not being ashamed, and also wanting more wine). While I completely agree that being bashed is nothing for the victim to be ashamed of, I think it is completely appropriate to be ashamed when every diner and server in a restaurant can hear your conversation so well they'd think you were talking to them. Advice to the West African beau: start eating dinner at home.

So, I confess, I haven't done London justice. Part of this is faulty memory. The rest is the fact that London book-ended my trips to Bath and Oxford, so not only was I not there long, but I wasn't there continuously. Bath and Oxford will be the subject of my next entry.