London, England
I arrived in London via express train from York. It is a little over a two hour ride in comfort and style. The train has free wireless internet on board which allowed me to check up on emails using my iTouch. I also downloaded a Google map of the area in London where I was headed; Hammersmiths. I arrived at my station, donned the camouflage backpack, and put rubber to road. I stopped outside the busy station to check my iTouch map when I was approached by my first beggar. An old man with kind eyes and a lust for a pint, softly asks me for 50 pence. I slowly dig into my pocket and pulled out a bunch of loose coins. “How much do you need for a pint?” I asked.
“Only 50p more”, he quickly responded, extending his outreached hand closer to my chest. “Here ya go, man”, I said, giving the thirsty, red faced man his much needed money.
“Thank you!” he smiled, showing me his yellow teeth, then shuffling off to the nearest pub.
I chose Hammersmiths as my initial spot of debarkation for a reason. Hammersmiths was home to the Andover Arms. While to most people, this means nothing, but to me, it means the favorite watering hole of Michael Jackson. No, not THAT Michael Jackson, the man with the freaky nose and one white glove. I’m talking about Michael Jackson, the famed beer connoisseur and writer of all things beer. Michael Jackson, God rest his beer drinking soul, listed
Andover Arms as his favorite place to get the most perfect pint of ale. Michael’s favorite was Fuller’s Chiswick Bitter. I wasn’t about to pass on the chance to try one of these beers in the recommended establishment.
I arrived at the Andover Arms at 11:30am, Thursday, after walking 20 minutes from the train station. I knew the pub didn’t open until noon, but thought I’d try the door anyway. I pushed down on the latch with my thumb and swung the door open! I’m in! I lean in a window in the kitchen and yell, “HELLO! HELLO?” An Indian man in his forties looks up from the stainless steel sink, where steaming water pours from the spicket.
“YES?” he yells back, glimpsing up to meet my eyes.
“Can I get a pint or is it too early yet?” I ask.
“One second sir. I will get someone.” He shuts off the water and disappears. Two minutes later, a young man wearing a soccer t-shirt and apron appears. “Can I help you?” he asks me in a thick British accent.
“Yes. Do you think I can get a pint of the Chiswick’s Bitter on the cask, or is it too early?”
“No mate, it’s never too early for a pint”, he says grinning. “You’re starting off with a real winner there. Where ya from?”
I tell him that I’m on a beer pilgrimage to Michael Jackson’s favorite spot. We talk for awhile before he heads back to the kitchen to prepare for the lunch crowd.
Ok. So there is a bigger plan than me just hanging out at the Andover Arms all day. In actuality, I’m waiting on Michelle to meet me here. She is flying in to Heathrow from Stuttgart this afternoon. I am waiting for her cab to arrive from the airport.
In the meantime, I’m having a great time, yacking with the landlord. I order lunch and am served a large piece of fish, battered with London’s Pride Ale and a side of chips. It was the best fish ‘n chips I have ever eaten. I would go back again, all the way there for another piece of that fish and a pint of Bitter. I was relaxed, almost euphoric to be sitting in that pub. It was quiet, relaxing, and historical, set in a sleepy neighborhood. The landlord greeted everyone by first name: The mailman, the retired man, the meter reader, the food delivery man. He knew them all, and they knew him.
I think it was around four that an old black cab roared up to the pub, and a disheveled, excited Michelle emerged. With suitcase in tow, Michelle entered the pub door to find a slightly buzzed me, sitting on the barstool, engaged in a conversation about hot sauces. She grinned, parked her suitcase, rushed up to me and grabbed my beer for a sniff. “What’cha drinking here? Any good?” Michelle asks with enthusiasm. She chugs down a swallow and says, “Damn, that’s good. I’ll have one of those.”
