It is really quite a spectacle, and it is a lot of fun to watch (160Cong.Rec.S2681)

I have never been one to follow the crowd, but that doesn't mean I don't like watching it. Especially when the people are wearing funny hats. As I headed into central London on a recent weekend, I got to gawk at all the fans heading to the Royal Ascot races, a world-class horse race more famous than the Kentucky Derby. I'm no Tim Gunn, but from what I could tell, the spectators out in full force at Waterloo station were adhering to the strict dress code.

Me being without a proper hat -- and race tickets -- I headed, as per my plan, to Picadilly Circus, the Times Square of London. Apparently, I beat the rush, as the sidewalks were relatively empty, compared to train platforms (left). But as I walked to Trafalgar Square, my actual destination, I encountered people lining the streets. They were gathered at the starting line of the Modball Rally Europe, a race from London to Barcelona through Paris, Milan, Rome, and Monaco (right).

I'm more a fan of cabaret than cars, so I walked on past to West End Live, an annaul event that features sneak peeks of shows currently playing in London theatres. (Yeah, that's right theatres with an R then E.) Sticking with the "mod" theme, I showed up just as the band from Sunny Afternoon was performing; the musical details the rise to fame of The Kinks, one of the early leaders of the mod movement in Britain (left). Trafalgar Square was packed, so I watched snippets of Memphis the Musical, Matilda the Musical, Miss Saigon, and Phantom of the Opera on a huge TV screen next to the actual stage (right).

 

Appropriately enough, it started to sprinkle during the Les Misérables set (left), so I decided to call it quits with the showtunes. The songs were great, but actually, my favorite performance was by the puppeteers who play Joey, the star of War Horse; I couldn't believe how convincing they made his equine movements. It was almost more shocking than the fact that Bradley Cooper can convincingly play the lead in Elephant Man (right). Stage magic, I tell you.

By the time I left, there was a line waiting to get into West End Live, and it was difficult to walk through the throngs around Picadilly Circus, so I was happy to escape to Pimlico, the district known for the former home to Winston Churchill and its Regency architecture. To the south across the Thames from Pimlico Gardens, I saw a drastically different type of architecture: the new U.S. embassy, whose scheduled opening in 2017 has not been well-received by everyone.

Across the street to the north, in St. George's Square, there was a very welcoming atmosphere at SouthWestFest, where a person dressed in a rabbit or chipmunk or rat costume was greeting people (top). I was expecting a larger community festival, but the Gala Day was more like the lawn fetes of my younger days, except with trampoline-bungee jumping (bottom left) and a slide as tall as a cathedral (bottom right).

The festival offerings were a bit different, too. I wore lots of sequins when I twirled baton at some school fairs, but my costumes had nothing on some of these main-stage acts. I should probably know what country these people are from because of the flag, but I'm not going to lie, I don't (left). (A free place to stay in London is up for grabs for anyone who figures it out.) When I was a kid, if I was lucky, my parents would let me bring home the goldfish that I won in the fishbowl toss, but I'm not sure they would've let me buy a "smelly ball" (right). A schweddy ball for 3 pounds maybe, but a "smelly ball" for 3 pounds is simply highway robbery.

There were no schweddy balls on offer at the festival food stands, so I headed to Pimlico's main drag looking for sustenance. During a previous day out, I didn't order any pub food because I didn't want to seem out a place, so I was happy to see plenty of people dining when I walked into the White Swan. I doubled down on pubbiness with a steak and ale pie with a Frontier, a "new wave craft lager" from Fuller's, on the side. With my belly full and skies gray -- and no more funny hats in sight -- I called it a day.

It is my honor to celebrate her birthday here with you (160Cong.Rec.E859)

So the Queen's birthday is in April, but because it's good to be the queen, she gets to decide when to celebrate her special day. So in a bid to avoid downpours, she has elected to hold the Trooping the Colour in June instead (left). As the beneficiary of a July birthday that got little recognition during my school years, I was surprised that such a spectacle would be held in the summer, especially because of the heat. Luckily, the weather this year was cloudy and mild, so despite their big, fuzzy hats, members of the Queen's Guard could keep their cool (right). I didn't see a single one faint from dehydration or sunstroke, which apparently has happened during previous celebrations. 

