I Guess I’ll Go to London
Days 127 – 128
May 4 – 5
London, United Kingdom
My goal was to get to from
Belgium to Scotland and start exploring the highlands, but the cheapest method
routed me through London. And when circumstance
conspires for me to see one of Earth’s most famous cities, opportunity is worth
following.
I think it is worthwhile to
note that there is a difference between the United Kingdom, Britain, and
England, something that I did not fully realize until I met two English chaps
in Prague. The first of this triad is
England, which is just that: England, the country itself. The one we all know and love as the kingdom
on a tiny island that managed to control one quarter of the world’s population
at its peak a century ago, and they were even being sneaky enough to get
Scotland to join their ranks with the Act of Union in 1707. In the United States, when we think of the
British that we spanked back in 1776, we think of the English, which made up
the majority of the Red Coats (Scots were fighting on both sides of the
war). And although they left us on our
merry way for a while, they did throw a tiff about it in 1812, but that is
another story. Now, Britain has a bit of
a different background. See, all English
are British, but not all British are English.
It’s a little bit like the square and rectangle thing. Great Britain includes not just England but
also the countries of Scotland and Wales.
But don’t call a Scot a Brit! They
have a proud history and identify themselves as being Scottish, although
semantically they are also British. To
make the United Kingdom, just tack on the country of Northern Ireland, and
you’re set. Without knowing more about
the subject, I suspect that the greatest difference between Great Britain and
the United Kingdom (besides the inclusion of Northern Ireland) is the lack of a
pronoun to describe people from the latter.
You’ve heard of the British, but who has ever heard of a United
Kingdomer? Perhaps the term UniKorn is
prefered? Just throwing some ideas out
there.
It should be specially noted
here that (the Republic of) Ireland is not included in any of these three
designations. This is pretty
important. Not only is Ireland a separate country from Northern Ireland, but the Irish have an exceptional
hatred for the English that we Americans had lost in the wake of WWII. With all those alliances with Winston
Churchill against the Nazis and the Commies, I think we found it in our hearts
to forgive the old Red Coats for their centuries of imperial shenanigans. This is not as true with the Irish. They still hate them, but that is another
story for later when I visit the island of my ancestors.
During my six hour bus journey
from Belgium to London, I spent two hours in France, thirty minutes of which
were spent in mandatory customs before crossing the English Channel, and thirty
seconds of which were spent being hand-frisked by a quite-ugly, rather-large
French customs official. And while I
like to think that he specifically chose to frisk me because of my dashing good
looks and husky beard, it turns out he was frisking everyone, since there was
not a single piece of technology in the building being used for scanning people
for weapons. In 21st century
America, we have scanners that are so high-speed that they can see what kind of
lint you have in your pocket. In 21st
century France, they just molest you.
You never know if someone is carrying a dangerous butter knife next to
their fun parts. I suppose that when you
spend all of your nation’s income on welfare, you don’t have much money left
over for security.
In 1944, there was only one
way to cross the English Channel: with brute force and a massive coalition
military. In 2018, there are three ways
to cross the English Channel: above it, on top of it, and under it. You can fly, you can take a boat, or you can
board a train that goes through a tunnel dug under the channel. None of these are good options for those with
claustrophobia, but one of them is worse than others (I don’t have
claustrophobia, I’m just speaking facetiously).
When I booked a bus from Ghent to London, I was curious how we were
going to drive on water. My questions
were answered as the tube we parked in grew enclosing walls and we assumed
travel inception: on a bus, in a train, in a tunnel, under the English Channel.
In London, I found that the
cheapest, fastest, and possibly the most dangerous way to travel was on a
bicycle. And with a bike-sharing service
with charging stations as common as 7/11 in Thailand, it was easy to grab a
ride from anywhere to anywhere. I have
to admit, it was hard on the brain to process navigation of the intricate maze
that is the London inner-city street map, not to mention relearning how to flow
with traffic when they are driving on the wrong side of the road. Normally, when I ride, I make eye contact
with drivers before crossing streets to ensure that they saw me and aren’t
going to unite me with thousands of pounds of metal, plastic, and rubber. Which is why I was surprised when I looked
into the cockpit of the first car that crossed paths with me and saw no one
there! Then again, I’m not used to
looking at the seat on the right for the driver.
With only a short time in
London, I did some of the typical London bucket list items: I saw Big Ben
(which is under construction for the first time in history), attended communion
at Westminster Abbey (the best way see the interior without having to pay the outrageous
entry fee), ate fish and chips (I think the Brits make fries better than the Belgians,
but I wouldn’t say this to their face, mostly because I have better things to
do than listen to an hour-long rant about fries), walked across London Bridge
(it’s just a bridge, nothing special, with cars and people just like any other
bridge), watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and took
advantage of all of the free museums. But
48 hours was all I had, and at the end of it I was happy to be on my way to Glasgow
in the land of my red-bearded ancestors: Scotland!
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| Big Ben was under construction while I was there. While many people were disappointed by this, I saw it as special. I now possess a rare photo of the famous tower covered in scaffolding, a first (and possibly last) time in history. |
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| At the Tate Modern, there is a box made out of mirrors with many holes drilled into it. While unimpressive from the outside, it's a trip on the inside. |
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| Also at the Tate Modern is a tower of radios standing from the floor to the ceiling, all playing a station from a different region of the world. |
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| I had one of the best seats outside of Buckingham Palace atop a statue that only kids (and me) were brave enough (persistent enough) to climb. |
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