The night bus and the good beer

Last Tuesday I attended my favorite regular swing dance in Balham. There was a live band and good dancers, but the highlight of that evening was the night bus.

In an attempt to locate the elusive blues dance scene, I had contacted a girl on a social networking site, facebook.com, asking about the possibilities of this scene's existence. While not offering much good news about blues, she said she was going to the swing dance in Balham. I met her there; she was nice and British. It turned out that she lived less than a ten minute walk from me, so instead of taking the lifeless tube home, I accompanied her as her "bus buddy" back home. Confident that she had a better understanding of London's bus network than I did, I thought this would be a good opportunity to save a quid and get more comfortable with using the buses. Upon boarding the bus, I immediately took up the "poll position" (top and front on the double decker bus). This position has the advantage of the illusion that the bus takes up more space on the road than it actually does. Consequently I was overly thrilled with the feeling of squishing small cars and the occasional wayward pedestrian. The girl I was with, Heather, invoked the scene from Harry Potter of the night bus squeezing between traffic, dodging taxis, and in the rare case leaping over stopped cars (or was that last one from Inspector Gadget?). She went on to suggest that J.K.Rowling must have ridden in this position at some point. I was too enthralled with the leaning sensation of the driver testing the full extent of the double-decker's handling while racking up point flattening drunks who found themselves caught in the headlights to register anything more that she said.

Since that night I have been inspired to take the bus whenever possible. Thursday night, I took the bus from the university to my residence. I was sorely disappointed that this was one of the routs that employed one of the few non-double-decker buses. Despite that, it was much more interesting riding on the bus through Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, and over the Westminster Bridge, than staring at the advertisements on the inside of the tube cars.

So far in London, I had not had a quality "cask ale". Today I was determined to change that. I had picked up a Time Out that boasted on the front cover, "50 Best West End Pubs". It cost $5, but I was determined (luckily it came with a voucher for a free pint, so it was not money wasted by any means). So I planned my day. First I would visit an exhibit of antique maps of London, then I'd finish off with a quality beer at one of the listed pubs.

Of course, I took the bus to the British Library where the map exhibition was. The exhibition (http://www.bl.uk/) was much better than I was expecting and was quite incredible for someone who had once worked in an antique map shop. I spent nearly three hours just staring at the old maps. While some people there were excited to find that where they live now was just a field in 1687, I was excited by the history. I was especially impressed with how small London had been for nearly all of its history (relative to today). I could walk in 15 minutes the length of the walled city without as much as a need to stop for a beer. However, after staring at maps for three hours, I was in need of a beer, a quality beer.

I had mapped out the pub I would attempt before leaving the residence halls. It was called "The Lamb" and they supposedly served a good seasonal ale. It was a short walk from the library. The fact that I walk fast (especially when good beer is on the line) made the walk considerably faster. My first impression of the place was good. Their main taps were not the dribble that I had previously encounters. They sported Young's Winter Warmer, which I asked to try. Indeed, I had found quality. "A pint of that, please!" The bartender was enthusiastic about the beers on tap; always a good sign. But as she pulled the pint... it ran out! Even she looked like she was disappointed. She offered that her next favorite was a combination of Young's two other beers. "Sounds good to me." And it was. Finally satisfied, I settled down with a quality pint, a plate of chips, and my Consumer Behaviour textbook. There was something about relaxing with a local beer and studying in a warm pub that felt culturally satisfying. When I finished shortly after turning dark, I took the bus home and grinned as I squished unsuspecting pedestrians from above.

Tim Tam Slam

There are times when I wander around the city at night. It's an old habit from when I was here last. There is imagery that I would like to capture, but I have to experience it as it happens. However, I do make the attempt to invoke some of the experiences though my rudimentary photography. And so I have adopted this practice of night photography. The essence is loneliness. Places outside of the parts of the city with a lively nightlife are in the shadow of a sleeping titan.

Tonight, however, was nothing like that. Tonight I had my first Tim Tam Slam. While grocery shopping a few days back, I came across something called Penguins. The biscuit, not the bird. These seemed familiar to me and I instantly remembered, and hoped that I was correct because I did not want to buy the bird, that these were the British versions of Australian Tim Tams. They were only a pound and it also included 100% more free! I couldn't resist. Even if I was buying an endangered animal, at least I was getting two times the amount. Last Spring, Nadia had told me of this delicious Australian ritual called a Tim Tam Slam. This specifically involved these steps: 1) biting of both ends of the double-decker milk chocolate covered biscuit, 2) dipping it in the tasty hot beverage of your choice, 3) sucking the liquid through the biscuit, 4) shoving the biscuit into your mouth before it fell apart into your beverage thereby ruining it. Knowing this, I was wishing even more that I was not purchasing something that I would regret biting both ends of.

