So, I check out and book two nights at a hostel near Hyde Park and aim to get there early, drop off my bags and explore London. It’s actually not too bad getting to it, I only backtrack and look at my shoddy London map a couple times.

It’s not even been two weeks since I was there, and I already have a hard time describing London. Everything, like the rest of England, is so old, but it’s also just so overwhelming, moreso than New York. It seems more spread out and its directions and boroughs make a lot less sense (streets aren’t straight and don’t create a friendly grid). That said, it’s probably the most multicultural place I’ve ever been to. English was practically the second language.

After I unpack my clothes at my new hostel I realize I had forgotten my Rick Steves Travel Towel at the previous hostel. I got one night and two uses out of it. Fuck. (I would e-mail the previous hostel several times and they were never really clear if they had it, and backtracking for no reason didn’t appeal. So I paid a few pounds for a crappy towel at my new hostel. Better than not showering.)

The first time I really start enjoying London is when I wander throughout Regent’s Park. The public (and free!) park is massive, beautiful, and while there are a ton of people milling about, the city feels about as far as home. There are gardens, quaint cafes and eateries, and most importantly, according to The Regent’s Park website, this is the only place in Central London where you can see hedgehogs. Because coffee sucks, I stop at a delightful little establishment called The Honest Sausage.

Naturally I order a sausage and bacon roll, sit inside because it’s chilly and drizzling, and start reading and people watching. This is, despite having “bacon” on my burger the night before, when I realize that bacon in England is not exactly what has made Ryan and Barrett ejaculate all over the place during their fabled lives. In the UK, bacon is basically ham/Canadian bacon. It’s good, but it’s not bacon. Fuck London.

Not really. But anyways, this is when I introduce the unofficial book of The Journey, if you will. It is The Alchemist written by Paulo Coelho, as recommended to me by Ryan. He lent me the book over giving it to Megan Fox even, that’s how much it meant to him for me to read it, though I think it was because he had to after promising to on MDMA the weekend before I left. I began reading it in Seattle, and read snippets here and there on the plane and in my hostel before I slept, and while it’s not a long book, I finished the second half at the Ole Sausage, stopping after every few pages to kind of sit and stew in it, and because it was taking me forever to eat my mediocre roll.

The book is about people following their personal legend and achieving greatness and happiness by doing so, and about how so many people just don’t do that, or lose themselves along the way. It’s a stretch to say that sitting in The Honest Sausage was the first step on my journey to enlightenment, but reading this book was, or at least helped justify my decision and brought back all the teachings from Dr. Mosher at Ithaca College, a kind of course correction from where I strayed. It’s just fantastic, and really was the tonic to the shit that I had gone through up to that point. After I finished, I had an idea to write an inscription in the cover, the previous owners/readers (Ryan and myself) and a way to contact them (e-mail) and perhaps pass on the book to fellow travellers and see what comes of it. I haven’t followed through on it yet, but I still like the idea. I’ll buy you another copy Ryan.

After that, I wandered Baker Street and saw where Sherlock Holmes lived (yes, I know he didn’t live at all) and then trekked to the British Library figuring they’d have computers to use so I could figure out what my next move was. No go, that’d be too easy, after all.

That evening I met a French girl named Laurea, who was staying in the same room (it was a mixed dorm of about 8). Our girl wants to go into tourism and is moving to England to learn English. She’s studied it for 7 years and we barely understood each other 40% of the time. What I did understand was that she was pretty boring. We went out for a couple drinks and dinner (she chose a lame Italian place) in Camden Town, a place that reminded me of Capitol Hill on crack with a shot of the Pike Place Market. We stumbled into Oxford Arms Pub (a very cliché name, it turns out) for a beer, where I encountered a beer with clearly the best name in history: Greene King IPA. Brewed for over two hundred years and probably created by my ancestors (this might be my first clue to discovering the Greene Castle or some hidden fortune), so naturally, it tastes like shit. It’s no Seattle IPA, boys and girls.

From there we go to some crazy Zulu/Actec night club within Stables market that was dead since it was about 630 PM for a cocktail (which may or may not have been The Gilgamesh), and then a beer at The Toucan in Soho, a sweet little pub that introduced me to my favorite part of England thus far: you can drink outside on the sidewalk! Hurrah! Then we enjoyed said Italian place and after that Laurea was ready to go home, and I was ready to go out, having had a few pints and a cocktail.

I went to Covent Garden, but it felt like the Charlie Brown music was following me wherever I went, and didn’t have the energy or excitement to make a night of it on my own, so I quickly went back to the hostel and mercifully, went to sleep.

