Landing in London

While traveling abroad by myself, I’ve quickly learned that appearing stupid is inevitable.  No amount of planning can instantly transform a foreigner into a native.  Without the aid of a GPS or iPhone in the modern world, one is bound to get lost.  Or if said traveler is an American visiting the United Kingdom, he is bound to get hit by a car that he expects should be coming from the opposite direction.

I stepped off the plane at Heathrow with two hours of sleep and an empty stomach.  After retrieving my luggage, my plan was to take the Underground, or the Tube as the locals say, to Hyde Park, near the hostel I booked for three days.  I heeded Trip Advisor’s advice and resolved to exchange my dollars into pounds in the city, rather than at the airport.  I asked the lady at the currency exchange at Heathrow if I could buy a subway ticket with a debit card.  She said that I could and pointed me in the right direction. 

London’s Underground is fairly easy to navigate.  You find your destination along one of the colored lines and trace your way back to your current location.  This reminded me of those mazes on the backs of cereal boxes where you had to follow the right squiggly line through a tangled mess to reach Fred Flintstone, the silly Trix rabbit, or that greedy, sweet-toothed leprechaun.  Years of practice enabled me to choose the correct line in the Tube.

Following a series of unexpected delays, I reached the Hyde Park Corner station and stepped out into the chilly air. Red double-decker buses zoomed by in the streets.  The sky was cloudy and gray, just as I expected.  I wanted to roam aimlessly through the gardens, but the cold and my full bladder prevented me from ambling about comfortably. 

I asked a man at an information desk where the Astor Hostel was.  He indicated my current position on a black-and-white map and traced my projected route with his fingertip.  He handed me the map and said, “You can have it if you want.  It would be 10p, but I don’t suspect you’ve got that yet.”

Maybe he felt sympathetic for me due to the confused look I offered when he mentioned that entity “p”:  an abbreviation for pence.  So far, the Brits’ cheerfulness was very infectious.  I traipsed happily through the lush gardens of Hyde Park.  

During my walk, I realized I had only the slightest clue about where I was, and I knew only one person in the entire country but had no way of contacting her without Wi-Fi.  I carried my only possessions on my back inside a large pack that labeled me as a tourist, and I possessed only a vague plan to explore the British Isles in three weeks before joining a group tour back in London.  Aside from gazing at the famous attractions, the majority of solitary traveling seems to entail filling the silences that abound in your head.  I had not accounted for this, but luckily I brought plenty to read.

I felt invigorated with a sense of adventure, but I also realized how daunting was the task that lay ahead of me——to navigate the UK and Ireland mostly by the help of strangers.

After stowing my pack at the Astor Hostel and chatting with the receptionist about country music in Australia, I pottered about the town, searching for food, when I stumbled upon a classic pub called the Zetland Arms.  I opened the door and read the instructions:

   1) Order a drink at the bar.

   2) Take a seat.  Read the menu.

   3) Order and pay at the bar.

   4) Re-take the same seat.  Wait for food.

   5) Eat.

I’m paraphrasing slightly, but I never expected that I, a grown man, would need instructions on how to order food at a restaurant, but I’m thankful for this seamless acclimation to pub etiquette.  I approached the bartender and asked for a drink of water.  The rest was simply a matter of following instructions. 

Near the bar there was an old man with a thin gray mustache who mumbled noises that I assumed only walruses could comprehend.  It took me a few minutes to realize he was speaking some kind of indeterminable form of English.  The only word I recognized started with F and ended with K, and it was not fork. 

The barman was a very chipper fellow, who was approached by hungry Italians with limited virtuosity in the native dialect.  To avoid any cultural barriers, he pronounced very clearly:  “The money, please!  The money!”  The Italian man extended his open palm full of coins the value of which eluded him.  The bartender plucked the correct ones to complete the transaction.  

I ordered bangers and mash, a classic British dish I learned of by watching Restaurant Impossible on the Food Network.  The dish consists of sausage, mashed potatoes, and a sweet onion sauce.  The meal was heavy and filling.  

When I finished, I asked the waitress if the tip was included.  The Europeans have this thing called VAT——Value-Added Tax——and I wasn’t sure if that was the gratuity included within the bill.  I learned later that VAT is more akin to a sales tax, but the waitress did not possess the correct words to explain this. 

“I work in a restaurant back home,” I said.  “I don’t want to be an ignorant foreigner who doesn’t tip correctly.”

Unfortunately, the waitress didn’t quite understand me.  Maybe it was my accent, or maybe her English wasn’t up to par.  I didn’t expect to find that in England of all places.