Some Blog

A Quid is a Pound, which is $1.78

Sunday, April 23, 2006

If, at 2 AM, you find yourself on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, turn up Tottenham, take the first left down Hanway Street, what looks like a super scary alley, ignore the overwhelming scent of fresh urine and stale vomit, watch out for the oncoming traffic, and on the right side of the street half way up, before it curves to the left, look up for an open window above a tapas bar. This open window belongs to a private bar that opens from 2-4 AM, 6 days a week (Tuesday night seems to be the magic quiet night in London). The membership requirements of the bar is that you need to know where the door is, no secret handshake or dues, just the ability to climb a harrowing set of stairs and to not mind the person next to you.

The bar seats about 75 people uncomfortably, and invariably the doorman lets in 150. Bench-lined walls mean that the proletariat become bedfellows and you must meet the man next to you. In fact, bar etiquette requires you to rudely interrupt the conversation next to you and add your two cents. You will hand out cigarettes and advice like the love child of the Marlboro Man and Ann Landers. The mix of people, philosophers and students, student philosophers, philosophy students, assures that you will have a moment. A moment will be defined as: “We just had a moment.”

Be aware, that you will spend a few hours waxing poetic about the one who got away with a girl whose name you never really heard and the next day you will see said girl at the Starbucks where you get your morning Mochiatto and that you will see the super cute Twinkie who confides that he thinks your date is hitting on his friend (my “date” was hitting on his friend, more of that later) at Ballans the next time you need to have a recovery meal at 6 AM. Or maybe that’s just me.

Above the dado course of benches, lives a m�lange of wannabe Americana decoration with just a hint of old English pub (a pinup girl from the 60s, Willie Nelson, Chili pepper lights, the Queen Mum (God rest ‘er soul)). And above the schizophrenic ornamentation is the border art that frames the origins of this club. In trompe l’oeil dance the figures of Helen, Menelaus and Paris, Agamemnon, Hecktor, Odysseus, Achilles, Ajax, and Cassandra illustrating the great epic story and providing the name, The Troy Bar (I tried googling to no luck).

I don’t suppose that Homer, when writing the Iliad, ever thought that his depiction of a decade long war fought for the right to state that “I own the prettiest girl in the world” would eventually be the appellation of the one place in London where I could drink after the 2 AM closing time (I know this has changed, but work with me).

I also don’t suppose that anyone, my date nor I, ever anticipated that I would use the Troy Bar as a core standard, a fall back position. The first time I spent some time in the Troy Bar, I was on a second date. I don’t remember how I met him, but I do know that I was very clear with my expectations that if I sleep with someone on a first date, I don’t really intend on seeing the person ever again. I have a policy about one-night stands being just that, one night. So the second date-ness of it all was a bit of a surprise, but I had forgotten my hair clips (given to me by someone and were of some value) when I left his house while he was showering the morning following date number one. Date number two I told him I was just for me to get my clips, he suggested meeting for a drink. I agreed because why not?

One of the reasons why I knew that I could never date this guy after date one, date two being held under duress, was that he counted the cash spent on the date, as in, “Your drink cost 2 quid more than my drink, I think you should buy two rounds to my one” or “I paid for dinner so I think you should pay for all the drinks for the evening.” This type of attitude has never sat well with me as certain elements of thriftiness build traits that I hate, mostly because I never keep track of these types of things, with my personal philosophy being that if you can’t afford to be out, don’t go out, but also because eeewwwwww, creepy. Moving on, so date two saw us at the Troy Bar, where he proceeded to ask me when we were going to go back to his place. I stated that I wasn’t going to go home with him again as he already knew that I had a policy about one night stands (he knew this going in, or rather going down).

Turning to me, with a pout on his face, my date very loudly explained that he expected me back to his place that night to improve upon the experience of the first date. Now, seeing that of the five people at our table, three were complete strangers to whom I had been dispensing cigarettes and advice and who had been buying me drinks and making me laugh, these three imperfect strangers heard the comment, and all LAUGHED OUT LOUD. My date stomped off to the bathroom and my tablemates all encouraged me to stand my ground. As I recall, the man next to me said, “You can do way better than that cunt.”

Upon returning to the table, my date stated that he was leaving; I casually waved and said that I would be finishing my drink. I clearly didn’t see the guy again, but I regularly saw the man who had been sitting next to me out at the bars.

The second time I was at the Troy Bar I brought the Film Executive, we had spent the night out and didn’t want it to end. As a way to prevent us from having to decide the inevitable end (your place or mine) we ended up at the Troy Bar. If memory serves correct, that night was his birthday and it was mine.

The third time, was entirely forgettable except for the fact that I made a split-second friendship with a girl who was very loud.

The fourth time, I brought a magazine feature writer who was covering an international photograph exhibition at which I working. I was the English speaking component for a German gallery and he was writing an article. We spent the night sharing stories of moments of glory and shots of tequila. He spent the night being terribly fascinating (faassssccinating) and by the time we tripped our way up the stairs, we were just wasting time until we would go our separate ways. The Journalist chatted up the girl to his left, to the point of exchanging phone numbers, and the kind young gay boy who was eating up my glam, felt the need to point out what I already knew. Ah, the smell of fresh youth and naivety. I, in fact, had already reassured the young girl that I was in no way, shape, or form attached to the Journalist. I think she was more impressed with him than he was, which was no small feat. The Journalist distinguished himself by taking the change from the taxi fare I paid. I always tip 20 percent, out of habit and because I feel like it’s only right, no matter what country I’m in, and this guy I met hours before, took the 3 quid left on a 17 quid cab ride.
Eventually, I became a regular at the Troy Bar, and the times there blend into each other. The visits are only distinguished in the flashes of light and bursts of sound that memories take on with time and distance.