A Cambridge Bath

First, the pictures.

A group of us "punted the Cam" at Cambridge and I took time to relax at Bath with some "Roman" women. Athena was particularly nice and let me take the picture.


Walking Through The City


Pink and blue. Pastel colors seem to be the menswear rage in the financial district. And most of the young guys appear to be working sans neckties as well. If that’s one method to rebel against the stodgy establishment of our fathers, burn the silk and polyester, I say. Rage against the machine. Hang the ties and the Hung, Drawn, and Quartered and leave e’m to the pinters.

I noticed the fashion of the area because of my fashion choice for the day. If you could see a picture of me at the Royal Exchange, you’d observe that I look like a loud, annoying American tourist with my plaid shirts and Nike athletic t-shirt. Did I feel out of place walking near such places as the Bank of England, the Stock Exchange, and the Lloyds of London building? Absolutely.

But it wasn’t because of the fashion. I could have worn a tux and still have felt like a loud, annoying American tourist. Walking down Lombard street, focusing all my energy into navigating my way through a construction area while attempting to follow the trailblazing path of Arty, I was hit by a realization (and nearly hit by a double decker bus)—I AM a loud, annoying American tourist. I carry around a dorky spiral bound walk book. I have an accent that sounds like sledgehammers banging on tree stumps to the gentle gentry ears of the English. I usually travel in parks of other Centre students, blocking the way and laughing about silly things we see. I’m always hungry.

I need to embrace my American touristness. I can play the part of the fool, because hey, I’m not from around here. I must remember that London’s economy functions because of tourists like me. I have the power here. Without us, these city folk would all be stuck in a button factory. And I would be in Prague, living like a king near some castle in a country that doesn’t have a ridiculously expensive exchange rate.


Regents Park

What do you get when you cross Antonio Banderas and the Islamic Centre?
The Mosque of Zorro.

Alright, alright, a bit lame, but that joke was the highlight of my Regents Park walk. Well, that and my thirty second conversation with a stodgy security guard. He was patrolling a ritzy looking area (I just checked on a real estate site. A home in that area, just over 6,000 square feet, is selling for $25,000,000) and I asked what was going on (clearly, there was some sort of social function or party). He had the gall to pretend that nothing was going on, that there was only a private residence, and that I must be some crazy and stupid American for assuming anything would be going on when there was merely a few dozen sports cars, an armored guard (with enough arms to fight the Revolutionary War—wait, who won that war again? Oh yeah. We did.) amidst houses selling for $25,000,000. Yeah, you’re right Bobby. Nothing’s happening tonight.

I spoke with some girls from Spain about the area. All they could say were very good things. Those very good things happened to be “We don’t know English” and “We are from Spain.” Despite the communication barrier, I think we bonded at Regents. From what little Spanish I know, I could tell that they were here for the Mosque of Zorro.