Sidenote: While Laurea wasn’t up for a night out, she had just flown in from France, and I can’t blame her for not wanting to go out with a random stranger in a big city. Of course, that actually turns out to be quite commonplace, as I’d find out. I’m not sure what she thought of me, because we hardly connected on anything and I bothered her about her netbook whenever I could, but she was the first of many people I wasn’t able to retain contact info with because I didn’t yet have a phone, a stable internet connection, or even a facebook profile someone could search easily. But I didn’t know that yet. In this case it wasn’t a big deal because she wasn’t good looking.

Next time on The Wanderer: Andy gets less depressing and boring.

Yeah, I should’ve had a map too. London’s fucking huge. And confusing. It’s a good thing I bought a day pass, because I got off several different times at the wrong spot. Now, it’s silly, because I actually got a hang of the Tube by Day 2, but that wasn’t really the problem. It was getting from my stop to my hostel that was tricky. But this was still my first day, after a long flight, minimal sleep, and a heckza amount of stress, y’all.

It became a comedy of errors and a parade of middle fingers in my general direction for a few hours more. I got to the hostel after an hour or so, lugging my two bags with me, sweating everywhere, and relieved. I give him my name and he checks, double checks and he tells me that there is no such reservation and that they are all booked up for the night. I kinda wanna cry, but I give a croaky laugh and ask where the nearest hostel is, or at the very least, the nearest internet cafe. Because, mind you, I didn’t have a phone or a computer, or anyway to find a hostel besides door to door knocking, which didn’t sound very appealing, but may have opened some interesting doors. Lame, sorry. But seriously, how did people live in the world without the internet, phones and whatnot? Kudos to you folks.

Anyways, he badly directed me to a nearby internet cafe, winning the award for the least helpful hostel worker I’ve come across to this date. I pay like 3 pounds to use the internet for a half hour (which is like 5 bucks), I search and find a hostel, book it properly this time to ensure a bed for the night, and then get back on the tube. I get lost a couple more times, but after arriving in London at around 11 AM (3 am my time), I get to my hostel at around 4-4:30 PM (subtract 8 hours, I’m not your servant). I don’t think I can think of a time I wanted to be home more. Europe? More like Eurape.

I haven’t eaten anything except a package of gummy lifesavers for about 20 hours, so I go to an English pub called Stanlope Arms, enjoying sitting on a shitty stool made for dwarves. I thought it was unique enough, but basically in England 80% of pubs look alike, and are actually owned by a central parent company. So I basically ate at an Applebee’s Pub. Once I got about as settled as one can get in a hostel (drop your bag, lock up your valuables and lay on your bunk without hitting your head on the ceiling or the bunk above you), it got better. I talked with the three crazy Australians who had been travelling for about 10 months and a friendly Canadian. I slept from about 8 pm to 8 am.

And that’s it so far. Whew. Sorry to those who actually read that. It’ll get better.

Next time on The Wanderer: It doesn’t. No, it does. Or does it? I kinda forget.

Europe is gonna love me.

But, let’s not be too hasty. I’ll rewind a little bit. My name is Andy Greene, though I’d be shocked if any one actually reads this blog who didn’t already know that. After graduating to much fanfare at Ithaca College in 2010, my plan was to save money and write screenplays in preparation for kicking LA’s ass. It’s almost 2012, and I think I’ve written 12 pages of various projects, worked as a bus boy, waiter and teller, discovered a few excellent porn sites (xvideo, what up) and disappointed/shamed family and friends by blowing over a .20 while driving my family’s minivan in route to my grandmother’s house after my only night out in Lake Tahoe. So…I think I have the tabloid part of Hollywood life down, at least.

About a year after graduation I shifted gears (soberly) from going to LA completely unprepared to continuing to save money for a trip to Europe. I’m not entirely sure what I hope to accomplish in my travelling, but I knew there’s gotta be something out there, and that if I can’t write or be inspired by any of the gorgeous and annoyingly historic sites I’m about to see, then I can cross off being a writer for awhile. For awhile I’ve thought that life should be about living it, having fun, meeting new people, falling in love, trying new things and not working 9 to 5 enduring the daily routine, so it’s ironic that I worked at evil Bank of America to support these goals (mind you I’m technically on a six month leave of absence so, ahem, I love BOA).

Besides, I’ve found that I like to write about what’s happened to me, and well, here’s the result. This blog, with the help of Barrett WS himself, will at the very least keep my parents abreast of what nationality the breasts I’m sampling are, and if that didn’t do it, will scare most of my family and friends away with my embarrassingly raw honesty and will insure my single-dom for a very long time. Anyways, back to the trip.

