Written by Grant Lefelar
Unless you are one of the envious preppers who fled to the wilderness during the early Clinton years and have not returned, then you probably know who Rick Steves is. A favorite of those wasting their Sunday afternoons lazily flipping around to PBS and moms anxiously watching their college-aged children whiz over to the Mediterranean to piss away their checking accounts, Steves has created an empire on the back of his widely successful travelog books and informative TV series. Steves’ rise in the crowded travel writing field is not solely due to his consistent media output, but also his wise globetrotting philosophy: avoid the expensive tourist traps and immerse yourself in what the locals do.
That is very sound advice. However, thanks to Steves’ commanding influence over tourists’ itineraries over the past three or so decades, nearly every so-called “less touristy” site Steves namedrops is flooded with clueless, jet-lagged Americans desperately in need of caffeine and an etiquette lesson from Emily Post’s spirit. London is no exception.
Before crossing the pond to London for my study abroad semester, my Christmas stocking was stuffed with Rick Steves London, a prerequisite reading for any traveler to the United Kingdom’s capital. The holy book’s nearly 600 pages are chock-full of over a thousand museums, churches, theaters, restaurants, palaces, markets, pubs, and other miscellaneous landmarks you can throw your money away at. However, Steves’ reviews and recommendations read more as quasi-advertisements than honest, forthright comments. In a city of nearly nine million and rising, frankness is worth every devalued pound.
As someone who has been there, seen this, and drunk that in London for over the past two months, allow me to divulge some faux tour guide authority. If you ever decide to blow a few hundred on a legroom-less third class Boeing 737 Max seat and make it by divine mercy to Heathrow, it’s important to note you can’t avoid being a tourist. What you certainly can do is curb the degree to which others—namely Londoners—perceive you as one. What better arenas to show you belong alongside the King-kissing, pint-guzzlers than the traditional bloke’s two favorite pastimes: God and booze.
In Houses of Worship
Despite a dwindling percentage of Britons putting their faith in the baby Jesus, the UK is still home to spectacular cathedrals. You’ll find some in London, mostly belonging to the Church of England—a relic of King Henry VIII’s marital issues the Brits still put up with because the alternative is dealing with the Pope. While dismissive of the Vatican, Anglicans remain aesthetically very Catholic. In both denominations, clergy and choir members file down the nave during the traditional procession, dressed in pristine white robes and led by a child who has the thankless task of holding a golden cross on a stick twice his height upright. The top dogs — the bishops — wear robes themselves, but with more color, fancy designs, and pizzazz to show everyone else they are better than them and run the place. If their authority isn’t apparent enough, their pointed hats let people know they mean business.
London’s premier Anglican cathedral St. Paul’s, a massive Baroque-style structure highlighted by its gorgeous dome, also looks extremely Catholic. Built for the Anglicans in the late seventeenth century by master architect Sir Christopher Wren, the previous on-site cathedral that burned in the Great Fire of 1666 was once—you guessed it—Catholic. But like most things Catholic in Britain, it too got sick of the Pope and pledged loyalty to the sovereign.
St. Paul’s is an icon known to millions. It survived Luftwaffe bombings, hosted Churchill’s funeral, and saw Charles and Diana exchange their doomed vows. Now, it’s a tourist trap…but one you should not miss.
If you’re brave enough to defy the crowds, go on a Sunday morning to attend the choral mattins service. Entrance into St. Paul’s is free on Sundays; you’ll spend up to £25 a pop any other day. Those admission fees are no fluke. Keeping with their Catholic forefathers, Anglicans shamelessly attempt to milk worshipers and the curious of their cash. Smaller, yet significant churches, namely Canterbury and Salisbury, charge a “reasonable” £6 or £7. As St. Paul’s is the largest — and frankly most worth your while — the bishops perform an open shakedown.
Other travelers are privy to the lack of “pay for pray” on the Christian Sabbath, filing en masse through the church’s massive revolving doors to gawk at the vast, stunning marble-white interior. While getting your sightseeing done, don’t be surprised if one of the elderly volunteer ushers asks you to take a seat for the service. While unlikely to interfere with your plans, cathedral staff force dozens of unsuspecting, exasperated backpackers to take part in an Anglican mass against their will at a moment’s notice. In these agnostic times, Christians must use any trick in the book to recruit adherents.
St. Paul’s choir is fantastic. Mostly composed of boys aged eight to twelve, the choir is a testament that the continued practice of rigorously training English prepubescent schoolboys for hours a day is worth every teardrop and tantrum. Whether you are one of the righteous religious or a godless heretic, the choir’s soaring appeals to God can be appreciated and enjoyed by all.
Sadly, much of the St. Paul’s crowd seems not to give a damn. Dozens of talkative tourists loudly shift in their seats. Some get up and meander, dragging their squeaky sneakers across the cathedral’s black-and-white tiled floor. Young children roam free, unable to comprehend the magnificent voices filling the hall. Babies, shocked by the room’s loud echo, launch into screaming matches with one another. If their squeaks are attempts to match the choir kids’ high pitches, they do not succeed.
