London, UK
The George Inn
Akon, Lady Gaga, followed then by some other dance anthem—the synthesized tones trickle out of a quiet radio in the kitchen of the George Inn. I’m trying to imagine Dickens, sitting with a pint, dreaming up his next chapter, chatting with some other Englishman. I’m imagining all the voices that have soared through this bar for the last eight hundred or so years. I’m imagining the faded vibrations, the ghosts of song and shouts and whispers, mingling with the music of today. The space here has heard so much, felt so much, been guarded by so many. I’m the only one in this section of the bar. It’s quiet, except for the tapping of the keys, the groaning of a door, and Gaga’s crooning of “Alejandro.” It doesn’t feel right. I know the wood holding this place together is not the wood which held it together in the days of Chaucer, but I try to convince myself it is. At least there’s a big chunk torn out of the wall, exposing plaster and concrete—makes it seem a little more lived in. At least the chef seems like he could fit in any century.
I feel my American naïveté around me, like a hooded cloak, making me feel safe, but obscuring my vision. The British, and their problems seem quaint. When I hear about violence perpetrated by their more excitable citizens, I almost laugh, thinking, “How bad could it be?” The British are too busy being British to bother with anything truly mean. But then I hear, while riding the tube, an announcement asking people not to assault the workers. At one stop I see an advert stating that the workers have the right to work without fear. At the last stop I see another poster, this one showing a close up of a purpling bruised arm, the broken veins beneath showing an outline of the underground system. I pleads with people not to hurt the employees of the transit service. Yet, I am unfazed. Just a part of football season, right?
Half an hour later I find myself walking down an quiet, empty, dark street—a thoroughfare that I would be strictly terrified to wander down anywhere in the states—without a care in the world.
I’m drinking the home brew of the George Inn, and it’s beer. I have a feeling every pint will be beer here, and abroad. But I have this hope that it will be some magical potion, something to captivate me. American beer sucks, right? European beer is the shit, right? But Budweiser lines the wall here as well. They even have a special brew not available in the States.
I thought, before arriving, that the architecture would be wildly different. I’d be lost in a wonderland of aesthetics. Not the case. No greater is it to walk about in this spot of London than to walk about Greenwich Village, or the like.
The muffins taste, feel the same; the orange juice as well. People are assholes, people are friendly.
Yet, I’ve nearly been whacked a half dozen times already crossing the streets, even when I look the correct way. The roads don’t have yellow lines, and they have a variety of other symbols that I just don’t understand. It’s not just that cars drive on the left, or whatever, but that they seem to drive wherever, by some commands hidden in the signage along the streets.
I ate my fish and chips with my hands, when the server kindly informed me where the cutlery was hidden. How the heck was I supposed to know? C’mon, they have mashed peas for you to dip your fries in! Things are different, and I’m strangely concerned about faux pas.
Everyone speaks with an accent, and I can feel, as soon as a I speak, the strange foreignness of my voice, how it immediately draws me out of the crowd as a curiosity. “Oh, where are you from?”
And of course the candy and soda. America really needs to step up its game when it comes to these two. I don’t even like candy or soda much, but I am absolutely fascinated and draw to all the neat varieties here. It’s been the same for me in every other country I’ve visited. The candy fascinates me. Tahiti, Australia, Canada, Mexico, England. They do some amazing things. Carbonated guava juice! Who thought of that brilliant idea? When I asked the Londoner in possession of the incredible article, he responded, “Well, I really wanted mango.” Brilliant!
So, here I am in the George Inn, my prejudices slowly being whittled away, and new conceptions about this country being formed.
Lady Gaga again on the radio, I’m reminded of the ancient space I sit within. On a rafter above, painted in gold script, it reads, speaking of the Inn, “First mentioned in John Stowes “Survey of London” 1598. I don’t recall at the moment, but as I entered the alley leading to the Inn, I saw a sign which read that this location was immortalized in a piece written by Dickens himself.
I’m in a land with more history than I’ve ever experienced before, and I can feel it. It soaks through my clothes and pressed into my pores. I must explore.
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