The London Underground (subway) whisked me and my 135 pounds of luggage off to the Edgeware Road station, which was the closest to my hotel. When I exited the tram, with my bags firmly strapped to an entirely inadequate travel dolly, and feeling rather peaked from the lack of sleep and my airsickness, I found that fifty or sixty stairs stood between me and the street level. I began tugging the whole affair up the steps one by one when a brawny German woman offered her help and picked it up, dolly and all, and carried it to the top. I felt as though I should tip her or something, but she vanished before I could organise my thoughts.
I found the Metropole Hotel without incident, and walked up to the deserted check-in desk. It was only 7:30 AM, and while the line for check-out was lengthy, there didn't seem to be much checking-in activity. I stood in the check-out line, and was eventually helped by a clerk named Helen. She explained that check-in time was at 2:30 PM. I explained that I had just arrived, had had no sleep, and was feeling rather ill from an airsickness episode. She expressed remorse over her inability to do anything for me before 2:30 PM, and wished me well.
I decided to sit in the lobby for awhile and rest, with my luggage, which I had twice wrestled away from the Concierge, still in tow. There I sat, in the lobby of a first class hotel, looking somewhat green and unshaven, my hair looking not entirely unlike Mozart's on a bad day, when an idea struck me. I very purposely, and within eyeshot of Helen the clerk, fetched a small wastebasket that was by the elevators and placed it beside my feet when I sat back down. It worked instantly. "Mr. Scafati, I believe that I have found you a room that it ready".
I checked in and headed instantly for the elevator to my room. As the doors began to close, an elderly woman began to trot across the lobby and yelled "Hold it please". Being a decent person, I pushed the door-open button just before they were entirely shut. The doors began to open, but then started to shake violently, and then abruptly stopped. The interior of the elevator went dark, but I could see the elderly woman peering through the four inch gap in the doors. She shrugged and went away.
In spite of the darkness I was able to find the emergency talk button, so I pushed it in a determined, but not desperate, sort of way. A voice came on and said "This it the hotel operator, how can I help you?". "Yes, I seem to be stuck on the elevator on the first floor". There was a pause. "Sorry, what?" "I say, I seem to be stuck on the elevator on the first floor". There was a longer pause. "You say you're stuck on the whaaaat?". This time I paused for a bit. "On the EL-E-VA-TOR.". I could hear a flurry of excited voices in the background. "Oh, you say that you are stuck on the 'lift'?". I agreed, in spite of having never known that the British call elevators "lifts". "On the first floor, did you say? Very good, I'll send a man over right away."
I sat on my luggage and waited in the dark. I thought it ironic, somehow, that while I was being taught the ins-and-outs of elevator rescue during my fire training, I kept thinking how entirely useless it was all going to be to me as a firefighter in Ixonia, a town that has exactly no elevators. Now I could finally apply what I learned, but I was on the wrong side of the doors. I watched the glow-in-the-dark hands of my new watch go around.
Twelve minutes passed. The operator came back on the speaker. "I'm sorry sir, but the maintenance men are on the first floor, and they can't find you. Are you sure that you're on the first floor?" I was getting irritated. "Of course I'm sure! I can see the check in desk through the crack in the doors." This time the woman paused for effect. "Sir, if you can see the lobby then that would place you on the ground floor, now wouldn't it?" I banged my head against the elevator, or rather the "lift", for my own effect. "Yeah, I guess so, huh.....". Unbeknownst to me, only in the United States is the counting of floors begun on the ground level. Our second floor is everybody else's first.
The men came with a gigantic 2x4, which I later learned, without any suprize, is called a 4x2 in Britain, and with much grunting and scraping of metal forced the doors open. I dragged my luggage into another "lift" and beat a hasty retreat to my room.
Wandering around the streets of London is undoubtedly one of the most dangerous endeavors a non-brit can undertake on this planet. The problem is that the cars are all going the wrong way. We in the United States have been conditioned to look to our left before crossing the street, but in the U.K. the cars are bearing down on you at high speed from the right. This is the cause of many foreigners to fling themselves awkwardly backward onto the sidewalk when the realize that they are about to be blindsided by a Rover that is blaring its horn, but not slowing in the least.
