Posts Tagged ‘london

In honor of the O’s ending today and leaving me incredibly depressed – (no more shots of Hot Harry watching the games? No more amazing athletes? No more avoiding news sites during the day to avoid getting spoiled?? Sigh)…. here are some of my favorite pictures from my short time in London. See you in Rio!

(Click on the first pic for the gallery to open)


When British and I first started our ill-fated adventure in cross-continent relationships, one of the things he would often tell me was “You are so pretty.” And I lapped it up like a little puppy.  Seriously, who doesn’t want to hear that, especially when it’s softly said in an amazing accent??  I sure as fuck did.

But little did I know it’s just the British equivalent of the American frat-boy-ism: “You’re sooooo hot!!!”  Which means nothing, actually. It’s just a segue to “Wanna come back to my place??”   Sigh.

I didn’t realize it till this trip though. The first night we met the British military boys, their commander kept telling me how much he liked my “pretty face.” Sweet, and again, I have no problem receiving attention, so I totally bought into it.

Then the next night, we went to another pub in Leicester Square. I was waiting for my drink and the bartender (tall and cute, just my type!) came over and asked for my ID. Ok, isn’t the drinking age in the UK like 16 or something? There was no way he needed to ID me. But I handed it over, and he looked at my year of birth and this look of utter surprise came over his face and he says: “Wow. You look great!”

Um, thanks!?  I was pretty offended. Can I just get a damn drink? I don’t need to be reminded I’m old as dirt. His take was that I should be flattered he needed to see it. Hmph.

Anyway, he continued to chat, asked what I was doing there, how long I was in town, etc and finally after making my drink (hello, the ONLY thing I wanted) he leaned over and whispered, “You are so very pretty.”

Which then threw me off guard – and it was my turn to look surprised because it was so random, and yes, SUPER sweet, but that’s also when the light bulb went off. Do they even mean it, or is it just a numbers game? Like if they say that to 100 women, 5 will be flattered enough to do something?  I can’t figure out if the boys there actually do think I’m attractive and are being honest and I should move to take advantage of it!?!?!??? OR is it just a line?

(Also, did I get any free drinks out of this? NO. So totally useless as far as I was concerned, even if he did mean it. )

The rest of the night was spent with these Italian guys we met at the bar – they were hilarious! Two spoke English perfectly fine, but the third didn’t. So how is it that he spoke with his hands, on our bodies? It’s like he got away with free grabs just because he was unable to speak the language… not a bad play, actually.

Some highlights from the night:

Me and C: “Hey, look at that Italian place, Bella Italia, would you want to eat there? ”
Them: “No-a! Would you-a eat-a in a place-a called Beautiful USA? Because-a all that meanz-a is Beautiful Italia. It’s-a dumb-a.”

Them (talking about having two taps instead of one in the bathroom sink): “Why are there-a two faucets? You either burn-a your hand-a or you freeze-a your hand-a! It’s-a impossible to get it right-a!!”

Them: “We love-a going to the pubs-and-a-clubs-a!”

Them: “We are staying with a divorcee. He likes to talk-a. He is lonely and tries to talk-a to us-a every day. We try-a to avoid him.”

Them (while we’re eating pizza): “It’s ok-ah. For pizza not in Italy, it will do-a. We don’t-a use ketchup on our pizzas like you do-a.”

Them (after I spilled water on myself at dinner): “That’s-a what you get-a for drinking that poison-a!”

It was a great night overall. I definitely still have a thing for cute boys with accents… just need to figure out how to make that work in my life here. Or you know, marry this guy and have it all (or this guy, both are pretty amazing in their abilities)…

Actually…without the accent, he’d just be American. And wearing a funny hat.


I feel like this picture sums up the night better than I can in words, but I’ll still try. We (my friend (C), who’s giving the ‘thumbs up’ in the pic and I) met the Brits on the tube. We chatted a bit on the train, and quite honestly, they didn’t seem like they wanted to talk to us, but  since they just happened to be alighting at the same stop as us, and we just happened to go to the same bar as them, we ended up spending a LOT of time together that night.

