the out-of-towners (part two)

Part of the reason that we were so excited for the trip was that we believed it would feel like going halfway home. But from the moment we stepped off the train, we went into severe culture shock.

We could hardly understand anything anyone was saying; the woman at customs spoke so rapidly and with such a heavy brogue, I almost considered asking her to switch to French.

Then, the currency machines took half our money away.

"That can't be IT," I protested, staring in shock at the slot where two puny bills were now awaiting. At this rate, we'd never make it through the week-end.

Bonne finally managed to cajole me outside, where we were almost run down by a cab thanks to the whole "other side of the road" arrangement.

"Why is this so OVERWHELMING?!" Bonne cried.

I was becoming desperate to get to Janine's after such a long series of near-disasters. But the line for taxis snaked clear around the terminal and was easily an hour long. So when a man approached us and offered a ride in his mini-cab, we couldn’t have been more grateful.

“What luck!” We crowed as we followed him across several streets and uphill to a dimly lit parking lot.

“How cute!” We gushed at the sight of the compact Mercedes, which- how innovative!- didn’t seem to have any of the trappings of a regular taxi. Not even a meter. Maybe this was just how they did things in London.

“Turn it up!” We shouted at the sound of a familiar song on the radio, the beat a perfect accompaniment to the bright lights and spectacle of downtown London. It was Big Ben, baby, swathed in a pink and purple glow projected by the clubs across the river. Piccadilly Square, with its monumental flashing Tower Records sign. We were soon to be out among the bustling, well-dressed crowds carousing past our bass-pumping ride. Life, in short, was fabulous.

It got a whole lot less fabulous about ten minutes later when we pulled up at the corner of 1st and Sketchy, where our driver hustled us out of the car despite our protests that there was no way Janine lived at a subway station.

“It’s just a short walk from here,” he insisted, looking around apprehensively—or was it expectantly?- at the hooded figures lurking in the shadows who seemed poised to swoop in at any moment.

Finally, the gravity of the situation began to sink in. We didn’t even protest when he demanded 50 pounds, only insisted that we take the cash out inside the cab. I prepared our bags outside, trying to act cool as the street urchins approached, but the moment Bonne had parted with the money she flew out of the cab and we sprinted for the station, dragging our suitcases behind us as fast as their little wheels could go. Once inside, we breathed a sigh of relief; 50 pounds was a small price compared to what could have happened thanks to our stupidity.