Chronicles of a Trip Untold: Le Paradis England

Rummaging through my computer for pics to upload to the web, I stumbled across a smorgassboard of photos from my trip to London a few years back. Having never written about it, I'd be remiss if I gave up the juicy opportunity to bore you to death about our relatives across the Atlantic (relatives for all you white people out there).

As you may or may not know, England is a lovely little island with rolling green hills, vats of Guinness (admittedly Irish, but wildly popular in the pubs) and lots of white and brown people with funny accents that Americans have deemed "incredibly sexy." Familiar with only the latter aspect of English culture, I eagerly parted with more than a semester's worth of college tuition for a one-month stint of booze in lofty Cathedrals (the British, bless their hearts, are largely agnostic), cluttered museums filled with plundered relics from third-world colonies, and one exhibit filled with 7,559,452 specimens of dead dissected animals (I had the rare fortune of seeing a diseased penis preserved in formaldehyde. Not a pretty sight, but damn interesting).

But before I regale you with those stories, we shall start at the beginning. For an entire 30 days, I lived and breathed the Tube, which is the American equivalent of the metro but much, much classier. As a bold demonstration of their advanced sophistication, the British have abandoned dingy industrial rail cars in favor of those designed by Gymboree. Yes, there may be a lack of ventilation in the summer, but as one train official informed me, one can always take comfort in the GLORIOUS COLORS! (I suspected pot use).

Inspiring daycare centers worldwide

One station particularly near and dear to my heart was Baker's Street Station. You might think that I lived there, but in fact I lived across from Regent's Park, shown below:

The Gates of Heaven and the Garden of Eden... if I could bloody afford to live there.

(For those who are over-analytical, there was actually a tube stop called "Regent's Park," but in a cruel twist of humor intended to spite those "Bush wankers" (read: Americans), it was further away from our lodgings than Baker's Street).

One curious thing about the British is their subtle nationalistic bent. Do not be fooled by their blasé self-deprecating remarks about their pseudo-socialist government. They love themselves. In fact, the only thing they love more than themselves are their fictional storybook characters. Somehow, the British got to writing books about crazy detective mothafuckahs (excuse my French) and the next thing you know, Sherlock Holmes is more popular than the Queen! So popular that he has a statue unto himself. At an imaginary address that doesn't even exist. God I love the Brits.



"Tell me, my dear Watson, why am I an ugly, cast-iron figure canonized outside of a random tube station?"







There are few things in life that impress me, and having the opportunity to see this man's imperturbable face each and every day was a true delight. How could I stand to marvel at such a brilliant achievement for an entire month? The master said it best:


"It's elementary, my dear Watson."



Actually, some pot would have helped.