Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Bonus Episode: PHOTO EXTRAVAGANZA TIME!

It's been two months since I got back from my heavenly trip to the United Kingdom. I suppose I miss it so much that I'm going to force some more Anglo-love down your throat. But panic not: I won't bore you with my long-winded babble. It's just picture time. What better way to get to the real heart of Britain.

So you've all heard of Engrish. But what are you supposed to call funny English signs found in native English-speaking countries? Who can say. Either way, these were quality enough to elicit a few chuckles from yours truly. Enjoy. It's not only in Asia that you find comedy just walking down the street.

Oh, the good old Hoxton Whores. I'm sure their parents are proud of their choice of group name. I haven't the foggiest who these people are, but apparently they like clubbing. Whore it up, kind folk! (Edinburgh)

Talk about bold statements. On one hand, it's great to see freedom of speech in action; these types of shenanigans would result in death or "disappearance" in the good old PR of C. On the other hand, it's a little disconcerting to see that some Scots want to break from the English. More power to them. May they have more luck than the Quebecois. (Edinburgh)

For Little Nasty (Edinburgh)

Billy Corgan wuz here (Edinburgh)

Sandra's favorite "found porn" (Edinburgh)

This I know! (Edinburgh)

Hallo friend, "take a look"! (London Chinatown)

Totally! (Loch Ness)

Even their signs begging you to clean your dog's shit are polite! (Fort Augustus)

My Favorite Sign EVER! Long Live Chairman MEOW! (Edinburgh)

Wow, that's quite the damning accusation if I've ever seen one. (Edinburgh)

GW mongers war, they monger cheese (Bath)

I don't know... (Bath)

Brock Street Clinic's biggest fan (Bath)

It's probably for the same reason I have mine... (London)

Sticking it to the Mao (V&A Museum, London)

Seriously? No one thinks this is too easy a target for a pub? (London)

*Cue theme tune* (or Punjabi MC!)

"Beer", unless you're in China, in which case it's just "another person". (London)

It's all really how you use it... (London)

In the case of this blog? Tons (Kensington Tube Station, London)

And finally, in keeping with the recent theme, here's what some Londoners think of our poor Friendlies pals. Killjoys! (London)

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 10: All Good Things Come To London

Well friends, you've survived chapter after chapter of travel blabber and are mercifully close to the end. Although it's been over one month since happy time ended, I am still experiencing flashes of the crushing sadness and panicked anxiety that I felt in those final days, when I would have loved nothing better than to be able to stay in the UK forever.

Day 1: London Chinatown
At first, I was so shocked to see the sun out at 9:15 PM. So I got into the habit of taking pictures of my watch and wherever I happened to be around this time. Didn't always get the shot on-time (or at all), but it became a nice way to keep track of my trip.

Even as my time on holiday crept closer to its bittersweet finale, the tourism train remained on course and we didn't relent in our goal to cram as much stuff into the final days as possible, until the very last minute on British soil. Although we had already accomplished a great deal within a short amount of time, there is always something more to see and do in the UK. Even if your wallet runs dry from binging on musicals, you still have weeks worth of free museums to wander through. It is indeed a place of beauty.

Day 2: Along the Thames with Big Ben
G.W. Bush was in town at this very moment, mere blocks away, complete with a warm welcome from violent protesters. We were just annoyed that streets and Tube entrances were closed for "security." The helicopters overhead didn't help maintain serenity either...

My initial reaction to Britain remained consistent until the end. I loved it all with genuine heart (except the maddening extra charge for all eat-in items at coffee shops and takeaways). Gorgeous, humbling architecture so plentiful you run out of "WOW"s after a day of wandering. Enough entertainment, culture, and food options to put you in so much debt that your college loans would blush. Shopping at stores with real sales that don't require hard bargaining or any additional stress to the ticker. Double-decker buses. The Oyster Card. Cashpoints, not ATMs. Richly layered history dripping from everything you see and touch. The Union Jack. Nature in technicolor, as it was meant to be, from vibrant emerald grass to sky blue skies teeming with whipped cream clouds. Getting a good laugh from guys wearing skinny jeans so tight it looked like their balls were trying to shawshank their way out of the denim. Full-frontal nudity and cussing on the BBC after 10pm. Harry Potter. The sensational adrenaline rush you get as you run across the street, praying you don't get hit, but too confused to know which way to look before crossing. That strange, musty smell that was ubiquitous in all the loos. And the people. How could I forget the people?

