by Jeff Kay

Another "free" day, another "breakfast" from the bakery around the corner… I had a cup of coffee and a simply kick-ass (I don't care how gay it sounds) lemon poppy seed muffin. Mmmm… I wish I had one right now.

Our first stop would be the Beatles store. The two things the kids wanted to do on our previous open day didn't get done, and we felt kind of bad about it. So we decided to go directly to the store.

It was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, but we found it with no trouble. For such a huge city, London is a breeze to move around in; it's amazing, really. I'm used to chaos and confusion, and running my hands through my hair. I got none of that in London.

The Beatles store, however, was a bit of a letdown. It's tiny, and I didn't see anything I couldn't live without. They had a lot of framed photos, and keychains, and postcards, and that sort of thing. It took me roughly three minutes to familiarize myself with their entire inventory, and I was done.

Toney bought the boys some small items, and we headed across the street to a similar store, dedicated to rock bands in general. Here are some pictures I snapped in there, but we bought nothing.

Beside the Beatles store was some sort of touristed-up Sherlock Holmes museum, but it didn't look like something we'd be interested in, and we ignored it.

But we were in the Sherlock Holmes neighborhood, Baker Street, where the character "lived." And they even pay tribute to him in the Tube station. Check it out.

And yes, there was a guy in the Baker Street Station playing "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty, on sax. How could there not be?

We took the train to Trafalgar Square, and when we resurfaced there was a Waterstone's bookstore staring us in the face. It was my chance to buy the E books… The sign said the rock/pop section was in the basement, so we took the stairs down. And I couldn't find the thing anywhere.

I asked an employee, a hipster girl in her early twenties, if she knew where I might find the Mark Everett biography, and she got all excited.

She told me she's a big Eels fan, and is "dying" to read the book. I told her I was going to see them in a few days, in Philadelphia, which I thought sounded pretty cool. But she acted like she didn't give a crap what I was planning to do.

I bought the books and we headed over to an ancient church, called St. Martin in the Fields.

Supposedly King George went there(!?), and we were planning to have lunch at a bizarre-sounding restaurant in the basement, called Café in the Crypt. Every London guide book we own raves about the place, and it sounded like a unique experience, so we penciled it in.

We arrived around 11:50, and there was a sign saying they wouldn't open until noon. Apparently the Monday after Easter is a holiday in England, and they were operating under revised hours. I thought we should come back later, but there was already a sizable group of people waiting. So we fell in line behind them.

Around 12:05 we heard the door jiggling, but it didn't open. Eventually the jiggling stopped, and we were left to just look at each other and shrug our shoulders. Finally a man, closely resembling Red Buttons, popped his head through the front door of the church – from the outside – and said he couldn't find the key. "Follow me," he commanded.

Couldn't find the key?? We walked behind Mr. Buttons, down the front steps of the church, onto the sidewalk, and around the side of the building. He passed through a non-descript doorway, which looked like a service entrance, and I wondered if this guy even worked at the church. Maybe we were being led to our deaths?!

But Red was legit, and he took us to the so-called Café in the Crypt. And it wasn't very good. It was cafeteria style, in a cavernous room within the bowels of the church, and I went with some sort of chicken, and accompanying vegetables.

Here's a picture of the place. People apparently love it, but I thought the food was both mediocre and over-priced. When we left, if this is possible, I was hungrier than when we went in. And it wasn't even very spooky… Wotta rip-off.

We took the subway again, to Covent Garden. In one of the many train stations we used during the day, we rode what must be the World's Fastest Escalator. I'm not joking, that shit was moving. And it went straight-up, too. At the end it felt like I was airborne for a split-second, but that might've just been my imagination.

It was raining when we arrived at Covent Garden, but it was quite a bustling affair anyway. There was a crush of people, and it felt like a carnival of sorts. There were vendors, stores and restaurants, and even street performers. At the end of the first block two guys were juggling on stilts, and the crowd watching them was roaring like a World Series game.

We walked up and down the streets there, occasionally popping into a store, and then I saw, at the end of a short alleyway, The Lamb and Flag.

Yes! It was one of the historic pubs I'd noted in the Moleskine. Many years ago it was called the Bucket of Blood, and has quite a notorious history. It was kind of early in the day, but we had to have a beer there. This was not something that was negotiable.

But the bartender barked at us, as soon as we passed through the door: "No kids in here! Upstairs only!!" Not very friendly…

We went up the rickety staircase, and entered a "family room." There was a smaller bar in there, and it looked like they were serving some sort of feast. A woman was standing at a carving station, cutting big slabs of what appeared to be roast beef.

I ordered two pints of a cask ale called Young's Bitter, from a skinny and effeminate gentleman who reminded me of the "Leave Britney Alone!" guy on YouTube.

We sat in a booth beside a window, and I watched the "Sunday roast" being served (on Monday). And man, it looked great… If we hadn't gone to that church, and just stuck with the pubs, we too could be having roast beef and vegetables, and tumblers of crazy-good beer. Grrr…

As we were leaving I passed through the main bar, and finished my beer, just to soak up the atmosphere. And my nipples were exploding with delight. It was like the British pub of my fantasies. I took two quick pictures, but they didn't turn out; it was far too dark. But take it from me, it was very close to drinking perfection.

We spent some more time in Covent Garden, and even walked around a flea market (or whatever they're called over there). Some guy was selling ancient telephones, and I spent a little time playing with those. He told me they were completely refurbished, and would work in the States. But I couldn't justify such a purchase.

