The London Dispatch

London (May 20, 2006) -- "The English have a saying about France; 'Lovely country France. Pitty about the French.' ''
My short weekend in London has been, in a word, weatherish. We've had rain, lots of wind, some sun, and now a calm, clear night. The part about the weather that concerns me is that the Londoners don't seem to think anything is wrong.
I miss Paris already and I fear that my desire to return is but a sip of what I'm in for the rest of my days. But tis better to have loved...right? The jury is still out on that one.
But being able to speak the language has meant that I've met a few interesting people.
The first was Marick, who I met in a pub Friday morning. Just joking. It was Friday afternoon.
Marick is Polish, three kids, divorced, had the kids this weekend, doesn't like to talk about his job after he leaves.
I could tell he was a good father and I told him so.
"Really," he replied.
"I'm journalist. I have to know these things instinctively," I answered, snapping my fingers for
effect.
We should all buy property in Eastern Europe was Marick's advice. He has.
The other person I met was Susan. From Australia, one daughter, three sons, with a mother her always told her that the changing of the guards was something magical to see. We met on the ultra-touristy tour I took on Saturday. She said the changing of the guards wasn't all that her mother had made it out to be.
I'm starting to learn that Australians are an odd bunch. Susan got a bottle of wine with lunch. But she never did find the glasses. So, as we sat at the cafeteria table -- it was clear by this point that
destiny had wanted her to adopt me for the day as her wayward son -- she was planning on drinking her mini-bottle of wine out of the bottle. Not wanting to see my adopted Australian mother swigging a bottle of wine, I went and fetched her a coffee mug.
I've never been much for passing by crowded bars or casinos, and London has both.
The Hard Rock Casino pulled me in with little effort. I withdrew 40 pounds, or 95 dollars, and ran into a buzz saw of a Blackjack dealer who had to be in the midst of his best night on record.
So that was short and painful.

I finished my beer and contemplated my next move. The beer told me not to walk out after such a brief time. So I withdrew 30 pounds and took a seat at the roulette table. I placed a direct hit on number 11 on about the fifth turn. Then I partially hit a number 9.
Not noticing, or just too pleased with my luck, I didn't notice that my chips were still on the felt.
That proved to be a good thing since the forgotten chips happened to be sitting near another winner. Dumb luck, mate, as they would say here.
I ended up walking out of the casino like the shiek of Arabi.
"They're giving away money in there," I said in a boastful manner to the big black guy working the lobby door. He gave me a wink and a smile that would only
come from mentally touched people in Paris.
So Hard Rock casino paid for my theater tickets on Friday night (a tribute to the Rat Pack) and Saturday night ("One who flew over the cookoo's nest" with
Christian Slater as R.P. McMurphy).
It's back to rude Paris in the morning. But somehow that fine with me.
Go Barbaro. Hope all is well.
Take care,
Brett