I realize that I was mid-series with the whole “how to plan a wedding” thing – and, if you so desire, I can still offer many helpful tips, including how to fulfill your cake designer’s thinly veiled requests for psychotherapy and how to avoid having an open wound on your ring finger during the ceremony. The series as a whole felt uninspired, though, apart from the several brief anecdotes I can provide on the theme, and I have larger and more recent stories to tell.

I use the term “recent” loosely, as the events I’m about to relate took place roughly 5 months ago as of this writing, but oh well. A 600-mile move and a semester of grad school got in the way of my art (and provided me with more source material, should I ever get around to recording it). Without further ado, then, here is the beginning of married life as I know it.

Note to new readers: I actually like England, despite what I’m about to say. You’ll just have to trust me that what appear to be relentless mockery and unfounded criticism are really just the ways I show love.

The thing A and I did most right in the whole trip organization process was to book a flight out of the country the next afternoon. It took us a good 4 hours just to leave town after the reception, and after that we had to drive an hour to the nearest airport with more than 5 gates, so I’d prefer not to imagine having to wake up for anything resembling a morning flight. 3 o’clock worked just fine.

Every coin has two sides, though, and the flip side to this was that a Trans-Atlantic flight that left at 3 PM was scheduled to put us on the ground around 7 AM local time – perfect if we had been well-rested, but that’s just not going to happen on a full Airbus without the aid of

1. a first-class ticket, or
2. copious amounts of ganja prescription medication,

both of which would have produced hangovers too brutal for a full day of sightseeing and were out of our budget, which we had already blown on rooms at Best Westerns and an economy-size rental car¹ . Instead, we would be forced to remain mostly awake while perhaps the only unsatisfied homosexual flight attendant I’ve ever met roamed the aisles calling out “Coffee…tea…SkyMiles²…” in the angriest monotone I’ve had the impish pleasure of encountering in recent memory.

Act 2: If I have to be a tourist, at least I get to be miserable doing it

Disclaimer: London is, of course, a city of great architectural and cultural beauty, full of vibrance, diversity, and sophistication. I just don’t always experience these things in the way others do, that’s all.

Remember when I said we were supposed to land at 7? Well, we got there about 1/2 hour early. Good, right? More time to explore the city and all, right? Yeah; that’s exactly why it’s bad. Imagine having the day I’m about to describe after about 3-4 hours of fitful, uncomfortable sleep.

After deplaning, getting through customs (a relatively quick, surprisingly non-invasive process), and exiting the terminal proper, we were presented with our first problem of the day. Being strangely more paranoid than I have been on prior overseas trips about ATM card-skimmers and the like, we had brought with us an amount of hard cash that was just slightly too large to be advisable. It all happened to be in our home currency, though, which wasn’t going to help us get on the train out of Heathrow. As is my custom, I abandoned my principles at the first sign of difficulty and headed for the nearest ATM, where I withdrew £50.

This turned out to be just enough money to get us train tickets into London and 2 Oyster cards (London’s transit system debit card), each with one fare. We found out we wouldn’t be needing the Oyster cards as quickly as we had imagined, though, since the Victoria Station Tube stop was closed for emergency service – several good signs all rolled up into one. This meant that we’d be taking our 2 weeks’ worth of luggage and walking until we found the next station. In the rain³.

The hike did give us a chance to change some of our nigh worthless American dollars into somewhat snootier British pounds along the way; what it didn’t provide us with is breakfast…or brunch…or whatever meal we were on by then. We noticed this when A, with little warning, added dizziness, nausea, and a headache to the list of baggage she was toting. We found the nearest Starbucks and huddled with our bags under an outside umbrella and feasted on a muffin and coffee. At least, that’s what she did; I, being the somewhat more venturous half of the couple, decided to go across the street to get a more traditional English breakfast. I returned 10 minutes later, slightly confused by the menu choices and the general lack of English spoken by the eatery’s employees, carrying a plate of hash browns, baked beans, and grilled tomato quarters which I had a somewhat incomplete recollection of ordering.

