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)

Episode 4: Let's Make A Movie

I. Off To Hogwarts

Maybe music and shopping aren't your thing. While I pity your meaningless existence, I understand your condition. I hear eating is pretty popular, but some people just aren't into it. To each his own. Maybe movies get you off. They have the same effect on me, too. Which is why the UK is an absolute treasure trove for movie fans that can't make pilgrimages to New York City, Hollywood or New Zealand. Around every corner, just about, there is something to be spotted. A church. A skyscraper. A street. A cafe. An entire landscape. All seen in one your "favorite movies of all time," just waiting for you to take a well-timed picture of it.

First off, let's use a handy pop culture analogy from fanboy movie land:

New Zealand : Lord of the Rings :: The UK : ?

Give up? Harry Potter, bitches! Depending on where you venture in Britain, you're liked to wander onto Diagon Alley (Leadenhall Market), into Hogwarts (Alnwick Castle, Northumberland) or even the Hogwarts dining room (Christ Church, Oxford University). But whilst in London, I only had time for one special, out-of-the-way visit. To Platform 9¾.

Your ticket to Hogwarts

As you all (should) know, Platform 9.75 (easier on the eyes) is where Hogwarts students wave bye-bye to mum and dad, run headlong into a brick wall, and emerge, unscathed, on the other side to board the Hogwarts Express for another deadly school year. Fun! I want to fight evil with magic too!

All the way to the left of the station, near Platforms 9, 10 & 11.
Keep walking straight until you pass under that walkway in the background...

Here we are at the walkway.
Keep going and bang a left up where that dude in the blue shirt is walking.
Voila~

Located at King's Cross St. Pancras station (take the Piccadilly Line), the platform is tucked in an isolated area past the real Platform 9, in the left-most nook of the station. The real shot from the movie is actually located near Platform 4, at the center of the cavernous station, which is more impressive than something tucked away near a construction site. Just follow the groups of American tourists giggling with anticipation and, if there are none around, ask one of the staff, who are already trained with a stock response for stupid tourists like you. Err, us. Moving on.

Her shirt says "I got wait listed at Hogwarts." Cute if it weren't so nerdily obnoxious.

Real Hogwarts Geniuses: Neil, Kathleen, Sandra

There's nothing particularly mind-blowing about 9.75, save for the fact that it is very cool of London Public Transport to provide this neat little tidbit for fans around the world. After you snap the required shot of you, holding on to the luggage cart that is cleverly already halfway through the wall, you can be proud to know that you are a most superior HP fan to those lesser dedicated riff-raff friends of yours that aren't cool enough to fly all the way to London solely for a photo-op with a fabricated piece of pop culture. HA! Fools! ....

I bet no one at Hogwarts has ever JUMPED through. Lightweights. I totally look like I'm flying. What a badass.

For a full list of places for HP fanboys/girls to visit, check out this link and this link.

Although London is teeming with places that you've seen in movies, we didn't have enough time to waste running about town just for posed shots at Notting Hill, MI6, or Austin Powers' groovy shag loft, baby. Cultural immersion in free museums trump all. We had planned to visit Fleet Street, home to human-flesh-pasty-making devil, Sweeney Todd, but alas did not have a spare moment for a haircut. If you're interested, hop off the Circle/District line at Blackfriars and walk to 186 Fleet Street. If you see Johnny Depp, tell him I love him.

Border-hopping north and into Scotland, there's also a bevy of movie crap to wrap your head around. Let's stay on the Harry Potter track for a few minutes more, shall we?

After visiting Scotland, in all its wonder and magic, I felt very strongly that this must be the place that inspired a lot of the HP universe. It all fits: there's a real St. Mungo and a Scottish surname, Crookshanks (here I am thinking they were ridiculous made-up names); the imposing and slightly mystical architecture of Edinburgh screams Hogwarts; and the Highlands, which I could have sworn I saw in one of the movies (Azkaban, natch). To name just but a few examples that have been swirling in my brain. Well, it turns out to be true! Bless JK Rowling for being on the same page as me.

In addition to passing the Highland bridge used to shoot the scenes with the Hogwarts Express chugging to school, we also had the opportunity to visit a more real-world muggle locale: a cafe in Edinburgh called The Elephant House, where old Jo wrote the first book.

