We pass by Inna's place of residence twice before realizing it's not a department store, and with all due haste we swing the glass door wide. It's heavy. The desk clerk must think us to be a bit out of place with our shorts and our backpacks and dufflebags, struggling against momentum to pull the door open. If he thinks us humorous, he hides it well. We walk in like the confused little boys lost in the big city that we are, all big-eyed and still somewhat taken aback by it all, and when we cautiously approach the desk, he doesn't miss a beat. "And who are you here to see, sirs." It's very English and kind of trails off at the end. Maxwell, the ambassador, picks up the conversation while Grant pockets the phone map and I busy myself keeling over and grabbing my knees. "We're staying with Inna at apartment 603," chimes Max. Sir Desk-clerk smiles endearingly and with a grain of humor; I barely catch it.
"And what's her last name, then?" We have to smile too. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure it's because everyone present, desk clerk included, has little or no idea how to actually pronounce it, and there couldn't have been too many Innas in the building expecting guests. Miss Rabotyagina as it is, is busy at work for most of the day, but left the key to her place with our new friend. I wasn't previously aware, but apparently the 600 apartments in this building are the ones at the very top. There're stairs to the left and a gold-doored elevator to the right. Guess what we took.
It's not until we get to Inna's door that this newly discovered feeling of trust and charisma for humanity sets in. This girl's never before met us. We had talked a handful of times online, and now we're here at the door of her 6th story Kensington penthouse, key in hand. Of course it's then that we also realize that the Brits don't exactly make doors and locks the same way we do. For no reason apparent to us, there's a door knob smack-dab in the middle of the door with a lock and handle down and to the side by the frame. Fancy-shmamcy. It's a three-minute job, no big deal, and we're in. Penthouse may have overshot the description, but not by much.
[to be continued]
The place is luxurious. London single-living luxurious, a little hollow-feeling with bare white walls, but the carpet makes it cozy. The door opens on a comfortable foyer with a big coat closet and a skinny, euro-flat kitchen. There's a small hallway that leads to the grand bedroom and the living room on either side. Score? Yeah, score! What the hell have we stumbled into? We take off our shoes and shove all our shit into the most inconspicuous corner of the living room and head back across to the master bedroom where there's a balcony. A petite brick thing with no door out to it so we have to step through a low-framed window, which isn't as simple as it should've been, but that's London for you. Max takes down another Red, and fuck it, we all do, suckin' in the sweet cancer, and holding for the head-buzz. I lean hard on the grey slab guard so my head's out over Sloane, and I look down, letting out all the smoke as the red double-deckers hustle by and the loud hustle of the city sinks in. "Well, I don't know about you guys, but I'm famished. Let's eat, yeah?"
"Yeah, after this cigarette," says Max.
"We should try and find a market too so we can cook some shit later." Grant suggests between puffs.
"Down. Let's get a proper English meal in first though."
"Duh. Fuckin' London, huh?" We can't help but laughing. Everything's funny when reality hasn't quite caught up yet, it fell off somewhere over the Atlantic, I think. Somewhere before Gatwick, because this London place is so silly. After flicking butts, we fly down the stairs - it feels like running on the moon without those packs on - and inquire of our friend the desk-man as to the nearest eatery.
"Why sirs, there's one right around the corner. Take a right out the door and then your first left."
"Thank you kindly," I say in reply. We're at a quaint little deli-diner in no time, and seeing as it's not even noon yet, we all order up proper English breakfasts; eggs, beans, bacon, toast and tomato; the works. We inhale that shit, it's so good. Now we can finally put that vacuum-sealed airplane food behind us and relish savory flavor. Well worth the eight pounds, it is.
"Well. Now what?"
"Let's go romping!"
"Yes, lets! Navigator! Take us on our way!"
Grant's on it, "Aye-aye, you scurvy slags!" and he whips out his phone to gather our bearings. "There's a park nearby," he says, "a big one. Hyde Park."
"Sounds regal. I'm in."
"All right then. To the Hyde!" exclaims Max. We bus our tables and bail on foot to the park. It's not a long walk, and we enter through tall cast-iron gates. " Day-um. Regal as fuck."
"'Tis the Queen's park, it is." I say.
"Ah, yes." So we hold our heads a bit higher than usual, and our should a bit more back. As far as parks go, the Hyde is one of the grandest I've seen recently. It's huge. A true city park with a lake, the Serpentine, and pedal-boats and lounge chairs sprawled out here and there. There're swans and squirrels and pretentious, plump pigeons that eat food right out of the hand. There're ancient looking willows set by themselves whose branches and vines hang low like a curtain. And, of course, there are roller-bladers weaving through lines of cones. "Epic." We make a day of it, just ambling around, taking turns taking pictures with Grant's camera. When we start getting hungry again we head to the nearest market for supplies, but that's not 'til late in the afternoon. Back at Sloane Street on the sixth floor, Inna's finally home waiting for us. We hit it off instantly, because shit, we're so damn charming and we cook her a good old-fashioned dinner from California. She loves it. She's from Mother Russia.
