Several years ago my good friend Lisa B quit her job, abandoned Kansas City and moved over to the United Kingdom. She is not English, Scottish, Welsh, or Northern Irish (the four countries that comprise the UK), nor have I heard her ever say one nice thing about the people of Great Britain. Rather, this move was a result of her acceptance into the Sassoon Academy in central London, a school in which she would receive instruction from stylists standing by to assist with the “learning needs to guide you in your search for technical and creative excellence.”
I had been living in France since November 2007 and never made the two hour, fifteen minute train ride from Paris to London. I’ve traveled further for things much more useless than seeing a dear friend in one of the greatest cities of the world – the drive from Champaign, Illinois to Iowa City, Iowa to get drunk on a Saturday night comes to mind – and so almost eight months after arriving in Europe I am righting this wrong. My chariot, the EuroStar, patiently sits on the tracks at Gare du Nord waiting to transport me off to London, where a litany of activities awaits..
I boarded the train after a hard day’s work and took a moment to contemplate how awesome the chunnel – the channel tunnel – really is. The chunnel refers to the piece of track running thirty-one and a half miles under the English Channel, and that mileage makes the chunnel the longest undersea tunnel in the world. And not only is it also 250 feet deep at its lowest point, it took only six years to construct! If you’re not impressed by 250 feet, remember that this is the size of a twenty-five story building. If you’re not imprssed that it goes under the English Channel, remember this is the same body of water which saved England from conquest from the likes of the Spanish Armada, Napoleon Bonaparte, Adolf Hitler, and took tweny-one hours and forty-five minutes for the first man to swim across in August of 1875. By the time I snapped out of my “marveling at the chunnel” haze I was halfway to London and drinking an espresso.
It is continually amazing to me how much most Europeans love soccer football. I was reminded of this as I sat at a pub outside the Hammersmith tube stop waiting for Lisa to finish work and began wondering if there are any online soccer fantasy leagues (and in fact there are, as some online sleuthing discovered – but if you know anyone that is in one, I will give you a dollar). It is especially interesting to note that England, the country which gets credit for exporting football worldwide, had at one time banned the game. King Edward, who reigned for twenty years beginning in 1307, had this to say:
“For as much as there is a great noise in the city caused by hustling over large balls, from which many evils may arise, which God forbid, we command and forbid on behalf of the King, on pain of imprisonment, such game to be used in the city future.”
I’m assuming that such a ban would be received in England today much as the Prohibition (aka The Noble Experiment) was here in the USA in 1919, with soccer speakeasies springing up overnight and the bootlegging of soccer balls becoming widespread. But Indian food, not soccer, was the game tonight. Tonight was Brick Lane. Brick Lane is considered to be the heart of London’s Bangladeshi population and is to Indian food as Mulberry Street in NYC is to Italian (or used to be…that’s dwindling a bit these days). The street, taking its name from the brick and tile manufacturers located there in the 15th centruy, can be found in the East End of London at the Aldgate East tube stop. It’s a busy area, with restaurants, bars, and the scent of curry prevalent – if one were to ask for a taco or fish and chips, I would expect a merciless beating to ensue, administered by either an incredulous Bangladeshi or a drunk hooligan.
Dinner turned out awesome, and as an added bonus the bizarre paintings on the walls added to the dining experience. The waiter, responding to our questions, mentioned that the owner’s friend was the artist responsible…and what an interesting man he must be, for not many artists are out there painting flying centaurs spooning various women.
Post centaur beverages on Brick Lane with Lisa and Niel.
