Travel Journal Part 3: The Exchange Rate Blues

There’s nothing like possessing weak currency to break down one’s sense of national pride. Well, that and election fraud, disastrous wars, doofuses occupying important governmental positions...but I digress. Thanks to the U.S. deficit, I’m having to buy packaged sandwiches at Marks & Spencer (U.S. equivalent = a higher quality Trader Joes) and—sadder still—limit most of my shopping to Primark (US equivalent = something like K-mart). My patronizing the latter establishment has now earned me Dane’s ridicule, as apparently, there was a song he’d sung as a schoolboy in Northern Ireland which went something like: “Primark…shirts and skirts that fall apart, trousers that can’t hold a fart.” Oh well. I’d have shopped elsewhere if the dollar could hold its value.

But, hey—culture is free! So it was off to the National Gallery on Wednesday (decided to go on foot to save some dough) where I spent quite a bit of time in the Post-Impressionist room as I’ve a particular weakness for that period. Of the Romantic Era, Gericault and Delacroix are my favorites. Of course, I also had to stop by the 16th Century Italian collection to worship the genius that was Caravaggio. Walked straight past the Gainsboroughs and Constables —as that whole bucolic, pastoral stuff is not really my bag. Same with the French Impressionists like Monet, Pissaro and Renoir, who, despite everyone else’s adoration of them, never really did much for me.

Ok, onto topics less high-brow. The service I experienced at London restaurants has been absolute shit. For example, one waitress served us tea but forgot to give us hot water in which to steep our bags. It took about five minutes for me to finally catch her eye from across the room and mime the action of pouring water into my cup. Not understanding the gesture, she returned with a blank stare and went along with her business. Five minutes later after our desserts were long finished, we finally flagged her down and she realized her mistake with some embarrassment. At Wagamama (a hip asian noodle establishment), Dane was seated in a high traffic area and was bumped into a number of times by three separate servers. According to him and his Londoner mates, being forgotten about, collided into and trod upon would represent a typical night out.

I’ll leave you now with a photo (taken on my walk to the National Gallery) that I like to call “London is Eff-ing Crowded.”