The Elephant House (in case you couldn't see the sign)

Milking it for everything they can (Sorry, Butterbeer not for sale to minors)

This modest cafe on George IV Bridge off the Royal Mile, a mere 10 minute walk from Edinburgh Castle, is packed with locals enjoying the Free Trade coffee and "strombolis" (basically, an overpriced panini) and overzealous HP fans alike. On a ratty old sofa in this sun-soaked shop, Rowling wrote what would become The Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone. Certainly not worth the exorbitant prices, but hey, when a die-hard Harry Potter fanatic is in Edinburgh...

Whoa Nelly!
[Insert joke about actual elephants in Elephant House here]

II. Highlanders

Waving goodbye to Harry Potter, we delve into more adult fare. If magic isn't your thing, maybe heroin is. So you Trainspotting fans will be pleased to know that Edinburgh is where your favorite junkies stole shit (on Princes Street!), looked at locomotives and got high as kites in the 90s classic.

Gets better every time you watch it

If dramatic era pieces are more your bag, then we must travel further north to the wilderness of the Highlands. Without directing obvious nods to the Highlander series (starring French tool, Christopher Lambert, a.k.a. your friendly neighborhood thunder god, Raiden) or any potential Loch Ness related fiddle-faddle (e.g. The Water Horse), there are two huge films with deep roots (and controversies) based in the Highlands: Rob Roy and Braveheart.

Pretty much everyone has seen Braveheart, so I'll spare you the background information and sappy quotes. However, I admit that I haven't seen Rob Roy, so chances are you haven't either. Fortunately I got a crash-course summary from our tour bus driver (no puns intended, pei-pei-pei!). So what's the fuss about? First, let's start with the facts:

Braveheart is a Hollywood story based on the real life William Wallace, who lived in an area called Stirling, located West of Edinburgh. He lived near the Highlands and was executed by the bad bad British (more precisely: strangled, eviscerated, castrated, beheaded, and then, to be sure, drawn and quartered for good measure).

Rob Roy is a Hollywood story based on the real life...Rob Roy (MacGregor). He lived further Northwest in the actual Highlands, somewhere south of Glencoe, and most certainly did not play Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars Episode 1.

Those are the facts. Pretty slim, right? How could you weave two 2+ hour movies from that? With the magic of Hollywood! Digging into the memory banks, try and remember all you can about those movies and rejoin me below for some interesting inconsistencies.


William Wallace (said "Braveheart") was 6'7". *Pause* A fucking beast of a man who wielded a sword 5'7" long. *Second pause* That is HUGE. In a delicious bit of number play, Mel Gibson is also 5'7" (or 5'10", depending on the source). Imagine Wallace waving around Mel like a little toy. "How dare you desecrate my name. Blaaargh! I'm Will.i.am Wallace!" Hilarity ensues.

Wallace was also not quite as wild and mangy as in the films, but rather a moderately respected landowner. Shocking to believe Mel Gibson would fabricate historical truths for box office gain (zing!). So please don't cry when I tell you that the part in the movie where the Highlanders flip up their kilts and moon the Brits didn't happen. No one is that stupid to expose their quivering nutsacks to a full line of English musket power (and they hadn't even invented that style of kilt yet). And to further ruffle your feathers, that whole "Freedom" speech actually belongs to Robert the Bruce. Suck it, Braveheart nerds.

A Two-Handed (duh) Sword, Used By Badasses Like William Wallace

Rob Roy, on the other end of the aesthetic spectrum, was a red-headed freakshow of a man. Apparently, his arms were so long that his hands reached his knees. And dude was only 5'4" tall. Kind of like Gollum. I don't know when you last took a peek at Irishman (gasp!) Liam Neeson, but he's a pretty dashing gentleman. And 6'4" tall with brown hair. Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood...

According to local history, when Roy was brought to face the English king for his Robin Hood-esque thievery crimes (mainly "reiving", e.g. stealing, to pay off late debts), the king was so taken off guard by Roy's gnome-like appearance that he pardoned the little guy in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. That happened to me once in college... girls can be so cruel...

Enough about those guys. I'm starting to get irritated with all the romanticised heroism. Let's get into a real classic.

On the way out of the Highlands and back to Edinburgh, we passed a ramshackle castle in the distant mist, which starred in one of the greatest films of all time: Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Doune Castle in itself is nothing too special. However, as a pilgrimage point for Grail buffs, it has since hopped aboard the Python express and welcomes fans without insult. One year, according to our tour guide, local merchants were surprised to sell out entire supplies of imported coconuts, all mysteriously headed to Doune. I suppose the fans needed transportation to get around the castle grounds, eh?

