London Baby!

A great thing about living here is that Europe is your neighborhood. Most any country is only a hop, skip and a jump away. Given this reality, I spent last weekend in London. That’s right. London, England. For many North Americans that may boggle your minds, (I knew it blew my mind), but here it’s no biggie. People trot off to Berlin for the weekend or scamper off to Paris for the day.

One of the first things I did on arriving in London was hit up my future school. I walked down Houghton Street and then down Portugal Street where the school is located (the fact that there is a street named after my homeland is in itself an indication that it is my destiny to attend this school), and my heart started to flutter. The buildings were old, some were covered in ivy ( or it could have been stray branches but whose keeping track?) and you could smell the tradition in the air. It was positively collegiate. It was a Saturday morning so it was quite, but the area looked gorgeous; very academic and scholarly. I’m excited for October.

But that's not why I went to London. I actually went to London to see Hard Rock Calling, a concert featuring my future husband, John Mayer, the legend that is Eric Clapton and Sheryl Crow. The show was in Hyde Park, a massive park in the middle of London. We got there around 3 30pm and proceeded to get the best seats in the house—and when I say seats I mean standing positions right in front of the barrier! As a result of this proximity to the stage, we had no real concept of how many people were in the park. That is until we saw the sea of people on the screens. There must have been thousands--40, 50 or 60, 000 at least--all crammed into that park. It was electric.

It was a phenomenal show. Jason Mraz played for 40 minutes, John did an hour show and then made way for Crow who preformed for about an hour and half. Clapton did a full two hour set and brought Sheryl and John out for an encore at the end. A part of the Clapton set was a bit wasted on me as I knew only one song—Layla—so while everyone was jamming along, I stood patiently nodding my head. But it was great and I had loads of fun. Sheryl Crow was really good probably because I had low expectations for her set. But she "pulled up her socks" (as Kyla was prone to saying) and played some oldies (All I Wanna Do, A Change Would Do You Good, If It Makes You Happy, etc).

Another highlight was Kyla and I insisting on speaking in a posh British accent throughout the show (and proceeding night). Here’s a sample (remember, the accent is imperative):
Me: Do you know who this Eric Clapton fellow is?Kyla: D’you know what? I havn’t got a bloody clue.
(After hearing a wicked Clapton guitar solo)
Kyla: D’you know what? This Clapton chap, he’s quite good isn’t he? Me: Yes, he’s quite talented on the guy-tar. Good on him.

It was ridiculous but we loved it. Afterward we tried to find someplace to eat and rest our tired feet but were hard pressed to find one. Can you believe that? At 11 30 on a Saturday night in London, England, there was no restaurant in Oxford Street--one of the busiest in London--serving food? I was appalled frankly.

The next day was Sunday and before I headed back to Brussels, Kyla and I played tourist to marvelous results. We walked down the embankment (a fancy term for the Thames), took pictures beside a certain large Benjamin and bought the required ridiculous tourist trap souvenirs. I couldn’t have asked for a better weekend. Then two hours later, I was back in Brussels.