We started at a pub, where we all bought rounds of drinks – they boys were cute and fun to chat with and they were in London as part of the military brought in to help protect the games. So, I’m a sucker for military boys and when they told us they’re not treated as well as the guys (and girls) in the US military, I thought it was our duty to show some American hospitality. Honestly, I would’ve bought all the drinks if they let us!

BUT! Hurray for British chivalry and not letting us do that! (Because, come on, it’s fucking expensive with the conversion. I tried not to think about it the whole time and just pretended that that one £ equals 1 USD. According to my bank statement, it does not.)

Anyway, they ranged across ages and we had almost one fight, because boys will be boys, no matter where in the world they are.  But, I loved them because their crew leader kept telling me how pretty I was and how much he liked my face.  Yeah, I’m a sucker.  Whatever.

We drank at the pub, ate some crappy Chinese food, and then went to the club (where the shots were taken). SO MUCH FUN!! Music was awesome and Team Slovenia was there! They were the freaking tallest girls I’d ever seen. I totally wanted to take pictures, but they were drinking, having fun, hanging out… I didn’t think they’d want some random taking pictures of them like they’re in a zoo.

So we danced the night away. And drank the night away. We didn’t leave the club till 330am and didn’t realize we had no trains left to get home. The two boys who were left with us were super sweet and offered to walk us back to our hotel, which was literally an hour in the wrong direction from where they needed to be – we told them we’d be fine on our own, and they said: “Oh no! You can’t walk alone here! It’s LONDON! It’s not safe! If this was Somerset, you’d be ok.”

Which made me and C both giggle, because clearly they have no idea what it’s like to walk at night in the ATL. Although, honestly, neither do I because I refuse to do it for fear of being shot.

We parted ways in Trafalgar Square, and C and I weeble-wobbled our way home, getting lost and giggling the whole way back to our little room. We finally made it back at 430am. Yeah… we were not up so early the next day, but it was well worth it.

It was a chaste night, nobody made out… hell, actually, nobody made a move. Which is honestly refreshing and a little weird. I”m so used to “Nice tits! Wanna fuck?” that I get totally stunned when that’s not what’s said or what happens.

We kept in touch with them while we were there, and they even tried to get us into the stadium using their credentials. Nope, didn’t work out so well, but it was nice of them to even bother trying.  They even offered to take us site-seeing on Sunday, their day off. We declined because we had plans, but seriously – how nice is that!

It was really a great first night and welcome to London. They did the city proud 🙂


Walking through London at night, with our bodyguards


The quintessential phone booth picture from our 100mile hike back to the hotel. I didn’t realize there was someone in the last booth. Turned out there were two someones, engaged in a make out session, because of course. I stunned them with the flash. Haha!  😉


There were a few more random things I forgot to mention in the previous post….

5) I couldn’t tell if it was the locals or visitors who were engaged in amorous displays of love, but the PDA was everywhere. Seriously. EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE. On the tube, in the park, while walking in front of you on the way to the tube or the park, early in the morning, late at night, at the bar, near the bar, in the bar… it didn’t seem to matter where or what time of day. Maybe seeing all those girls walk around with no pants puts everyone in the mood?

In any case, I’m a single, jaded, bitter, angry fuck-all of a human at times and basically wanted to punch everyone in the face for putting a love that I don’t have on display for me to see. It’s like the Universe is saying: “Oh! You dated a British guy and were supposed to be here with him? LOOK AT WHAT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LIKE! It would’ve been awesome. You could’ve been loved up all over the city. You could’ve held hands on the tube! You could’ve kissed in Trafalgar Square!  But nope. You’re SINGLE. Sucks for you, CurryLove! SUCKS.FOR.YOU.”

Or you know, it’s just me being sensitive. Whatever.

6) The other thing I meant to discuss is the London love for Potato Wedges. Is this an overall British thing? An English thing? WHY do people choose to buy wedges of potatoes for a snack? Why are these sold instead of just chips (fries)? Aren’t wedges and chips(fries) the same thing, just different cuts of the potato? WHY have I put so much thought into this??

