The Pub.

It’s not that I want to suggest that the immediate act upon arriving in England is to head to the pub… but right now, I’m heading to the pub.

The Oxford English Dictionary simply defines the noun “pub” as a public house, or inn; a bar or tavern. “Pub,” as a verb, is to visit or frequent a pub or pubs. You’d think the folks at Oxford might have a word or two more to say on the matter, considering their English roots, but, alas, they don’t.

To keep the record straight, a pub is much more than a bar. Somewhere along the 20^th century, bar culture in America became stigmatized as a breeding-ground for alcoholics, creepers, the promiscuous, and the lazy. And frankly, it’s become a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, in my opinion. But pubs…they make all the difference. Paraphrasing a bit of Shakespeare, it all begins in the name. For some reason, pub names always seem to stem from something nautical, royal, idyllic, or are self-referential. The Deck-Hold, The Crusted Hook, The Fox & The Lamb, Admiral Wallace, London Pub. They say so much without saying anything at all. I suspect that the name of the pub you frequent ends up correlating with your personality. Or at least your intentions.

Looking for a friendly environment to wind-down in after a long day? Head to The Nag's Head.

 

Want to butter-up a few influential co-workers after work? Or stand outside seeming approachable during the day? Check out Marquis Cornwallis:

Ready for more than a couple dozen pints? The Ship Tavern has everything in store:

All pubs essentially offer the same thing, but none of them offer it the same way. Maybe The Viaduct Tavern is more your cup of tea (…no pun intended):

But what about The George? All the great Lords of the Royal Court managed to stumble in here at ungodly hours to satisfy that kick inside:

Curious about the ailing and aged English men who long ago had the best years of their lives? The Jolly Sailor is full with more than just jolly sailors…

 

 

Beyond the name, walking into a pub is like unfurling a large, aged blueprint across a wooden table stained with water rings: once you know how to read it, the structure and function is immediately clear. The slight darkness of the space lets blurred faces blend into walls, into people, and yet, exposes every corner and flaw under the same light. The Game is begging to be played. Somewhere between man’s awareness of the effects of alcohol and the desire to congregate with others, the pub became the essential tool in playing The Game. Yeah, you know The Game. It’s the same game everyone plays with themselves and with others, conscious or not. The black dress, the new tie, the suit, the smile, the wink, the fine art of flattery and high-class craft of conversation. All becomes fair in love and war in the pub, a place where you don’t blink an eye at giggling, wandering schoolchildren and 65-year-old Manchurian men congregating in the same environment. It’s the epic joke that keeps getting told through time, reminding you again and again that no interaction, reaction, or form of “courting” is real. But, you’re probably thinking: Isn’t that the point? That none of it is real? Is there a greater appeal than playing the part, reading the lines, wearing the costume? You’re right. The Game is great because it’s a fantasy. And that’s why we go to the pub.

Oh, and for the beer. Let’s talk about the beer for a second. That precious, gorgeous golden cup of joy, confidence, humor, and love is definitely a crucial element to The Game, but I think it goes beyond that. What is it about that pint of cider, that glass of ale, that elixir of life? More than 27 million pints of beer are sold in United Kingdom every day. There has to be something to it. I mean, pub owners realized God-knows-when that when it comes to nourishment, the alcohol presupposes the food, which is exactly why all pub food is greasy and heavy and meant to compliment the ale, and not the other way around. There’s even the secret in the ordering process. Only the classified elite can comprehend the act of getting the attention of the wandering, mindless moron standing at the tap, pouring drink after drink, never looking up. And for some incomprehensible reason (which actually may simply come down to a matter of accent), the proper way to order a drink is not to enunciate but mumble your way through it. (i.e. Do not say, I’d like a Magners Cider, please, but something more along the lines of GimmeMagnahcidah.) Mumbling will get you a drink. Words will not.

So, what does this come down to? What is the pub all about? Essentially, without waving too much at buzzing flies in an empty room, the pub is life. There’s the constructed space of non-reality, actors moving across the stage, and audience participation through every gulp of that golden-magic-juice. It seems there’s no other alternative to 61,838,154 people trapped on an island, right? Right? Take a drink and think about it.

The Arrival.

There’s something about arriving in a place for the first time that makes even the most trivial details seem important. I can still vividly remember my first arrival in London – everything down to the short exchange at customs (“So, what’re you studying in London?” the customs agent inquired through accented words, stamping my virgin passport dead-center on the page. “English literature,” I beamed. “Well, you’ve come to the right place…”), the black-cab ride along the left side with miniature signs reading: Red lights indicate doors are secured, and the Cadbury chocolate vending machine that stood outside the airport, dancing in my mind’s eye with regal purple and gold swirls – although it was nearly eight full months ago. In all honesty, England felt like yesterday. And that’s probably true because I never left. In fact, I had always been there – way before eight months ago, anyway – because it’s hard to leave a land immortalized in the pages of books for centuries. Ink is infallible like that.

But, back to reality... the first two weeks are hard. Really hard. And not just because you’re an American in a foreign city. The first two weeks in any new place are hard, so just add the fact that locals look at you with the same soul-firing heat their ancestors channeled through red coats and bombs bursting in air just because your flag was still there 235 years prior. Everyone tries to remind you, “Hey, at least the Brits all speak English!” Um, sort of. Language barriers somehow become more stringent when everyone’s aware they’re speaking the same language and still can’t understand the words coming out of your mouth. At first glance, through perhaps a set of foggy glasses, everything looks the exact same as the world on the other side of the pond. But upon closer inspection, as if an odd reversal reflector informs: Objects in mirror are weirder than they appear, everyday objects like cars, Coke bottles, and money have transformed into a new shape over night without your consent. You suddenly hate the sound of your own voice and can’t understand why everyone walking the streets appears to talk in a whisper. You struggle to find street signs only to discover they’re arbitrarily plastered to the side of a building facing the opposite direction. You scoff with absolute disgust when you realize the eggs at the supermarket are not refrigerated. You cannot bring yourself to laugh when you ask for a bathroom and everyone replies, “Oh, do you want to take a bath?” You realize the food really is as bad as everyone says it is. Most of all, for reasons you can’t explain, you begin to feel unbearably uncivilized.  

But this passes. Things like that always do.

There is no code or map that says this-is-this or that-is-that, but it all becomes fluid. All it takes is a moment. Just a single moment for everything to line up and drop the little fact in your brain that Oh yeah, this is London. For me, it was simple, really. A red double-decker bus. Probably this one:

It’s silly, honestly. It’s just a bus. But there’s something about that bus. What is it? It’s like a kernel of recognition that lodges somewhere between the temporal lobe and the back of your neck, tingling when you’re aware of it. A faint sensation that makes the experience seem familiar. It’s the same prickle you get down your spine when you walk into Starbucks and see this: 

Or when you’re strolling down the street and a blue plaque catches your eye:

At this point, it’s too soon to realize the natural wonder of the place. The arrival is monumental beyond belief, only to follow with a series of extremely cloudy days (literally and figuratively) that seem never to end. But they do. Because there’s still that kernel back around the head. It’s trying to communicate in the smallest voice possible, without giving too much away, that there really is something about the city, the place, the people, the country. You don’t know it then, but it’s not before long that all is revealed: London, despite all its faults, errors, and flaws, is inherently nothing short of pure magic.