Day 3: Piccadilly, post-Mamma Mia
This was the day we failed to see Coldplay, hence resorting to the warm comfort of ABBA.

The citizens of Britain, however authentic you believe them to truly be, were a delight. Of course I don't mean ALL of them. But a large enough segment to warrant my current Anglo hard-on. I may be a little indulgent in my doe-eyed raves, but come on, look what I have to work with on a daily basis in China. Cut a Yank some slack! I stand by my claim: the Brits were great. Embarrassingly reserved by day, frighteningly boisterous by night; polite and mannered on the surface, critical and judgmental within. The weird dichotomies that abound create a national epidemic of split-personality disorder. Since I share similar neuroses, I felt a familiar comfort that eludes me in the US and China.

Yet, at the end of the day, that feeling of admiration is likely not reciprocal. Polite and mannered as I may be, nothing in my arsenal could compare to that of a true Brit. They see through my American guise immediately and no amount of garble-accented "sorry" or "cheers" will ever change that fact. Not that I'd ever want it to. I could never repress the sunny American disposition that creates a need for physical contact, verbal affirmation and consistent smiling, no matter how much I love the Brits with their chilly demeanor and proper austerity.

Day 4: On the coach from London to Bath
The National Coach services really are convenient. Clean, kinda reliable, and without the heart-stopping fear you get with Chinese drivers. And no horn-honking. So lovely.

In spite of its relative brevity, my whirlwind trek through the UK had to end. Unfortunately for you, that also means these thrilling accounts have come to a close. From the stylish streets of London to the grand antiquity of Bath, through medieval Edinburgh to the wilderness of the Highlands, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the journey, even if it was just a fleeting, vicarious pleasure. Ideally, you'll be inspired to make a similar jaunt of your own.

Day 6: Edinburgh Airport
Where'd Day 5 go!?! Flushed down the toilet in a drunken stupor. So here we are on Day 6, having just arrived in Edinburgh, after a 1-hour flight from Bristol on the awesome Easyjet.

In the final days, the gravity of the impending return to Shanghai loomed over my head like one of Pooh's little black rain clouds. Perhaps more severe than the relapsing culture shock experienced after a trip back to America, the prospect of crawling back into the polluted womb of China was too much to fathom. Especially with all Olympic jingo-bullshit flooding into every open orifice in the country.

Day 7: On Princes Street in Edinburgh
After a full day of serious sightseeing at the Castle and in the Closes.

After spending two weeks in a relatively civil society built upon manners and decorum (however artificial) and tasting European history and culture firsthand, I entertained thoughts of faxing my resignation to my bosses in Shanghai and saying to hell with the overflow of possessions in my tiny apartment. But sense and reality always have a way of stifling those impulsive thoughts of mine and I reluctantly boarded the plane.

Day 8: Edinburgh Bus
Is that rain in the background? Why yes. After a day in the Highlands, all clear and temperate, we returned to a frigid 10 degree C rainstorm in the capital. Delicious Italian dinner wolfed down with the quickness, we wanted nothing more than to get back to the B&B.

Immediate yet premature reminiscing of my phenomenal time in England was instantly ruined by the pig sitting next to me. In all my years of light-hearted complaining about the mainlanders and the gaping abyss that is proper social protocol, I have never, NEVER, been this shocked by someone's behavior. Please trust that I'm being quite gravely serious here.

