1/31/07 - Impressions of London and an Encounter with a Cat

How I would love to detail in detail the places I've seen, people I've met, and every piece of newness and distinction I've discovered the past two weeks here. But then this would become a novel, and not a travelogue – nor very interesting to anyone but me. Instead, here are some initial impressions of such things.

What strikes one most about London is how truly cosmopolitan it is. No American city comes close to the incredible diversity of this place. On any given tube ride you might hear Spanish, German, Japanese, Scottish, English, Polish, or any of dozens of other languages. A popular catchphrase is "the world is in London" – and it's perfectly apt. As a result of this, the transition from American culture to European is not as rough as it might be. You are a stranger among strangers; a denizen among citizens. An oyster card might as well be the official I.D.

Not to say there aren't myriad differences. Pub life, thick accents, new coinage, variable amenities, and a poor exchange rate are just a few of the culture shocks; but the beauty of the architecture, London's emphasis on the arts (all museums are free), and the dazzling fashion and sparkle of youth culture are more than adequate to overcome any minor transatlantic quibbles. Have a pint, have a cigarette, make a friend, and talk about politics or cinema. It's been good.

Speaking of pub culture, here's something that happened the other night that would be unlikely to occur at any bar in the U.S.:

Dan, Katie, and I were at The Hobgoblin, the pub around the corner from Goldsmiths. It's a typical English pub in many ways, built with old wood – some polished, some rough – with wooden tables and stools set about the room. The barhands were college kids while the much-older owners of the establishment flitted about the room gathering glasses from the tables. It was full of smoke and conversation and yellow light; not too dim, but just right for warm feelings and relaxation. Dan and I had pints of Stella and Strongbow while Katie stuck to Bailey's and Amaretto.

When I returned from buying the next round, a black and white cat had taken my place on the bench. It squinted eyes and purred at me. I put the drinks down.

"Hey there," I said, crouching down and petting it on the head. Dan was leaned over doing the same.

"Whose cat is that?" I asked. As if in answer, and older lady appeared, taking our empties and eyeing the cat.

"Just move 'im over," she said, and disappeared.

I did as she suggested. The cat didn't seem to mind. A thin but muscular man with white hair and salt-and-pepper stubble came to the side of the table, smiling a kind of ghastly (but pleasant) gap-toothed smile at the cat. The other owner, I presumed. He said a few pleasantries to us I forgot, though Dan remembered to ask him the name of the cat.

"That there's Guinness," he said. The cat tilted his head back with satisfaction. Perfect.

I'll make the point that Dan made after the cat got up and left: it would be very rare for that to happen in America. While cats are liked and generally appreciate, I think it would be against the typical American sensibility to allow a pet to roam wild about his or her bar or dining establishment. Yet that cat was as much a part of the place as the barstools. I loved it. Guinness!