We are both excited our plan came together and we were able to meet at a pub in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of London. Michelle orders a tender lamb sandwich and chips, and tells me about her adventures of getting to the pub. While we are talking, one of the locals tells us about another pub called The Dove. He says we absolutely must check it out. After a couple more pints, the landlord calls us “punters” a cab to The Dove. Before calling us a cab, I call our friend Indie to tell him we are in town and will be arriving at a train station near his parent’s house. We are staying with Indie’s parents on the first night, and his girlfriend’s apartment on the following two nights. Indie is an Indian guy we met in Seoul. He was teaching English in China and needed to come to Korea to get his visa re-newed. He and three other English teachers came to our apartment, using www.couchsurfing.com and hung out for eight days. Indie welcomed us to London and made sure we had a place to stay. More on that later.
The two buzzed punters, Michelle and I, loaded the suitcase
and backpacks into the cab parked in front of the Andover Arms. “We’re off to The Dove”, I tell the cabbie. He’s an attractive European looking gay man who fails to turn on the meter. He shifts into second gear and slides around a corner. He is cordial, thespian-like, telling stories about him and his partner. I’m wondering what this ride is going to cost. We arrive at The Dove and aren’t overly charged as much as I thought we would be. The Dove is one of the oldest pub in London, being built around the 1600’s or something. It sits along the Thames River, giving pint drinking couples a beautiful romantic view. The pub also holds the Guinness Book of World Records award for having the 
smallest bar
.
We drink a few cask pints before deciding we needed to get on the Underground and head for Indie’s place. After a jaunt through a dark park along the river while looking for the giant Coca Cola sign that we can’t miss, we find our station. I call Indie from a payphone at the station and he tells us he’ll be right over to get us. He also says over the phone, “Man, am I stressed.”
“Breath dude”, I tell him. “Breathe. And come get us”.
Indie shows up in a road-worn car with his “business associate”. Michelle and I pile into Indie’s car and drive towards Indie’s parent’s house. Indie informs us that he just got his driver’s license last week and is a little nervous. Michelle, sitting in the passenger seat says, “oh, well then, let me help you.” She turns on the window defroster to clear the windows that had become completely fogged over from our breath. “Thanks” Indie says. “I don’t know how to work any of these things.”
“How re-assuring”, I laugh. It’s weird enough to see the driver on the right hand side of the car while motoring in the left lane.
We make it to Indie’s parent’s house where his mom and dad are waiting to greet us. Indie’s dad comes bounding down the stairs wearing a well-weathered “I speak Swahili” t-shirt. His mom rushes to greet us at the door.
“Welcome” they both say smiling. Mrs. Shah begins warming food on the stove as we take our places around a crowded kitchen table. “I hope you like curry”, she tells us.
No complaints from us. We love curry. Mrs. Shah serves us food that is completely homemade. Everything – from the breads to the curry – Mrs. Shah made. They belong to a religion that lives by the philosophy of making light footsteps on the environment. They do not disturb or kill anything – not bugs or plants. They do not eat root vegetables for fear it will disturb their environment. No garlic or onions. They are strict vegans as well. We ate without fork, knife, or spoon, and used our fingers to scoop up the curried beans and rice. I think food tastes better when you use your hands.
After dinner, we spoke with Mr. Shah while Mrs. Shah watched her Indian soaps in another room. He wanted to know what we thought of John F. Kennedy. He told us what a great man he was and how he felt on the day he was killed. “I’ll never forget that day”, he said.
We retired for the evening, exhausted, in an upstairs bedroom. I was awaken early the next morning by the sounds of gargled chanting…like someone singing with a mouthful of Listerine. This lasted several minutes until I heard what I thought was a washing machine. I could hear the steady splashing of water accompanied by a monotonous singing chant. That evening I asked Indie about his father’s morning routine.
“What the heck was your dad doing in the bathroom this morning”, I asked my friend.