The ceremony starts with all the guard regiments "marching on" from Buckingham Palace down the The Mall. I managed to find a good vantage point from my seat on the stairs next to the Institute of Contemporary Arts, where I could watch the parade on the tablet of the woman standing in front of me (left). Technological documentation abounded, and even police officers were helping out, encouraging the crowd to wave at a picture-taker (right). 

All the regiments are ultimately headed for the Horse Guards Parade, which I could barely spy through some trees full of patriotic schoolkids (left). This year, one cute kid who got to meet the Queen was socked by a soldier, but if you want to see better-behaved troops, you should watch the BBC video of the full ceremony. I couldn't completely distinguish all of the troops, but some of the last to pass were the Life Guards, the senior regiment of the British Army, who stood out because of their red tunics and white plumes (right).

Absolutely last in line for the parade is the royal family. Prince Harry was seated in a carriage with Duchesses Kate and Camilla Parker Bowles (left). Hubby Princes William and Charles weren't with them because as colonels of the Irish Guards and Welsh Guards, respectively, they were on horseback. This year, the Welsh Guards had the honor of presenting the final colours to the Queen because it was their 100th anniversary. The Queen rode by just a few minutes before 11 a.m., the precise time she is appointed to reach the grounds (right).

At this point, I took my leave because I couldn't see the actual ceremony, and afterward, the parade basically is repeated in reverse. I decided to toast the Queen with a pint at The Ship & Shovell, the only two-part pub in London. I enjoyed a Badger First Call, a traditional English ale, in the northwest portion, which has continuously operated as a pub for 220 years (left). The southeast portion is 330 years old, but it has only been a pub for the last 25. One pint didn't seem enough of an honor, so I headed to The Harp, which promotes itself as a "craft-beer pub" (right). Indeed, I was able to sample Hophead by local Dark Star Brewing Co.; the beer was quite enjoyable, but it wasn't even close to hoppiness level of some "Hopheads" I've had in the States.

While I downed my two beers, I gleaned a little about British pub culture. No matter how small the actual bar -- the one at The Harp was about 10 feet long -- there will be multiple bartenders behind it. And they are needed as soon as the magic hour of noon hits; seriously, The Ship & Shovell was empty until 12 p.m., when at least 20 patrons flooded in all at once (yes, this means I was drinking before noon; don't judge). Feeling slightly more educated, I stepped out on The Strand, one of the main streets in the West End Theatre District, just in time to see the Royal Air Force Red Arrows shoot overhead. Apparently, the air show usually is more elaborate, but this year, it was limited because of the low cloud cover.

I took a short stroll through nearby Trafalgar Square, where people presumable more tipsy than I like to act as if they are riding its iconic lions (left). The square is full of statues of people on horses, but I particularly liked the skeletal equine on one pedestal: Hans Haacke's Gift Horse, commissioned by the London mayor to replace a statue of William IV on horseback in front of the National Gallery, which is on the north end of the square (right).

I had planned to have some pub food along with my pints, maybe a chip butty or a savory pie, but no one else was eating, and I didn't want to be culturally inappropriate. So as I headed back to the Tube, I stopped at Herman ze German for a filling chiliwurst and frites with curry sauce (left). With the suds soaked up, I strolled along the Victoria Embankment, from which I could view the London Eye (right), before hopping on a train home.

Market practices that are more comparable to what is found in London (SerialNo.108-75)

I've been in this lifestyle long enough to know that if things are running smoothly, you should get suspicious. So as I was making my uneventful exit from the U.S. of A, you can bet I was getting worried. Everything was going a bit too much according to plan -- well except for that whole visa thing. Vet appointment -- check. Pet health certificate endorsement -- check. Apartment cleanout -- check. Dog drop-off at cargo -- check. Luggage drop-off at check-in (with no line!) -- check. Rental-car return -- check. Security checkpoint -- check. Dinner with beer and an hour to spare -- check.