Now, I didn't have all of the necessary equipment to attempt this feat. I first needed tasty hot liquid, and second a mug to put it in. So I went to Tesco and bought some mint tea, my favorite thing to dip chocolate things into. Next I went to Woolworth and spent a good five minutes trying to find a suitable mug. I found a rather cute one with a tiger on it. I figured that if it was indeed chocolate covered antarctic wildlife that I had back in my room, that the tiger would eat it first. No, I didn't seriously believe that, I just liked the tiger. So now I was prepared to experience my first Tim Tam Slam.

After I had dinner, I prepared the mint tea in the tiger mug and lined up three individually wrapped Penguins. I was prepared with a bowl in case there was a mess. I waited for the tea to cool while I read how Gordon Brown is setting himself up to take over as the second most hated politician in the UK. My tea had cooled, so I unwrapped a penguin, bit off both ends, and stuck it neck first into the hot tea. I sucked cautiously at the other end and then with more intensity as I encountered the chocolaty mint tea. As I felt the biscuit start to give away between my fingers, I shoved the saturated mass into my mouth. I realized that was the "slam" part as soon as the sensation of warm mushy chocolate reached the top of my spine, knocking me back up against the microwave. No, that's not serious either, I am sure I just looked pleased. However, I quickly became conscious of how I must actually look should anyone have come in at that moment. I had melted milk chocolate covering my fingers and my face like some four-year-old who discovered how to open the jar of jam. I didn't really care that much, after all, I had just successfully completed my first Tim Tam Slam.

I promptly followed the experience with two more that were still individually wrapped. This is something that I will be sharing with other people I meet while I'm here, as long as I can get 100% more free!

I also had my second of four courses today. This course, or "module" as they are called here, was Building and Developing a Commercial Website. The lecturer was a rather old and rather large man, not unlike Santa Clause, with a slight German accent. He has a serious sense of humor and I found myself wanting to argue every point that he tried to make about web design, fairly frustrated that he was convinced that he was right in all cases. So naturally I am keeping this course, even if I am not sure how it will transfer back to Portland State.

Yesterday I met up with the Danish girls and the two French guys after class at the student bar. I took this opportunity to re-learn and even write down the French pick-up line I had so recently forgotten. And tonight while dancing, I met a girl from France. I left my notebook at the dorm where the magic phrase was written, so I will have to try next week, but obviously things here are coming together rather nicely.

Foot in Mouth Disease

Last Monday I went to a bar where a number of this semester's international students were meeting. It was a 2 for 1 night, so the number was far more than the little bar was designed to accommodate. The beer was the mass produced drivel that is found in too many of the pubs here. The room was smoky and as warm as it was crowded. This was not my scene. I had my two drinks, a Guinness and a sub-par G&T, said goodbye to a few friends that I had made and headed for the door.

As I was saying goodbye to a girl that I had met at the University of Westminster orientation earlier that day, I got caught up in a photo-op and conversation with the group she was sitting with. They turned out to be three girls from Denmark. Well, it wasn't so smoky and they weren't American, so I struck up conversation. They spoke excellent English and we compared cultures, politics and so on. After some chatting, a Brit broke into the conversation. He asked where we were from and the girls replied Denmark. He gestured at me, "and you?" he asked. "Denmark as well," I replied.

He went on to talk mostly to the girls, but I didn't feel much of a need to engage. After all, he had gotten the notion I was Danish and I didn't want to disappoint him. He complemented our accents, mine included. "The Danes have such beautiful accents," he said. Inevitably the topic turned to Americans. He noted that a good number of the international students were American and that he didn't particularly like that fact. "They're very loud," he said. I chimed in enthusiastically, "I know, especially in restaurants and on the tube!" He agreed and proceeded to unknowingly fit his entire right foot inside his rather large mouth. Although I was mostly amused, I did feel a little guilty for being so deceptive. But not guilty enough to stop him.

When I had said that I was Danish initially, the other girls smiled, but did not correct me. However, they did make reference to me as an American throughout the conversation. This Brit did not seem to be listening very well, otherwise he may have at least saved himself a big toe to snack on later.

He did get full eventually and made his way elsewhere not realizing that he had just eaten an American sized portion of foot.

The night proceeded and I stuck around with the real Danes to chat more. Soon we were joined by two French students. I impressed them with my three French phrases. After I made my impression, they seemed determined to expand my vocabulary, so we taught each other tactless pick-up lines. One guy seemed rather serious about his and guaranteed it would work on any French girl. It's a shame that I can't remember it now as I would rather enjoy being laughed at by any French girl.

We ended up staying until the bar began to close. They headed towards their own hall of residence and I took the tube home. Maybe if I am lucky, I will run into that Brit again before I leave.

Delayed

My flight has been delayed. I should be leaving at 8:30 am now. This will give me a little more time to disbelieve that I am flying to London today. Instead of leaving under the cover of night, I will watch one more sunrise in Portland over the tail of my docked, but broken, Boeing 757. The tune this morning will be a kind Japanese voice over the intercom stating that Northwest flight 57 has arrived.

I do not yet understand that I am leaving. But like many things that I do not believe in, such as an orbiting tea pot, I will soon realize that the reality of my departure does exist. Perhaps this realization will come to me before I arrive at London. Probably not.