We had a second day in London, but I neglected to take notes on it and thus am at a great loss to remember what in the world we did. I have vague recollections of the British Museum, a rare book shop…and seeing Wicked in the evening. I can’t remember any of my minor criticisms of Wicked, so I’ll just note that my overall impression of it was positive. My impression of all restaurants in London closing their kitchens before 10 PM, however, is less than stellar. If you go to any event in England that starts after 6, do yourself a favor and eat beforehand.

Act 2: Wherein driving in England triggers a catharsis rivaled only by years of aggressive psychotherapy

London out of the way, we can begin to relive the adventure that was the rest of our 2-week journey. Neither of us would have been content staying solely in the city for that long, even though we surely could have found something new to do each day. Oh, no – we flew across an ocean, and we were going to make the most of it. No pre-packaged group tours for us, either – we’d do it ourselves or die trying. Surprising how close we came to accomplishing both.

The heart of our trip began with us heading to Heathrow to pick up our rental – “Pick any car you want,” the clerk told us while handing us a key that would, of course, only unlock one particular model. I’ve since come to see this exercise as a sort of pre-initiation into the British road system. Confusion, frustration, and a profound sense of resigned amusement quickly become your closest companions when you venture off the beaten path in the UK (and sometimes when you’re on it); the sooner you realize this, the more fun you’ll have staring into the abyss.

We ended up with a champagne-colored diesel Vauxhall Astra¹, which we soon discovered to be possessed. It accelerated and decelerated on a whim, and its windshield wiper motor was apparently attached to some sort of rudimentary AI that determined the wipers’ speed based on calculations of land speed and planetary alignment.

A took the first turn driving in order to give me the chance to practice my hobby of criticizing things in which I have little to no firsthand experience and so that I would have ample opportunity to get acquainted with the fold-out road map of the UK which was to be our trip’s main navigational tool.

This brings me to the first, and perhaps only, piece of practical advice I have for anyone planning a trip to the UK: if you have a choice between shelling out an extra $60 to download UK maps to the GPS you already own and sticking with the colorful yet tiny print of the map your travel agent gives you…

Buy the GPS maps.

Few things are as initially entertaining yet ultimately time-wasting and maddening as realizing that there’s a good 5-10-mile East-West discrepancy between where that tiny road identified only by a capital letter and 3 or 4 digits stops and picks up again on your worthless, worthless map. Don’t get me wrong; it’ll eventually get you from A to B; you just have to be willing to go through M, Q, and Z on your way there (and there aren’t any gas stations in Z, so be careful).

My first initially pleasant surprise from the road trip portion of our vacation was that, on England’s equivalent of American interstates (the M and larger A routes), you don’t have to worry about getting off an exit and driving 2 miles in a random direction hoping to spot a gas station. Service stations are clearly marked², and they’re one-stop shops – you’ve got gas, food options, an arcade, and dirty magazines all in one mini-mall arrangement.

My excitement at this dropped off sometime around the point I realized that the service stops were engaged in a polite British form of price gouging, but I suppose it’s just a typical convenience tax. Yay capitalism, etc.

After our first pit stop (our destination was ~4 hours from London, and we started with somewhere between 1/8 and 1/4 tank of gas), I took over driving duties and was soon lulled into complacency by the relative ease of M-route driving. Sure, you’re on the wrong side of the car and road, but we had an automatic transmission, and it only takes a few near-brushes with death to learn how to recalibrate your sense of being centered in your lane. As long as you’re on a main road, it’s mostly a straight shot – not a lot of confusing foreign traffic law to clutter up your experience.

Rolling into your first small town – after dark – is a different experience altogether. Always on the lookout for your next turn, you’ll be amazed at how many locals appear to think they’re still on M1 – driving 50 in a 35, passing you on whichever side they choose with 6 inches of lateral room to spare³, coming from directions you didn’t know existed, all while you try to navigate a clockwise-turning roundabout that everyone’s warned you about but no one’s explained⁴.

