My fiftieth birthday was this last weekend. After years of rounding up my age, actually becoming fifty for real was no biggie, at least emotionally. (And for the record, I don’t feel at all compelled to round up to 55, at least not yet. Needless to say, Mark is relieved.) 

To celebrate, Mark took me to London.  A few years ago, a reporter was interviewing us for an article for the newspaper, and during the small talk we exchanged beforehand, he said, “You must go to Europe, but go before you’re fifty or you never will.”

 Of course I couldn’t let that go, so as the big birthday approached, more than once I brought up the fact that I was going to be half a century old and STILL hadn’t travel overseas.  Mark’s no fool, and he knew that considering he might have to live with me for the next fifty, he better take me somewhere or never hear the end of it. Thus the trip to England.  I’ve always wanted to go someplace with an entirely different culture – different language, customs and attitudes, but with only five days to get away due to Mark’s work schedule and my yoga training, London seemed as far as we could go without spending the bulk of the time on a plane. They may speak English over there, but at least they have a funny accent and the pound and driving on the left side of the road offers a pinch of curiosity. I was delighted with the gift.

 All of Mark’s relatives live in London or nearby cities. We spent the first night with his cousin, Laurence, and his new, pregnant wife. We’ve met before in America and instantly hit it off, so this turned out to be great fun.  If you want insight into a different culture, the quickest path is to visit the home of a lifetime resident (and to open a bottle of scotch and let honest banter fly). The next day, before dropping us off at our hotel in London, he took us to an old country pub for lunch that was built in the fifteenth century. As you might imagine, stepping into such a real chunk of history was thrilling for me, so I wandered around to get a good look at the structure, the rock walls and low ceilings held up with rustic beams.   I ran my hands along the heavy oak bar and marveled at the door hinges, handmade by a blacksmith hundreds of years ago. I pictured this pub as it must have been, standing alone on a small village dirt road half a days’ drive by carriage out of London, visited by travelers hundreds of years ago. Cool.

 I ordered a vegetarian Cheshire pie while Mark had the fish and chips (and ale, of course.) England is definitely a drinking culture and we were told more than once that Americans couldn’t drink worth a hoot. Since we hadn’t the inclination or stomach to keep up beyond a day or two, I can’t argue the point.

 The food in England is different, but it certainly explains my mother-in-law’s bland tastes. Every meal is based on meat and potatoes, and in the five days we were there, we hardly ever saw a vegetable or salad unless we special ordered it on the side, and then the vegetables came boiled to a pulp to assure there wasn’t an ounce of nutrient left. Ah well, when in Rome… I tried to order something English everywhere we went. I had fish and chips, spotted dick, treacle, and bangers and mash. I almost ordered rabbit in London’s oldest pub, renowned for game dishes, but I just couldn’t quite work up the enthusiasm for it as I pictured the Easter bunny getting his head blown off. It was Easter Sunday, after all. 

 For breakfast I ordered the traditional English breakfast, eggs with beans and sautéed mushrooms, always served with a sausage and a delicate piece of toast sitting upright in a rack (to assure it comes cold and dry, I guess).  But the hardest food adjustment for me was living for five days without a good cup of coffee. In England you take your coffee white or black. White means you’re served a latte. Black means you get black coffee, but rest your soul if you want anything other than skim milk to put in it.  They don’t serve half and half or cream or even whole milk with coffee in London, so every cup of coffee (always too weak or too strong) tastes off and there is no hope of repairing it with a dash of something else. We finally got desperate enough to step into an American franchise – a Starbucks. I was convinced we could get regular coffee there, but alas, even this icon of American culture was run differently in London and all they had to put in the drink was skim milk. I asked if they had anything else for the coffee, but the fellow working behind the counter tilted his head like I was asking for breast milk or something. “What else could you want?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

 OK, so in England, one must stick with tea, but even that is served strangely in my opinion (with milk and clumps of sugar, watering down the taste, while I am more a lemon and honey sort of tea drinker).  You also don’t drink water in London because the pipes are so old that it tastes metallic. Everyone pays for bottled water, usually sparkling and nary an ice cube in sight.  Odd, I tell you.

 The good news is that no one is fat in London, except the American tourists, of course. I suppose this is because they have no fast food except a few American standbys, like McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken (all of which serve very poorly made examples of our traditional junk food). Perhaps the fact that the regional food is so bland and unappetizing helps too. Heck if I lived there, I’d never eat and thus be thin (I’d be driven to drink too).

