“Man, I really am a C-cup!” Chelsy said as we panted our way up the stairs in Surbiton station to catch the train to Waterloo.
“I told you, you were,” I said. “I don’t know how you’ve been wearing a B-cup this whole time.”
We boarded the 8:03 train, settled into the carpet-covered seats, our backpacks on our laps, and brainstormed about how we were going to spend our first night out in London. We had some foggy blueprint in our minds about what we were going to do; get dinner, go clubbing, and figured that we would either just stumble across a hostel, or (preferably) some accommodating British locals. Our overnight bags were with us in case we missed the last train back to Surbiton.
“Maybe your newly discovered C-cup will get us a free night somewhere,” I said to Chelsy as two young guys sat down in front of us. I nudged her. “Ask them where we should go clubbing and stuff.”
“Hey, do you guys know where we can go for a fun club and a place to stay?” she asked, her face pushed between their seats.
“Five pound and you can stay on my couch,” one of the guys quipped. “I would suggest Shoreditch, though. It’s a good time and lots of young people.”
“Isn’t that area like super hipster?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s not bad. They play good music and stuff.”
I asked him about Soho, as someone else had suggested it to me as a fun night out. He agreed it could be entertaining. As we pulled into Waterloo station, I decided we’d go to Soho for the night. I much preferred gays over hipsters.
***
“Which way do we go?” Chelsy asked me as we wandered past a woman singing a Jewel song from the nineties to a group of tourists, a guy playing an acoustic guitar and warbling that Jeff Buckley song about a girl cutting someone’s hair, and the London Eye.
“I don’t know, let’s just cross the bridge and ask someone.”
As we made our way over the Hungerford Bridge, we passed by several couples making out with each other, London’s city lights making them feel all romantic and cheesy. I was more interested in following my nose to the source of the sweet, nutty smell that was making my already empty stomach grumble loudly. The aroma led to an older, ethnic looking woman selling what appeared to be clusters of nuts drenched with a thick, savory sauce. I stared forlornly at the small white cups, teasing us with their sweet treats, but we had to keep moving. We had to find a damn hostel.
We got off the bridge, ran into a ritzy hotel and asked the concierge if he could tell us how to get to The Walrus, a hostel off Westminster Bridge Road. They gave us a map and pointed us in the right direction – back over the Hungerford Bridge. Once again, I was accosted by gratuitous amounts of PDA by unfortunate looking couples. To distract myself from these awkward testaments of love (and from that sweet smell that was creeping back into my nostrils), I concentrated on the shining landmarks that had become a part of London’s identity: Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, and the London Eye. This place really did suck.
***
“Where would you like to go?” the man working at London Eye Hostel asked us, his shoulder cradling the phone to his ear as he dialed the number for a cab.
“Soho,” I said with conviction, as if I wasn't a tourist who had just stuffed my backpack into a locker at a hostel. “We’re going clubbing.”
The £14 cab ride dropped us off in Leicester Square. We were identified immediately as tourists upon exiting the cab.
“Hi!” an excited voice yelled at us. It came from a pretty, dark-skinned girl in high heels. “You girls from here?”
We shook our heads. She smiled brightly.
“Okay, well if you each give me £20, I can guarantee you access into two of the most exclusive clubs in Soho.” She looked at us expectantly.
“Um, actually, we were just going to get some guys to buy us into the clubs, like we always do,” I told her, taking Chelsy’s arm and steering her in the opposite direction. But the girl kept badgering us and she eventually settled for just £10 for the club fees.
“It’s just around the corner.” She pointed past a KFC.
The club was hot and smelly, as drunken bodies jerked around the dance floor.
“I need a drink,” Chelsy said, slamming her clutch down on the bar.
Right on cue, an ugly guy with bad teeth approached me, asking if he could buy me a drink. I nodded and told Chelsy to get whatever she wanted.
“What’s your name?” he yelled over Rihanna.
I shrugged my shoulders and pretended not to understand him.
“что?” I asked in my best Russian accent.
I kept up the charade a few more minutes, falling back on two semesters of Russian language as a way to both entertain myself and to make an easy exit.
We stepped out into the cool London air and started walking aimlessly, already disappointed by the night and ready to make our way back to the hostel. Two Lebanese men came up to us, wrapping their arms around our waists, and trying to convince us to go with them to another club. They were annoyingly aggressive and I couldn't help but reconsider my disdain for hipsters.
***
“There’s some guy in our bed,” I told the man at the London Eye Hostel.
Chelsy and I had come back to the hostel to discover a young man sleep-sweating in our bed. The staff claimed to have double booked us somehow and was trying to get rid of the guy, but this was the last straw for us.
“No, just let the guy take the bed,” I told the man behind the desk. “We’re just gonna go ahead and walk to the station and catch a train back home.” It was 4 a.m. and we’d have to wait a couple hours for the train station to open, but the more distance we could put between the city and ourselves, the better off we’d be.
“I cannot give you a refund,” he told us haughtily.
We left the hostel, caught a night bus to Westminster Bridge, and walked to Waterloo Station. We waited two hours in the cold, watching as the pigeons pecked at and tried to eat pavement gum that had turned black from all the dirt and grime and forgotten dreams this city had killed.