This girl, who couldn't have been older than 30, was the embodiment of every ill currently being plaguing the new generations of Chinese society that I hate so much. More than a Little Empress, she was the epitome of self-centered garbage without so much as a speck of regard for those around her. Sprawled out in her seat, arms hanging over the headrest and legs spread eagled, crotch unceremoniously jut forward like she was advertising at Tsukiji, she chewed her gum with a gaping maw, lips curled in an awful sneer. Before take-off, she kicked the seat in front of her no less than 20 times as she shifted positions in a manner more befitting a clumsy troll than a graceful elf. The poor chap sitting beside her - the pitiful boyfriend - was on the receiving end of a few pushes, slaps and kicks, the annoying jerky elbow jabs that spoiled brats like to throw when in the midst of a tantrum.

After getting hit with a few recoils, the polite reserve I had acquired from two weeks of English osmosis was beginning to run out. Biting my lip and closing my eyes, I had to find my happy place, as my neighbour's spasms and complaints continued at an infuriating pace. When the food arrived mid-flight, she spied a pile of spinach on her boyfriend's tray and, without an ounce of dia-dia cuteness, she declared "my spinach." (wo de bo cai), reached over and grabbed it. Boyfriend gave a pitiful half-frown and did not protest. A defeated man clearly resigned to this kind of behaviour. When he made a motion to take a bag of peanuts that she had left sitting on her tray table, unopened and ignored for hours, she slapped his hand, gave him the "why the fuck are you so stupid" face, and coldly stated "you can't eat it, you're a fat pig" (ni bu neng chi, ni pang zhu). Chewing the spinach with an open mouth, feet still propped up against the chair in front, I secretly yearned for her to choke on it and die a slow and painful death.

Day 10: Above Edinburgh
I must say, Scotland was one of the most amazing places I've ever been. I was genuinely sad to leave. Wait, what's that? Day 9? If you really must know, I was busy shitting myself in a mausoleum when it came time for the daily shot, so you'll forgive me for being distracted.

My breaking point came during the final lull in our journey, while everyone was peacefully sleeping or enjoying the in-flight entertainment. Lost in an episode of Family Guy, my arm was suddenly and forcefully pushed off the arm rest as she lifted it up in a huff. I couldn't believe she had dared to be so forthcoming in her impolite flirtations, so I firmly put the arm rest down and replanted myself in position. And she did it again, with a quick elbow jab to my bicep. At that point, I really didn't care anymore, so I slammed it back down, so so satisfyingly on her leg, shoving her back into her seat territory. She slowly and deliberately pulled off her eye-mask (provided by Virgin, such luxury!) and looked me dead in the eye, saying "I want this up" (wo jiu shi yao fang shang qu). As if she could threaten me with those lifeless mainland eyes. Dumbfounded, I drew my face close to her's and replied "I'm using it" (wo jiu shi yao yong), as I pressed the arm rest down against her with perversely pleasurable might.

I think she got the point. Perhaps it was the first time someone denied her. She made a pouty face, pulled the mask back over her ugly face, shifted positions and kicked her feet over her sleeping boyfriend's lap, scaring the crap out of him in the process. For the remainder of the journey, she attempted to push me a few more times, but I remained firm, unwavering, and she relented. The whole ridiculous situation was entirely new to me and, after the initial urge to slit her throat with my plastic knife subsided, I continued to passive-aggressively huff and puff, blocking her attacks when necessary, laughing whenever she tried (and failed) to move that arm rest, and tried my best to keep composed until we landed in Shanghai. With the animosity fully out in the open, the back and forth was pretty entertaining.

Day 11: Hot Pot dinner in Clevelands Building, Bath University
On my last night in Bath, I had a filling ma-la hot pot dinner with new friends who I had taken quite happily to in the few days that I visited.

That rude little tart on the plane was a painful reminder of the awful reacclimation ahead of me. Her horrid behavior was the most extreme experience of social retardation - Chinese or otherwise - that I've ever witnessed. You'd think that having reached this pinnacle before touchdown would make the return to Chinese soil easier. Wrong wrong wrong. In the two weeks I was absent, Chinese efficiency remained status quo (i.e. non-existent), airport bureaucracy was rendered even more bumbling, and new security measures enacted for the goddamned Olympics (I swear, I will be so happy when they are over and we never have to hear of Beijing 2008 ever again) exacerbated the headache threatening to blow my brain out of my temples. It took me 2 hours just to get out of the airport. I was beginning to regret getting on that plane.

