Paris to London

Typically I write my posts the morning after the day happens. You’ll have to pardon my overuse of the phrase “today” but it’s more fun for me like that. My blog, my rules. Since I’m on the Eurostar and chunneling my way to London, I thought I’d start this post by jotting down thoughts and findings that might have belonged elsewhere but haven’t gotten in anywhere yet. 

America is a fascinating place. I think people in the US don’t appreciate our own multiculturalism enough. That’s not just the “melting pot” (I’m more of a salad bowl theory guy myself) but even wildly differing opinions across our large WASP population. The fact that our union has held for almost 300 years with only one major interruption is pretty incredible and a testament to our ability to hold it together. We’ll have to see what happens next. Personally I am hopeful.

Getting around by train is Europe is fantastic. Trains in Europe kind of suck. Where’s my outlet? Where’s my bar? Why do you call this intercity service but my seat doesn’t recline? Metros are comfier here, especially in Paris.

While I’m on the subject, Parisian design seems to focus on comfort before style. Everything you interact with in Paris seems to be thought from the human out. Once the human interaction is solidified, then beauty can be added. Beauty is always added.

Copenhagen is the easiest place so far to pick out foreigners in. If you see someone who doesn’t look like they just wrapped themselves in an H&M catalog and walked out the door, they’re not from there.

The Dutch are oddly predisposed to speaking English. It remains the only place I’ve seen two native Dutch speakers having a conversation in English between themselves for no reason.

European English is its own beast distinct from UK English. I find myself selecting continental word order over American when I can and words that share roots with the local language when possible.

Amsterdam is dead. Dead in the same way a bug trapped in amber is dead. It looks the same but the soul is gone. Paris is not dead. 

I want to go back to Hamburg and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I never got around to trying Franzbrötchen. Maybe it’s because seeing the word Hamburger everywhere is funny. Don’t know why.

Deutsche Bahn can learn a thing or two from Amtrak about scheduling trains. The sooner they admit that to themselves the better.

Every country has cuisine worth trying. Every city has at least one heinous local food item. Copenhagen wins with the Fransk hotdog. Take a baguette and cut a hole in it. Moisten with ketchup and brown mustard. Jam the weiner inside. Why the Hell does this exist.

The automobile has destroyed the American countryside. Imagine taking a train 20 minutes out of New York and seeing cattle. That’s what we gave up when we built the interstates.

Someone needs to open a Greek place at St Pancras and call it Gyrostar.

Now that I’ve blurted some thoughts let’s do my itinerary from here on (as I know it)…

Today (November 12) - November 15 in London

The 15th in the afternoon in Paris and then Night train to Nice.

Nice from the 16th to the 22nd

Probably Milan from the 22nd to the 26th. I haven’t booked this yet but it’s a natural transfer point between Nice and Milan.

Rome from the 26th to the 29th

December is a mystery.

Get to Istanbul by January 5 since that’s when I catch my flight to Samarkand, Uzbekistan.

Train to Tashkent on the 9th

Fly to Delhi on the 14th

Take a tour of the Golden Triangle from January 16th to the 23rd.

Do some Southeast Asia

Get to Melbourne by February 11th my flight to Los Angeles.

Crash out in an Airport hotel overnight.

Cabo from the 12th to the 17th for my dad’s birthday.

Take up residence in my parents’ basement.

And that’s the end of the adventure. I guess after that I’m going to need to stop being a bum and work a bit.

Back to the day…

I said my goodbyes to Sadie and headed to Gare du Nord. For the second time in one trip, Line 7 broke down and my 10 minute trip took almost a half hour, ouch.

I had some time before my train so I popped into a cafe. Parisian cafes are fantastic. To me they may as well be all the same and all serve the same stuff, that makes it better. No need to distinguish. Cup of wine? Cafe. Breakfast? Cafe. Mid day coffee? Cafe. All of them pushing to the same marks of perfection. Sitting on a patio is a form of zen that is needed in the city. I sipped coffee and tea and watched the hands of the clock turn on the front of the train station.

