A Funny Thing Happened at the Pub Last Night. . .

My friend from Albuquerque, New Mexico and I decided to go to a proper British pub last night for a few drinks and to hopefully make some British friends. We came to the conclusion, after wandering around some lovely apartment complexes and sitting in a campus cafe all day, that we really needed to get out and experience some British culture already. After the day we had, we certainly needed it. 

The misadventures of my Friday went as follows: My loan came through, and I discovered (much to my chagrin) that the amount of moolah I really have at my disposal is significantly less than I expected. I thereby decree this blog will hereafter be subtitled "The Frugal Life of Lizz in London." A local friend gave me a free phone which doesn't work with my free SIM card from t-mobile (beggars can't be choosers, I suppose), so that didn't go so well either. On top of it all, Jen and I epically failed trying to top up our oyster cards, after which I discover the machine charged me for both my attempts anyway, despite not adding a single pound to the card. Or rather, it apparently intends to charge me, as my bank account lists 27 September as the date of transaction. Um, okay Britain. Whatever you say. Thanks for holding $300 in bank limbo while you decide whether or not I deserve freedom of movement throughout the greater London area. 

Needless to say, we really needed a pint. We ate our peanut butter and jelly and canned spaghetti dinners (mine the former, hers the latter), bundled up in scarves and jackets (it's chilly here at night), and embarked on our first pub adventure to Stratford. Much to our delight, we discovered a lovely spot called St. Charles VIII right outside the shopping center we cut through after exiting the tube. Now we just had to figure out how to talk to some British folks. 

Things were a bit calm and quiet with us and our pints until an Irish man named Jason came up and decided to strike up a conversation. We covered, among other topics, race, religion, politics (his and ours), women in the workplace, and writing as a personal and public pursuit. Think that's a bit odd? Wait a bit.

Just as we were about to leave, we found ourselves involved in a discussion with two gentlemen. The first offered to marry each of us when our visas run out, strictly for immigration purposes. Quite the humanitarian, that one. But the comments from the other really capped off our evening: they asked us where we were from, and we offered our states of residence. As usual, they got all google-eyed at the sound of New York. When Jen said she was from New Mexico, however, the second gentleman leaned in and said, in a somewhat challenging tone, "Now when you say New Mexico, what do you MEAN by New Mexico?" Jen, a bit taken aback, replied "Um, the state of New Mexico. It's between Arizona and Texas?" Not missing a beat, he responded, "Well, different people have different ideas of what New Mexico actually is."

And that, folks, was our first foray into the world of British pubs. I'll leave you to ponder.