III. Trail To The Grail

First, we dabbled in the fantasy world with boy wizards and jailbait witches. Then we touched upon Hollywood deception in the Highland hills. Finally, we were reacquainted with the best Grail-referencing film ever (sorry, Indy). So why don't we combine fantasy, deception and grails into one convenient finale?

If you've been an active member of any culture in the past few years, you've no doubt either fallen in love or grown to hate Dan Brown and his arsenal of fairy tales. I admit, I am a Dan Brown apologist. I find his stories highly entertaining and devoured all of them within a fortnight one summer in 2003. Yet I am aware of the controversy and overall bad taste that he leaves in the mouths of discerning literature buffs and overzealous Christian right-wingers alike. So where is this all headed? Well, if you remember the movie, The Da Vinci Code, and the far-superior book it was based on, you know that all points lead to Scotland, at a delightfully magical church called Rosslyn Chapel.

The site was a highly anticipated part of our journey. So as we boarded Lothian Bus 15 from Prince Street, I was giddy to finally be starting our pilgrimage south. A swift 30 minutes later, we arrived in Roslin.

Roslin, near Rosewell, not Roswell

Rosslyn Chapel, a Scottish Episcopalian church located in the once-peaceful village of Roslin, is a gem on its own. Even without the grudgingly-received attention thrust upon it by Mr. Brown's musings, it is a wondrous and borderline mythical site that stands on its own as a marvel of religious architecture, design and creativity.

Stock photo of Rosslyn, before the scaffolding ruined the view (to the far left, you can see the unfinished wall that was supposed to be the transept of a huge cathedral) (from Wiki)

Without busting too much of a love load over Rosslyn, I'll share with you some highlights and try to clear the air about this place. If you don't care for religious symbolism or mythic tales, you can save some time and stop reading here; I'll be wrapping this entry up with this subject, but I do go on about it for quite some time... I've already pushed audience attention-span limits with the length of this entry. Just saying. Moving on.

I had planned the Rosslyn visit as one of the must-see highlights of the trip, more important and meaningful to me than anything in Edinburgh (sorry). Despite popular belief, I have a deep respect for the religious and have my own private well of deep faith. And I especially love when supernatural, mythical, or otherwise fantastical elements are added to the mix; it makes all the boring dogma seem worthwhile. Thus, the need to see Rosslyn with my own eyes.

Housed in the choir portion of what was to be an entire Roman Catholic cathedral, Rosslyn Chapel (a.k.a. The Collegiate Church of Saint Matthew) is an ornately decorated house of worship, painstakingly detailed to "illustrate" a wealth of tales on every surface of its porous sandstone. This is perhaps why it is sometimes referred to as a Bible in rock, a storybook in stone and glass.

Unfortunately, no photography was allowed inside, so the only shots I got were of the exterior (the chapel is covered with scaffolding, but the silver lining is that you can actually climb up the catwalk and see the roof details). Check out this video tour for a more in-depth look at this beautiful place (or this slideshow, if you prefer to avoid a narrated guide).

The interior of Rosslyn's choir (from Wiki)

See the map on the right. I tried to make it clear, orienting the location of the building in relation to what would have been a whole cathedral. Think of this as the top part of a cross. That unsightly scaffolding is actually protecting the crumbling structure from rain damage.

The original, lustrous pink sandstone

Unfortunately, whatever was alluded to in The Da Vinci Code is only loosely based on reality. Sorry, but "Rosslyn" does not mean "Rose Line"; it's actually "waterfall over the rock". And Jesus and Mary Magdeline's family tree ain't in the crypt either. It is indeed related to the Knights Templar and might be vaguely connected to the Masons, but the truths and debated fictions that existed here before Dan Brown's book are, in my opinion, far more interesting and feasible. To wit:

-Dedicated to Saint Matthew, the chapel was meticulously built to honour this saint in a most astounding way. In the central rose window (the stained glass above the choir), there is a tiny triangle of red glass (see photo below). Only on one day out of the year does the sun shine directly through it: the first day of the Autumnal Equinox or, St. Matthew's Day. Genius.

Rose window detail

-Decorated with an abundance of Christian-based carvings, the chapel is also unique in its references to non-Christian motifs. Most famous are the carvings of Green Men. These pagan symbols of fertility are ugly little beasties: tiny cherubic faces with vines and shrubbery spewing from their orifices. They make Pan look like a cuddly sheep.