Eurostar is, to put it simply, a trip. I’m not accustomed to going through passport control for a train. The thought that I was going to spend a good chunk of my day in a tunnel under the English Channel fascinated me. I happened to park myself in the waiting area next to an English English lit professor who at one point taught at Duke and is now living in Switzerland. He caught my Conrad novel. We talked about my traveling experiences and politics. Populism is on everyone’s mind these days.

A buck sixty-five zooming past farmhouses in the French countryside. We’ll do Dover to Calais at over a hundred miles an hour and finish in less time than it takes some people to use the bathroom in the morning. The ferry still runs to this day, takes over an hour, but allows you to smoke which is worth something out here.

Zooming through London on The Victoria Line and I’m sweating. That’s a new experience. The weather has been steadily improving since Copenhagen and I’m not accustomed to wishing I ditched my coat. Turns out it’s just this how because they forgot to add ventilation when they built it. Foolish islanders.

My hostel is in Oxford Circus which as far as I can tell means an intersection. Why an intersection is called a circus is beyond me. Why this particular one is called THE Oxford intersection is also beyond me. Unbeknownst to be, this circus (?) is the intersection of two high streets and presents another opportunity to replenish my decaying wardrobe. I always try to shop local but the Onitsuka Tiger store calls to be. Bam, there’s the new shoes. Another hour of wandering and a pair of green jeans from some brand I’d never heard of materializes. I’m so glad. I learned to sew and can evaluate the construction of clothing. It’s shockingly good, much better than what I was seeing in Paris. Go Midlands!

Now that I’m situated with clothes it’s beer o’clock. My hostel has no bar and nobody I know is available tonight so I needed to befriend someone. What better person to befriend than an expatriated American. What better place than an American bar. They have these in Europe. Typically they’re horrid pastiches of what continental types think the US is like. You don’t have to see America to open an American bar. Typically the menus are laughable and the drinks are questionable. Turns out London has a small chain of Philadelphia themed dive bars. I wander off to Passyunk Ave (Ave not avenue) to investigate. Total uncanny valley experience. I’m giggling and nervous. This bar is really more like a dive bar themed restaurant started by a Philadelphian who moved to London and started selling cheesesteaks. Their beef is shaded for them. They make their whiz in house. They cloned the Amaroso’s roll (if you know you know) and have a baker make it just for them. They even have a Yuengling alternative made (Yunkling) and pour the only draft PBR in town. Wild. One beer on order and I’m yapping with the bartender. The least convincing part of it is the patrons coming in and politely asking for reservations in British accents. It’s 6 pm on a Wednesday and this place is filling up. After my first Yunkling I order a steak. It’s wrong, the meat is too high quality and the bread is good, not injuring me. It feels like a love letter to a cheesesteak, perfect for this expatriate. I’m relishing speaking American English instead of Continental. The bartender is kind enough to provide me with my next bar.

Not a leftover photo from Philly I swear

A Bar with Shapes for a Name is in Haggerstown and indeed has shapes for a name. The inside is crisp, clean, and thoughtfully decorated. I sat for a round. As I wa sipping my drink, a friend who I share me location with asked me if I was at a bar across the street. This friend works at the best cocktail bar in Long Beach and probably the best in California (Baby Gee shout out). I told her where I was and asked her if I should move. She freaked out and told me to stay the fuck there. Apparently I stumbled into one of the best cocktail bars in London. London’s cocktail scene is light years ahead of anything on the continent. While France is busy coming up with a new fizz once every half century, London is packed with people pushing mixology to the limit. The mixology was fantastic, the drinks were delicious, and the bartenders were incredibly kind. I do have a complaint, no drama. The drinks are all batched out in advance, that’s hardly a sin but I would go for so long without hearing ice clink or a shaker get slammed shut that I would forget that I was in a bar at all. No garnishes either. Where’s the flair?!  That being said, the drinks were fantastic, creative, and consistent. That’s quite alright.

The final surprise of the day came when I got back to my room. I couldn’t shake the feeling that one of the people in it looked familiar. As we all started to introduce ourselves it clicked, we met in a bar in Coppenhagen a week ago! Small world. The friends we make while on the road.