 The weather was typical for London. Rain. When it wasn’t raining, it was gray and misty. I suddenly understood the description of “pasty complexioned lords” in every Victorian romance novel I’ve ever read. Ah yes, to live in London is to be a mole. The savvy London raincoats are stylish and all, but to live without the sun would be difficult for me. For five days I didn’t mind.

 I did mind that despite being prepared with all sorts of converters, my American appliances didn’t work in London. The circuitry in England, like the plumbing and water pressure, is very weak.  This led to what Mark called, “The great global curling iron disaster.”  I couldn’t blow dry my hair or get the wayward ends to curl under in a controlled fashion. This made me feel like the ugly American, literally. Ah well. Let the rain come. Wet hair beats wayward frizz any day. 

 I was disappointed by how Americanized the city is. 80% of the TV they watch is American shows, so turn on the tube and you get CSI, and other crime dramas. Most all the movies in theaters are American shows currently open here, like Marley and Me or Monsters verses Aliens. Even the London shows are just copies of the Broadway hits. I swear I expected it to be the other way around. No where did we run into a cockney accent, if anything, the gentle British accent seems to be fading, replaced by the flat notes of American mainstream. Be careful what you let in to influence the younger generations, I wanted to tell them.

 Most of the city seemed to me like New York with an accent, or like another Boston, which makes sense since all our forefathers came from London and built their new cities in the image of their old, “civilized” hometown. The cities are even structured the same. Hyde Park is like Central Park, only smaller. The Thames is like the Hudson River, only muddier. London Bridge is like the Brooklyn Bridge, (and for the record, it isn’t falling down) the underground railroad (the Tube) is just like the New York subway. Mark maneuvered around in it beautifully. I just followed trusting he could figure it out, and he did.

 But there are things our forefathers didn’t try to reproduce here – like Westminster Abbey, The palace and royal family or Parliament. These ancient structures, so ornate and daunting are truly remarkable and give a glimpse of the world and it’s power structures from long ago.   That was fun to witness, despite the crush of tourists all determined to spend a few moments with history despite how “disneyesque” it all seems now. In the end, you can get a better view on a video documentary than in real life, sad to say.

 There were other disappointments, like when we stood for hours to see the changing of the guard and it turned out to be nothing more than 30 soldiers in red marching by us, pausing inside the gate so the band could play a song. What song did they play, you might ask. The British Anthem? Actually, it was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I kid you not. Mark is taller than I, so he could see what was going on. I looked at the statues of lions in the square and said, “Doesn’t anyone notice that that’s an American song? Please tell me there isn’t a tin man standing on guard, or a scarecrow tap dancing to amuse the crowd.”

“No, just a guy swinging his arm ridiculously high and I’m happy to report that they all are marching on the correct foot.” (Once a dance teacher, always a dance teacher.) 

Personally, the highlight of the trip for me was the fact that Mark’s mobile phone, even though he upgraded to a global unit, didn’t work. I was able to spend time with him “unplugged” for the first time in ages.  I have a cross to bear regarding our culture’s new reliance on cell phones and Internet communications 24-7. There is nothing ruder than driving with someone else in the car, or sitting with them in a restaurant and suddenly your guest is answering the phone or sending a text. It is as if the person is saying, “Something else is more important than being in your company, so I think I’ll just ignore you and attend to it. ” Offends me. I’m old fashion that way.

 Next on the London highlight list would be speaker’s corner in London. This is a corner of Hyde Park where they used to allow prisoners a chance to have their last say before they were hanged. The rules were they couldn’t say anything negative about the royal family, and they had to be at least six inches off the ground, so as not to be on British soil before they had their say. 16,000 people were hanged in one day at this spot. The youngest was only 8.  Can you imagine? Over the years, the corner was no longer just a place for the condemned. It became a place for people to air their true feelings about the issues of the times. Now, on Sundays, people still gather here and anyone standing on a box can voice their opinions about whatever they want.  Americans take for granted the freedom of speech and we are used to seeing people exercise that right, but the idea of setting aside one specific place,  a controlled environment, for allowing the free speech concept is interesting (historically). I had to see the famed speaker’s corner!

There was a crowd there when we arrived around noon and about 5 different men standing on a box to have their say. Most of the conversations were about religion, just preachers on a soapbox, but this may have been because it was Easter Sunday.  Still, the crowd wasn’t of a passive nature, and everyone was standing around arguing and conversing with those on the boxes, sort of like an intellectual debate free for all. I love it.  I walked up to the crowd around one impassioned speaker and he suddenly pointed to me and shouted,  “You miss, do YOU believe in evolution?” (He was arguing against it apparently.)

