Something to write home about

Going out in London is a lot like going out in Bloomington: the shorter your skirt is, the cheaper your drinks are. Except our drinks (actually, drink) were still $19 a piece.
We wanted our first clubbing experience to be extravagant, so we went to a swanky joint called The Electric Birdcage. This is because birdcages are the major part of the decorum, including, but not limited to, a bar in the shape of a birdcage.

It cost us 10 pounds — $20 — just to get in, despite the fact that we are American and therefore exotic. The language barrier of English to English was unsurpassable. We stood mute in front of the silent doorman, expecting him to open the rope to let us in. Instead, he asked us slowly, “Whose gueeeeest list ah youuuuu on?”

We glanced at each other. Guest list?! We’re American! Aren’t our patriotic flag T-shirts enough?

“Oh, we didn’t know we needed to be on a guest list,” we said, lips trembling.
“That’s fine, 10 pounds please,” he demanded.

Out of our pockets went the money, and into the club went the two naive Americans.
The club was comprised of two major rooms: one for the techno-loving males, and the other for everyone else in the hip-hop area. We sold our souls for two drinks and awkwardly began attempting to “dance.”

Everyone in England can dance. Except us. And none of our new English friends were afraid to tell us. One of them, Devon, challenged us to show him our most original dance moves.

After showing off our amazing retro disco moves, Devon pretended not to be impressed. So we had to pull out the big guns: the shopping cart, salt and pepper, sprinkler, etc. He was baffled and bowed down to the dancing queens.

However, there was one area of expertise Devon thought he could certainly teach us a thing or two about: sarcasm. It doesn’t exist in America. Or at least that’s what we told him. What Devon didn’t know was we wrote the book on sarcasm, and we’re not being sarcastic about it.

After he tried to explain the finer parts of British humor, we realized we had beaten him at his own game. This called for a round of drinks in our honor, which he either couldn’t afford or forgot about once he reached the bar.

When we weren’t drinking, we were noticing all the familiar songs from three years ago in the states. Or from our parents’ high-school proms.

A remix of “Holiday” and “Milkshake” blared through the speakers, which was confusing and refreshing all at the same time.

As Bloomingtonians, our musical palette is of the utmost importance to our everyday life: voicing musical concerns is a large part of democracy.
“Oh my gosh, I love this song! let’s dance.”

Gotta love the First Amendment. Express yourself.

When the night came to a close, we departed with tears in our eyes and limps in our steps. To immerse ourselves in British culture, we shoved our feet into heels, but danced like we were in tap shoes. Our feet have still not forgiven us.

As we fought to stay awake on the 3 a.m. bus ride back to our flats, the other passengers gave up the fight and snored loudly as the bus slowly inched down the streets of the West End.

With our flag T-shirts drenched with hard-earned sweat, and our feet still aching from the first night on the town, we hobbled back home and collapsed on the couch, just like in Bloomington.