Sorry if you love London, or call it home. I'm not a big fan, in spite of the architectural marvels and fascinating history. I always get lost. It's cold. The streets are all dirty. Everyone is rude all the time; I've never seen anyone in London ever smile. And the food's not great.
In 1993, my partner Lane was a delegate to the World Congress of GLBT Jews, to be held in London. He invited me along as his guest.
This isn't him. I have lots of pictures, but no nudes. But he was (and still is) a husky, hairy bear with nice arms, like this guy.I had been to France, Spain, Germany, and the Netherlands, and Lane spent a year in Israel, but for some reason neither of us had ever been to Britain. So we planned lots of sightseeing: The Tower of London, the Sherlock Holmes Museum, Stonehenge, The Rude Man of Cerne Abbas, Canterbury Cathedral. Not to mention the Gay Village of Soho.
Customs
The problems started the moment I arrived. At customs I was questioned extensively about my reasons for coming to Britain, who I was staying with, did I know anyone here, and again, why did I come here???? He wouldn't believe that I was a tourist. No one ever came to Britain as a tourist. It was a tiny, backwater country with absolutely no sites of historical or artistic interest! I must be planning something criminal.
I still wonder why he was so suspicious. Do I have the same name as a terrorist? Was it my leather jacket?
The Isle of Dogs
If you were planning a World Congress with delegates from all over the world, most of whom have never been to Britain before, wouldn't you pick a hotel that was centrally located?
Nope: The Royal Britannia Hotel was on the Isle of Dogs, an industrial sleugh on the East End of London, surrounded by the Thames on three sides. No pubs, no shops, nothing but block after block of dark industrial buildings.
And no subway. You could catch a bus into town -- about six miles to the Tower of London -- but it stopped at different places, depending on the whim of the driver, anywhere between six and twelve blocks from the hotel.
So you were standing at a bus stop, and it would drive past you and stop two blocks away.
On Thursday and Friday, while Lane was busy with meetings, I chased after a bus getting into town, visited the Tower, the British Museum, the Sherlock Holmes Museum -- and Clapham Common, because I took the wrong metro and ended up in the far south.
Saturday was Shabbat, so no meetings were scheduled. Lane and I returned to London to visit Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, a science fiction bookstore, and a gay sauna (for a gay conference, there was very little hooking up).
We missed the last bus, so we had to take a taxi back to the hotel.
On Sunday the buses didn't run, so another taxi into London, where we found almost everything closed, and a taxi back (straining our resources).
The Gay Jewish ConferenceI didn't realize that by signing on as a guest, not a delegate, I was forbidden to go to any of the meetings, or any of the dinners.
On Thursday night, there was an evening boat tour of the Thames, with box dinner provided. Except for guests. I stole one to avoid starving to death.
On Saturday night, they held a dance for conference delegates -- no one else, not even the partners. I spent the night watching television -- the "Crazy Americans" hour, with four episodes of a tv sitcom that I never heard of (and don't recall the title of; it takes place in an office, but in one episode they're on a life boat for some reason).
On Sunday night they had a dinner -- for delegates only. I'd have to make do with the hotel restaurant. Whoops, it was closed on Sundays. I would have starved to death again, but someone with a car drove into town and brought me (and the other guests) some fish and chips.
Is this any way to run a gay Jewish conference?
At least Lane brought a hookup back from the dance, so I got a little cock action.
It gets better after the break. Sort of.
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