Bum bum bummm... The time has come for me to finally dish on the titillating (and the not so) moments of my occasionally spellbinding trip to London! (Disclaimer: I am AWFUL at whipping out a camera and saying, "Oh! What an opportune moment for a photo." It obnoxious and I hate it. I left my falling-apart digital in America and opted for disposables. A mistake. Disposables are even more obnoxious, and half my photos are of poor quality. Another portion of my photos are mysteriously missing from the stack of prints and the photo disc. They can apparently be swiped by x-rays. Fuckfuckfuck. Better luck next time? -- My sister did fill up two cameras, which will probably turn out nicer than my one camera. I'm too frugal with photos! But she hasn't developed hers yet, and I'm not sure when she will. But expect more later. This is not over!)
I really wish I could tell you what this is that you're looking at. Alas, I cannot.
Lets start by saying that I had never been before. Actually, it was my first time in Europe, now that I think of it. I've traveled a bit in the States, I've been to Mexico too many times to count, I lived in Argentina for a summer, and I've been to Japan. The list is short, but for some people, traveling is a rare experience. To say I've seen a little chunk of the world is a huge accomplishment for me. I'm incredibly fascinated by anything new or foreign, so I make sure to lap up any semi-exotic experience. With that said, London meant so much more than simply 'any semi-exotic experience'. I've never lived any more than an hour outside of Los Angeles (besides two short-in-comparison treks in Arizona and San Diego), so perhaps I'm biased when saying that more often than not, I find it fucking boring. I've never envisioned myself living in LA forever, and still don't. To counter that thought, London always stood for a lot to me, as I'm sure LA has for others. I'm overall a cultural junkie, and obviously most of the things I really love originated from England. Plus, unlike most other places I've traveled, they speak English in the UK! How exciting! (I loathe the fish out of water experience, which is strangely a huge aspect of traveling. I'll take it.) Other than the music thing, I can't quite say why London was such a symbol for my dreamy life, but if nothing else: its far more picturesque than America and their accents!! But mostly, the music. Bam.
Until I faced utter madness at Heathrow (TWICE!), I really loved the airport. Is that strange? I love the feeling of airports. Everyone is doing something! Going somewhere! Waiting to see someone they love! Everyone is making something happen, and they are going somewhere different. I hope I regain that attitude, because excitement/happiness makes everything far more tolerable. It was smooth sailing at LAX on the morning of October twenty-fourth. I was a little sleep deprived, the pre- departure atmosphere had been a little tense, but I tuned everyone out, blasted London Calling, and basically said: "Fuck everything. I'm going to London!" As this thought hit me, I was all smiles and not a worry. Besides getting my nail polish remover confiscated (what bitches...), LAX provided no hassle. I sat down in my window seat (I'm trying to recall a time when I haven't traveled by the window. I can't, thankfully, it seems awful!), and pressed my nose to the window, where it would remain anytime my eyes were open. As the elevation rose, my stomach dropped -- in the best damn way possible. I was finally on my way, and sooner than expected. I love accomplishing goals.