It’s strange, really. We were in Hyde Park to watch the games and there were food trucks everywhere. Lots of food trucks that had lots of meat (example pic below). And lots of people really like all that meat… But I am not one of them. I’m a veggie-eater only. So my options were limited since I didn’t want to have “Britain’s Best Gourmet Burgers.” Luckily, there was a Mexican food truck. And at that truck, I had two options: a veggie burrito (which honestly didn’t sound very good) or Potato Wedges with Cheese.  I chose the cheesey wedges.   Ok… I thought it was going to be the gooey melty cheese we get here. No. It was not. It was shredded some-type-of-cheese on top of wedges.  And since the wedges weren’t hot, the cheese didn’t melt, which essentially meant it just fell off the top of the wedges as we walked back to our seats. Not the best thing I’ve ever had. Not even close.

You know the other option for toppings for the wedges? Refried beans and sour cream… you know what that’s usually on top of??? NACHOS.  Why did they take YUMMY Mexican food and make it … not yummy English food? WHY?  And who actually wants beans on top of their potatoes? I don’t understand. At all.

On the bright side of all of this, the guy serving in the truck was incredibly fucking hot. I have no pictures to prove it, but just trust. He was.


Watching Andy Murray play on the BIG screen at Hyde Park

I tried to get my friend to pose with her mouth open underneath this sign, but she refused. Spoil sport.





I’m baaaaaaaaaaaack!

Not necessarily happily, though. If I had my way, I’d still be in London, still soaking in the rare sunny days and not getting my layering correct so that I’m either too hot and sweaty or too cold and shivering, still reveling in the Olympic atmosphere that was everywhere, and still enjoying the chants of “Team GB!!” all around.

A few random things I noticed while there:

1) British girls love to not wear pants.  Apparently, wearing a long shirt (they ARE NOT dresses) that barely covers the cha-cha area, and then donning black (always black. Always.) panty-hose is de-rigueur these days. Um… TIGHTS ARE NOT PANTS.  They are sheer pieces of fabric designed to help you stay warm, under dresses. THEY ARE NOT TO BE WORN ALONE. WITHOUT SOMETHING COVERING THEM. LIKE A DRESS.

Seriously, Brits, WTF? I don’t want to see the pantyhose thigh-line that doesn’t get covered. I don’t want to think of how you sit down at a restaurant or on the tube, in just tights, your nether regions being barely protected and how I might sit there after you. And what about when you get a run in those tights? Then what? Do you just take them off and stroll around London in your semi-long-ish shirt, that is still not a dress???   (Ha! I’m not the only one who feels this way.)

2) They take their cycling seriously. Super seriously. Not just in the Olympics, but in the bike lanes too. They will mow your ass down if you dare walk in the “bike only” lane. While I understand it’s bike-only (and no, this didn’t happen to me, but saw it plenty of times), given the influx of visitors from all over the world, you think they’d cut some slack on certain things. Yes, it’s annoying to have all these tourists in your country that don’t know the rules, I totally understand that, but is there a need to be so unpleasant about it? I think not.  I knew this from ‘dating’ British, but I didn’t realize it applied to the whole country. Now it totally makes sense how he had money for fixing his bike but not for taking me to dinner. Totally.

3) The Brits are among the most self-deprecating, self-flagellating group of people, ever.  The interviews by the BBC after the events were sort of amazing. The athletes can barely breathe, they just competed and won/lost/lost out on a gold by seconds/whatever, and the BBC pundits ask questions like: “Are you disappointed in yourself?” Listen, you little twat – they just competed in the Olympics. Yes, they’re upset if things didn’t go well, but don’t lead them on with those questions! And then… the responses. Most Americans would say something to the effect of : “Yeah, I’m disappointed — I tried my best, it just wasn’t good enough today.”

The Brits? You get this: “I’m so sad. I let myself down. My family down. All that training was a waste of time. I could’ve been spending time with my family instead of training for a match I would lose.”

Holy fuck, man. You didn’t kill someone. You just didn’t place in your event. It’s ok.  Really, it’s ok. (I tried to find this interview but couldn’t – if I find it, will update with a link. It was with the BBC’s Phil Jones and I don’t remember the runner, but it was in the Athletics competitions.)