Day 13: Les Miserables
Oh what a show. We approached the classic with some trepidation, afraid the hype of 25+ years wouldn't deliver. So so wrong. It's a close second to Phantom, which is quite something in my book. After the show, we emerged to a rain shower and a celebratory mob cheering the Spanish Euro Cup victors. They were so raucous that a distracted bus crashed into a lorry in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Awesome. (Oh yeah, and on Day 12 at this time, I was busy getting assaulted at the Radiohead concert)

When I stepped out into the humidity and stank of the summer air, the initial shock ripped me straight back to reality. The trip was officially done. No more pleasantries with strangers, no more comfortably chilly climate, no more uncensored living. After the plane ride from hell and the work week mere hours away, I felt desperate. Why the fuck did I have to come back? Head hanging low, I plopped into a taxi and covered my eyes with a heavy hand to shade the glaring midday sun. Feeling bitter and disappointed, maybe a little teary-eyed, I just wanted to get home and delay the inevitable return to daily life in China.

Day 14: Wicked
The last day of the trip, spent with the witches of Oz.

Making admirable small talk, the jovial driver asked me about my trip and continued to chatter about the weeks of typhoon rain that had flooded Shanghai in my absence. I nodded politely in return, distracted by memories of the cool breezes and unpolluted skies in London. With a beaming smile, she paused, leaned over and said that I had brought the sun back with me. Pulling my hand from my eyes, I gazed out the window, taking in the vista for the first time. It was actually a beautiful day in Shanghai. As much as it hurt to be back, I couldn't justify further resentment. It is not Shanghai's fault that it's not as awesome as London. No place is as awesome as London. We don't penalize a hamburger because it's not as delicious as a filet mignon, so why should the same judgment be wrought on completely different cultures? Thus Shanghai remains home for now and I'll keep my whining to a minimum. I had just spent 2 weeks on holiday after all. And England, in all her majestic glory, claims top spot for the best trip I've ever been on.

For more pictures of the trip, please head over to Flickr: London, Bath, and Scotland. Thanks for reading.

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 7: When In Bath...

I. Back To Bath

Since ancient times, there has been something special about Bath that just makes people swoon. The Romans exploited the natural hot springs as their own private spa retreats, leaving behind one of the most well-preserved examples of Roman architecture in the world. Jane Austen's peers used it as a posh country getaway, sunning atop lush green hillsides and drinking tea in funny hats, while she was off writing girly novels (and hating Bath...really, it's true!). Modern tourists pack its streets in such droves that it's England's 2nd most visited spot. Somewhere in the distance, Stonehenge weeps alone and longs for the Griswolds' return.

Behold Bath!

JUMP! Bath

The city itself is so lovely it was named an entire UNESCO World Heritage site. The combination of Roman relics and grand Georgian architecture give Bath a most stately and austere feel; it is almost too proper for it's own good. Walking down the grand Pulteney Road, past the imposing Royal Crescent or winding through the cobblestoned streets lined with charming storefronts, the designation is well-deserved. Despite the abundance of modern shops and luxury automobiles, it is a city beautifully trapped in time.

Totally Happening

Great Pulteney Road: Rows of Georgian Masterpieces

JUMP! Royal Crescent

This was not my first time visiting Bath. I stopped through in 2004 to do the requisite tourist thing: the Roman Baths and Bath Abbey. Locked in time, not much has changed in four years except the fact that I had more time to see the non-touristy side of this fair town. Even the overpriced cafe in the Abbey square, where I enjoyed a fine lunch of my first UK fish and chips takeaway, remains. Like the proud Roman statues lining the Spa walls, watching the numerous pigeons and seagulls crapping all over the place. Living like a local (or, more specifically, like a university exchange student) was a highlight of the trip and a welcome break from the hustle and flow of London.