I said, “Absolutely.”

Then, the entire crowds turned, waiting to see what I had to say. I stood there dumbfounded. I didn’t know what was expected of me.  Ee-gad.

 “If you are so certain that YOU have the answers, tell us all how a fly came into being? How can a fly exist if we all came from one universal amoeba?  We are different because God made the fly. Do you believe in God?  If evolution is true, tell us then how it is possible the fly came into being. Explain a fly!” he yelled, still pointing at me.

I shrugged and said, “I just got here. I don’t really even know what this conversation is about….” And the man turned away and pointed to someone else, diverting everyone’s attention as quickly as he aimed it at me, and people began arguing the point, laughing and yelling and talking of flies and God. Mark pulled my arm towards another speaker.  In my mind I was thinking, “Wait! I can explain the fly if you give me a minute.”

Suddenly a man in the crowd stopped and shouted, “I want to talk about women and sex!” As you can imagine, many heads whipped around, mine included.  “I think action must be taken against women who do not cook!” He yelled. He was trying to draw a crowd, but most people chuckled and ignored him, more interested in tossing around ideas of evolution or religious beliefs than discussing whether or not women should be forced into the kitchen.

Personally, I would have loved to hear the man’s argument, but again, Mark took my arm and led me away saying,” I already have a women who cooks so this is of no interest to me.”

He hustled us along, thinking we really should go catch the bus for our city tour, so reluctantly, I followed him, but the truth is, I could have stood around for an hour or more listening to those people shouting what was on their minds. I was amused, curious, and damn entertained by the entire concept – especially that this public venue for opinion, outrageous or not, has survived to this day and age.  We weren’t there long enough to determine if anyone took it as a serious medium for discussion or if it was just another tourist amusement. I will always wonder.

 Of course, since then, I keep thinking about that man pointing a finger at me and asking me to explain a fly. The fact is, I CAN EXPLAIN A FLY, and if I’d been there any longer, I would have liked to try. Unfortunately, I was just caught off-guard. I went to speaker’s corner thinking I’d be a spectator, and so wasn’t prepared to interact. But given a chance, I believe I could get that jovial, laughing crowd to agree with my opinion once I started in about natural selection, reproduction, the gene pool, and Darwin’s theory. Let an American have at ‘em, I say. An impromptu public debate, all in good fun, would be great entertainment. I’m a cheap date.

 If I lived in London, I’d go to speakers corner often, just to stretch my intellectual muscles and to laugh with others at the audacity of some people who not only believe some pretty far fetched ideas, but also are passionate enough to make a public special of themselves over it. Especially in a country where most people are rather proper and reserved – the contrast alone makes it an interesting cultural spectacle. Like a steam valve for the repressed proper Englishman.

 Anyway, London was lovely; a novel place to go that gave me an entirely different perspective on the world. We took plenty of pictures, but you will have to wait for them until I have a day to download. 

It is easy to romanticize foreign travel, but in truth, the world is getting smaller all the time and tourism robs you of what you are really seeking when you go so far, at least for me. Good to discover.  I left satisfied, not yearning to see Paris or Italy or Timbuktu (at least for awhile). We loved the trip, but we both agreed that next time we decide to go someplace far away, we will choose Glacier park before every glacier has melted. Nature is a jewel far more precious than those on the Royal family’s crown, after all.  If nothing else, travel reminds you of how fortunate (and spoiled) Americans are. Our open spaces, diverse choices, and luxurious accommodations and consumer goods cocoon us, setting the bar unreasonably high regarding what is a normal standard of service or living. A reality check is always good for your cultural ethics, like tuning up your car to keep it running smooth. We Americans must appreciate what we have, and at the same time, be reminded that we have too much and need to stop the madness. Perspective is important.

 I could say more about London and my big birthday adventure, but I must go do my yoga homework. Tomorrow I return to round three of my intensive yoga weekends, and due to all the traveling I’ve been doing, I’m not as prepared as I should be. Shame on me. Ah well. I love all I’m learning about the eight limbs of yoga (beyond asana). In fact, the ideology makes many of my core beliefs suddenly fit together.

 Do I believe in evolution? Damn straight Brit boy. Flies be damned. My ever changing life and shifting view of the world is proof of it.