I juggled excitement, occasional naps, nasty vegetarian meals, and lusting after Adrien Brody in The Brothers Bloom over the course of ten and a half hours. I had predicted that I may be reduced to tears of joy upon arriving at Heathrow, but alas, I am not such a sap. Thankfully. Still, I put on the musical equivalent of any majestic moment and was absolutely tickled upon touching down. I gaped at the vast green landscape, and was overfilled with glee as the tiny English homes grew bigger in size. The sun was rising and I was floored by thoughts of the historical significance of all that I was taking in. I quite literally couldn't stop smiling as we waited to leave the airplane, and was thrilled when a kind man offered to help with my suitcase. Unfortunately, the utter simplicity and perfection of those moments would be short-lived. Usually customs/immigration is a breeze, but either a) Heathrow/the UK are incredibly strict, b) things have changed drastically in the year since I last traveled, or c) I look like a total threat to humanity. I don't know which is the correct answer, honestly. I couldn't tell if the immigration man thought that my sister and I were funny, in a good way, or if he was thinking, "What the fuck is wrong with these screwy American broads?" Occasionally, I thought we had him leaning towards the former, but cracking jokes was absolutely useless. We were officially 'detained' and all I could do was laugh. After having our baggage searched again, being interrogated extensively -- even after providing them with all the proper information, we were let loose into the world. I changed from my prim heels to scuffed-up flats and felt ready to take on the world, in a tired/wired/overslept kind of way. The correct tube line from Heathrow to Central London wasn't operating, so we were here, there, and everywhere. Alas, we met our friend who would play hostess for the next week, in Leicester Square. We ended up having drinks and lunch, playing MASH, waiting hours for our friend, and ultimately feeling the jetlag hard. I was about ready to die already, as we had to truck along the underground with our overly-packed suitcases. Up and down staircases, in and out of doors. It was hell. Though some men occasionally stopped to help the girl with a suitcase that probably weighed as much as she does, I felt no less exhausted. Still, another tube ride, train, and a taxi -- ALAS, temporary home base! I crashed on an air mattress, where I would remain for eleven hours -- longest nap of my life. I woke up at 7AM and wanted nothing more to prance around the streets obnoxiously. As soon as my cohorts awoke, we dashed off to the super market where I spent eight pounds and got enough snacks for my entire stay! I got an adapter for my laptop, and then gallivanted into Central London. I shopped on Oxford Street, spending a decent amount at TopShop (whom I would happily let clothe me for the rest of my days), then skipped down to Carnaby Street and dreamt of its history. I wandered down Kings Road and listened to the Kinks. I was ready to collapse by that time, as we made our way back to the suburbs of Greater London.
From there, the days begin to blur. Most days went like this: Get up, get ready, venture into London, come home, socialize with flatmates, crash at a ridiculously early or ridiculously late hour. I visited Abbey Road, and after traipsing from the St. John's Wood station, I was startled to be immediately met with the (well, it was actually moved in the Seventies, but you know) crosswalk. I crossed it, and basically thought, "Fuck -- there was nothing mystical about that!" I walked along the sidewalk, read the messages written all over the gates, and maybe was too overwhelmed to take it in. My sister did snap a photo of me crossing the crosswalk, which I wasn't aware of. We must wait for that though. As we walked back to the station, I wanted to say, "Wait! Some of my favorite records were recorded right there." But it was too late, and going back probably wouldn't have made me feel any closer. For me, imagining what once was isn't so exciting. I mean, I'd be pretty jazzed if a young David Gilmour was still sitting on those steps, but hey, he's not. But I went to Abbey Road. No complaints.
If one young David Gilmour was loitering outside, it'd be underneath the luminous sign, which says Abbey Road... I swear.
The London Eye was cool, in a birds-eye-view kind of way. My sister spent the whole time fearing heights. I had my nose pressed to the glass, and was pretty thrilled to reach the top. We also walked past Parliament, which still glowed in the late hours. I jammed on -- what else? -- Physical Graffiti, and that stands as one of the more gratifying moments of the trip. I can't quite say why. I guess it was just the most epic headphones walk ever. I really loved that walk.
I also visited the British Music Experience at the O2. Its basically a huge food court with a concert hall, mini- concert hall, and exhibitions. Some sort of Disney something was going on, and I fell in love with all the little girls dressed in princess costumes. So cute! To quote myself, it was "the perfect place for perverts." Anyway, the actual British Music Experience exhibition was pretty incredible. I kind of wanted to break the glass and touch the delectable mementos, but somehow, the consequences didn't seem worth it. Here's the catch: You apparently aren't allowed to take photos in the exhibition. I was told this as I attempted to snap one last photo before exiting. I had already taken a handful. By some horrible karmic twist, not ONE photo appears on my photo disc. I'm going to go ahead and blame the Paul Simon-looking fool who told me to not take photos. Yep, its his fault entirely. Anyway, I saw lots of momentous artifacts, but what really captivated me were the outfits. They were all surprisingly PETITE. Seriously short and lanky. A teeny, tiny get-up that belonged to Jimi Hendrix. Without reading the caption, I knew another was formerly Keith Richards'. (I love le Keith, of course I knew!) A white Mary Quant jumpsuit for Jagger. Roger Daltrey's outfit that he wore at Woodstock. An amazingly hideous outfit (and snakeskin boots) worn by Jimmy Page. I was in shock of how heavy, busy, and unattractive it was. How did he make that thing look good? David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust numbers playsuit, his "Ashes to Ashes" outfit. Also, Bowie's handwritten lyrics to "Five Years" and a set list dating from the same era. (My sister has photos of these, so cross your fingers!) I snapped a photo of an old issue of Sniffin' Glue with the Clash on the cover, but alas, the photo is nowhere to be seen. The British Music Experience was my kind of scene, so unsurprisingly, I lapped it up. If in London, go see it. It was something like fifteen pounds, and worth the trek to North Greenwich. (Also in the O2 is Nando's, which my sister raved about. I don't eat meat, so what the fuck does Portuguese chicken mean to me?)