Bath Abbey And The Gangs Of Tourists

Coincidentally, the last time I was in Bath was also the last time the "occupation" square of my customs card read "student." Returning to this fair city, I actually felt relieved to live like a student again. Or, as close as I ever will be able to again. Knowing that I'm really an uptight corporate square didn't perturb me. Rather, it was refreshing to relive the good old days of walking up steep hills to get to class, pooping in peacefully quiet library bathrooms, living in a dormitory, being too poor to purchase whatever my heart desired, common rooms, communal dinner parties, meeting new and interesting people from around the world, and binge drinking. Although the grad student digs at University of Bath are far nicer than whatever puke-caked halls I dwelled in at UMass Amherst, that spirit remains the same. Even the way I would have been treated by liquor merchants back then hasn't changed. Let me explain.

To celebrate a bevy of things, including a departing suitemate, term completion, foreign visitors, and friendship in general, it was decided to have a party. And what does every party need in order to lubricate our social gears? A wee bit of liquid courage, of course.

Best Curry In Bath

After lunch at the best Indian currier in Bath, The Eastern Eye, Sandra, Kathleen and I pranced to the local Sainsburys to acquire our goods, shopping trolley in tow. At the checkout, I paid separately (for the sake of easy payback division later). Previously, I've never had a problem buying alcohol because:

1.) I never tried using fake IDs before 21;
2.) I didn't drink that much back then anyway; and
3.) I have never been carded outside the US.

So any possible risk didn't even cross my mind, especially since I'm twenty-fucking-seven years old. This all made the following exchange all the more baffling:

Young clerk: "May I please see some identification."

Me, all-too-eager to cooperate: "Sure!" (I even handed it to her with two hands, Chinese style!)

Clerk, pointing to K and S: "I also need to see their IDs."

Me, confused: "I'm paying for this, why do you need their ID?"

Clerk: "You're together."

Me, still confused: "No we're not. I'm paying for this separately, it's mine. Nothing to do with them."

Clerk: "I'm sorry sir, but you're a group. I need to see their IDs."

Since we didn't think this would be an issue, they didn't have ID...

Clerk: "Sorry, I can't sell this to you. You could be buying for them."

Me, almost flipping into angry-American-in-China mode: "I have my ID, I'm paying, it has nothing to do with them."

Clerk, panicking, calls her manager over.

Manager, after hearing clerk's explanation: "I'm terribly sorry sir, but we cannot sell this to you unless we see their IDs. Those are the rules. I'm sorry."

Me, seething, their politeness infuriating me even more: "OK then, what if we had paid at separate registers? It wouldn't make a difference that we know each other, would it?!"

Manager, completely missing the point: "Sorry sir, now that we know you're together, we won't sell this to you, even if you come back."

Kathleen, jumping into the fray: "So if a grandfather comes in to buy alcohol with his granddaughter, do you need to see HER ID?!"

Clerk and manager, totally pwned, looking back and forth at each other, confused like two retards attempting basic maths: "Sorry."

What the fuck can you say to that? With merely a week before turning 27, I was denied the purchase of spirits because of some Prohibition-era rule used to screw local college students. I'm past the age where this type of treatment is flattering. I was livid.

Speechless, we stormed out of the store. Having just exited the largest liquor-monger in town, we had to think fast. It was decided that we would visit every market in town until every item on our list was ticked off. It would be an arduous journey, much like Homer's Odyssey, but without all the death and monsters.

M&S, although my favorite food purveyor in the UK, doesn't have a very good alcohol selection. It's all organic and bourgeoisie. Bah! Moving on to ghetto Iceland, whose selection would surely make an abusive drunken babymama happy, I started to miss Carrefour, with it's relatively overabundant bounty. Our last hope was Waitrose, the priciest shop in the land. As luck would have it, they had everything, for decent prices to boot, and our quest ended without further trouble. The cashier even wished me a nice day as I pocketed the tequila. Such a pleasant lass.

That night, after a delicious potluck dinner and some emotional goodbyes, the time had come. Since we didn't bring our tuxes and evening gowns for a nice cocktail soirée, we had no choice but to resort to a classic tournament of drinking games. I didn't partake in these activities much while I was an undergrad, but maybe I should have. What fun, indeed.