The woman checking my bags (a Kelty day bag courtesy of Bank of America points) warns me about buying a one way ticket into London. She tells me to be prepared, and have better answers for her questions than I did. Note: this is blatant foreshadowing for those that watch MTV.

After an eerily similar goodbye to my parents to when I first went off for Ithaca, I was on the plane, nervous, petrified and at least half erect for what’s to come.

In all seriousness, the trip, in fact, did immediately pay off. The second I closed my eyes, ideas came for writing about my trip, about this blog, about Back to the Future 4 (where I’d play Michael J Fox’s/Marty’s son) but for various reasons it’s taken me awhile to begin chronicling my adventure.

I fall asleep before we even take off and despite expelling my bowels prior to boarding, I have a pang in my loins indicative of my college drinking years. What happened to my bladder? I feel like Bryan. It’s gonna be a long flight, and hopefully, a long journey.

Don’t international flights offer free booze? I was under the impression that they do. That’s codswallop; at least on Icelandair. I use the last of my U.S. cash to order an Icelandic beer named Tuborg which I think the old gentleman (who turns out to be Danish) recommended. It tastes like Heineken.

The rest of the flight is a kaleidoscope of Icelandic music, Ashton Kutcher films and neck ravaging airplane sleep. Aside from his good looks, I now know why our boy has such a big career. He does gangbusters overseas.The old Danish guy next to me watched No Strings Attached TWICE (to be fair his head fell forward during one of his naps which fast forwarded through the whole thing and I don’t think he knew how to work the screen) and finished the flight off with the first half of What Happens in Vegas. Two little known facts: Lake Bell is in both of these movies, and Ashton Kutcher movies look great on mute.

I’m very random, and get used to this, because fuck organizing, that’s why anyone can be a blogger (that and it’s easy to do drunk), but my first epiphany. My new goal in life is to have been to every place listed in Jlo and Pitbull’s iconic collaboration On the Floor. LA, NY, Vegas, done. Africa, Ibiza, Brazil and Morroco yet to come, but instant gratification: when I land I can cross off London.

Anyways (my 3rd favorite word), I land in London and it’s go time: customs. I am called to the lady furthest on the left, but after our favorite backpacker who got facebook friends took 9 seconds and a laugh to get by the older bespectacled gentleman in front of her, I stop by him. I made a huge mistake.

He asks me how long I’m in London, where I’m staying and going, and when I’m flying back. He wants to make sure I’m not bumming around Europe, not looking for work, not a terrorist. Fair enough. Well, I can’t lie, so I say I don’t have a return flight because I wasn’t sure what airport I would be flying out of because I bought a Eurail pass through Europe, etc. etc. etc. It sounded way less smooth than that and he not so kindly pointed out that London detains the second most Americans at the airport than any other country in the world. Gulp. He grills me for more information, and since my plan was to have no plan (smart move, Andy), I pretty much crumble. I explain I want something to write about, and well, he responds that I might receive that, just not what I want, which is exactly what I was thinking. He also makes a comment after I said I was going to have an adventure and fun, that he wasn’t having any of that at the moment. He asks me to sit down for a moment. I’d been in London for an hour, and it might be my last. The trip may not even happen. I’ve heard of (hell, I’ve had it on occasion) premature ejaculation but this shit is ridiculous.

The chap comes back, because you have to call British people something loopy, and we go to search my bags. He sees I’m backpacking, and I think the first time I received any points in my favor was when he asked me what was in the bottom pocket of my backpack and I said “I believe condoms and sandals.” He checked, laughed, and said it was good protection for Europe. And he meant the sandals. But he wasn’t convinced, and when he asked me what my budget was, I responded, and he wanted proof. I didn’t bring with me a receipt, which take note, is VERY helpful, so we went to an airport ATM to see if they would show my balance. I was bleak at that point, but fuck yes, the numbers I said I had showed up, and after waiting another few minutes, he stamped my passport, and I was in.

Fuck. It was an omen for things to come.

Next time on The Wanderer: Andy gets lost. A lot. Andy gets screwed. A lot. And not in the good way. Andy wants to go home. Andy likes typing in the 3rd person.

Before I sign off, I’d like to thank Barrett for putting together this website. Mind you, I’m writing this blindly. It could be an ugly fucking chut of a website, but then again, that’d fit. But seriously, any satisfaction derived from this blog wouldn’t be possible without Bear-it’s kind contributions.