One of my final days, I visited one of my most anticipated spots, the Tate Britain. I'm slowly teaching myself about art, and the Tate was a defining lesson. I love the Pre-Raphaelites, and the Tate showcased them brilliantly. I was literally captivated and overwhelmed by their intense beauty and magnificent elegance. I attempted to pay attention to every detail. Women were portrayed so beautifully, with their billowing gowns and luscious locks. The works of Waterhouse, Burne-Jones, Millais, Holman Hunt, and Rossetti left me dizzy, and it was still the early afternoon! After taking in all of the 'historic' British art, and briefly viewing the modern art, I felt I had conquered the Tate. (For not a dime! Score!)
I ventured into Camden Town to get a little more shopping done. I'm ridiculously enamored with flea market areas. I make it a mission to visit a flea market in every new city I see. I really liked Camden, but the unbelievable, effortlessly cool bohemian mecca I visited in Buenos Aires takes the cake, still. But I walked through the bulk of each market area, walked away with a dress, after one-sided (his side) playful difficulty with a strange male vendor. Another attempted to persuade me to buy a shirt that was visibly too large for my frame and rather ugly. I passed.
Clothes, clockwise from top left: American Apparel tanktop from Carnaby Street (14 pounds), black dress with lace/shimmery bodice from TopShop (25 pounds), poofy gray Carrie Bradshaw-esque skirt from TopShop (10 pounds), black on top and pretty floral on bottom dress from Camden (15 pounds). Also, assorted shit that got dumped from my purse when I arrived home. Water bottle that says "English water", tube map, train tickets, Tate map, boarding passes, receipts, et cetera.
That was basically the sum of my touristy experiences. So, to conclude the wrap-up of my trip, let me say, thank you Ross Halfin! Besides being a magnificent talent, the man's generosity is jarring. Because of him, I got to attend the Classic Rock Awards, eat sushi and chat endlessly with his hard working and incredibly friendly crew, and of course, got to marvel at all (and be introduced to, and sometimes even chat with) my favorites. We played 'spot Ginger Baker' so he could sign Ross' copy of his autobiography, and when I finally did, Cara (one of Ross' assistants and my companion for the evening) wasn't sure if it was him! Still, she ran to grab the book and exclaimed, "I'm on a mission!" I sat with Richard (yet another one of Ross' assistants) and we anxiously awaited her return, contemplating the possibilities. To our surprise, Cara returned with a signature and was happy to report that he was 'lovely'. It was the night's first victory. Alas this was a fluke, because when Ginger later appeared to be photographed, he looked genuinely delusional. Later, though Richard, Cara, and I had been snacking on various sweets and candies, when Kazuyo (Ross' subtly hilarious assistant) offered us candy, we happily stuck out our hands. We were a little surprised to receive Halls cough drops, though Richard and Cara politely dropped them in their mouth. I delicately placed mine in my pocket, only to be discovered when I returned home to LA, which prompted silent laughter to myself. As the night wore on, the names just got bigger. At one point I stood in the middle of the photo room (which was of medium size, therefore making the setting all the more intimate) silently gawking at the company surrounding me. Hearing Jeff Beck ask Jimmy Page if he had seen Bruno was hilarious, especially because it seemed Jimmy had no idea what it was. (I personally saw the film during opening week, and deemed it a 'trailer movie' -- the funniest bits are in the trailer.) Later, I saw Iggy Pop unknowingly sitting on my purse, but I proceeded with whatever small chatter I was engaging in. As previously mentioned, I did get to meet Jimmy Page. Ross formally introduced us, reminding Jimmy that he had already told him of me, and Jimmy was genuinely lovely. We were mutually intrigued, though I would like to think I maintained a sensible demeanor. After all, the utter brilliance of the evening did not dawn on me until twenty-four hours later. I was flying half way over America, thinking I would never reach my destination, when it all hit me. What a magnificent opportunity. Spurred by the Clash's energy of "Defy the odds and do whatever the fuck you want", the entire trip was a huge 'check' on my nonexistent list of goals. Seeing Chrissie Hynde comfortably hugging up to Iggy Pop, after just reading about how he was a teenage crush of hers, I smiled faintly. My goals are lofty, but for me, they aren't impossible. To me, the entire evening (and the trip in general) was simply an introduction -- the coolest orientation to ever be. I can't say the next time something so magnificent will occur, but I can assure you I have no doubt that it will. I'm quite fond of this 'making shit happen' sensation. Getting what you want is one thing, but doing something that many conceive as 'never going to happen', it fills me with intense glee. The night was like a dream, and it is literally that hazy. I keep recall tiny details, like the itty bitty silver streaks in Ronnie Wood's hair, or Jimmy's necklace, and it makes for endless bouts of excitement. Even though Ross let me know "You should never meet your heroes", I'd gladly do it over and over and over. Again, thank you Ross for providing me with this opportunity! Your constant, hilariously harsh commentary was tons of fun, and your unnecessary kindness is much appreciated. I hope I made that apparent.
