Let’s be
honest, Day 1 should really be Day 1.5 since I was up for more than 30
hours.
After working a half-day on Friday, May 3, I hustled around getting the last of my errands accomplished and was safely delivered to Detroit Metro by Anne and Mac safely in advance of my 10 PM flight. Since I haven't travelled internationally in our Post-9/11 world, I wanted to make sure we allowed sufficient time to check my bag and pass through security meaning I had plenty of time to kill at the airport before my flight.
After
boarding, I claimed my seat in the last row of the forward Economy section of
the Boeing 767 (a seat that LOOKED great on the seating map
since it was on the aisle and strategically located near the restrooms) beside
an Amazon of a woman who claims to travel frequently for business but attempted
to shove an over-stuffed body bag, possibly loaded with the remains of Jimmy
Hoffa, under the seat in front of her which forced her to straddle the bag and
put her right foot under the seat in front of me and I assume her left under
the seat in front of the passenger on the other side. It was clear very
early in the 8-hour flight that I was probably in for a long evening.
After a
meal that was surprisingly good and a movie (A Good Day to Die Hard) that was
surprisingly bad, I decided napping for a while was a good idea. That’s
when I discovered that my seat didn’t recline meaning the only direction I
could lean my head was forward which is not the most
comfortable position for sleeping. Add my strategic positioning near the
restrooms, convenient earlier in the flight, and I quickly learned I was going
to be subjected to the flashing interior light which comes on every time
someone opens the door and to constant banging of the door as people went in and
out. Suffice it to say that by the time we landed at Heathrow, I had
slept more on the runway before and after takeoff than I did during the flight.
However,
never one to admit needing much sleep, I was determined to soldier along and
when Molly met me at the gate, my energy levels picked up substantially.
The ride on the Underground took a little longer than I expected (or at least
it seemed to in my sleep-deprived state) but when I finally checked into
the Hilton
London Euston Hotel, I was ready for my first London adventure.
We had
quick lunch at a local pub called The
Skinners Arms (fish and chips naturally) and I made the first of the many
observations I hope to share here: there are so many pubs in this area you
could throw a rock in any direction and hit at least two. Some of this
saturation is due to the proximity of the Kings Cross and St. Pancras transit
stations but later observations have shown that pubs in London are
everywhere and not just in this part of town. As my first meal in London, I was
perfectly contented and satisfied. After a short walk-about through the
neighborhood, fatigue (and not showering) finally caught up with hit me and I
headed for a nap at the Hilton. (This Hilton is a very nice place – special thanks go out to
Eric Walker – and I
will talk about it in more detail another time.)
Dinner
that night was with Molly and her roomie Megan who I had seen on Skype (she
tends to blast her way into the video at random moments when we’re chatting
with Molly) but had never actually met. She’s very nice, a little silly
(to be expected of anyone hanging out with my daughter) and
funny. I can understand why they are friends. Megan had made a
reservation at the Royal Thai
Restaurant which, on Saturday night, is generally packed to the
ceiling. When we walked in however both she and Molly were a little
surprised that the tiny restaurant was virtually empty. Nevertheless, as we ate
the phone continued to ring with “Take Away” orders and more people arrived for
a later meal.
The
chicken Pad Thai was excellent and the service was, as I was beginning to
learn, typically British. Trust that this is not a negative comment but
is actually a quite refreshing change of pace – but I’ll get to that in a moment. Overall,
the meal was very good, the company even better, but the long day of travelling
started to become a factor and it became a fairly early evening – at least
for me.
As I've
been exploring (or led on tours with Molly the Wanderer) I’ve begun
making note of assorted random musings and observations and the first that I
want to share is regarding service in restaurants. Years ago, when I was
bartending in Florida, I quickly learned that Europeans were the worst tippers
in the world. Now that I have spent some time in England, I think I
understand why. By American standards, the service you get is
exceptionally sub-par. Understand, the service is
very pleasant and polite but, for example, in pubs you go to the bar
and order for yourself – you are
not waited on at the table. They will bring you your food and ask if you need
anything but that is more a matter of being polite than it is an expectation
they are going to “serve” you. I found this refreshing because the service is reasonable consistent
from place to place and not the unpredictable up-and-down swings I am used to
at home.
However,
in nicer restaurants where service is closer to what we expect in the US, it is
common for a small service charge to be added to your bill – usually something between
10 and 12.5% – and
there is no expectation you will add
anything beyond that. Therefore, it is my belief that the reason Europeans are
perceived as poor tippers is that in their own countries, tipping is not
expected. It is expected that the staff will provide polite, friendly and
reasonably efficient service. (A quick note: I’m jumping to the conclusion
service in the rest of Europe is like it is here in London but there is no
basis for that observation since this is the only place in Europe that I have
visited aside from Iceland and I don’t recall how it worked there. Plus, some
would say that neither place is typically European.)
This
brings up another observation and question. In contrast to American restaurants
where lingering at the table is frowned upon, it appears that the British are
not so quick to rush you out. In fact, according to Molly, it’s sometimes
a challenge to get your bill at the end of the meal. In general, you have
to flag down the server and ask for your check as opposed to them bringing it
to you or constantly badgering you to order something more. Paying when
you place your order also seems to be a common practice in pubs. As a result,
the environment created is slower and more relaxed which is probably much better
for the digestion than the typical “rushed” American meal. This
could also explain why “British food” and eating habits appear so unhealthy but
I have yet to see a significantly overweight person that was not obviously a
tourist (and most often an American tourist). But more on British food later.
The
question then, in regard to the lack of tipping, centers on the wages paid to
restaurant workers. The logical conclusion is that they are
paid more than their American counterparts who, because of the assumption
they will be tipped, are generally paid at a level well below
minimum wage. If the expectation in England is that there will NOT be a
tip for service, are they then paid a sufficient wage for the work they
do? I could probably research it (and still might) but this is a travel
journal not an essay on wages paid to restaurant workers so I won’t do it now.
Needless
to say, Day 1.5 ended in a blur of exhaustion, good food, fabulous company and
a very comfortable bed.
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