Green Man: ugly little fucker (from Wiki)

-Most people believe Columbus "discovered" America. Not here. In addition to the aforementioned Green Men, there are also a curious amount of vegetation motifs depicting plants that were not indiginous to Europe at the time of carving. These plants are North American (maize/corn, aloe) and have led many to believe that one of the Knights Templar associated with Rosslyn may have traveled to America long before Columbus. The coolest bit about it? Supposedly, this knight landed very close to home. My home.

See the corn in the inner lining of the window arch? Mysteeeeriouuuus (from Wiki)

After a mission from Scotland to Nova Scotia hit bad weather, a group led by Henry Sinclair found shelter in Massachusetts. This knight Sinclair, an ancestor to the current keepers of Rosslyn Chapel, eventually died and was buried in a little town called Westford. Baaaadaaaass. For those of you back home, he can be found on Prospect Hill (near the Westford Center rotary, off 495, on Depot Street), the grave marked by a carved relief tombstone. Whether it's truly him or not, this random reference to my current US home was something unexpected and, I admit, pretty cool.

Driven past this millions of times without knowing what it was... (from Flickr)

-On a carving of Moses (Old Testament guy, not my Dad) near the Southern entrance, there are two curious horns protruding from his head. The Rosslyn artists did not mean to imply he was Satan. Rather, this was due to a mistranslation of the word "horn" in Hebrew, which was supposed to be translated as "light" or "aura." As in, "a light/aura rose from Moses' head." Let that be a lesson to lazy freelance Bible translators out there.

Horny Moses (from Flickr)

-Near the far eastern end of the chapel, in the Lady Choir, there are little trapezoidal protrusions that jut out along the interiors of the column arches. On each square is a unique design that was said to be connected to a musical note. So, a pair of curious guys decided to try and decipher the designs using Chladni patterns. What resulted was a full piece of music called the Rosslyn Motet. Please do check out this amazing video charting the musical cipher. I find it overwhelmingly fascinating.

-The most famous pieces of the chapel are arguably the Master Mason pillar and the Apprentice pillar. The Master Mason has a fine and stately design, understated and elegant in its relative simplicity. The Apprentice pillar, on the other hand, is a badass of a shaft that totally beats the knickers off the Master Mason. This is perhaps why said mason actually killed his apprentice with a mallet-blow for outshining him. In a glorious twist of ingenuity, the mason and apprentice have been immortalized in carvings on the walls of the chapel: the apprentice in one corner near the rear of the chapel and the master in the opposite corner, his gaze centered directly on the Apprentice pillar for all eternity, awesome karmic punishment for his sin of envy.

Gonna Get Someone Killed:
Gorgeous top of the Apprentice Pillar (from Wiki)

-Finally (you still awake?), the Grail marker. Located at a central point on the vaulted ceiling, this diamond shaped stone points directly down into the heart of the chapel, deep below the floor, to a mysterious unopened crypt below.

X Marks The Spot:
The Keystone (from Wiki)

According to legend, this crypt is home to a treasure beyond comprehension. Now, before you get all excited, grab your pick-axe and go Lara Croft on me, take pause. The Grail is probably not buried here. Nor is Jesus' mummified head (yikes! seriously people!?!), the fallopian tubes of Mother Mary, or John the Baptist's favourite Care Bear. A local crazy tried to smash open parts of the chapel in an attempt at real scientific discovery years back (got nothing but time in the pokey), so to avoid any further vandalism by nutjobs, the Rosslyn people had everything x-rayed. Nothing was found hidden above ground, but they did find a massive space below. So massive that it is as deep and cavernous as the entire above ground portion of the chapel, like a subterranean mirror image.

And there are definitely things down there, but what? No entrance can be found and they most certainly will not allow any destruction of the foundation, so you can be left to speculate. It is "supposed" to contain the Knight's Templars skeletons, their treasures, like the Ark of the Covenant, the treasure from King Solomon's Temple, and the rocks from the Temple of Doom (kidding...), the Holy Rood (or "holy wood," a piece of the crucifix that did in our Lord and Saviour), and/or that pesky Holy Grail. Believe what you will, but the real-life stories in stone are enough to feed the imagination and satisfy your inner faith-based adventurer without too much fictional interruption.

I have many more stories, if you're interested. But I really need a rest at this point. Can't believe you made it this far. Since you can't take my blabber any further (I totally need a pee break right now), do your own supplemental reading or catch up with a bag of popcorn and any one of the movies that I've mentioned above. A movie marathon on film, instead of your loquacious buddy's blog.