Colin and I were both scheduled to arrive in the morning on Tuesday, but neither of us know London at all, so we couldn't think of a place to meet up. Ultimately we decided to meet at the only landmark we both knew and thought we could find easily: King's Cross station, in between platforms 9 and 10.
Unfortunately, my plane was seriously delayed and I didn't arrive until 4pm, at which point Colin had given up waiting for me and gone to our hostel to pass the time.
He was leaving the next morning, so when I finally got there we only had a few hours to explore the city. We started at the British National Museum, next door to the hostel, which was surprisingly boring compared to all the other museums I've been to recently -- 
it turns out there is such a thing as too many artifacts, especially when they're all crammed into glass display cases full of similar artifacts, so you get the effect of walking into a room entirely filled, floor-to-ceiling, by porcelain plates, and none of them become particularly interesting. The museum provided free admission, though, so mostly it was a good place to hide from the windy cold and hang out and talk among thousands year old Greek statues and the Rosetta Stone.When we tired of the sensory overload of British artifacts, we went out in search of a good British pub. Finding only one that claimed local authenticity but served exclusively Thai food, we settled for a crappy chain restaurant called the Crown, where the service was nonexistant, punctuated by occasional muttered insults from the busboy (I actually had to talk Colin down from starting a brawl after the insults got particularly abusive). We satisfied ourselves by spending the rest of the night at the bar, eating terrible food and drinking very weak cocktails. We certainly didn't get to do much sight seeing, but by the end of the evening Colin was extremely jealous of my beret, and wanted to try his hand at being French for a little while.
The next morning, Colin departed for his return trip to the U.S. I was really concerned that with a whole day in London by myself and Colin leaving unexpectedly early, I would be really depressed and have no fun at all. Au contraire! I had one of the best days of my trip so far.The number one thing I would have liked to do in London was see a West End show, but my flight was leaving that night at 7:30, so I knew I wouldn't get the chance. What I had forgotten, happily, is that it was Wednesday, the day when all shows have a mid-week matinée! Totally excited to have been reminded of this by Nate, the front-desk kiwi at the hostel, I briskly walked to Leicester Square in the morning to look for tickets to shows performing that afternoon.
Rounding a corner, I discovered a Borders bookstore, and couldn't resist the temptation of strolling through several floors of English-language books and having a Starbucks tea. I whiled away a good part of the morning in this escape, looking out over Charing Cross Road and writing postcards.
My matinée was at 2:30, so I had a couple hours to blow before returning to the West End. First I decided to visit the reconstructed Globe theater which, while not in-season for live performances, offers guided tours of the building. On my way there, I checked my map and noticed that I was within a few blocks of the Imperial War Museum; I brashly changed my mind, concluding it was more of a war museum kind of day anyway. And,
Holy shit.
This is the best museum in the world.
That is not an exaggeration. If you were to go to only one museum in Europe, I highly highly highly recommend that it be this one. (NB: This comes, of course, from my perpsective, tainted by the view that everything that ever happened in the history of the world was a part of Acts I and II of an epic drama, entitled World War II). I barely made it past the ground floor of this vast museum. The exhibits included military uniforms from every major conflict of the British Empire, washed, yet some were still bloodstained from its previous owner. With Disney-like attention to detail, the war galleries had miniature models of major battlefields, with tiny artillery explosions happening all over; a life-size recreation of a World War I trench, complete with machine gun fire and realistically horrible smells; and a simulation of a night in a bomb shelter during the Blitz of London. Multimedia exhibits and interactive programs that make every second of the visit exciting and accessible, not the least bit like the British National Museum. The whole museum is incredible. There's even a whole floor devoted to James Bond and the history of the MI6. I was really sorry I only had given myself two hours to explore this wonderful museum. Alas, my time was up, but I promised to come back some time so I could spend days giving this attraction the attention it deserved.
And the theater awaits! I had had a difficult time deciding which musical I wanted to see when I bought the tickets -- Wicked, or Hairspray? The Sound of Music? The Lion King? But, having recently finished the chapter in La Belle France describing post-Napoleonic, Hugoian France, I decided there was no other musical for me but Les Miserables. For 25 pounds I got center seats on the second level, with an absolutely to-die-for view of what was no doubt the best show I have ever seen. I am so glad I finally had the opportunity to see it live, it was amazing, better than I had ever imagined. At the theater I met Ann-Marie sitting next to me, a Bulgarian student studying abroad in London who told me all about having to read Les Miserables in school when she was very young and how she has wanted to see the musical for ten years, but has never been out of Bulgaria until now.
At curtain, I bade goodbye to Ann-Marie and raced to the nearest Underground to station in order to catch my evening flight back to Paris. I was in the middle seat, squeezed in between a British businessman and an elderly Frenchman. I had earlier been complaning to Colin that I didn't feeling like I was getting much social contact with other people during my trip, and he berated me for not being outgoing enough and initiating conversations. He challenged me to be obnoxiously talkative, even at risk of annoying other people. So, armed with this advice, I tried it. I got to a page in my book describing the Rhone region of France and, not knowing where it is, I asked the Frenchman next to me. He happily explained, and this led into a humorous conversation about the weather in his hometown of Avignon. The conversation, alternately in broken French and broken English, went something like this:
Me: "What is the weather like right now in Avignon?"
Henri: "Oh it is windy... very windy!"
Me: "Oh! The Mistral!"
Henri: "Yes, the Mistral! I'm surprised you know it. It's horrible."
Me: "I know, I hate the wind. I hate it more than anything else. I have heard that if you kill a man during the Mistral, you are automatically pardoned because it makes everyone crazy."
Henri: "Yes, that is true. It makes me crazy."
I was really happy to have this little interaction with Henri. I think I later blew it, though, because when we were getting off the plane, I said goodbye to him but translated poorly and later realized that I had said
"Bon Voyage! Try not to kill anybody!"
He gave me a really unhappy look, waved curtly and walked away.
I was on a roll for meeting people, because on the train back to Paris I was asked for directions by Cesare, a 24-year old Italian who works for a flight simulator manufacturing company in Brittany, and we talked all the way into town. He gave me some precarious warnings about my forthcoming trip to Naples:
Me: "I'm excited about Naples. Everyone drives Vespas!"
Cesare: "Yes... and half of them are stolen. You should be careful in Naples. Even the bastards smile at you."
Then on the Metro, I met Abigail, who took pity on me for not speaking French well and let me practice with her while we waited for the train.
My streak continued today, though, and less auspiciously: I met my first sleazy Frenchman! A truly uncomfortable experience, I should have got the hint when he started telling me how well I speak French on the Metro (my French is horrible). I did, however, figure it out, when he got off at my stop, still jabbering away in French, and finally asked "Voulez-vous retourner à chez moi?" at 4 oclock in the afternoon. No joke. At any rate, it gave me a good opportunity to practice some French phrases like "Absolutely not", "Go away," and "You are disgusting," which was fun.
I've had a fantstic couple of days, I can't wait for what's to come!