English Flapjack: Basically Oatmeal In Maple Syrup, Covered In Chocolate

Potluck Time!

Happy Suitemates

II. Pigs and Prejudice

When not engaged in festivities celebrating Dionysus, a visitor to Bath also has a modest selection of wonderful sights to see. Luckily I had already visited the two biggies (aforementioned Roman Bath and the Abbey), so no time was wasted fighting the tour bus crowds for photo-ops. This allowed for a closer look at the town, slowed down to a local's pace, which did not disappoint.

Shhhhhh! Can't You READ?!

Currently, Bath has been overrun with swine. I am not referring to the herds of tourists that file through here each day. I'm talking about actual pigs. This was my favourite bit about the place, revealing a warmly comical alternative to all the serious and huffy ancient relics (both of the architectural and geriatric human variety).



All summer long, these colourfully decorated pig statues will be plopped all over Bath. Pink pigs, green pigs, pigs with wings. Rainbow pigs, metal pigs, pigs in black fishnet stockings and thongs? Indeed, Mr. Seuss, these are King Bladud's Pigs. We scoured the back alleys and tree canopies (yes, really) looking for these porkers, like their real-life truffle-sniffing counterparts. I haven't had this much fun collecting useless stuff since the Great Pokemon Cull of 2000.

Sadly, we didn't see Spiderpig and I couldn't find Dinopig, but we did manage to collect about 30 varieties all the same. If pork isn't your thing, take a stroll down to Gay Street and munch on a hunk of meat of a different variety.

Sadly, We Missed The Pride Parade

Fans of Jane Austen novels, heed my call. Bath is the place to be. Forget the fact that Austen disliked this place, you LOVE it because you're obsessed with her classic pieces on gender and class inequality. How delightful! For an inflated fee, you can actually visit Jane's home and soak in the same energy that she likely spilled whilst writing Persuasion.

Tastes Like Crumpets

Gazing past the scary statue of the homely Ms. Austen at the doorstep, you're greeted by everyone's perfect fantasy man: Mr. Darcy. Fantasy being the operative word. I tell you, ever since that damned BBC production of Pride and Prejudice aired, Mr. Darcy (and Colin Firth) have been permanent members of the young ladies' secret panty fantasy playground, making suitable suitors such as myself seem like common street trash in comparison to this god amongst men. Yes, I am just jealous, but it doesn't change the fact that if that miniseries were never made, Mr. Darcy would have been forgotten in the annals of printed matter and decent real-world guys wouldn't have to compete for the hearts of romantically confused ladies with a fictional character! Rant over. Medication kicking in...

Bloody Bastard.

Since we couldn't bring ourselves to pay the entrance fee, we sifted through the glut of Darcy-related souvenir paraphernalia in the gift shop instead. Fortunately, I was dragged from the tourist trap before I made the huge mistake of buying the last pair of XL Darcy knickers. Fume as I might, he's just so dreamy.

Best. Sign. Ever.

III. Bye To Bath

Although Bath is a sleepy burg that may leave some craving more excitement and life, it provides a small town tranquility that's impossible to find in London. Most tour companies offer one-day tour packages to Bath and Stonehenge (I took one in 2004), which is highly recommended. After the inevitable disappointment of Stonehenge, an afternoon is more than enough time to soak in the atmosphere and see the main sights.

If you have more time for old Bath, nothing beats a charming bed & breakfast in an old Georgian townhouse, brunch at Sally Lunn's, and a stroll along the canal or grassy hillsides of the valley. When you've had your fill of quaint living, hop back on that coach to London. Or better yet, board the train to Bristol (home of Tricky, Massive Attack and Portishead), where you can catch a plane to the next destination on your whirlwind tour of the world. For us, that next stop was the land to the north.

Coming up next: Episode 8 (yes, we're at 8. Good going, people!), Tour of Scotland.

