Ye Olde Trip to London

Not a week after returning home (Brooklyn, NY) from home (Bulgaria) I was on a plane to London (definitely not home). This is my second trip to the old capital - however never seem to remember that traffic moves on the wrong side (left), and I regularly cause taxi drivers arrhythmia while crossing streets (by the way, cabs are taxis here). Perhaps this is a conspiracy of the British government to clear their blue blood population off those pesky foreigners. London, much like New York, is full of aliens. I get the feeling almost all of the staff in our hotel is from the former Soviet Union.

The price of our hotel includes a full English breakfast (bound to clog some of your blood vessels with the variety of sausages and bacon). The concierge, though incredibly helpful and knowledgeable of London, is almost as greasy as the breakfast and annoyingly servile -- I’m sure for the right tip he could find me a hit man and a kilo of cocaine. And since he's there every day all day, he knows precisely when I come, and go, when I eat breakfast, etc.

Central London's streets are narrow. Sometimes what might look like a narrow passage between two buildings is actually a street and cabs fly through it. Cabs are quite charming - unchanged since the mid-nineteen century, they have high roofs, so the gentlemen could ride without having to take off their top hats. They fit five people and there's plenty of leg room. They have no trunk, but surprisingly all our oversized luggage fit.

Despite my crazy work schedule I had an afternoon this Sunday to walk about and attempt to snatch me a prince or at least a duke. No princes or dukes were in sight so I went on to admire the old architecture - you know, the Buckingham palace, the Parliament, Big Ben, Trafalgar square. Then I guess I made the wrong (or right) turn off Piccadilly Circus because I found myself on a sex-shop/striptease filled street where two girls (about my age) were hustling passing men to come see the show.
One of the meetings I had to attend was held in a pub called the Red Lion. I waved a taxi, but when I told the driver the name of the place, he asked - "Which one?” Apparently the Red Lion is quite a common name for a pub. Other common names are "The Lamb and the Lion", "The Pig and the Whistle", "The Fat Cat", "The Old Archbishop and the Naughty Choir Boy" (last one is made up but not unlikely). English pubs open around noon and close at twelve at night. I was told that the tradition comes from the past, when men had to get up for work (mine, factory, etc.) before dawn, and by closing the pubs by 12 am men were forced to go home instead of drink all night. I find this old tradition quite barbaric -- where is a self-respecting Bulgarian supposed to drink when visiting London? However locals usually have a little something around noon, which makes their afternoon pass by quickly (which is not a bad idea). I ordered a drink and lunch in the Red Lion and the bartendress asked me for the money right away -- I was quite offended, what is she thinking that I'm going to dine and dash -- it turns out this is how they do it.

London's weather really is London's weather - you never know what you are going to get, but you can always bet on rain.

Stay tuned.