As a Franco- American, I'd never thought I'd actually want to go to England. I don't know why, but I think it has a lot to do with one awful experience with a British boss. In any case, I admit being wrong about England and the British.
New York City may have everything, except one thing...Camden Market. For a shopaholic with a love for the unique, this place is Paradise. You go from an outdoor market through streets, under tunnels, then you snake through stone-walled tunnels, past brass statues of horses, from one boutique to the next, each of them selling anything from vintage clothing to vinyl records to luggage made with what appears to be old clippings from Cosmo. As you go, odors of international cuisine shift from one continent to the next and the music also changes as you round each corner. Just when you think you must have gotten caught in a maze and may never make your way out again, you see daylight and you find yourself back in the outside world, but not quite the world as you know it. Techno music lures you into a strange palace with dancers in cages high up on the walls and clothing that resembles what the Jetson's wore. If you dare take the stairs down all the way, you find yourself encircled with sex toys and assorted x-rated gadgets that are displayed as if they were works of art in a gallery from a future century.
Back out on the streets, the strangest combination of populations mingle. You try to sneak photographs of the most eccentric among them, like the other tourists from around the world who have come here to witness what London is most famous for. Punks hand out invitations for tatoo parlours and tourists exibit themselves with sunglasses bearing the Union Jack.
The British also have beer. No, we're not talking Budweisers out of cans here, we're talking dark, bitter beers and sweeter blondes that take you on their own journey pint after delectable pint. There's no other ambiance like that of a pub on a weeknight where people of all ages, shapes and sizes gather to sip pints and taste bar menus of stews and fish and chips. In that short week away, I learned that a beer is more than a beer and that there is nothing quite as refreshing and luxurious as a good pint from a tap, served by a barman with that accent I've always found incredibly sexy.
We cannot forget the shops. If Candem Market displays some of the most unique vintage items I've ever come accross, the shops on high streets are also delicious. Filled with the most outrageous handbags, high heels, dresses and accessories, you feel like your leafing your way through pages of Vogue only everything is affordable and touchable. Of course, you couldn't get away with wearing much of it in other countries, but you cannot resist trying it all on anyway and you end up giving in to just a touch of English insanity in a color that comes as close to possible as discreet.
All of the shopping, milling and pinting gives you an appetite, and there's nothing like a full English breakfast to keep you going until nightfall. Yes, anyone really can handle beans in the morning with eggs and sausage and cheese and... And you can wash it all down with as many coffees as you like since those coffees are hardly going to wake you up no matter how many you guzzle.
The other thing that both New York and Paris don't have is the Underground. Okay, there are cameras everywhere and you do sometimes feel like you're in an Orwell chapter, but maybe they work because you also feel quite safe. What you have to admire, though, about the British, is how orderly and polite they are. The trains are all spotless, everything is well indicated and color coded so it's nearly impossible to get lost or get on the wrong train. But what's even more admirable is the way the people are all smiles and "Excuse me," "Sorry," and "Cheers" all day long, even when the cars are bursting and you have to crank your neck inside in order to not have the door close around your skull.
You see, we actually did the Underground and the Metro in the same day. We crammed our way onto a crowded London tube all the way to the train station across town and pardoned our way out of it and into the Eurostar. After a calm trip to Paris, we had just over an hour to take the metro from one Paris train station to the other. As we arrived at the gates leading to the metro, a woman accosted us. "Don't go in there!" she screamed at us. "It's packed full and there's no way to get on a train!"
Having no other choice, we headed down the tunnel and into Hell. The stench of urine and sweat surrounded us along with the screach of brakes and the intolerant squeal of alarm signals as the doors of the train closed, emprisoning herds of people squashed together inside the graffittied train.
The next train arrived a few minutes later and we squashed and pushed our way inside, battling with other passengers I would not have appreciated crossing after dark. Cries of revolt and snears of disgust were accorded us, but we made it on and were therefore trapped inside the moving train with all these horrid looking people glaring at us. We kept our eyes focused on the map of the line, counting down each station as we passed it and praying that we'd get out of there alive and on time to catch our train back to Poitiers, a place I suddenly appreciated much more at that moment.
I've come to the conlcusion that the French (and yes, even the Americans) have a lot to learn from the British, who may do things their own way, but who do do some things a hell of a lot better than other populations.
