Dispatch from London

During my last trip to London, I was reminded of the wisdom of the words spoken by John Travolta’s character Vincent Vega in the film Pulp Fiction: "It's the little things that make Europe different. I mean they got the same shit over there as we got here, but it’s just a little different." For example, it was hard to get our hands on napkins, which was just as well as garbage cans turned out to be a sort of Scarlet Pimpernel: virtually impossible to find, no matter how hard you looked. And for anyone with romantic notions about Buckingham Palace, note the following: There are weeds in the lawn! If you’re having a hard time imagining this, I don’t blame you – if someone had told me the truth before I’d seen it with my own eyes, I’d have more easily imagined Dolly Parton with acorn-sized breasts.

The money is a little different too. I had heard that London was expensive, but, as silly as it sounds, the pain is somewhat masked by conducting transactions in the local “funny money”, the British pound sterling. If you’re using cash, all of it has the same person on it (Queen Elizabeth II), subconsciously reducing the differentiation between a one-pound note and a twenty as you’re paying through the nose with the latter. Also, things cost half-again as much in dollars, so if you’re not doing the calculation all the time, you can feel one-third better than you ought to. This can have dire consequences, even if delayed, as you’ll soon see.

One night, dining out at a downscale pizza joint near the center of town, we ordered four small personal pizzas and two warm beers. During the meal, I noticed that a couple of men who’d sat down at an adjacent table were vigorously casting glances my way. At first, I thought it was because they were looking at something behind me, but when I turned I saw we were seated in front of a bare wall, so then I assumed it was because we were a little rummy from our trans-Atlantic flight and thus noisier than London norms permit. But eventually the waiter came by and served them a single dessert, which they shared, and the riddle of the glances (as well as that of their skin-tight jeans and matching pink shirts) was solved.

However, this unrequited sexual tension left me even more dazed than just the jet lag, which by itself would have easily been an adequate distraction from the yet-unidentified but oncoming financial crisis. But to make matters worse, in an effort to soothe the Maître d’ and the rest of the patrons for the nuisance of our perceived unruly behavior, my traveling companions had quit the restaurant, leaving me with one credit card with a notoriously suspect magnetic stripe, which of course failed. I said to the waiter that I’d be right back and that this happened all the time, but, to ease his concerns, I left my jacket on the chair, hoping not to return with the good credit card only to find my jacket being cradled in the arms of a pink-shirted man from the adjacent table. Fortunately, when I came back my jacket had remained in its place and everything was quickly resolved without incident, but I barely looked at the total as I scribbled my signature and pocketed the receipt.

Of course, this was just a delaying of the inevitable, which came the following day when we were touring Westminster Abbey. I pulled out the receipt while standing in the nave and, sure enough, I was overcome with the shock of paying $120 for four small cheese pizzas and two warm beers. “God damn it!” I exclaimed, to the horror of one of my traveling companions and more than a few of the pilgrims, whose glares were instantly trained on me.

As if in The Matrix, time slowed to a near-halt as unspoken bullets of disapproval converged on me. And as they did, the more primitive part of my brain sought shelter by nudging my memory neurons. I thought of a news program that we’d seen upon our arrival in London that profiled a star on the current Italian soccer team, Mario Balotelli. It was of great interest to the locals – Team Italy was playing in the finals of the UEFA Euro 2012 (an important soccer event that happens once every four years that I’d never heard of) – but my salvation was not to lie in the game, but rather in inspiration provided by the earlier off-field actions of the star. I had learned that within days of joining an English professional soccer team, Balotelli was involved in a car crash. He was carrying £5000 cash at the time – and that when a police officer asked why he had such a large sum of money he replied, "Because I am rich."

Inspired by his quick thinking, I in turn quickly came to my senses and, feigning a look of horror, looked behind me as if I were searching for whoever might be the heathen stupid enough to utter the unholy words. At the same time I pushed forward through the crush of humanity (packed in tightly to maximize profit made from charging an entrance fee of $25/person), pressing onward until I’d moved beyond the collective consciousness of the group that had heard me. And when I’d finally reached the safety of anonymity, I let a sigh of relief go, congratulating myself on my quick thinking and the fact that at least I hadn’t done it in the Vatican…