Oh and! Everyone in that room was so SHORT. Iggy Pop literally can't be much taller than me. I was in three or four inch heels, and was able to size up nicely. (And I'm quite tiny. Last time I checked, 5'1".) I didn't feel as if anyone was towering over me -- except maybe Brian May. He's a tall guy. But overall, that was my major observation, everyone looks older and shorter in person.
The contents of my Classic Rock goodie bag. If you're in the UK (or elsewhere if its possible), go buy the current issue! The Pink Floyd cover is 3D, and we were all fairly mesmerized. That's also a mini- Marshall amp. I love the Led Zeppelin onesie. The lack of baby is an issue though.
Flying high in the friendly sky.
Ross, Kazuyo, and Ross' girlfriend Meeok took me all the way back to where I was staying, though it was by then 2am. I was wired and had to pack. I got very little sleep, woke up at 6:45am the next morning, and took a cab to Heathrow. Only then did I discover that my flight had been delayed. (EVEN THOUGH I had printed my boarding pass online A MERE HOUR EARLIER. Thanks for the heads-up, United!) The friendly blonde behind the desk informed me of this, as I responded, "Has it been delayed drastically?" This was at eight in the morning. She replied, "3pm." I had literally two hours of sleep behind me, and after blasting "In My Time of Dying" ridiculously loud for the too-affectionate couple next to me to hear, I tried to nap in a chair. I hate sleeping in public. (Does anyone enjoy it?) I thought, "Fuck this", exchanged the last of my money, and had to go all the way through immigration again. Nobody knew where the fuck to direct me, and by the time I got out, it was raining. My cab driver was absolutely dense, had no idea where to take me, and we got terribly lost. I also lost my voice, so I hoarsely hollered when I recognized a street. I threw a rock at my friend's window and once I was her in room, collapsed to the floor in a heap of exhaustion. I napped, stressed because I had little money left, and managed to get another cheap cab. With a nice nap under my belt, I arrived at Heathrow feeling much less frazzled. My cab driver had actually taken my sister to the airport the day before. I told him that I had come here with my sister, who left the day before. He said, "Are you the journalist who got hassled at the airport when you got here?" I said, "WHAT? How did you know?" He professed, "I'm psychic! Ask me something else!" I thought he had heard it through the cab driver grapevine, but then I said, "Wait! Did you drive my sister yesterday?" He had indeed, and I recall him fondly. (I took very few cabs but the drivers were either amazingly chatty or ridiculously stupid.) Upon arriving at Heathrow, I grabbed a quick, free lunch -- before FINALLY resting in my window seat. I looked out, wished that great country farewell, felt all bittersweet, and CRAVED rest. I was given more disgusting food (apparently "I don't eat meat" means "Give me the most disgusting thing you can muster up") but I didn't care. I fell into a deep slumber and awoke three or so hours before touching down in LA. It was then that I smiled and contemplated the overwhelming greatness of the previous night. I drank tea and thought, "Way to go. You're making your dreams come true." LAX was again a breeze, and per usual when returning home, I wanted to (... not literally) kiss the ground. I stayed with my grandparents who live closer to the airport and went home the next day.
Home!!!
