“It was good, right?” asked the Polish ferris wheel spinner. Yes, ferris wheel spinner is a job. It is given out by the Edinburgh Christmas Council to a few lucky Eastern Europeans spending the holidays in Scotland. Their job is simply to spin unsuspecting ferris wheel riders as their seats near ground level. My recommendation: Avoid gourmet Indian meals before riding this Christmas spectacular.
And despite this stomach-churning experience, it is the one line from the entire London-Edinburgh extravaganza that I remember. Because at the end of it all, the trip indeed was good. It was more than good. It was an earth shattering, Yaffa-can-conquer-the-entire-European-continent journey. And while I only conquered the United Kingdom, or technically only half of the countries in the UK, it armed me with the confidence to embark on my Zurich-Vienna-Berlin-Brussels January bonanza. Even though I speak neither French nor German, I recognize that caffeine is a universal and every major European city will have well-brewed coffee to indulge my addiction and restore my sanity.
The details of this life-altering journey I must discuss in further detail. It started with the first lesson of international traveling: Always bring a map. A lack of map results in aimless wandering through the PUNK district of London (Camden Stop on the Northern Line). You may have thought punk died with Joey Ramone, but in this little urban enclave it is very much alive. As I am neither punk nor tattooed, I definitely felt like the white elephant, only dressed all in black because after all I’m still a New Yorker. I have a rep to protect.
Wandering continued throughout the day, but then we happened upon the most breathtaking bridge in London: the Tower Bridge.
This image redeemed the entire journey to London and restored my faith in British architectural decisions of the past 1000 years.
The next day involved the use of a map AND a tour guide, namely Claire, a Wellesley friend with a better sense of London geography than her Oxford cohort. We landed in front of The Breakfast Club, a brunchery dedicated to making the legend of Molly Ringwald and her lipstick application trick live on in the form of 80s decor and a playlist involving excessive amounts of Madonna, Bon Jovi, and Simple Minds.
This edible rendezvous was followed by a trip to TATE Modern, where I got down and dirty with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Pablo Picassoism. Simply put, it was magical. Almost as magical as the sites seen on our three hour walking tour: Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, and good ol’ Duke of Wellington who chased those nasty French out of the country at the Battle of Waterloo.
Of course the highlight of the walking tour was happening upon CLIMATE CAMP in Trafalgar Square, where a bunch of tree huggers, who prefer tents to electricity and gas driven homes, camped out while advocating for environmental change. The irony: They hugged the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square so much that it now looks like an emaciated Norwegian pine.
The night was consummated with a Jack the Ripper tour. Permit me a quick detour through my sophomore year of high school. The location: English class. The topic: Write about the book that has most inspired you. Yaffa’s selection: a short non-fiction story detailing the murders committed by Jack the Ripper in Whitechapel 1888. Yes, at age 15, British serial killers were my inspiration. Which is why it came as no surprise when my teacher commented on my paper: “Yaffa, you are something. Definitely something different.” Well Little Miss Something Different took a Ripper walking tour through the City of London and the East End. And was reminded why she ever fell in love with criminal psychology, as well as why she wants to avoid becoming a British prostitute at all costs. It never ends well, or as some serial killer in some Hollywood movie once remarked, “Whores don’t get second chances.”
On a high from standing in the very locations where Ripper went surgical on all his victims, Julia and I opted for what was to be an equalling thrilling experience: a trip to the British Museum. And while the Africa wing rocked my world, as I could identify all those random African leaders (who knows the name of the Tanzanian president? I DO!), I was not super impressed with the highly commercialized sense of the institution, which seemed to cater to an exorbitant amount of Spanish speakers.
Luckily Billy Elliot the Musical redeemed the entire day. Nothing like some Northern Irish male ballet dancers to get the blood pumping. My next London musical venture: Sister Act, a return to the show that launched my nunnery obsession.
And with that I conclude Part One. Scotland to follow.
I’m sorry you don’t want to be a prostitute. I was willing to share my street corner with you when I am tragically unemployed after graduation.