So yeah, I was pretty sure that Sage was going to somehow tumble out of the plane mid-flight. But no, I arrive at the airport in London, and by the time I get through Customs my undamaged luggage is at baggage claim. A few hundred feet away awaits my driver, whose ample van is only a few more feet away. In about 15 minutes, we're at the Heathrow Animal Reception Center to pick up Sage; they tell us it will be about an hour wait, so we go chat about FIFA and Route 66 over coffee at a nearby gas station. 

When we return, Sage is almost done being processed, so I just have to chill a little while longer in the waiting room, where a man tells me has been waiting seven hours. Turns out, his vet in Omaha, Nebraska, didn't complete the correct paperwork, which sends me into flashbacks of a crying episode in the corner of a Mansfield, Ohio, vet's office. 

But just then Sage emerges, no worse for wear, and we head to my apartment, encountering little traffic, and soon my sponsor is handing me the keys to my apartment, where we drop my bags before a short stroll with Sage around the neighborhood. All in all, besides barely managing to stay awake until 10 p.m. my first day in London was smooth sailing.

My first full day in London didn't seem like it was going to go so well -- at least at first. After walking the dog, taking a jog, and getting some groceries, I decided to head out for some adventure farther afield. I planned to indulge in the Streatham Food Festival, the highlighted event of which is the Sunday Food Fair. I was a day early for that, so I thought I'd give the Streatham Farmer's Market a try. I walked the entire length and width of the Streatham Common, which is about the same size as half the National Mall, looking for the market, to no avail. I even scaled the steps of The Rookery in search of food stalls.

Well, if I had read carefully, I would've seen that the festival is held on Streatham Green, which is not the same as Streatham Common, even though it just so happens to also be very green. I stumbled upon the green by taking a vastly circuitous route back to the train station from whence I came; the small park was two blocks in the opposite direction I walked when I initially left the station. The market turned out to be quite small, about a dozen stands (left), but I managed to get the last pulled-pork kimchi-slaw sandwich with sweet-potato fries from one vendor, which I scarfed down while watching a local singer-guitarist sing "These Boots Were Made for Walking" (right).

To make the trip worthwhile, I thought about participating in the Streatham Food Tour, but that just involved more walking, down the neighborhood's High Street. So instead, I threw in the towel and hopped on a bus to Brixton, where I could catch the Tube home. But lo and behold, right next to the Tube station is Brixton Market, which is probably the greatest market in the country (top left). No seriously, the National Association of British Market Authorities named it the best private market in 2013. There were so many outside stands, including those there for the Bakers and Flea Market, held the first Saturday of each month (top right), that I almost walked right past the wonderful meat cases and skylit cafes of the indoor Brixton Village and Market Row (bottom left and right, respectively).

While wandering around outside, I came upon a sign directing me to Brixton Brewery, located in arch 47, under the Victoria Tube line (top left). The owners have done a great job of making a small space inviting. I enjoyed their Atlantic American Pale Ale (no, I didn't just get it because it's American; the bartender and a patron recommended it) as I sat at a wooden table within the arch (top right). But if you want to get some sun, you're perfectly welcome to day drink next to the forklift across the street, as I saw two guys doing (bottom). This can be done unironically because Brixton is like Austin combined with H and U streets in DC. Ironically, there is a Brixton bar on U street in DC.

As I made my way home, I found where most people were doing their day drinking: at Pop Brixton, a collection of stacked storage containers filled with beer and food stands (left). It's kind of like the Half Street Fairgrounds adjacent to Nationals Park in DC, except with less cornhole and more hipsters (right). Not being hip myself (and not being hungry after my pulled-pork sandwich), I decided to call it a day.

During the trip home, I encountered some public-transportation delays that allowed me to ruminate over the lessons I had learned so far. Because I was in London, not DC, the delay was relatively short, so I was able to quickly reach only three conclusions: 1. A "common" has little in common with a "green." 2. Day drinking alone is depressing. 3. Sometimes suspicions are unwarranted, and things turn out all right.