“Oh. That”, responded Indie. My dad prays in the bathtub to the goddess of wealth every morning. He lies in freezing cold water and spins around in the tub while chanting. He’s been doing it for seven years now. It doesn’t appear to be working”, Indie laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
I arrived in London via express train from York. It is a little over a two hour ride in comfort and style. The train has free wireless internet on board which allowed me to check up on emails using my iTouch. I also downloaded a Google map of the area in London where I was headed; Hammersmiths. I arrived at my station, donned the camouflage backpack, and put rubber to road. I stopped outside the busy station to check my iTouch map when I was approached by my first beggar. An old man with kind eyes and a lust for a pint, softly asks me for 50 pence. I slowly dig into my pocket and pulled out a bunch of loose coins. “How much do you need for a pint?” I asked.
“Only 50p more”, he quickly responded, extending his outreached hand closer to my chest. “Here ya go, man”, I said, giving the thirsty, red faced man his much needed money.
“Thank you!” he smiled, showing me his yellow teeth, then shuffling off to the nearest pub.
I chose Hammersmiths as my initial spot of debarkation for a reason. Hammersmiths was home to the Andover Arms. While to most people, this means nothing, but to me, it means the favorite watering hole of Michael Jackson. No, not THAT Michael Jackson, the man with the freaky nose and one white glove. I’m talking about Michael Jackson, the famed beer connoisseur and writer of all things beer. Michael Jackson, God rest his beer drinking soul, listed
Andover Arms as his favorite place to get the most perfect pint of ale. Michael’s favorite was Fuller’s Chiswick Bitter. I wasn’t about to pass on the chance to try one of these beers in the recommended establishment.I arrived at the Andover Arms at 11:30am, Thursday, after walking 20 minutes from the train station. I knew the pub didn’t open until noon, but thought I’d try the door anyway. I pushed down on the latch with my thumb and swung the door open! I’m in! I lean in a window in the kitchen and yell, “HELLO! HELLO?” An Indian man in his forties looks up from the stainless steel sink, where steaming water pours from the spicket.
“YES?” he yells back, glimpsing up to meet my eyes.
“Can I get a pint or is it too early yet?” I ask.
“One second sir. I will get someone.” He shuts off the water and disappears. Two minutes later, a young man wearing a soccer t-shirt and apron appears. “Can I help you?” he asks me in a thick British accent.
“Yes. Do you think I can get a pint of the Chiswick’s Bitter on the cask, or is it too early?”
“No mate, it’s never too early for a pint”, he says grinning. “You’re starting off with a real winner there. Where ya from?”
I tell him that I’m on a beer pilgrimage to Michael Jackson’s favorite spot. We talk for awhile before he heads back to the kitchen to prepare for the lunch crowd.
Ok. So there is a bigger plan than me just hanging out at the Andover Arms all day. In actuality, I’m waiting on Michelle to meet me here. She is flying in to Heathrow from Stuttgart this afternoon. I am waiting for her cab to arrive from the airport.
In the meantime, I’m having a great time, yacking with the landlord. I order lunch and am served a large piece of fish, battered with London’s Pride Ale and a side of chips. It was the best fish ‘n chips I have ever eaten. I would go back again, all the way there for another piece of that fish and a pint of Bitter. I was relaxed, almost euphoric to be sitting in that pub. It was quiet, relaxing, and historical, set in a sleepy neighborhood. The landlord greeted everyone by first name: The mailman, the retired man, the meter reader, the food delivery man. He knew them all, and they knew him.
I think it was around four that an old black cab roared up to the pub, and a disheveled, excited Michelle emerged. With suitcase in tow, Michelle entered the pub door to find a slightly buzzed me, sitting on the barstool, engaged in a conversation about hot sauces. She grinned, parked her suitcase, rushed up to me and grabbed my beer for a sniff. “What’cha drinking here? Any good?” Michelle asks with enthusiasm. She chugs down a swallow and says, “Damn, that’s good. I’ll have one of those.”