Its really sad that I probably have more photos of my room than of London. But you know, there are plenty photos of London. Not so many of my room! So check out some of my books, cassettes, 8-tracks, 45s, and records!
This is titled: "I still need to unpack." That suitcase has remained more or less untouched. Truly. I'm looking at it right now, in that same spot on my floor.
London, I love you. We will meet again, xo.Source URL: https://jimhensons.blogspot.com/2009/11/in-regent-street-and-leicester-square.html
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I really wish I could tell you what this is that you're looking at. Alas, I cannot.
Lets start by saying that I had never been before. Actually, it was my first time in Europe, now that I think of it. I've traveled a bit in the States, I've been to Mexico too many times to count, I lived in Argentina for a summer, and I've been to Japan. The list is short, but for some people, traveling is a rare experience. To say I've seen a little chunk of the world is a huge accomplishment for me. I'm incredibly fascinated by anything new or foreign, so I make sure to lap up any semi-exotic experience. With that said, London meant so much more than simply 'any semi-exotic experience'. I've never lived any more than an hour outside of Los Angeles (besides two short-in-comparison treks in Arizona and San Diego), so perhaps I'm biased when saying that more often than not, I find it fucking boring. I've never envisioned myself living in LA forever, and still don't. To counter that thought, London always stood for a lot to me, as I'm sure LA has for others. I'm overall a cultural junkie, and obviously most of the things I really love originated from England. Plus, unlike most other places I've traveled, they speak English in the UK! How exciting! (I loathe the fish out of water experience, which is strangely a huge aspect of traveling. I'll take it.) Other than the music thing, I can't quite say why London was such a symbol for my dreamy life, but if nothing else: its far more picturesque than America and their accents!! But mostly, the music. Bam.
Until I faced utter madness at Heathrow (TWICE!), I really loved the airport. Is that strange? I love the feeling of airports. Everyone is doing something! Going somewhere! Waiting to see someone they love! Everyone is making something happen, and they are going somewhere different. I hope I regain that attitude, because excitement/happiness makes everything far more tolerable. It was smooth sailing at LAX on the morning of October twenty-fourth. I was a little sleep deprived, the pre- departure atmosphere had been a little tense, but I tuned everyone out, blasted London Calling, and basically said: "Fuck everything. I'm going to London!" As this thought hit me, I was all smiles and not a worry. Besides getting my nail polish remover confiscated (what bitches...), LAX provided no hassle. I sat down in my window seat (I'm trying to recall a time when I haven't traveled by the window. I can't, thankfully, it seems awful!), and pressed my nose to the window, where it would remain anytime my eyes were open. As the elevation rose, my stomach dropped -- in the best damn way possible. I was finally on my way, and sooner than expected. I love accomplishing goals.
I juggled excitement, occasional naps, nasty vegetarian meals, and lusting after Adrien Brody in The Brothers Bloom over the course of ten and a half hours. I had predicted that I may be reduced to tears of joy upon arriving at Heathrow, but alas, I am not such a sap. Thankfully. Still, I put on the musical equivalent of any majestic moment and was absolutely tickled upon touching down. I gaped at the vast green landscape, and was overfilled with glee as the tiny English homes grew bigger in size. The sun was rising and I was floored by thoughts of the historical significance of all that I was taking in. I quite literally couldn't stop smiling as we waited to leave the airplane, and was thrilled when a kind man offered to help with my suitcase. Unfortunately, the utter simplicity and perfection of those moments would be short-lived. Usually customs/immigration is a breeze, but either a) Heathrow/the UK are incredibly strict, b) things have changed drastically in the year since I last traveled, or c) I look like a total threat to humanity. I don't know which is the correct answer, honestly. I couldn't tell if the immigration man thought that my sister and I were funny, in a good way, or if he was thinking, "What the fuck is wrong with these screwy American broads?" Occasionally, I thought we had him leaning towards the former, but cracking jokes was absolutely useless. We were officially 'detained' and all I could do was laugh. After having our baggage searched again, being interrogated extensively -- even after providing them with all the proper information, we were let loose into the world. I changed from my prim heels to scuffed-up flats and felt ready to take on the world, in a tired/wired/overslept kind of way. The correct tube line from Heathrow to Central London wasn't operating, so we were here, there, and everywhere. Alas, we met our friend who would play hostess for the next week, in Leicester Square. We ended up having drinks and lunch, playing MASH, waiting hours for our friend, and ultimately feeling the jetlag hard. I was about ready to die already, as we had to truck along the underground with our overly-packed suitcases. Up and down staircases, in and out of doors. It was hell. Though some men occasionally stopped to help the girl with a suitcase that probably weighed as much as she does, I felt no less exhausted. Still, another tube ride, train, and a taxi -- ALAS, temporary home base! I crashed on an air mattress, where I would remain for eleven hours -- longest nap of my life. I woke up at 7AM and wanted nothing more to prance around the streets obnoxiously. As soon as my cohorts awoke, we dashed off to the super market where I spent eight pounds and got enough snacks for my entire stay! I got an adapter for my laptop, and then gallivanted into Central London. I shopped on Oxford Street, spending a decent amount at TopShop (whom I would happily let clothe me for the rest of my days), then skipped down to Carnaby Street and dreamt of its history. I wandered down Kings Road and listened to the Kinks. I was ready to collapse by that time, as we made our way back to the suburbs of Greater London.