On a personal note – I knew this from ‘dating’ British as well. We were chatting one night, and he, in a heavily drunken state made reference to the size of his “member” not being that impressive. And how I should know that up-front. Well, alrighty then. I mean, sure, it’s better to not lie about it, but isn’t that just odd? And totally so opposite of what an American boy would say, which would be something to the effect of: “Yeah, I need Magnums.”  (And no, it wasn’t impressive. Neither were his moobs.)

4) The stupid Olympics ticketing system was a piece of shit. We tried, with NO luck, to get tickets to anything, anywhere. You know what error message we kept getting? “Tickets for this event will be released on June 8.” IT’S AUGUST.  It was so annoying to be in Hyde Park, watching Andy Murray and Serena Williams play on the big screens (obviously, not each other), and see empty seats in the stands. We would’ve waited in queue for hours if we had to, but no. They decided that they only way people would get tickets was online, via a system that crashed continuously. Even the locals were complaining as they’d all had the same issues we had.

For all those little points, everyone was super proud and patriotic, regardless of what country they were from, and everyone was really welcoming. We had an amazing time – the city was clean and prepared for the tourists, they had hundreds of volunteers, all easily found in bright pink, who would answer any stupid question we had, and the signage everywhere was just fantastic – we couldn’t have got lost if we tried. I am so glad I had the experience. Will post pictures soon 🙂

For now, here’s London Bridge with the O-rings – a picture I took on our last day. Just awesome.






Just talked to my parents….

Dad: “Did you see the news reports about the pickpocketers in London?”

Mom: “You better be careful! Keep your passport close at all times… Watch your purse!!”

Dad: “Yeah, they’re all Romanian so they’re white and you can’t tell them apart from the locals. It’s hard to know who’s going to steal your stuff. Plus they’re doing it on the tube when it’s crowded. Just watch out, ok?”

Me (after I quit giggling at my dad’s racism, which is kind of true): “Um…. I didn’t see the report, but we’ll be careful, I promise. If I need to, I”ll just do like Mommy did on the train!”

So in 1987, we were in India (and on a side note, my fucking God that feels like an eternity ago) and we were taking the train in Bombay. It was really crowded, and we were all sort of spread out in the area where you stand. My mom was just a few people away from me, and my dad/brother were on the other side, a few people more away, and my sister was somewhere near me.

Some guy behind my mom raised his hand, and apparently, to my dad, looked like he was going to steal my mom’s gold necklace (off her neck). He yelled: “{CurryLove’s Mom!} Watch out! He’s stealing your necklace!!!”

My mom turned around, looked so shocked AND SLAPPED THE GUY BEHIND HER! SHE JUST SLAPPED HIM!

He was SO STUNNED and looked at my mom, and says, “Bhen! {respectful way of addressing a woman your age/means sister} – I was just pulling out my notebook!!” And out of his pocket he takes out a notebook that held phone numbers or addresses.

Me, my sister and my brother COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING. Even my dad was laughing. I don’t think he expected my mom to HIT SOMEONE!!! We all had the giggles. My mom’s still shaking after slapping this random stranger and apologizing profusely for hitting him and explaining that she thought he was going to steal her stuff.

TO THIS DAY, this story is told in our family. There are, of course, two possibilities:  1) For all we know, he really could’ve been trying to take her necklace. But she hit him so hard, right across the face, that he would’ve never done it again. OR, 2) he was totally innocent and my mom slapped a stranger who was just getting something from his pocket.

We prefer going with the second version when we tell it. 🙂

This title could apply to SO MANY THINGS in my life, but in this case, it’s just a story about my upcoming trip to London.

A few of us went out on Friday night, and somehow, we all ended up fairly drunk. I mean, maybe it was like the 5 drinks each we all had…

In any case, I was chatting with my friend that I’m going to London with – she is a lot fun, really laid back and we were both getting super hyped about everything.

In my drunken state, I said to her: “Our goal for London should be to GET INTO BUCKINGHAM PALACE!!!!!!!  So I can meet my future PRIIIIIIIIIIIIIINCE!!!!!!!!!!!!”

She, in her drunken yet surprisingly realistic state, said: “Um….OK. Let’s lower our goals. We should maybe just be happy if we see the palace for about 30 seconds, on our way to the pub, and we keep walking.”

A few guards, gates and some fencing isn’t really going to stop me…

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