Act 3: In which we glimpse the very face of evil, though fleetingly, betwixt an end-aisle display and checkout counter

Eventually, we ended up at our bed & breakfast just outside of York. We turned out to be the only guests of a pleasant elderly couple genuinely concerned for our wellbeing, as we’d kept them up past 10 waiting for our arrival⁵. After unloading the mobile version of our lives into one of their upstairs bedrooms, we asked them if there happened to be any restaurants or grocery stores nearby so we could grab some dinner and stock up for the next day. They gave directions to a Tesco and a separate shopping area that supposedly had several restaurants to choose from, and we headed back out.

20-30 minutes later, we were lost; finding ourselves completely unable to locate this mythical gustatory oasis, we switched directions and headed back to where Tesco was supposed to be. We did manage to find it, as Tescos are hard to miss, being the monolithic, simultaneously sterile and inviting Wal-Marts of their culture. We spotted a restaurant nearby, though, so before grocery shopping, we decided to stop by, on the off-chance they were still serving food.

Miraculously, the kitchen at Frankie & Benny’s was open until 11, and they seemed to be grateful for the business, as we were the only ones in the New York-style Italian restaurant that late. As we ate our pasta and listened to the overbearingly loud 1950′s American rock & roll that I spent the better part of my formative years being force-fed, I wondered how a restaurant so clearly tailored to the local demographic of York, England, could possibly be lacking customers on a Wednesday night; but I quickly stifled my overactive analytical side. This was, after all, the only place in England we had been able to get a hot meal after 7 PM, and we had just come from the largest city in the country, so who cares if they still operate under the mistaken assumption that Big Girls Don’t Cry? Not me.

Having had our fill of traditional British marinara sauce and Caesar dressing, we headed over to Tesco in an attempt to defray future meal costs by gathering a cache of snack food. Somewhere among the aisles of Thai Chicken, Ham and Mustard, and Roast Beef-flavored potato chips, bags of currants, and Unsalted Roasted Monkey Nuts⁶, I made a crucial discovery: snack food is different in England. Eventually, I think we settled on a potato chip sampler bag⁷, some peanut butter bars, peanuts, raisins, and a couple bags of trail mix that ended up tasting like gym socks with just a touch of vinegar.

All that to say this: remember how I compared Tesco to Wal-Mart – what was it – two paragraphs ago? Well, Tesco’s similar to Wal-Mart, alright – you’ve got your housekeeping supplies, office supplies, appliances, food, wine in which to drown your failures, etc. – it’s just that, when you get back up to the front of the store after satisfying all your material cravings, you realize that Tesco wants a tentacle (how slick they are, dripping with the mana of freshly-consumed souls) in far more than your mere earthly existence.

You see, Tesco doesn’t just sell things that you can touch. Oh, no. At Tesco you can buy a microwave, a box of cereal, a ruler, cell phone service, Internet access, car insurance, home insurance, and life insurance, all with the smiling face of a satisfied minion under the store’s brand name just to let you know that everything will be OK. Tesco is England’s real-life experiment in Orwellian consumerism, and it wants to know why you’ve been shopping somewhere else.

Our senses of autonomy adequately chilled (and our back seat filled with the spoils of a free-market smorgasbord), we headed back to our B&B for a fitful sleep.

1. I was hoping for at least a Citroen, but instead we ended up with a company that appears to be some sort of Peugeot rip-off…OK; I’ll stop pretending I know anything about European cars now. [↩]
2. I think the distribution works out to roughly every fifth “Don’t drive tired” sign. We’ll get to that problem eventually over here – we just have to work on drinking, texting, and flossing while driving first. [↩]
3. Granted, that’s not entirely their fault, as roads in the UK are typically only physically wide enough for 1.5 British cars – which works out to roughly .75 American cars, .47 SUVs, or -2i Hummers [↩]
4. I once heard them described by someone in terms rivaling the Homerian depiction of Charybdis in the Strait of Messina. They’re, um, not quite that bad; just don’t stay in the right lane if you want to take the next exit, and you’ll be mostly fine. Mostly. [↩]
5. Perhaps I’ll pontificate on the virtues of getting a local SIM card for your already unlocked cell phone later. [↩]
6. No, I’m not joking. That’s an actual product. You at least have to give the peanut marketing departments over there marks for creativity. [↩]
7. Yes, all three of the flavors I just mentioned – tune in next time for my review of the effectiveness of Tums and the tastebud-neutralizing properties of silicone desiccant packets [↩]