Plucky Survivors See Europe Day 31: London

I ended yesterday’s post with dramatic foreshadowing music, saying that today’s itinerary was unknown.  Here’s the story.

The last few days have been really rough.  Like, really rough.  The cyst got worse and the antibiotics I got in the pharmacy in Paris were brutal on my digestive system.  I’ve been just this side of miserable and I knew that I couldn’t put off getting seen by a doctor anymore.

What I was worried about is that the most common treatment for the cyst involves cutting.  Either minor cutting that would have probably tanked most of my time in London or major cutting that would have involved cancelling the rest of the trip.  To say I was unhappy about that is an understatement but the just-this-side-of-misery level was rapidly approaching pure misery and I didn’t have a choice.

I really didn’t want to go to a hospital, mainly because I was worried that they would be more inclined to whip out the Ginzu set and start chopping.  So, I did a bunch of research my last day in Paris and while I was on the plane to London and found a private urgent care center whose website specifically said that they handle what I needed handled.  I would have had to pay for it and my insurance may or may not have reimbursed me, but the fees they listed on the website weren’t outrageous (a few hundred bucks) and I didn’t care anymore.

So, I grabbed a taxi and had a lovely conversation with the driver during the roughly 45 minutes it took to go four miles, a lot about America and the state of things.  He said to me: “Every time I get an American, they apologize.  Unless they’re from Florida.”  That is the most purely Florida thing I have ever heard.

I got to the urgent care and was promptly told, “no, we don’t do that.”  I even showed them the website that said they did and the very nice, very patient, very British woman at the desk said she’d go check with the doctor.   The doctor came out and said, “no, we don’t do that.”  I pointed to the website again.  She said, “Do you want to trust the website or the one who would be poking around on you?”  Fair.

They directed me to Charing Cross Hospital, about a 20-minute walk from there, which was one of the most uncomfortable walks I’ve ever made I must say.  The ER had maybe half a dozen people in it and was very orderly – I got checked in and triaged right away.  Hospitals all look the same.

Then I waited for about 90 minutes to get seen by a doctor who was very kind and patient with the miserable American tourist.  I spare you the gory details, but he did some stuff that didn’t involve cutting, gave me a new prescription for antibiotics that are not as harsh but still effective, and gave me some supplies that would help with the process that had started. 

The whole thing cost me $15 and that was for the meds.  Have I mentioned how much I hate the American health care system? 

It’s been an unpleasant, uncomfortable day but I already feel a million times better.

Because of the unpleasant, uncomfortable of it all, I primarily spent the rest of the day in the room attending to the situation but did make it out for lunch at a nearby pub called Brewmasters.  The double smash burger with bacon and cheese was fantastic but the side of mac cheese?  Perfection.  Light, golden brown on the top, a nearly 1:1 ration of cheese to macaroni (which is the way I like it), a little tangy but not to the point that you could taste the ale that it is infused with.  10 out of 10.

I was feeling better enough that I decided to go ahead and go to the show I had booked for tonight, fully expecting that I might have to leave halfway through.

What happened next is totally my fault, but it is confusing.  I was booked into a show called “58^th Street” by a company called The Lost Estate.  It’s an immersive dinner theatre experience celebrating 1930s jazz in New York.  They have another show called “Le Chat Noir,” which is more of a cabaret show celebrating 1890’s Paris.

The problem is that while they are both done by The Lost Estate and are both the same kind of experience, they are not at the same place.  I went to the wrong place.  I blame Google Maps but I also blame them a little bit because when you put in The Lost Estate, it takes you to the place where they do “Le Chat Noir” and the place where they do “58^th Street” is not even recognized.

It was going to take me an hour to get from the one I was at to the one I needed to be at, which would have made me late (and tired and uncomfortable and old and fussy) so I was just going to say screw it, but the venue manager at the door took pity on me and told me I could stay and see “Le Chat Noir” if I wanted.  It involved food, alcohol, a show, and a place to sit down so I very quickly agreed.

The experience is immersive from the very beginning, with a maze leading guests into the facility and everyone in 1890s French character (although with distinct British tones to their accents).  Because they insist upon the illusion of the place, absolutely no photos are allowed at any point until after the final bows, so I only have the one picture to show you.

The room is done in a French revolution meets bordello theme, with tables and booths throughout and several stages including one in the center. 

There was a charcuterie plate waiting for me with some delicate camembert, a little bit of spicy French saucisson (salami), pate with brandy and vermouth, some pickled vegetables, and a basket of fantastically crusty French bread and salted butter.   I.  Went.  To.  Town.

Because of the antibiotics and the precarious nature of my digestive system, I only had one drink, but it was a doozy with rum, curacao, citron vert, sugar, and absinthe.  It was tasty but I was okay with just having the one.

The pre-show started around 6:30pm, with members of the cast and the band wandering about and the entire house staff also in character.  The band plays a little and then the show started at around 7pm.

It is led by the Producer, “Anthony,” a Paris bon vivant who is ready to take you on a journey with his cast of misfits, a tale of life and love in three acts entitled Art, Absinthe, and Anarchy.

The first act introduces the main cast – the Muse (an operatic singer), the Mime, the Dancer, and the Magician.  Each of them has the spotlight for a number.  The Mime put on a surprisingly tender and touching story of falling in love with a woman represented only by a dress he held hands with, danced with, and cuddled with.  It ended in (comedic) bloodshed as many French romances do, but I really enjoyed it.

The Magician did a prediction trick where people in the audience randomly chose things and all those things ended up in a painting that had been on the stage the entire time.

The Muse sang in a belting operatic voice and the Dancer, well, danced. 

The Producer had some really stunning lines that stuck with me.  One was, “Get drunk.  Stay drunk.  On life, on love, on poetry, on passion.  Whatever.  Just get drunk.”  I was having a blast.

Dinner came during the act break, but the entertainment kept going with the band or characters interacting with the audience.

The food was a thrill – the best French meal I had, and I had just been to France.  Coq au Vin – a perfectly roasted chicken with red wine jus, Pomme Dauphinoise (gratinee potatoes), and a hunk of pancetta that was so flavorful it nearly jumped off the plate and demanded to be given its due.  You don’t usually expect food this good at a venue that is cranking out dozens of these dishes at a time, but there it is.

The second act, Absinthe, was an extended hypnotic dream sequence of sorts that involved lots of slow-motion movement and echoing voice overs.  Some of it was effective but it went on for about 10 minutes longer than it needed to, especially after everyone had just eaten a big meal.

Dessert came next – a lemon tart with berries.  Simple but divine.

The third act, Anarchy, was an extended bit about Montmarte seceding from Paris and them needing to elect a new leader, who was then promptly beheaded.  That involved get the audience to sing French songs but since nobody knew the words, everyone meowed instead. 

Then came a very weird and brief staging of the opera “Carmen,” complete with the Mime as the bull.

Another great quote, a twist on a familiar one… “Live more, think less, and dance as if all of it is ending.”

From arrival to departure, the entire experience is about five hours long and I loved it.  I am considering going to see the show I was supposed to see tonight on Friday or Saturday but am playing a lot of stuff by ear.  I am definitely feeling better but I don’t want to push it so London might get the short shrift this time around.

We’ll see what tomorrow holds.