by Jeff Kay

I don't believe in jet lag. I think it's one of those afflictions we create to bring drama to our lives. I've done a little traveling, often across time zones, and honestly don't even know what jet lag is supposed to be.

There are people in my extended family (ahem) who are bedridden for days on end, every time they fly on an airplane. They wallow around, and moan, and act like they're moving toward the light.

Oh, it's quite a scene. I have a feeling they'd need to call in sick if they were even in the same room as a baby making airplane noises. That's how thenthitive they are.

I was warned about jet lag so often, before our trip to England, I started to actually think about it. What if it's true? What if it's not a complete load, like I believed? I couldn't fly to London, and be sick for half the stay. That simply wouldn't do.

But, I'm happy to report, I still don't know what jet lag is all about. We stayed up the first day, went to bed that night, and got up rested and operating on England time. There was no lagging, and no thrashing around in the sheets. By the first morning we were local.

So I guess we're super-human, huh?

We had breakfast at the hotel. It was a buffet situation, but the food wasn't very good. The coffee tasted like hot ass, and the bar contained baffling options, like half-tomatoes, fried up in an electric skillet. TF? And don’t even get me started on the pork 'n' beans.

I saw some kid toast two slices of bread, put a poached egg on each, and smother it all with those sweet ketchupy beans. And nobody batted an eye! I was already longing for Waffle House…

Toney liked it OK, and the boys didn't complain, but I was kinda disappointed in that bizarreness. I ended up eating Frosted Flakes (called Frosties there), just to fill the void. And paid the equivalent of fifteen dollars for the opportunity...

While we were finishing our morning, um, meal, Toney said she'd like to find a grocery store. I can't remember what she needed, but I liked the sound of visiting a British supermarket; I'm fascinated by that kind of everyday thing.

We asked the guy at the desk where the closest grocery store was located, and it turned out there was one literally within yards of our hotel. It was a gigantic Sainsbury's, right around the corner. But because it was in the opposite direction of the train station, we had no idea. We hadn't gone left yet, only right.

And it was a blast walking around that store. It was almost like an American supermarket, but slightly askew. Many of the brands were unrecognizable, and the flavors (flavours) of potato chips (crisps) were full-on bizarre. Like roast chicken, prawn cocktail, Worcester sauce, and Marmite.

They also had, in their international aisle, an American section. Mixed in with the microwaveable hamburgers, were things like nachos and pizza. And I thought that was kind of amusing.

I bought a copy of Q magazine, and some Quality Street candy (oh yeah). I also checked out their massive beer selection (almost all stored on shelves at room temperature), and vowed to come back later, once we'd bought a small cooler somewhere.

As we were walking back to the hotel, I could sense a gathering storm in my lower intestines. Soon I would require my first Pan-Atlantic sit-down. I informed Toney of the situation, and she said, "We'll just meet you at the bakery, across from the train station." She didn't even want to be in the same building.

So I went upstairs to the room, and everything proceeded as planned. The rectum ribbon was like notebook paper, and there wasn't enough water in the bowl, but other than that… it was pretty similar to crapping in America.

I had the place funked-up pretty good; it had been more than 24 hours, after all. I was glad my family wasn't around to experience such an ordeal... In fact, it seemed to be getting worse as the minutes passed, as if the stink amoebas were splitting and splitting again.

Gasping for air, I leaped into the hallway. And as I turned toward the elevator, I heard a very chipper and British voice say, "Good morning, sir!" It was the maid, and she was just finishing up the room next to ours. She looked like she was about seventeen years old, cute and friendly, and getting ready to enter Jeff's House of Overpowering Butt Stench.

Simply excellent.

I mumbled good morning back at her, and high-tailed it out of there. I hoped she'd make it out alive; she had her whole life ahead of her…

We took the subway to Tower Hill, and it was raining when we arrived. In fact, I overheard a guy hollering into a cell phone, "It's pissing down rain here!" And that pretty much summed up the situation.

If we hadn't had our London Pass, the admission fees to Tower of London would've been almost $100. Under the circumstances, it cost us nothing. And ya gotta love that. The ticket-taker instructed us to wait in an alcove, and said our guide would be joining us shortly.

As we hung out, trying to stay away from the rain, a woman approached us and asked if we were from (the little town where we live). Blinking real fast, we said yeah. But how'd she know?? It was the Secrets and their hoodies, she indicated; both had their school names on them.

Turns out the woman and her family are from the same town. They live just a few blocks from us, and we bumped into them in London. And how weird is that? We attempted to have a conversation, quickly realized we had nothing to say to each other, and everyone went their separate ways, smiling like retards. ...It was a fairly amazing, nonetheless.

