I’ve been to London twice in the past six months. The first time I went with my family and absolutely abhorred the experience. After visiting every single possible tourist location in all of England, we rented a car and drove four hours to the ‘Dr. Who Experience’—which is some sort of strange hybrid museum/amusement ride that really wishes it were in a better place than a fishing port in Cardiff. Once we finished our “interactive journey” through the museum, it was another four hour drive back to the hotel. The good news is that I saved the world from vacuum cleaners. (I think fans of the television show prefer the term ‘daleks.’)
This time around, I’m here with a college class. I’m not saying that things are great—approximately four-fifths of our waking hours are devoted to studying Shakespeare—but London is definitely easier to appreciate when you’re with people your own age. For instance, a few of us went to a high-end club yesterday where I somehow managed to trick two girls into dancing with me! Then again, both of them stopped after suffering about fifteen seconds of my pitifully awkward ‘moves.’
Now, coming with my parents did have its advantages: free meals, free lodging, free souvenirs, etc. But even though I love my family very, very much, there’s something strange about vacationing with them. It’s less of a trip and more of a guided tour. Oh, and not that I’ve been drinking (because I haven’t been drinking), but if I had been drinking, what I would say is that beer tastes disgusting.
My mother and I join the ranks of the evil dolls at the Dr. Who Experience.