From there, the days begin to blur. Most days went like this: Get up, get ready, venture into London, come home, socialize with flatmates, crash at a ridiculously early or ridiculously late hour. I visited Abbey Road, and after traipsing from the St. John's Wood station, I was startled to be immediately met with the (well, it was actually moved in the Seventies, but you know) crosswalk. I crossed it, and basically thought, "Fuck -- there was nothing mystical about that!" I walked along the sidewalk, read the messages written all over the gates, and maybe was too overwhelmed to take it in. My sister did snap a photo of me crossing the crosswalk, which I wasn't aware of. We must wait for that though. As we walked back to the station, I wanted to say, "Wait! Some of my favorite records were recorded right there." But it was too late, and going back probably wouldn't have made me feel any closer. For me, imagining what once was isn't so exciting. I mean, I'd be pretty jazzed if a young David Gilmour was still sitting on those steps, but hey, he's not. But I went to Abbey Road. No complaints.
If one young David Gilmour was loitering outside, it'd be underneath the luminous sign, which says Abbey Road... I swear.
The London Eye was cool, in a birds-eye-view kind of way. My sister spent the whole time fearing heights. I had my nose pressed to the glass, and was pretty thrilled to reach the top. We also walked past Parliament, which still glowed in the late hours. I jammed on -- what else? -- Physical Graffiti, and that stands as one of the more gratifying moments of the trip. I can't quite say why. I guess it was just the most epic headphones walk ever. I really loved that walk.
I also visited the British Music Experience at the O2. Its basically a huge food court with a concert hall, mini- concert hall, and exhibitions. Some sort of Disney something was going on, and I fell in love with all the little girls dressed in princess costumes. So cute! To quote myself, it was "the perfect place for perverts." Anyway, the actual British Music Experience exhibition was pretty incredible. I kind of wanted to break the glass and touch the delectable mementos, but somehow, the consequences didn't seem worth it. Here's the catch: You apparently aren't allowed to take photos in the exhibition. I was told this as I attempted to snap one last photo before exiting. I had already taken a handful. By some horrible karmic twist, not ONE photo appears on my photo disc. I'm going to go ahead and blame the Paul Simon-looking fool who told me to not take photos. Yep, its his fault entirely. Anyway, I saw lots of momentous artifacts, but what really captivated me were the outfits. They were all surprisingly PETITE. Seriously short and lanky. A teeny, tiny get-up that belonged to Jimi Hendrix. Without reading the caption, I knew another was formerly Keith Richards'. (I love le Keith, of course I knew!) A white Mary Quant jumpsuit for Jagger. Roger Daltrey's outfit that he wore at Woodstock. An amazingly hideous outfit (and snakeskin boots) worn by Jimmy Page. I was in shock of how heavy, busy, and unattractive it was. How did he make that thing look good? David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust numbers playsuit, his "Ashes to Ashes" outfit. Also, Bowie's handwritten lyrics to "Five Years" and a set list dating from the same era. (My sister has photos of these, so cross your fingers!) I snapped a photo of an old issue of Sniffin' Glue with the Clash on the cover, but alas, the photo is nowhere to be seen. The British Music Experience was my kind of scene, so unsurprisingly, I lapped it up. If in London, go see it. It was something like fifteen pounds, and worth the trek to North Greenwich. (Also in the O2 is Nando's, which my sister raved about. I don't eat meat, so what the fuck does Portuguese chicken mean to me?)