We spent many hours at the Tower of London, and had a great time. We saw the dungeon, and the torture devices. We walked through the prison cells, and read prisoner graffiti -- some of which dates from the 1500s. I heard a man refer to an umbrella as a "brolly," and we ate mediocre fish & chips at the café. 

Here are some pictures I snapped during the day.

At one point, inside a chapel, our guide was telling a story about Henry the VIII. He said he always told his new wives, "I will love you 'til the day YOU die."

Then he launched into a very animated description of execution day. Apparently it was always the social event of the season, and people would travel great distances to see "criminals" get their heads chopped off.

I snapped a few pictures of him pretending to hoist a freshly-severed noggin, and right after this photo was taken, he started yelling at me. In front of roughly a hundred people, our guide told me not to take anymore pictures, and to remove my hat.

"We're in a church!" he added as punctuation.

Every head turned in my direction, and I felt like King Douche, the Ruler of Douche Town. I removed my Brooklyn Dodgers cap, and stared straight ahead, waiting for the moment to end. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a woman shake her head in disgust.

Later, in a room full of rifles and gunpowder barrels, we were engulfed in a sea of French school kids. I'd guess they were about twelve years old, all boys. And a more obnoxious group, I don't believe I've ever encountered... They were loud, and pushy, and didn't hesitate to cut in line.

As we were fighting our way through a pocket of those little bastards, I saw Toney suddenly give one a hard shoulder. I was laughing my ass off, as the kid stumbled and tried to maintain his balance.

And my wife looked back at me with murder in her eyes. She'd had just about enough of those li'l miniature Nossys, and was now going all roller derby on their asses. Good times.

While checking out the Crown Jewels, some guy behind me snapped a picture. There are signs all over those rooms saying photography is prohibited. But this guy, like me earlier, apparently wasn't paying attention.

A team of security guards was on him like dingoes on a Cub Scout. They gave him a raft of shit, and made him delete the pictures, while the guards watched. It was a pretty intense situation.

And when the guy looked my way, I shook my head in utter disgust.

After we finished with Tower of London, we were wiped-out. We'd probably walked ten miles during the day, up and down ancient staircases, and across cobblestone streets. We almost went back to the room at that point, but Toney insisted we take advantage of another London Pass freebie (before the card expired), and tour Tower Bridge .

I don't think any of us wanted to go (how do you tour a bridge?), but it turned out to be really cool. We took an elevator to the top, and went across an enclosed catwalk, high above the River Thames. Here are some pics I snapped.

When we entered they took a picture of the whole family, and tried to sell it to us at the end, for ten pounds. They'd Photoshopped it to look like we were standing in front of the bridge on a sunny day, instead of inside the ticket office, by a filing cabinet.

I checked the thing out, and I looked like a palsy victim. My head was all ratcheted back, and for some reason my arms seemed gnarled and bent in unnatural positions. I was grimacing like I was anticipating an explosion, and the whole thing was hideous.

I told the guy no thanks, and he gave me a look like, "Yeah, no shit."

We had dinner at a nearby restaurant called Wagamama. It's Japanese, and I was highly skeptical. I wanted a rice dish, not noodles, and they all contained weird stuff. But Toney really wanted to try it, so I'd just have to make the best of the situation...

I ordered something that sounded semi-OK, and told them to hold the mushrooms. Apparently it was supposed to have three different kinds of fungus in it, and I told the girl I wanted none of that nonsense. And it turned out to be really good.

It was fried rice, several vegetables, chicken, and shrimp. I summoned up some ancient knowledge from my hipster days, and ate the entire meal with chopsticks. All of us thought it was great, and the check was even reasonable.

But right before we left they started cooking something in the big open kitchen, which made me happy we were finished. It smelled like they were stir-frying buttholes in that place. I don't know what it was, but was certainly glad to get out of there when we did. Blecch.

It was dark when we went outside, and Tower Bridge was illuminated. While looking at the impressive sight, we agreed it had been an almost perfect day. The trip was going well, we realized; all the planning and stressing was bearing fruit. It was a good moment.

I returned to Sainsbury's, when we got back to the hotel, and chose something from their tiny beer cooler. I went with Stella Artois, and picked up a sack of Walker's roasted chicken potato chips, as well. In the room we watched American Idol, for the very first time in our lives, and drank disappointing beers.

And next time I'll tell you about our first venture outside the city of London.

See ya then!

Read about Day Four