CityHangover Guestblog, Vol VII - The Lost Weekend

Apparently, emotional trauma often results in adverse affects on the brain. In extreme cases, this trauma can even cause memory loss. I have no better explanation for such an inexcusibly tardy post of the 7th, and likely last, CityHangover Guestblog entry. Admittedly, the weekend of Nov 17th was a rough one for all of us (insert moment of silence here). I myself only remembered it when I felt the BCS knife twisting in my back a few weekends ago.

Lest you think I associate my guests with curious human poll reshuffling and computer calculations shrouded in secrecy, I should note that Arshi, as one of my first direct employees, taught me many positive things. Inappropriate office eye rolling and the term "floater" (a 2nd shot for one's post-work drink) come immediately to mind.

Without further ado...

London Lessons



Since I'm new here, I thought I'd introduce myself -- I am one of the lucky few who used to work for CJB. That's right, folks, they actually let him manage people and their careers (all jokes aside, he's pretty good at getting other people to do his work). Anyway, plans for my trip initiated when CJB was back in NYC for a brief stint in September – we were at a happy hour with some colleagues, enjoying beers while listening to his newfound fake British accent. After a few, he says, “Oh, you should totally consider coming to London – I have an extra room now!” Given his history of making offers he doesn’t mean while under the influence, I confirmed that it was indeed okay the following day under more sober conditions. With that, my roommate and I proceeded to book the trip to London.

Following the trend of past Guest Bloggers, I’ve listed out a few of the lessons that I’ve gathered based on my experience:

1. Bring his dorky PowerPoint directions with you unless you want to be detained upon landing at Heathrow. I was almost detained since I could not provide an exact address for where I was going – the woman wanted postal code and all (in hindsight, I should have gone to the Indian guy, where I may have been able to flirt my way through — see below). I mentioned as many places as I remembered based off of conversations with CJB. Still no progress. Anyone who visits CJB knows of the uber dorky PowerPoint slides that provide directions to his office. Immediately after I presented these slides to the woman, I was granted admission into the country, as I guess they offered some legitimacy to my visit. One point for the dorks!

2. Curly-haired women beware – your flat-iron may cause explosions and black-outs. Admittedly, I have an unusual and slightly ridiculous obsession with ensuring that my curly hair is straight at all times, so I brought my $200 hair straightener to London to tackle the frizzies that would surely generate in London's humidity. CJB was at work, but told me that my electronic devices would function if I just used the converters that were lying around all over the flat. I plug my flat-iron into the converter and am ready to beautify – as soon as I make contact with the converter, there's a brilliant pyrographic display of sparks, a minor explosion, a loud pop, and smokiness. About 1.2 seconds later, the lights and power go out, and I'm left in complete darkness in a total state of panic. I run around trying to see if anything had been salvaged – TV? DVD Player? Phones? Stereo? Nothing was working. Finally, I find the circuit breaker, flip the switch, and an overwhelming sense of joy pervaded as all the power came back on. This joy only lasted a short while, as I realized that not only did I lose my expensive straightener, but that my hair was still curly. I did manage to straighten my hair using a normal house iron (it's a sick obsession) – now that's perseverance and innovation.

3. Timing is everything in London: Don't go to clubs before 10pm and do not search for food after midnight. After a few Peronis at an after-work bar, we ended up heading to a super-trendy club called Pacha. CJB and I were unsuccessfully pleading with his Brazilian friends to go to a karaoke bar, but the thought of him drunkenly belting out "Glory of Love" and "You Oughtta Know" just didn’t appeal to them for some reason. We arrive at the velvet ropes of Pacha and are charged a €15 cover, only to discover that the six of us are the only people in there (besides these two 12-year-olds and a gay guy who was blatantly making the moves on the men of Amex). There was this one fascinating woman who sported a pair of excessively tight red patent leather pants and had a penchant for dancing – on tables and on laps. Meeting her almost did make our investment pay off, and don’t ask me why I woke up the next day with her email address in my purse.

We ended up leaving the crew after a surge of hunger for non-alcoholic nourishment took over, so we hit the streets of London searching for anything edible. Dramatic proclamations such as, “Oh my God, I’m going to DIE if I don’t eat soon” were made, but there was nothing in sight. After walking around and nearly getting hit by a couple of cars (we couldn’t figure out when to cross the street because the lights make absolutely no sense), a beacon of hope shone out to us in the form of a tiny Indian diner – our eyes lit up and we salivated at the thought of chicken tikka masala and naan. As we approached our savior, CJB devised a strategy to ensure that we satisfied our hunger, “You have to go first and flirt with them – speak to them in Hindi or something.” Normally I don’t flirt to get my way, but this was a matter of life and death. After some clearly drunken and broken phrases in Hindi (where I insisted on getting whatever our waiter recommended), we managed to order £29 worth of food, headed back to the flat and devoured it like animals. One of the most satisfying meals ever.

4. Do not depend on CJB when he’s drunk and trying to get with a girl.
I became an Ann Arbor girl the day of The Game and proudly donned maize and blue – I mean, let’s be honest, I went to NYU, where our only D1 team is fencing and our school colors are purple and white (uhhh, Go Violets?), so this was pretty exciting for me. I approached Sports Café, the only bar that shows American sports, only to find a line a block and a half long. While the line was ridiculous, it was comforting to see so many obnoxious Americans in one place – feels like home. During my hour and a half in line I learned "The Victors" and trash talked to a bunch of OSU folk. Once inside, I got so into the game that afterward, an OSU guy came up to me and consoled me because, “I saw you, and you were the one that was watching the game.” I guess I played the part well?

Meanwhile, CJB was trying to cope after the loss by making the moves (“Here’s my business card…oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?”) on Girl With Boyfriend (GWB). The initial plan was to head back to his flat, change, and then go to my roommate’s birthday party, which was being held at a London club known to guarantee a hook-up, but after GWB entered the picture, I was on my own. I head outside searching for a taxi, only to find that the taxi to human ratio is far too low in London, and earlier I had learned that some taxis are affectionately referred to as, “Rape Taxis.” After running around outside for 15 minutes, I finally find one, get in, and cross my fingers that it’s not a rape taxi. Upon safely reaching the flat, I realize that I have no idea where the party is, so I try contacting CJB via text message, voice mail, and several phone calls to no avail. Finally, I receive a phone call at 2:45am, “Where are you? You should come out – we’re at this club. What’s it called? I really would like you to come.” I politely refuse and spend the night with Yul and “Aitu” as I watched two episodes of Survivor. At around 4am, I hear stumbling and awaken to find CJB sitting on the couch, staring into space. He explains how unfair life is because GWB had a boyfriend. After seeing the pain in his eyes, I decided that it was redemption enough for being ditched, and almost felt bad for making the lengthy long-distance calls that I made on his landline earlier in the night.

5. Other miscellaneous thoughts
-Expect 2-year-old toddlers to dress better than you do – they’re wearing fur coats and heels before they can walk.
-In order to fit in, say everything a little cuter than you normally do – for example, add the suffix “-loo” to everything you say. “Sorry-loo” “Nice to meet you-loo” etc. Also, check out how you’re supposed to describe your cough to a pharmacist.
-Embrace the Ugly American in you – the trip wouldn’t have been as enjoyable without: Making fun of the euro-mullets and pseudo rattails that were everywhere, going to Westminster Abbey and discussing the hottest dead royalty based on casket paintings, and just being generally loud and obnoxious.