Prelude to an Empire, or An American Worn-out in London

I’m from the city. One of our rallying cries in Atlanta was, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m from Hollywood, dammit!” But ever since I stepped off the tube in Piccadilly Circus this afternoon, I’ve felt like a gawking country bumpkin. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve slept 3 of the last 36 hours, or maybe it’s the nonstop bustle, but I’ve been a little too overwhelmed to do much but settle today.

And why didn’t anyone tell me London was in Europe? All you hear about is Beckham and the latest in music and fashion, and they’re so crazy modern. This city’s like thousands of years old! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to Europe before, and I know that even the simple things like turning on a light switch or twisting a faucet aren’t necessarily gonna bring light or water (you should see the six-page memo accompanying this flat). But after the day(s) I had today, it was all I could do to just take a walk around St. James’, (which, by the way is like Beverly Hills as imagined by a mad duke crossed with Austin Powers. Everybody’s wearing those weird British suits that have just one button way up around your solar plexus. And all the shops have been selling extremely expensive finery from the same spot for centuries. Francis & Pancis, Fervent Glovers Since 1791. Codlitch and Fartwhistle, Cheesmongers, Established 1635. Foxhunt & Inbred, Gentlemen’s Hosiery and Fine Crystal Since 1066. They have a statue of a fop. I’m not kidding, I could barely lift the camera today but I’ll get you a picture. The inscription is something like, “His dashing charm and savoir faire epitomize this area to this very day.” I guess this is what’s called the West End.) running errands and then retreat back to the flat.


But I think I got everything pretty much figured out. Tomorrow I’m hoping to go up the London Eye and to Dali Universe and to Westminster Abbey, but I’m most excited because this evening in the public house on my mews, “Chequers,” over a steak and ale pie with chips and “mushy peas” (and a pint of Guinness, of course (you’re right, Micah, it does taste better here)) someone told me where the real football fans are. So I’m headed over to Islington in North London tomorrow night to find a place to watch England/Sweden. “We’re playin’ crap,” my new friend said as I tried to make conversation, “but it makes me happy you lot are out of it.”


Speaking of which, I’ve only been here 8 hours, but I know that I’m totally coming back with an accent. Already, I’m using “have you got” instead of “do you have” and saying, “Cheers, mate” and “Bob’s your uncle” (ok, not that one) so try not to talk to me for the first week or so of July.

Many photos to come.