A Night at Piccadilly Circus

Tis a surreal experience to rush out of your home late at night and then return early the next morning (9 am to be exact) – without sleep. As you stumble across the disarray of rejected clothing, jewelry, and shoes, you wonder how you made such a substantive mess in the thirty minutes it took you to get ready. You walk into the bathroom, switch on the light, and --- sigh. Your hair is wild, your makeup has melted off, and your eyes are unpleasantly bloodshot. Not caring, you quickly clean up, shut off the lights, and throw yourself into bed where you promptly fall asleep. 

….

It all started late Saturday evening when I was supposed to meet my friends outside the Piccadilly Circus Tube Station. Due to various circumstances (forgotten IDs, essential wardrobe changes, etc.), I ended up waiting outside the tube station for almost an hour. Though I was by myself, I certainly wasn’t alone. Teeming throngs of people bustled past me incessantly as they sought out their late-night location of choice. Pubs, theatres, bars, clubs – Piccadilly has it all. Then there were the people looking like a flock of roosting pigeons tightly perched together around the base of the Eros statue, which marks the center of Piccadilly circus. 

Piccadilly Circus. Courtesy of INCKX Photography. 

 While contently alternating my gaze between the assortment of individuals passing in front of me and the large video advertisements across the street, I was interrupted with a tap to the elbow. I turn and see that the two guys who’d been talking a little ways from me had now approached me. Greaaaaat. I could only imagine the lovely conversation that was to arise from this interaction. (And before anybody starts to get worried about two random guys approaching me outside the tube station…don’t be. I’d managed - yet again - to unwittingly bewitch two dorky, unattractive, and slightly obnoxious males. Harsh, but true). 

So now, things start to get interesting. I can’t really remember their names, but they did share with me who they thought their celebrity look-alikes were…which is how I will refer to them here…. “Jay-Z” and “Michael Jackson.” I have to admit, I’m laughing as I type this because, of course, neither one of them looked even the tiniest bit like Jay-Z or Michael Jackson. I mean for goodness sake, “MJ” was an Indian man!

They explain to me that they have been having a “debate” (yeah, right) on some points of interest relating to women that they would like me to clear up for them. The first question related to the matter of the scars on Jay-Z's arms. He was convinced that women would reject him at first glance because he had scars, which he proceeded to show me. Let me tell you, you could barely see anything. If you’re going to use a scar question as your opener, at least have something legit to show off. Seriously.

At this point, they’ve figured out that I’m American and are further enthralled by this. They both start coming up with inane questions to get “a woman’s opinion” on – aka to keep talking to me. Ugh.

MJ: “So, say I spot a beautiful woman on the street. I follow her and then go up to her, introduce myself, and tell her something about how her beauty has caught my eye. Is that creepy?” 

(No, not at all. Stalking somebody on the street? Psh, sooo not creepy).

JZ: “Say I was on the tube during rush hour and I was squished up next to a hot girl. How would she respond if I started hitting on her?"

(Well, as everybody enjoys being cramped like a sardine in a can right after a long work day, I’m sure she’d be hard hit with your charm and wit).

MJ: “What do you dislike about Jay-Z’s outfit? Tell me one thing you think he should change.”

(Yikes! Such an awkward question…. I had to blow that one off).

JZ: “May I just point out, that your smile is amazing. It’s perfect…like an angel’s smile."

(I vomited a little in my mouth).

MJ: “So, you have to tell me. How many guys come up to you throughout the course of the day? Ok, wait, just the club. When you go out to the club, how many guys come and hit on you?”

"Umm, I don’t go out much? Really, it's not that many."

(This was me not wanting to admit that the average number of guys coming up to me is between -2 and 0. Unless of course it’s “special” individuals like these two gents).

MJ: “Ok, so like 10-15 guys? Would you say that’s correct?”

(Uhhh….. *quickly checks my phone, hoping that my friends are close*).

