I wanted to visit Virginia Woolf’s London; instead, the shimmering cobblestones reflected the lights of Micky D’s and the enigmatic double tail of the Starbucks mermaid. (Yes, she has two tails — check your cup and consider whether it’s more disturbing that she has two tails, or that you’ve never noticed.) At any rate, I made the horribly American mistake of thinking London was going to be a Mecca of pinky-waggers and refinement. Unfortunately, capitalism and globalization reared their heads, and had I not assiduously avoided it, I could very well have fallen into the all-too-familiar lap of corporate America.

Upon my arrival, grumpy from the combination of the pitiful vestiges of airline food service and a transatlantic flight seated next to a man with the breath and complexion of finely aged cheese, I was immediately overcome with the sense that I had planned this trip with false expectations.

I always run away to England, if I can afford to, when I feel slighted by a lover. To overcome heartache, however minute, I depend on the distractions of travel and the stoic reserve of the British populace. But, as anyone who attributes sweeping generalizations to a nation, I was quickly made aware of my false presuppositions.

On the Piccadilly line from Heathrow to the center of London, I had the misfortune of traveling on a carriage with an overly effusive couple. I made my way to the far end of the car, but I still felt as if I were trapped in a perfume add — for the couple could not conceal their mutual delight in each other’s company and their voracious sexual appetites. It’s all very well to get a little cozy at a bar on a Friday night, but to display unremitting heterosexuality in the uncompromising light of a subway train is, to my sensibilities, highly improper. What made the situation worse was that the post-adolescent male insisted on making prolonged eye contact with me before violently inserting his tongue into his lady friend’s mouth. Not to say that I am above voyeurism as a rule, but I was not in the mood this particular evening.

London was full of love that night, and I would have bitterly resented the city if I hadn’t been included. But, traveling with my Barbie-pink suitcase, I attracted the attention of a drunken Turkish girl and a London lad — not at the same time, mind you. The drunken Turkish girl directed me to Kensington Gardens, remarking that she thought it was sexy that I was from Los Angeles. Then, on my way out of the Bayswater tube station, a young man offered to carry my Barbie-pink faux-leather suitcase up the stairway, but, wary of pickpockets, I refused his assistance.

By the time we reached the top of the stairs, he had ascertained that I was a foreigner and unceremoniously invited me home with him. I thanked him kindly, but declined. As a last-ditch effort, he informed me that a) it would be cheaper to stay with him than to pay for my B & B and b) that his mother cooked slap-up English brunch — “better than those slags over in Kensington Gardens.” I was equally charmed and sketched out by his persistence, so I nimbly hopped into a cab as he was glancing momentarily in the opposite direction. Soon, I was safe and alone in my little room, which was very modest, but clean as a whistle.

The following day, I caught a train to Wilmslow to visit my Auntie P, who is actually of no relation to me, but my real Auntie B wanted to have nothing to do with me when she met me over ten years ago. As a resourceful youngster, I found a surrogate Aunt — everyone needs one. Anyway, Auntie P had devised a new form of torture, which consisted of making delightful puddings, but forcing me to watch health-food television programs (all the rage now in the U.K.) whilst eating. Her Pavlova is to die for … After a week of respite in the country, the only exertion being walking the neighbor’s Jack Russell Terriers along the bog — yes, there is a bog — I returned to London refreshed and ready for adventure.

I did a whirlwind tour of all the museums, and will not bore you with the details. However, I must say that most of the tourists had vacated the city by the fourteenth of January, and the after-Christmas sales were divine. The Tate Britain and the Courtauld Gallery are slightly off the beaten track and worth a visit. I was at the Tate Britain on a Wednesday afternoon, and there wasn’t a single American on site … plus there was arather yummy-looking man with whom I shared a half hour of mutual silence staring at Waterhouse’s St. Eulalia. I think we made a real connection.

As everyone will tell you, London is horribly expensive, but it can be done on the cheap. For instance, if you carry a Barbie-pink suitcase, someone may mistake you for a professional and invite you home with them, which takes care of housing. Then you can, as I did, take all your meals at the supermarket: Tescos, for cheap, or Marks and Spencers, for fine dining. Tea and Umbrellas, believe it or not, are madly expensive in that part of the world. However, I spent five quid on seats at the Royal Opera House and had an amazing view of the Royal Ballet. So good, in fact, that I recognized several people I used to dance with, which was sort of depressing. I was nearly tempted to visit the stage door and say hello, but I remembered what a bore ballerinas are, so I decided against it. Strangely, there are some things that are relatively cheap — and by ‘cheap’ I mean slightly less expensive than NYC — that you can buy in London:

Italian Shoes

French Perfume

Naughty Lingerie

The moral of the story is that if you’re cheap, so is London.

Claire Readhead is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at clr39@cornell.edu. Tarnishing the Tiara appears alternate Mondays.