If my description of St. Paul’s does not strike your fancy, Westminster Abbey may be more your scene. Historically known as the site of royal coronations, the Abbey has seen the crowning of Britain’s monarch for centuries, from good: Elizabeth II, to bad: her son. You probably remember it for hosting William and Kate’s wedding thirteen years ago, the one your mother woke you up at 5 AM for and bawled her eyes out at. If anything, the Abbey holds the distinction of witnessing the only seemingly successful high-profile royal marriage to emerge in the past few decades.
Built during the thirteenth century, the medieval Gothic-style church is dwarfed by nearby landmarks, namely Big Ben, yet towers intimidatingly above passersby. Sunday is again the day to visit, this time in the early evening as the Abbey hosts regular free 5 PM organ recitals. Like the Abbey, the organ is old and therefore sounds like it. But it’s Westminster Abbey, so you can ignore the fuzzy blares of the ancient pipes and pretend you’re the King or Queen taking over the realm for a few daydreaming minutes.
If you try to go inside the Abbey, know what you are there for. I had a minor run-in with the crooked teeth of an older Scotland Yard copper at the Abbey’s entrance who questioned my purpose there. Unaware an organ recital was to begin in a few minutes, I bumbled for words before replying with a safe cop-out, “prayer,” rather than the truth: “free sightseeing.” The officer replied, “There is no prayer here,” forgetting this conversation was taking place in the courtyard of a world-renowned house of worship. He eventually let me in, but not before I got this humorous anecdote.
Brief reminder: please respect the dead. British church floors are littered with burial stones advertising the deceased. At these churches, such as the Abbey, one—namely myself—feels guilty for stepping on them. As a result, going to an Anglican church is like partaking in a massive game of hopscotch. Yet, other tourists simply don’t care, walking over them as if they aren’t afraid the ghost of an angry nineteenth-century mid-ranking Royal Navy captain will haunt them for the rest of their cursed existence. Do not become one of the damned.
In Public Houses
Praying, while meant to uplift one’s spirit, can also take a toll on one’s. That is why man invented spirits. And beer. And wine. And the unholy concoction popularly known as “jungle juice.” And whatever amber-colored liquid is sitting on the rocks on my bedside table as I write these very words.
Unlike us puritanical Americans, the rest of the civilized world understands that if you are old enough to vote and die for your country, you can—and probably should—drink. Britain understands this concept to the tee. Not only is the drinking age eighteen here, drinking is just something you do. Are you sad? Happy? Nonplused? Or just plain bored? Head down to your local pub and pour back a pint—or pints—of delicious Guinness. No appointment to make with your friends. No fake IDs you squandered $100–$150 on required. It’s 17:00 somewhere. Hit the pubs, Jack.
If you do not wish to partake in such activities, no pressure. If you do, then your first step is to find your local. London is bristling with pubs. At my local, The Swan, located near Russell Square, you’ll find yourself served by two middle-aged Hungarian ladies who barely know the language but know how to pour a pint. Two doors down is The Queen’s Larder, a quaint little hole in the wall that will freak you out once you notice its displayed hoard of clown memorabilia. A few blocks north is Friend at Hand which at any given time is either deserted or filled with anime nerds. I go when it’s deserted. Wherever you end up in this great city, it is your duty to end your long days in the comfort of a golden ale, aged decor, and a jukebox blasting Chumbawamba’s greatest hit. Only your local can offer you this paradise.
Pubs are mostly divided into two categories: tied and free houses. Tied houses are “tied” to massive pub-owning breweries and mainly sell their brand drinks. If you see names such as Wetherspoons, Young’s, Greene King, and Fuller’s, ideally pass them by. Free houses are independent pubs. Since we all support small businesses, seek out these instead. That said, none of the previous three pubs I mentioned are free houses. Sometimes, the nearest and cheapest drink is from your tied local.
For more refined tastes, London is a world capital of cocktail bars. A recommended SoHo favorite, Bar Américain, is located in the basement of a French café. It is unadvertised on its building’s exterior, making for a confusing first visit but also a never-crowded de facto speakeasy. The “speakeasy” aspect makes sense as the bar is splashed in Parisian Art Deco and mixes 1930s and Prohibition-themed drinks. Never before has the Great Depression tasted so damn good.
If you enjoy clubs like Still Life that blind you with strobe lights and give you heat stroke on the dancefloor, you’ll love O’Neill’s, Simmons, and The Roxy. If you’re sane and enjoy preserving your mental and bodily health, ignore the pleas of your friends to go at all costs.
One club I somewhat tolerate is Ballie Ballerson. The music selection is awful, the drinks are overpriced, and the men’s bathroom attendant will roll you for £5. However, the ballpit will allow you to relive your nostalgic childhood bumping around Chuck E. Cheese. That is until you drop your iPhone in it. Then it becomes a search party.
The eighteenth-century English writer Samuel Johnson stated, “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” Despite all its imperfections and my incessant grumbling, I can’t get enough of this place. It’s beautiful, fun, and offers plenty of material for my little travelogs. So when you have the time and money, visit the little Englanders and lecture them in their cathedrals and pubs on the correct side of the street to drive on. Rick Steves would never do that public service.