A fraction of our stomachs full, we were sufficiently equipped to board the Tube and finish the trek to our hotel.

Actually, that’s an oversimplification of the ensuing process. With the Victoria Station stop closed, getting from St. James’ Park to Marble Arch is a two-transfer, three-line ordeal. Add in the facts that the London Underground is a labyrinthine system of staircases⁴ and tunnels, only some of which you get to ride a train through, and that we had managed to hit the system right around the second peak of morning rush hour, and you have a recipe for a fun-filled Monday morning.

We had landed in London 1/2 hour early, but by the time we finally got to our smallish yet surprisingly well-appointed Best Western, we were roughly 2 hours behind schedule. Our schedule, at least – we were, of course, still several hours early for check-in, so all freshening up was done in the lobby bathrooms before we stored our bags in the lobby’s luggage room and headed out for a full day on the town.

Act 3: Wherein fatigue-induced amnesia distorts my recollections of the day

Our first stop was Westminster Abbey, which I hadn’t ponied up the entrance fee to actually see the inside of on any of my prior visits to London. You’d think from the name that it was a church, and you’d be partially right if you had taken into account that, historically, church and state have been even closer pals in England than they have been in America. I’m sure if one looks close enough, there’s something spiritual about the place, even if the only ones being worshiped are the military, literary, and scientific heroes (who aren’t all British, mind you) whose headstones/monuments provide the bulk of the Abbey’s interior decorations. The art and architecture are all very inspiring, of course; I’m just not sure exactly what they’re supposed to inspire. They’ve worked wonders for the tourism industry, at least; it’s difficult to even move inside the Abbey.

Nothing ominous or warlike about this, noo...

After our tour of the Church of War⁵, we headed to a quaint little bistro for lunch. The Churchill Cafe is a charming taste of London’s tourist district – a loud, inattentive staff who speak poor English jostle customers out of their way, insist there’s no tap water to be found in the entire restaurant, and serve up worse sandwiches than you can buy for less money at Tesco. It’s everything I love about the city summarized into a 45-minute crash course of pure frustration.

Our appetites somewhat sated, we headed back out on our hike, roaming around Buckingham Palace, St. James’s Park, and heading back toward the National Portrait Gallery so A could get her fix of what might be the dullest branch of fine art ever invented. At least entry was free. Before we roamed the museum halls, we found a bench to give our feet a rest while we planned the rest of our evening. Rather, she planned the rest of our evening – as soon as my brain realized it didn’t have to focus on keeping my body upright, it shut down the rest of its faculties, and I began to lose consciousness. I still carried on a conversation, but that’s only because I’m well-practiced at putting very little thought into what comes out of my mouth. At that point, I was probably mumbling gibberish about elephants on trapezes while she extemporized on the benefits of touring Picadilly Circus. Eventually, I woke up enough to stand up and keep walking, but I’m honestly not sure how long we were there.

I also have very vague recollections of what happened the rest of that day. We walked through a park in a residential area as night fell, but after that…well, I could still be dreaming, for all I know.

1. Not to wish misfortune on anyone (far be it from me), but I’m still waiting for the whole “worldwide economic crisis” thing to hit England. 1.4:1 is nowhere near low enough an exchange rate for them to complain about. [↩]
2. I think he meant “SkyMiles applications”, but he was apparently both disgruntled and lazy [↩]
3. although, did I really have to mention that part? You already knew we were in London. [↩]
4. apparently, escalators are for fatties, which is fine with me until I have to carry two unwieldy 50-lb. harbingers of lumbar pain and a backpack or two while climbing [↩]
5. OK, so that’s a little unfair – unfair to the rest of England’s churches and cathedrals, which are all trying their best to be monuments to the Empire’s military success but have only managed to procure the bodies of lesser heroes to adorn their transepts. Maybe I should just call Westminster “the largest Church of War” instead of “the Church of War”. [↩]