One of my final days, I visited one of my most anticipated spots, the Tate Britain. I'm slowly teaching myself about art, and the Tate was a defining lesson. I love the Pre-Raphaelites, and the Tate showcased them brilliantly. I was literally captivated and overwhelmed by their intense beauty and magnificent elegance. I attempted to pay attention to every detail. Women were portrayed so beautifully, with their billowing gowns and luscious locks. The works of Waterhouse, Burne-Jones, Millais, Holman Hunt, and Rossetti left me dizzy, and it was still the early afternoon! After taking in all of the 'historic' British art, and briefly viewing the modern art, I felt I had conquered the Tate. (For not a dime! Score!)
I ventured into Camden Town to get a little more shopping done. I'm ridiculously enamored with flea market areas. I make it a mission to visit a flea market in every new city I see. I really liked Camden, but the unbelievable, effortlessly cool bohemian mecca I visited in Buenos Aires takes the cake, still. But I walked through the bulk of each market area, walked away with a dress, after one-sided (his side) playful difficulty with a strange male vendor. Another attempted to persuade me to buy a shirt that was visibly too large for my frame and rather ugly. I passed.
Clothes, clockwise from top left: American Apparel tanktop from Carnaby Street (14 pounds), black dress with lace/shimmery bodice from TopShop (25 pounds), poofy gray Carrie Bradshaw-esque skirt from TopShop (10 pounds), black on top and pretty floral on bottom dress from Camden (15 pounds). Also, assorted shit that got dumped from my purse when I arrived home. Water bottle that says "English water", tube map, train tickets, Tate map, boarding passes, receipts, et cetera.
That was basically the sum of my touristy experiences. So, to conclude the wrap-up of my trip, let me say, thank you Ross Halfin! Besides being a magnificent talent, the man's generosity is jarring. Because of him, I got to attend the Classic Rock Awards, eat sushi and chat endlessly with his hard working and incredibly friendly crew, and of course, got to marvel at all (and be introduced to, and sometimes even chat with) my favorites. We played 'spot Ginger Baker' so he could sign Ross' copy of his autobiography, and when I finally did, Cara (one of Ross' assistants and my companion for the evening) wasn't sure if it was him! Still, she ran to grab the book and exclaimed, "I'm on a mission!" I sat with Richard (yet another one of Ross' assistants) and we anxiously awaited her return, contemplating the possibilities. To our surprise, Cara returned with a signature and was happy to report that he was 'lovely'. It was the night's first victory. Alas this was a fluke, because when Ginger later appeared to be photographed, he looked genuinely delusional. Later, though Richard, Cara, and I had been snacking on various sweets and candies, when Kazuyo (Ross' subtly hilarious assistant) offered us candy, we happily stuck out our hands. We were a little surprised to receive Halls cough drops, though Richard and Cara politely dropped them in their mouth. I delicately placed mine in my pocket, only to be discovered when I returned home to LA, which prompted silent laughter to myself. As the night wore on, the names just got bigger. At one point I stood in the middle of the photo room (which was of medium size, therefore making the setting all the more intimate) silently gawking at the company surrounding me. Hearing Jeff Beck ask Jimmy Page if he had seen Bruno was hilarious, especially because it seemed Jimmy had no idea what it was. (I personally saw the film during opening week, and deemed it a 'trailer movie' -- the funniest bits are in the trailer.) Later, I saw Iggy Pop unknowingly sitting on my purse, but I proceeded with whatever small chatter I was engaging in. As previously mentioned, I did get to meet Jimmy Page. Ross formally introduced us, reminding Jimmy that he had already told him of me, and Jimmy was genuinely lovely. We were mutually intrigued, though I would like to think I maintained a sensible demeanor. After all, the utter brilliance of the evening did not dawn on me until twenty-four hours later. I was flying half way over America, thinking I would never reach my destination, when it all hit me. What a magnificent opportunity. Spurred by the Clash's energy of "Defy the odds and do whatever the fuck you want", the entire trip was a huge 'check' on my nonexistent list of goals. Seeing Chrissie Hynde comfortably hugging up to Iggy Pop, after just reading about how he was a teenage crush of hers, I smiled faintly. My goals are lofty, but for me, they aren't impossible. To me, the entire evening (and the trip in general) was simply an introduction -- the coolest orientation to ever be. I can't say the next time something so magnificent will occur, but I can assure you I have no doubt that it will. I'm quite fond of this 'making shit happen' sensation. Getting what you want is one thing, but doing something that many conceive as 'never going to happen', it fills me with intense glee. The night was like a dream, and it is literally that hazy. I keep recall tiny details, like the itty bitty silver streaks in Ronnie Wood's hair, or Jimmy's necklace, and it makes for endless bouts of excitement. Even though Ross let me know "You should never meet your heroes", I'd gladly do it over and over and over. Again, thank you Ross for providing me with this opportunity! Your constant, hilariously harsh commentary was tons of fun, and your unnecessary kindness is much appreciated. I hope I made that apparent.