From there we walked to Fleet Street. We wanted to find another classic pub, called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Supposedly it's been a popular spot since – get this – the 17th century. I needed to have a pint there.

So we walked and walked, and finally found it. CLOSED. It was that Monday after Easter thing, coming back to haunt us once again… Dammit, these add-on holidays were really putting a damper on my adventure-drinking.

We'd passed another pub I had in my notebook, called The George. So we went back, and it was one of the more pleasant experiences of the day. The staff was warm and friendly, there was a fire in the fireplace, and the place was full of families with kids.

We ordered a big basket of "chips," two Cokes, and two Fuller's London Prides. And when the London Prides were gone, we got two pints of something called Smiles Best. All of it was good stuff.

But I was starting to get sad. We'd be leaving in the morning, and it had taken me 45 years to get here. I hated the thought of our week coming to an end, I really did. Toney was feeling the same way, and we kept promising each other we'd be back soon.

While we were riding the train back to our hotel, a woman eyed me up and down and put a protective arm around her young daughter. What the hell, man? Do I look like a pervert, or something? I thought about giving Mom a little thrust, but decided it probably wouldn't be a good idea.

We were planning to return to Covent Garden for dinner, but needed to take a break for a while. The boys turned on the TV, and started flipping through the pictures on their cameras. Toney said she wanted to go to the internet café, and confirm our flights with British Airways. I popped open a lukewarm Bass, from the cheap-ass "cooler" we'd purchased, and told her we'd be here when she got done.

Later we took a train back to the neighborhood with the guys on stilts, and ate at an Italian place we'd picked out on our first visit. The food was good, but the service was terrible, and the waiter brought some kind of apparatus to the table, to run our credit card.

I had to fill in the tip amount with the guy standing there (they always want to know the final amount before they process it), and it was awkward. I didn't want to give him much, because he sucked, but he was right there.

I much prefer the American style of paying in restaurants. They don't seem to fully grasp the concept of tipping in the UK. It's supposed to be done in private, based on performance. They automatically add a gratuity to your bill, or look over your shoulder while you're writing in an amount… It just ain't right.

After we left the restaurant our oldest son was almost hit by a black cab, which came screaming out of the darkness on two wheels. It scared me, and I walked with my arm around his shoulder until we got to the train station.

When we got off at Earl's Court (for the final time), I felt like I was about to cry. It would all be over within hours. Toney asked if I wanted to go into that half-assed Courtfield pub, for one last cask ale, and you can probably guess my answer.

I had a Timothy Taylor Landlord, thought about stealing the glass, and decided against it. I used to do that sort of thing when I was 25, but it didn't seem appropriate at 45.

And that was that.

Our transfer service picked us up, as scheduled, the following morning, and we rode to Heathrow with a couple of old ladies who were apparently antiques dealers. Both looked like marionettes, and talked like Mrs. Howell.

We passed through all our checkpoints without issue, and had several hours to kill before our flight was scheduled to leave. We went to a restaurant, and I wanted something fresh. Holy shit, so many deep-fried, and boiled, and sausage-based meals…

I ordered a garden salad, while most people were having breakfast.

When we first arrived at the airport they couldn't tell us the gate from which we'd be departing. They told us to keep checking the screens, and the information would be posted as soon as it was available. We must've checked a dozen times, and still had no home. We were just wandering around, with no particular place to go.

A little less than an hour before our flight, the gate info was posted. And we had to walk about forty miles (give or take).

When we finally got there, we launched into Operation British Money Dump. Only coins remained at this point, but we had a bunch of 'em. And how did we get rid of it all? That's correct, by buying lots and lots of Cadbury candy bars.

On the airplane they kept offering me beer or wine, and the thought of it made me queasy. I think I overdid it a bit with my beer-soaked sprint to the finish line the previous day, and just drank water the whole time. All I wanted was water and salad at this point…

They reportedly had eighteen(!) movies to choose from. I looked at the list, and only Juno interested me. The rest of it was action/adventure movies I'd never heard of, or crapola like Alvin and the Chipmunks. So I set it up, and waited for it to start.

And, needless to say, that channel, and that channel alone, wouldn't work. I thought about asking one of the sashaying flight attendants about it, but knew nothing would come from such an exercise.

So, screw it. I just read the whole time. I finished a novel, read a long REM article in Q magazine, and almost the entire book by Mark Everett. It was a peaceful flight, and didn't seem to take the seven hours it apparently did.

And before I knew it, we were back in my Camry with the hood pointed toward Scranton. My cell phone had risen from the dead (it was nothing but a prop in England), and it felt really weird to be driving a car again.

Somewhere in New Jersey we stopped at a Cracker Barrel, and had dinner. I ordered some kind of sampler plate, with all manner of meat and vegetables, and it was just about the best thing I've ever eaten.

The food in England wasn't as bad as I'd feared, but it sure as shit wasn't as good as the Cracker Barrel Sampler. And that's a fact.

We got home before midnight, and the boys went straight to bed. Toney and I had a couple of Yuenglings (it was now the next day in Pennsylvania, so the moratorium was over), and got caught up on cable news. We'd been almost completely out of the loop for a week. Turns out everybody was still bitching about the same things…

And that was our trip to England, in 20,000 words or less.

I hope you enjoyed it.