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords

(Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Prologue (How pretentious!): London Calling

As I stepped out the door this morning, a light layer of film condensed on my skin and that familiar feeling of icky started to creep over me. People around me were using umbrellas, but it wasn't raining (yet). Pale feet and cankles covered in pantyhose stuck through platform sandals. Wrinkly attire haphazardly tossed onto bodies in a hodge podge of mismatching colors and fabrics. The evil stink that pervades everything, no matter how hard it's been scrubbed and rinsed. I am back in China. And it's not nice. After spending two weeks in civilized (sorry, "civilised") society, how could it be?

Paradise, erm, London, was great. This will be my first understatement of many to come. I'll precariously step out on a limb and say it's the greatest city in the world (Lord save my American soul, just in time for Independence Day, huzzah!). People were polite to the point that even I started to feel uncomfortable, as if by merely being my already atypically polite American self, I was being rude and uncouth in their eyes. A peaceful and austere silence blanketed almost everything (until the nightly pub crawls, that is, when they all turn into monsters). Temperate weather, drinkable tap water and civilized driving welcomed me into their arms once again. Well-dressed eye candy as far as the eye could see. Stately architecture and rich history dripping from the cracks of everything above and below ground. Orderly queues. Oh, it was heaven.

Winding through the underground maze of the Tube, dropping wads of cash on musicals (and subsequently shooting wads of happiness at a Radiohead concert), enjoying 60 degree weather in the middle of summer, sunsets at 10pm, and the ubiquitous chirp of "sorry" around every corner, there's just something about London that begs to be worshiped. And thus, this is where the adventure begins and ends, nicely bookending further travels to Bath and Scotland in glorious symmetry. Simply put, the entire trip was phenomenally amazing and badass and every other hyperbolic adjective I have in my already-dwindling arsenal of positive descriptions. Hopefully you too will be inspired to take a trip across the pond (or continent) for a visit. Let's start, shall we?

Episode 1: Going Back To The Start

Through the crowd of loved ones packing Heathrow's arrival hall, I spied Sandra, my travel accomplice and cultural interpreter of all things British for the coming fortnight. After months of planning, I was all too eager to begin our adventure. And most especially after 12 hours sitting next to a Chinese guy taking his first airplane ride, which I could only assume, considering he didn't know how to recline his chair (the button!) or use the amazing on-demand entertainment system provided by Virgin (despite instructions in CHINESE). However, I wasn't about to help him, for everyone knows the dangers of interacting with a local Chinese on a long-distance flight: by the time you land, you've endured hours of inane business babble, English language tutor-torture and namecard exchange. Aaaagh! Tangent over...

Our two week's of travel were centered around three main hubs of fun: London, Bath and Scotland. Our schedule was meticulously planned and packed for maximum oomph, which I am happy to say was successfully executed to an almost scientific degree. We saw and did so much that my brain is still a little overwhelmed. In the interest of saving you the trouble of similar neural failure, I've decided to skirt my usual long-winded, chronological narrative structure in favour (here on out, it's Brit-spell time, bitches) of a more theme-based, yet nevertheless-still-long-winded, writing scheme. Forgive me in my new old age, but it's just about all I can mentally handle right now. So what can you expect from these upcoming tales?

London, great King of the World's Cosmopolitan Cities, home to a staggering amount of musicals, museums and metropolitan marvels. And hotties. Lots of hotties.

Bath, UNESCO world heritage city, former Roman aqueous playpen and the place where posh old British ladies and gentlemen (and aspirations) come to die in style.

Scotland, gorgeous land of loch and stone, pride and honour, haggis and Irn Bru, Highlanders and lake monsters, and source of 1/16 of my genetic makeup.

Along the way, we'll pick through the various culinary options (more than you think), exorbitantly priced to keep the British slim; enriching cultural delights, both free and overpriced (see a theme forming yet?); and societal differences to intrigue and confound even the most hardened world traveler. This being the longest non-home-visit trip I've ever been on, it's safe to say that this may get a little lengthy. So grab a bag of crisps and some eye drops, it's time to kick things off. Where to begin? With the thing that matters most in life (to some people anyway): money.

Next: Episode 2, which is all about the Benjamins (or Elizabeths, as it were)...