Oh and! Everyone in that room was so SHORT. Iggy Pop literally can't be much taller than me. I was in three or four inch heels, and was able to size up nicely. (And I'm quite tiny. Last time I checked, 5'1".) I didn't feel as if anyone was towering over me -- except maybe Brian May. He's a tall guy. But overall, that was my major observation, everyone looks older and shorter in person.
The contents of my Classic Rock goodie bag. If you're in the UK (or elsewhere if its possible), go buy the current issue! The Pink Floyd cover is 3D, and we were all fairly mesmerized. That's also a mini- Marshall amp. I love the Led Zeppelin onesie. The lack of baby is an issue though.
Flying high in the friendly sky.
Ross, Kazuyo, and Ross' girlfriend Meeok took me all the way back to where I was staying, though it was by then 2am. I was wired and had to pack. I got very little sleep, woke up at 6:45am the next morning, and took a cab to Heathrow. Only then did I discover that my flight had been delayed. (EVEN THOUGH I had printed my boarding pass online A MERE HOUR EARLIER. Thanks for the heads-up, United!) The friendly blonde behind the desk informed me of this, as I responded, "Has it been delayed drastically?" This was at eight in the morning. She replied, "3pm." I had literally two hours of sleep behind me, and after blasting "In My Time of Dying" ridiculously loud for the too-affectionate couple next to me to hear, I tried to nap in a chair. I hate sleeping in public. (Does anyone enjoy it?) I thought, "Fuck this", exchanged the last of my money, and had to go all the way through immigration again. Nobody knew where the fuck to direct me, and by the time I got out, it was raining. My cab driver was absolutely dense, had no idea where to take me, and we got terribly lost. I also lost my voice, so I hoarsely hollered when I recognized a street. I threw a rock at my friend's window and once I was her in room, collapsed to the floor in a heap of exhaustion. I napped, stressed because I had little money left, and managed to get another cheap cab. With a nice nap under my belt, I arrived at Heathrow feeling much less frazzled. My cab driver had actually taken my sister to the airport the day before. I told him that I had come here with my sister, who left the day before. He said, "Are you the journalist who got hassled at the airport when you got here?" I said, "WHAT? How did you know?" He professed, "I'm psychic! Ask me something else!" I thought he had heard it through the cab driver grapevine, but then I said, "Wait! Did you drive my sister yesterday?" He had indeed, and I recall him fondly. (I took very few cabs but the drivers were either amazingly chatty or ridiculously stupid.) Upon arriving at Heathrow, I grabbed a quick, free lunch -- before FINALLY resting in my window seat. I looked out, wished that great country farewell, felt all bittersweet, and CRAVED rest. I was given more disgusting food (apparently "I don't eat meat" means "Give me the most disgusting thing you can muster up") but I didn't care. I fell into a deep slumber and awoke three or so hours before touching down in LA. It was then that I smiled and contemplated the overwhelming greatness of the previous night. I drank tea and thought, "Way to go. You're making your dreams come true." LAX was again a breeze, and per usual when returning home, I wanted to (... not literally) kiss the ground. I stayed with my grandparents who live closer to the airport and went home the next day.
Home!!!
Its really sad that I probably have more photos of my room than of London. But you know, there are plenty photos of London. Not so many of my room! So check out some of my books, cassettes, 8-tracks, 45s, and records!
This is titled: "I still need to unpack." That suitcase has remained more or less untouched. Truly. I'm looking at it right now, in that same spot on my floor.
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