Anglophilia

It dawned on me that I have never written about how much I love the United Kingdom. Although I have actually only been there twice, it is one of my favorite places on earth. Of course, both of my visits last longer than a quick pop over the pond. The first time I was there, it was for five weeks when I was fourteen. My second visit was just shy of a year in 1996 and 1997. On both occasions, I had a chance to really get to know the people of my host country. Although I did manage to hit all the big tourist attractions in London, Westminster Abbey, The Tower of London, St. Paul's, Big Ben, Parliment, Harrods, Sticky Fingers (Bill Wyman's version of The Hardrock Cafe) and all the other stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love being a tourist. But there is nothing like living with people to really get to know a new culture. The first trip, I stayed with an English family. Mom, Dad, Nigel and Suzy. Dad worked for the dame company as my father. Nigel and I were about the same age, so the two of them cooked up this scheme where I would go live with them for five weeks and Nigel would return with me and stay with my family. That is when I developed my love for footie. That's right, I spent most of July glued to the tele watching the World Cup - kinda explains the lack of postings in July, huh? Football was not the only thing I was introduced to on that trip. Whoever says the Brits can't cook has never had homemade shepard's pie or real fish and chips or the absolutely fabulous dessert with the most disgusting name imaginable - spotted dick. How many of you can say that you ate spotted dick and totally enjoyed it. Hmmm...maybe I don't want to hear the answers. On my second visit, I was an adult with more life experiences behind me. In spite of being older and wiser - okay - older, I still felt a rush of wonderment when I walked up the long flight of stairs from the tube into Piccadilly Circus. I know it's a cliche, but I can freely admit that I love Picadilly Circus. Maybe I am just being stereotypically American, but I really do think it was a hold-over from my first visit there. Good memories last a life time. Although I had to work a full-time job on my second visit, I still managed to put over 12,000 miles on my leased Polish car. You read it correctly, my Polish car. It was actually called an FSO Caro. Seems after Poland separated itself from the Eastern bloc, they decided to get into the automobile business. So some genius bought an old Fiat factory from Italy and moved it to Poland - no shit. Being it was Poland's first attempt at building automobiles, it turned out to be the biggest piece of shit you can possibly imagine. How could I, a obviously culture man with discerning taste, possibly choose to lease such an inferior product? Well, sit back, open a beverage, relax and let me tell you. My company gave me less than two weeks notice that I was going to England for at least a year. I had to get everything in my life in the US in order and get to work in the beautiful city of Slough in the Royal Borough of Windsor and Maidenhead. In the rush, they forgot to provide me with all the details of the compensation package I would be entitled to. When I arrived, they informed me that since the public transportation was so readily available, there was no car allowance. Since I am an American, I had to have a car. I checked into leases and I found that to rent a Ford Escort it would run me about $850/month. Since have been known to vocalize my personal issues, I could be heard bitching pretty much every day of how I was being deprived of a car. Within a couple of days, another American heard about my completely unbearable predictiment. She informed me that there was a company that leased cars for around $170/month including insurance and a free membership to AA. No not Alcoholics Anomymous, but the UK version of AAA. Although, I probably could have used the services of the American version of AA after driving that death trap for close to a year. Instantly, I stopped the vital work I was doing and called the company. Hastily, I made arrangements to pick up the car the next day. Being ignorant of London geography, I had no idea how long it would take me to get to the east end. After a tube ride that lasted approximately the same amount of time it took me to fly from Denver to London, I arrived to find out that I was just there to sign the lease. I actually had to go to Stafford to pick up the car. That meant I had the pleasure of taking the tube back to Windsor. Just to give you an idea of what that entails. You have to take the tube from the east end to Paddington station which takes about the same amount of time as elephant gestation. Then get on a train to Slough, which at that particular time of day, stops at each of the fifteen or so stops along the way. Once in Slough, you have to disembark and take another train on the branch line to Windsor. Once I reached my final destination, I had to walk just shy of a mile to my cozy flat overlooking the Thames - not as glamourous as it sounds, but we aren't going to open that particular can of worms. Imagine that, an American forced to walk. Walk, for Christ sake. Wasn't it 1996? Unbelievable! Once again my geographic retardation got the best of me. I had no idea that I had to take a train to Reading and transfer to a different train to Stafford - another three hour train ride - fantastic. I scheduled a Saturday pick up so that I could parlay the train ride into a visit to the Midlands. Arriving at the lot, I see my brand spanking new Polish car waiting to be picked up. Grabbing the keys, I hurried to the car full of anticipation. The first thing I noticed was the overpowering smell of diesel. Must have been in the hold of a cargo ship or something. The next thing I see is the giant stain on the driver's seat. This car had 98 miles on it and it already had a disgusting stain on the seat. Oh well, I was going to let that dampen my spirits. I turned the key and noticed that the gas gauge read empty, go figure. Being that it was a typical October day in merry ole England, it was raining. As I reached to turn on the defroster and the knob came off in my hands, I shit you not. That wasn't the only pleasant feature of my rolling garbage heap. Oh no, not even close. It was a four-door, but only three of them opened. Luckily, it was the rear passenger door. Also, the window on the other rear door could not be rolled down. But the sneakiest thing was the hatch stayed open just long enough for me to lean in before it came crashing down on my head. The worst part was it didn't do it all the time. It was as if it waited for the most inopportune time, right after you were lulled into believing that it would stay up before it would execute it's sneak attack. All that being said, I drove that car hard and it only broke down once. I got to see more of the tiny little island that most subjects of the realm will ever see. It was a blast. As I said, good memories last a lifetime. I find myself musing about the adventures I had driving that car and despite all it's fobiles, it still brings a smile to my face everytime I think about that bastard Fiat. More stories from Paul Gavin. Info on novels Paul Gavin's Storefront. Technorati Tags: Fiction, Online Book, Chapter, Rebeleyeball, Paul Gavin IceRocket Tags: Fiction, Blook, Chapter, rebeleyeball