Anyway, this probably continued for about half an hour until I saw my friends walk out of the tube station. Thank God. I think my voice sounded more than a little desperate when I called out their names. It’s not that I felt unsafe or anything, I was just annoyed (though slightly amused) and wanted MJ and Jay-Z to leave me alone. I still can’t figure out why I repel all the genuinely attractive males (except Chad) and attract all the weirdos. My mom and I joke that it’s an inherited trait, but seriously, what is the reason?! I’m never doing anything….they just find me. It's like I have an invisible beacon that calls them to me. If somebody could explain this phenomena, I’d be greatly interested in hearing what you have to say. 

And before I move on with my story, I just want to comment on how ironic it is that they were asking ME for advice on women. I am not your average American girl. Things that most girls would go for, I wouldn’t. I’m old-fashioned. I have weird interests and I’m paranoid. For the first ten minutes of our conversation, I was trying to figure out what their angle was…until I realized they just wanted to talk to me. Blegh.

Thinking of ulterior motives though, I was just reminded of something else they said. They asked me if I was a honeybait (it was honey something...I can't remember exactly what they said) - you know, those women that lure unsuspecting men into dark alleyways where a gang of dudes is waiting to rob them or worse? Yeahhh…. an obnoxious, yet interesting conversation.

…

Ok, so I’m united with my friends, we’re ready to go. We finally find a bar+club called Verve, which ended up being a really cool place! The music was amazing – probably some of the best music I’ve heard at a club. You just can’t go wrong with classics like  “What is Love,” INXS’ “Need You Tonight,” and “Billie Jean.” Overall, I found that British clubs are more fun than their American counterparts. Instead of worrying about some creeper dude sneaking up behind me, I could just focus on dancing around and having fun with my friends. There wasn’t any grinding or girl-on-girl skank action – just good, clean fun. Seriously, you could be dancing like this and nobody would care. They might judge you a little, but they’d definitely let you keep dancing.

Because I was nervous about traveling all the way back to Harrow - alone - in the middle of the night, I had arranged to stay at my friends’ campus – Queen Mary – until the tube stations opened again in the morning, which for a Sunday, ended up being 7am. Riding the night bus to their campus was also a unique experience. It seemed that every time the bus stopped, somebody would try to hop on through the middle door. Now, everybody – even I, the tourist – knows that you’re supposed to enter at the front of the bus so that you can either swipe your Oyster travel card or buy a bus ticket. And yet, at every stop, there was “that person” who had to get yelled at by the bus driver – and kicked off - for trying to get on the bus without paying.

At one particular stop, we encountered a very persistent gentleman. As expected, the bus driver saw him and told him to get off. The man refused to budge. So, to make his point clear, the bus driver completely shut off the bus engine.

Now, everybody in this packed London night bus is just glaring at the dude. It’s 3 in the morning. Everybody wants to get home. I was personally amused at how quickly people’s primal instincts take over in situations like this.  Several people in the bus (including the sweet-looking old man behind me) started yelling for somebody to push the offender off the bus! The offender then declared that he can’t believe that we're so base as to suggest throwing him off a bus, and because of this public insult, won’t leave the bus on a matter of principle. Oh my goodness…

When the guy finally noticed that certain individuals might start to do more than just push him off the bus, he finally left and we were free to continue on to our destination.

Once at Queen Mary’s, I spent a good two and a half hours lying on my friend’s floor waiting for the tube to reopen. Around 7, I roused myself and walked to the nearest tube station only to find out that I’d have to wait another 15 minutes before the train would actually arrive. I also found out that all of the tube stops near my school were shut off for maintenance work, which meant I was going to have to take a replacement bus. At this point, I was tired, dishelveled, hungry, and highly annoyed. And of course, it seemed as though there were delays the entire two hours it took me to get back to the Harrow Campus.

...

And thus, we’ve come full circle. I slept for three hours and then got up again to shower, get dressed, and make the long commute back into Central London for London Fashion Weekend. (Check back for a dedicated fashion post in the future!)

Though my night was definitely tame in comparison to others’, it was a night I won't soon forget. Part of experiencing a culture is interacting with the very people who create and influence that culture. Though it seems like I've only been dealing with the nuts so far, I'm bound to encounter a normal person at some point over the next three months. But hell, it's the weirdos that make for the most interesting stories. At least I have that.