London day two

 I woke up to the sound of a piercing screech. Someone had decided that they really needed an in-room wake and back at 9:30 am, the fire alarm responded in kind. After my rude awakening and breakfast, I headed off to The Imperial War Museum.

I wasn’t sure exactaly what to expect from the IWM but I assumed I’d learn how to wage war in the British imperial style. It’s a broad topic for a museum, imperial war, could mean a lot of things I guess. The museum mainly covers the first and second world wars with rotating exhibitions on other subjects. I walked the WWI exhibit to see what I was in for. The museum has zillions of articles pertaining to the war. I didn’t learn much from the displays, I paid attention in history class. What was interesting was learning how the IWM talked about neighbors invading neighbors in living memory. The US mainland hasn't seen an invasion for over 200 years. We haven’t invaded a neighbor for over 100 years and the Pancho Villa “expedition” is a short footnote compared to what was going on in Europe at the time. I was getting a subtext of inevitability from the placards. In the US we perceive peace as the natural resting state of Europe. In the IWM, that is presented as the lucky aberrations.

After one floor of that I was physically and mentally exhausted and went back to my hostel for a nap. My next stop of the day was seeing Felicity again. It’s frankly hilarious that I’m able to see the same person three times across continents on this trip. She’s back home in London and in her element. She took me through the South Bank of the Thames and showed me all the cool spots that she spent time in as a kid growing up in the region.

deux têtes à la Tate

Back to the hostel for another nap. One of the people I’m sharing the room with is an eighteen year old student from Poland and looking to have an absolute blowout of a night in London. As the oldest degenerate in the room, this duty falls on me. I am not thrilled to be having this kind of night. Frankly I’ve never been much of a clubbing guy and standing in lines is one of my least favorite things to do.

We meet up at a venue with good cocktails and a jazz band. I’m thrilled, a decent Manhattan and a band from Krakow were more than what I could have asked for to start my night. He’s getting antsy for “the kind of club where you forget what it means to be human” so we head back to soho. He’s anxious to hop in a line. We know nothing about the available clubs and if there’s anything I know about British people it’s that they will gleefully stand in a line just for the sake of standing in a line. Queuing is the national pastime. I drag him to one of the cocktail bars I hit last night so I can mine a bartender for advice. He points us in the direction of a more local spot and we’re excited, him for his night out and me to grab a beer without waiting too long first. We get to the club and, you guessed it, stand in a line. Blissfully we don’t have to wait until we get to the front. One of the bouncers come to us and lets us know that unless we have a ticket, we’re not going in. Sweet bliss. An excuse to go to sleep.