Oxford was a blast, if only a short-lived one, especially because I once spent a whole summer there while my father (the original Bro) was on sabbatical. It was great to walk the streets I used to frequent, passing Oxford University Press, the beautiful Magdalen College, and a restaurant named Jude the Obscure which, back in 2002, was a dragqueen-themed bar named Bojangles and was the source of many a weird late-night encounter as my family hurried home. I watched in awe as students bustled in and out of university buildings 400 years older than the District 9-style shanties Bordeaux calls a campus, and felt a similar shock at the bargain basement deals we were getting at Laura's college bar. Something seemed wrong here; it was the architectural beauty of Yale (just to give you something to refer to, even though obviously OU predates YU) and the affordability of Bridgeport. A winning combination, every time.
London, it turns out, is enormous (click here for a really confusing, not at all helpful perspective on the city). When I arrived by the British equivalent of MegaBus (no comment), I sauntered around Hyde Park and then caught the tail end of the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. By that, I mean I saw the beefeater firmly fixing his stance, which could mean he was finishing the Electric Slide or trying to deal with a wedgie. Honestly, talk about a job with visibility; how much pressure do you think those dudes feel on the reg? And what if they don't even like meat?
I navigated the London Underground over to the East End, where our good friend Neo "Ne-Bro Bro-ra" Sora works at this pizza shop that resembles Neo to a tee: reserved yet friendly, tasteful yet not self-indulgent, Japanese yet seemingly a child of all cultures. For legal purposes, it would be unwise to divulge the name of the restaurant that has hired him as somewhat of an undocumented citizen, but mostly I don't want to share it because it might cease to lose its cloistered hipster appeal. Suffice it to say that the chorizo, pumpkin, and telaggio pizza Neo made me will be etched in my memory, as well as on my shirt and jeans, for years to come. Keep it up, bro!
Egham is a quaint town around forty minutes outside of London, and despite its calm, provincial façade, it is home to perhaps some of the rowdiest Britons in all of Albion. Audrey and I spent the first night playing the ukulele and trying to sleep while her hallmates engaged in what sounded like a cross between rugby and strip poker. (To quote dear friend Ivan Broitsev, it got weird.) Individually, these kids, who are almost all freshmen at Royal Holloway - University of London, are cool and interesting and have those killer accents, but something changes when they got John Barleycorn in 'em. (The accent does not change.) Freshmen.
So there's not tons of stuff to do in Egham, but there is a pub that does curry nights on Monday and Tuesday, and a produce market on campus that would probably rival Fruit and Veggie Co-op at Wes, if I knew what that was. The school has a castle, though, and a late-night stroll around the buildings was a good way to take in the sights and avoid strip rugby. However, above all, the defining moment of my time in Egham was making dinner Sunday night. Audrey and I revived an ancient Chinese recipe and whipped up scallion pancakes, replete with salad and fried haloumi. This delicious creation was the envy of the entire town, with freshmen heard to be salivating from kilometres away. Some classy gin and tonics helped us tune out the groveling.
I popped back into London yesterday to hit up two landmarks: the Tate Modern and my friend Alex Kramer. AK-47, as Audrey will now be called, and I saw some very interesting exhibits, including a Diane Arbus room with photos of Jorge Luis Borges, Russian midgets, a Jewish giant, and this adorable yet terrifying boy, among others. Kramer met up with us at the Tate and led us on a circuitous, serpentine route through the city that would make him second only to Moses in terms of worst guides in history. We're talking literally four miles to the nearest Thai restaurant. Fortunately, the joint we landed at, the Three Compasses, had these amazing leather chairs that made us all feel like rich Chinese businessmen at the Delta Airways Executive Lounge. (Just me?) After a surprisingly good chicken panang, AK-Moses had to leave us to make it to the Old Vic, where he was being honored by Kevin Spacey for taking over as the new artistic director. Congratulations once again, Kramer.
Anyway, as I reflect on my excursion, and as I hear Adam Levine tell me about his Jaggeresque moves, I realize that there's been one thing missing: live music. The Tate was great (great Tate!) and AK-47 has a voice that would make Prince's doves cry, but I am seriously craving a real concert. I mean, the last time I saw someone onstage, apart from the jazz quartet at the wine bar with that awkward-ass guitarist, was the Great Steve Aoki Boat Incident on September 10th. FORTUNATELY, PITCHFORK MUSIC FESTIVAL IS ALMOST HERE. I think I'll end on that note. What better way to cap off a bro-tastic (literally not bro-tastic, it has been almost exclusively me and girls) vacation than Bron Iver, Brour Tet, Washed Brout, etc.?
P.S. That new Coldplay is now playing on the radio here, fuck ça. There is a couple exchanging glances and--I can read lips, guys--commenting silently on how I'm chewing my jambon de Paris with my mouth open. Firstly, no I'm not, up yours. Secondly, you probably smoke with your mouth open. Thirdly, I just finished watching Into the Wild, so let me be myself.
P.P.S. I never chronicled the Parisian invasion that was India, Dés, and Stéph (you earned an accent!) leading me around Bordeaux as if they were the ones who lived there. I will paraphrase and just say that we all had a fucking bomb time. The highlight was the Saturday night meal at l'Entrecôte, and eating there was like walking in Nobu with no shoes. Okay, that about wraps things up here; tune in next time, when WSJ tells all about getting frisked by some unfriendly RyanAir security guards!
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