We are both excited our plan came together and we were able to meet at a pub in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of London. Michelle orders a tender lamb sandwich and chips, and tells me about her adventures of getting to the pub. While we are talking, one of the locals tells us about another pub called The Dove. He says we absolutely must check it out. After a couple more pints, the landlord calls us “punters” a cab to The Dove. Before calling us a cab, I call our friend Indie to tell him we are in town and will be arriving at a train station near his parent’s house. We are staying with Indie’s parents on the first night, and his girlfriend’s apartment on the following two nights. Indie is an Indian guy we met in Seoul. He was teaching English in China and needed to come to Korea to get his visa re-newed. He and three other English teachers came to our apartment, using www.couchsurfing.com and hung out for eight days. Indie welcomed us to London and made sure we had a place to stay. More on that later.
The two buzzed punters, Michelle and I, loaded the suitcase
and backpacks into the cab parked in front of the Andover Arms. “We’re off to The Dove”, I tell the cabbie. He’s an attractive European looking gay man who fails to turn on the meter. He shifts into second gear and slides around a corner. He is cordial, thespian-like, telling stories about him and his partner. I’m wondering what this ride is going to cost. We arrive at The Dove and aren’t overly charged as much as I thought we would be. The Dove is one of the oldest pub in London, being built around the 1600’s or something. It sits along the Thames River, giving pint drinking couples a beautiful romantic view. The pub also holds the Guinness Book of World Records award for having the 
smallest bar
.We drink a few cask pints before deciding we needed to get on the Underground and head for Indie’s place. After a jaunt through a dark park along the river while looking for the giant Coca Cola sign that we can’t miss, we find our station. I call Indie from a payphone at the station and he tells us he’ll be right over to get us. He also says over the phone, “Man, am I stressed.”
“Breath dude”, I tell him. “Breathe. And come get us”.
Indie shows up in a road-worn car with his “business associate”. Michelle and I pile into Indie’s car and drive towards Indie’s parent’s house. Indie informs us that he just got his driver’s license last week and is a little nervous. Michelle, sitting in the passenger seat says, “oh, well then, let me help you.” She turns on the window defroster to clear the windows that had become completely fogged over from our breath. “Thanks” Indie says. “I don’t know how to work any of these things.”
“How re-assuring”, I laugh. It’s weird enough to see the driver on the right hand side of the car while motoring in the left lane.
We make it to Indie’s parent’s house where his mom and dad are waiting to greet us. Indie’s dad comes bounding down the stairs wearing a well-weathered “I speak Swahili” t-shirt. His mom rushes to greet us at the door.
“Welcome” they both say smiling. Mrs. Shah begins warming food on the stove as we take our places around a crowded kitchen table. “I hope you like curry”, she tells us.
No complaints from us. We love curry. Mrs. Shah serves us food that is completely homemade. Everything – from the breads to the curry – Mrs. Shah made. They belong to a religion that lives by the philosophy of making light footsteps on the environment. They do not disturb or kill anything – not bugs or plants. They do not eat root vegetables for fear it will disturb their environment. No garlic or onions. They are strict vegans as well. We ate without fork, knife, or spoon, and used our fingers to scoop up the curried beans and rice. I think food tastes better when you use your hands.
After dinner, we spoke with Mr. Shah while Mrs. Shah watched her Indian soaps in another room. He wanted to know what we thought of John F. Kennedy. He told us what a great man he was and how he felt on the day he was killed. “I’ll never forget that day”, he said.
We retired for the evening, exhausted, in an upstairs bedroom. I was awaken early the next morning by the sounds of gargled chanting…like someone singing with a mouthful of Listerine. This lasted several minutes until I heard what I thought was a washing machine. I could hear the steady splashing of water accompanied by a monotonous singing chant. That evening I asked Indie about his father’s morning routine.
“What the heck was your dad doing in the bathroom this morning”, I asked my friend.
“Oh. That”, responded Indie. My dad prays in the bathtub to the goddess of wealth every morning. He lies in freezing cold water and spins around in the tub while chanting. He’s been doing it for seven years now. It doesn’t appear to be working”, Indie laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
London, England; Part I: Mission Accomplished
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