The problem is so bad that London has painted little signs in the cross walk that say "Look Right ==>", which work for awhile, but then complacency takes over for most, and they step into their death anyway. I, for one, shall never take crossing the street for granted for the rest of my life. Perhaps I'm being paranoid, but I've taken to turning completely around to survey all 360 degrees before endeavoring to step into a street. I feel lucky to still be alive.
Watching the passing cars, in self defense perhaps, can also be disconcerting. It appeared to me that many of the cars were without drivers, until I'd realize, in each instance, that the driver's side was reversed as well. The moment that it takes the brain to do the conversion can be terrifying, Over the course of the week I witnessed drivers that were absorbed in newspapers, sleeping soundly, less than five years of age, and even nursing a baby. They were all passengers, of course, but in the split second it took me to realize that my mind reeled.
Riding the London Underground is a wonderful opportunity to study people. My first weekend in London was a four day holiday weekend in Europe, so people from all over the continent had traveled to London for a few days. After some observations, it became easy to identify an individual's country without listening to their speech.
The British were always dressed in black. The women all seemed to smoke, and both genders kept their coats buttoned up to their chins in spite of the sometimes stifling heat of the underground. I drew attention, and occasional whispered comments, on the instances when I removed my jacket on the tram.
Generally, the French were dressed impeccably and avoided eye-contact, the Germans always seemed to be amused, and the Italians inevitable had eyewear that was stylish to the point of bizarre. Everybody was dressed in clothing that was either black, or dark earthtones, everybody but me. I had my ski jacket that was composed of panels of safety orange, iridescent turquoise, and brilliant violet, which just screamed "American!". I might as well have had an American flag draped over my shoulders.
Finding the washroom in a restaurant in London is far from trivial. They are typically up or down a long twisting staircase, past innumerable, unlabeled doors, down lengthy narrow halls or sometimes catacombs, through a London Underground station, down the street and, finally, across one of the seven bridges that cross the Thames river. On one occasion I never found my way back to my meal, and on another the need to find a restroom very nearly became moot.
The terms "bathroom", "restroom", "men's room" and "washroom" all draw blank stares in London. I was always forced to resort to using the slang "loo", which drew stares that were far from blank but got my question across. Then I visited Parliament.
I approached a royal guard of the House of Lords and asked where the "loo" was, and he explained to me, with great regalness and without a hint of disdain, a complex series of manoeuvres through great halls and corridors that left me at the end of a passageway with a door labelled "cloak room". Given my previous observation of how the British never even loosen their coats let alone actually remove them, I didn't see much practical use for a cloakroom. I backtracked to the guard who let out a barely perceptible sigh, and then reiterated his instructions. I again found my way to the cloak room, and working on the hope that I might find the bathroom beyond the cloakroom, I carried on and was shocked to discover that it was really nothing more than a typical bathroom. As you might imagine, "cloak room" turns out to be the British euphemism for bathroom, as is W.C. (Water Closet). I'm getting fewer stares now.
A week in London has given me the theory that "Caveat Emptor" is not Latin, but rather old English. I have been constantly assaulted by hidden charges while visiting London. I was charged for a the little assortment of sauces, which I didn't even ask for, in a Chinese restaurant. I was charged a pound and a half ($2.50) for incomplete attempts to reach a toll-free line in the U.K. from my hotel, a fact that caused my hotel bill to be nearly doubled after just one night's stay. To be fair, they did remove the charges when I expressed my disapproval. When I went to the theatre, I was handed an ordinary looking program, and was then asked for four pounds ($6.50). And there was also the fellow with the telescope in the park who asked me to look through to see Saturn's rings, and then asked "Is that pound for me then, governor?". I've become a paranoid consumer, and am wondering how I'll fare in France, where I'll be unable to defend myself with words.