Escapade to England

In 2006, I started the New Year in a depressed state. When the ball dropped, I realized that not much had changed from the previous New Year. My routine consisted of work, gym, home and the occasional lip wax. It occurred to me that should a truck hit me, my obituary would read, “Jennifer Palumbo killed by truck. Leaves behind out-of-date VCR.” I was in a delicate state. So when I received a call from my friend Sharon asking if I wanted to go to England for a weekend, temporarily forgetting my hatred of fl ying, I agreed.

A few weeks later, Sharon and I were in the airport VIP Lounge. It had free food (I stuffed some in my pockets), comfy chairs, and internet access. Upon boarding, we received a package with a toothbrush, socks, and a sleep mask. I took three. So far, I was enjoying myself immensely and had several souvenirs to boot.

After reading the Flight Emergency Pamphlet for the full six hours, we landed at Heathrow and headed to our hotel in South Kensington. The tube was a refreshing change from the New York subway. It was clean, the seats were comfortable and everyone had an English accent. As a New Yorker, I loved that. We checked into the hotel and headed to our room. We opened the door, excited to see what we would call home for the weekend, only to fi nd a room that looked like a cubicle at an overcrowded offi ce. There was a closet where we managed to fi t our coats but absolutely nothing else. Our twin beds were wedged together tightly enough to make them indistinguishable and our window faced a brick wall. The bathroom had nothing more than the necessary items: toilet, sink, shower, and precisely two towels. Not the palatial suite we had envisioned but, heck, we were in England!

We went for a walk around the neighborhood, checked out Kensington Palace (which was much bigger than our room), headed over to Leicester Square and had dinner at a Thai place where the woman sitting next to me lamented to her boyfriend about how people from the States murder the English language. I turned to Sharon and said quite audibly, “You mean people from England call the bathroom a loo? Why don’t they call it a crap-hole like we do?” They must have lost their appetites because they soon left.

On Saturday, we went to Notting Hill to fi nd Hugh Grant (we didn’t) and shop at an immense fl ea market on Portobello Road. There I purchased sunglasses, a CD, two shirts and cough syrup called “Chesty Cough,” which I presume is a cough syrup for busty women.

Back at the hotel, we got into a brief altercation with a woman who worked at the hotel store over a converter for Sharon’s hairdryer. While on the elevator up to our room, Sharon realized that she didn’t need a converter but an adapter. I still haven’t fi gured out the difference. Regardless, when we went back downstairs to return it, the cashier refused, “I’m sorry, but you bought that quite a while ago, so it cannot be returned.”

Sharon said calmly, “I never even took it out of the box.”

“Yes, but you purchased it ages ago.”

The cashier pointed out that buying such an item meant that should you want to return it, you’d have to do so “straight away.”

“Straight away?” I joined in. “An hour isn’t straight away?”

“No.”

“Well, how long is it exactly? Twenty minutes? Ten? Should we have purchased this item, held it in our hand for several seconds and given it right back?” Long story short, the converter resides in a closet in my Brooklyn apartment. Saturday night, we went to see a show called Blood Brothers, about twins who end up killing each other in front of their mother. Following this lighthearted musical, we went to an Indian restaurant, and afterwards, a bar.

At the local pub, Sharon and I had a multicultural fest where English men of all races, creeds, and colors talked to us about New York, whether our lives were really like “Sex and the City” (I answered yes but with more penicillin), and how American women are so much more fun, relaxed, and easy (I’m assuming that was a compliment) than women of other cultures. I felt like a member of the United Nations of Love. On our cab ride home, we reviewed the men we met and broke them down into three categories: “Nice to talk to,” ‘love to sleep with,” and

“Who the heck was that guy anyway?”

Unfortunately, we ran into a little snag in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Sharon became terribly ill. Given that our fl ight was Sunday afternoon, I decided to go to the pharmacy and see if they had anything for nausea. The woman behind the counter asked, “Did your friend have Indian food last night?” What was she, some sort of psychic?

She explained, “Well, AMERICANS are not used to eating spicy foods. There’s nothing I can do about it. Make sure she doesn’t get dehydrated. Next!” I returned with some seltzer and explained what the woman at the pharmacy had said about the Indian food. Sharon, who was desperately trying not to throw up, wanted to hear nothing of food, no matter the nationality. In an effort to comfort her, I pointed out that at least she had returned her food “straight away” and still no refund.

Thankfully, we were able to make it on the plane that night. The fl ight was empty and an English stewardess named Dawn, recognizing Sharon’s current resemblance to “Judy Garland: The Dying Years,” was kind enough to fi nd her a row of empty seats to lie down in. Dawn took such lovely care of Sharon that she redeemed my previous negative feelings towards English women who sell converters and aspirin. As for me, I caught up on some movies, got another free pack of items and amazingly enough, enjoyed the fl ight.

It’s a few years later and I will be getting married in September. As I happily discuss the future, I look back on this trip with particular affection. It was not only a fun trip; it was also a time where I made the most of my freedom and independence.

I don’t mean to imply that I’m losing my freedom or independence now that I’m getting married, but the fact remains it was a rare opportunity. I was young, single, had three days of shopping, shows, being in a new environment, meeting (and fl irting with) men, and living a different way of life than I was used to. I had been so focused on what my life was lacking and not on what advantages I had.

Now, at the very least, when the ball drops this year and my fears of getting hit by a truck return, my obituary can read, “Jennifer Palumbo killed by truck. Leaves behind husband, an out-of-date VCR, an unused international converter, and many fond memories.” 

Jenn Palumbo is a New York-based writer/comedian and was named one of the “10 Standout Stand-ups Worth Watching” by BACKSTAGE Magazine. To learn more about Jenn, read more of work or see where she’s performing next, please visit www.jennpalumbo.com.

~Jenn Palumbo