Day 4 - The Homeward Crawl

I decide to walk home. My first stop is in Soho, at Shakespeare's Head. I down a half pint of Staropramen (another Czech beer) and soak up the atmosphere. It is already crowded even though it's only 4 o'clock and twilight has only just commenced its gloomy procession.

 A woman tries to fit her pram between a bar stool and some tables, a man leans forward and a young blonde listens semi-entralled, a family sit in the corner.

With my trusty street directory (kindly donated by my formerly English dad) I orient myself in the direction of Paddington. At first it looks like I've entered a bleak quarter, with only the wind for company. But soon I come across Marlyebone Road, then Marlyebone Pub. This place proves a watershed in my beer drinking history, for I order none other than a Fosters.

"You can't get this on tap in Australia," I tell him excitedly. "Is it worth getting a pint of?"
 "Not really."

I get a half.

Cool house is playing, there is one TV, attractive mahogany decor, and, or course, no pokies.

My attempt to talk to two young, mildly pretty English girls is met with a neutral reaction. Hearing the word "Australian" gave me an opening.

One of the girls intends to go to New Zealand. I agree that Australia is overrated. Forgive, my fellow Aussies - I was flush with the London experience.

Despite the bashful giggling of one of the girls and her particularly flirty hair shuffling and wrist flashing, I felt I wasn't welcome in the conversation so retreated back to my beer.

I was attracted to the next pub by its opulent exterior, and its proclaiming, "We serve real Thai food". I had already decided the evening's meal to be beer, so ordered a Kronenbourg, which, despite its bad reputation in Australia, was bloody good!

This pub - The Windsor Castle - is worth a visit. Figurines, photos and paraphernalia adorn the walls and sit inside cabinets. Everywhere were photos of the Queen, mugshots of Prince Charles, a painting of Churchill, someone who looked like Paul Hogan, and Mrs Ernest Simpson (whoever she is).

Two very attractive Costa Ricans were fortuitously sitting to my right. How do I know they were Costa Ricans? I asked one while her companion was powdering her nose.

Despite an initial blunder - hearing "Austrian" instead of "Costa Rican" and saying her country sounded like my country - the conversation went refreshingly well. She was staying in England for 11 months to improve her English. She had practised extensively before she left and it was already very good - much better than my French. Besides, she could have a conversation that lasted longer than three minutes. Her voice was laced with sonorous Spanish inflections - I would have been more than happy to tutor her in English and listen to those sultry tones recite the Song of Solomon.

Her equally glamorous friend returned and I received a couple of sweet goodbyes, despite not actively seeking them. I left several moments later, content with having broken the silence that sometimes descends on solitary travelers.