1. Ian Downey
8/12/09
High Class at Half-Price
Before I arrived in London, I had one simple goal: simply to live it up. Living it up
consists of the following: Hard, yet glamorous partying; fine dining; hobnobbing with celebrities
and British elite; attending high culture events; and basically doing things I assume the
Vanderbilts do when they go to London.
As I emerged from the tube stop, into a sea of Burberry umbrellas and Gucci rain boots, I
immediately felt too underdressed to be alive.
My journey had been long, smattered with flight delays and crying babies, but in my half
catatonic state, I could tell I wasn’t in Philadelphia anymore. Even in the pouring rain,
everything looked so majestic and clean. Big white houses stood regally as Maseratis and
Bentleys zoomed past, probably carting Heads of State to and from some of the many embassies
lining the streets.
This was South Kensington, the most expensive place to live in the UK, if not the world.
Also, this was the neighborhood in which I would be living for the next five weeks. Just walking
through South Kensington (or South Ken, as I so affectionately refer to it) I felt on my way
towards meeting my goal. If South Ken is good enough for Madonna, it’s safe to say it’s good
enough for me.
I have a few theories about why we were placed here to live and study; the first being that
South Ken is a rather safe environment, full of educational resources like museums, college

2. libraries and a palace. My second theory (and this is the one I’d take to court) is that Temple
University felt bad for us, because they make us attend classes in one of the most dangerous and
impoverished areas of Philadelphia. While abroad they put us up in this affluent neighborhood
because this might be the only chance we get to live and learn in a desirable area, while pursuing
our Temple degrees.
Theories and speculations aside, I knew within the first five minutes that this was going
to be a great place to live. My glamorous British adventure was already up and running. But my
idealistic fantasy came to an abrupt halt when I arrived at my new temporary residence, 13-14
Manson Place. The street, of course, was gorgeous. On the corner was the Kensington Hotel
and the sidewalks were lined with BMWs. However, when I opened the door to my new home,
there was no doubt in my mind that this was, in fact, student housing. The dingy linoleum-tiled
floor was lit by a mixture of yellow lighting and the grey glow of a CCTV monitor. It wasn’t
unbearable, but it wasn’t anything like the interiors of the houses I’d glimpsed through windows
en route. I walked to where an elevator would have been, had it not been boarded up and painted
over. Needless to say, I then took the stairs to the 5th floor. Upon arrival at flat 19, I was soaked
in rain and sweat, because somehow, it took eight tall flights of stairs to get to the 5th floor -- I
guess it’s that signature British architecture. I found my quarters and was tickled-freakin’-pink
to see that I would be sharing a bunk bed.
I know I must sound negative, but honestly, none of this bothered me too much. I was in
London. I was ready to single handedly take this city by storm. The mere idea of being here was
so exhilarating that I would have climbed one thousand steps to get to my flat and slept in a

3. hammock. So don’t for a minute think that I wasn’t absolutely thrilled. I just wasn’t living in
the luxury that this neighborhood had led me to expect.
I had already made some fabulous high-society plans before arriving in London. During
the first weekend of the trip, I was to attend the English National Opera with Belinda, my
cousin’s wife. But this would be no ordinary trip to the opera; Belinda’s brother-in-law,
Roderick, was the star of the show.
The only other time I’d been to the Opera was on a high school trip to the Met in New
York. I hands-down hated it. But there is no denying the prestige associated with the word
“opera.” It brings to mind women in tight corsets with hefty cleavage and high up-dos holding
tiny pairs of binoculars on sticks up to their eyes. These imaginary women would whisper
sideways to their morbidly obese husbands, in custom-made suits, about the stunning clarity of
that alto’s last cabaletta. My experience at the English National Opera was absolutely nothing
like that, but it was still pretty damn cool.
Belinda invited me via e-mail a few days before I left America. She quelled my fear and
mistrust of opera when she told me this one was in English and the director was from Cirque du
Soleil. She promised special effects and acrobatics. I took the Tube to Embankment and walked
up through Trafalgar Square in the pouring rain (sensing a pattern?). I really had no idea where I
was going, so I hailed a cab which took me less than two blocks in under five minutes. I’ve since
worked out that it would have been quicker and free, had I walked. Lesson learned.
Belinda met me in the Lobby of the London Coliseum, home of the ENO. There were
people everywhere. People dressed in furs, and suits and ball gowns; some even in tuxedos. I

4. went for more of a dressy-casual look, as did Belinda, to my relief. I was afraid that I had
dressed way too informally for an event such as this, but it seemed that the dress code varied by
age. The younger you were, the less formal you were expected to be. Had an 80-year-old man
shown up in my outfit, (a yellow button-up shirt, a grey vest and black denim trousers) I’m sure
he would have gotten a few sideways looks, but I, being 21, was quite all right.
We walked into the actual theater and I was overwhelmingly impressed by the ornate
luxury of the hall. The stage was masked by a giant purple curtain, lined and embroidered with
gold thread. The chairs looked as though they had been carved from ancient mahogany, and
upholstered in red velvet. This was the high-class London I had imagined.
The show began, and while some of the music was over my head, I could follow the story
line and I was enthralled with the bright colors and acrobatics. We were sitting so close to the
stage that the steam from the atomizer made me a little loopy; I think I may have actually passed
out for a minute or two, but we won’t linger on this aspect of the story because it’s not very
glamorous at all. The point is: I was super close to the stage and sitting with the lead male’s
family.
After the show, we went backstage to say hello to Roderick before leaving to attend a
party on a boat, (that’s right, a party on a boat) but Roderick had already made his way to the
reception in the SkyBar on the top floor of the Coliseum. To get there, we cut through the
backstage area, and somehow ended up onstage. I took a quick minute to look out over the
empty chairs the audience had vacated. It was an awe-inspiring sight. Standing on the glossy
black stage and gazing at the entire Coliseum made my inner high school thespian whimper and

5. beg to emerge and perform a quick number from Les Miserables or Into the Woods. For the
sake of my dignity, I conquered the urge, and continued after Belinda to the reception.
When I got to the SkyBar, I could see Roderick and his fellow cast mates enjoying beers,
sans their costumes and make-up. So there I was, at a private party for the cast, crew, friends,
and families of the English National Opera, sharing quality conversation and an open bar. I
walked over to the window that over looked the city, and thought: This is it. This was my goal.
And it’s just the first weekend.
I’d like to tell people that my whole trip was like this. But for the sake of journalistic
integrity, I feel compelled to let you know that aside from a few more isolated incidents, the
glamour level went way down.
Any high-class activities in which I participated during this trip have been the result of
luck or other people’s goodwill. I attended the opera as a guest of my cousin in-law. I enjoyed
High Tea at the Orangery at Kensington Palace, because our professor scheduled it for our entire
class. There was a night I partied until dawn in the VIP section of an already very exclusive
club, but, again, that wasn’t my doing at all.
A group of my flat mates and I went out to the nightclub in question, called Monroe’s
No. 5. This was a nice place; like a really swanky, wealthy kind of nice. This club had
gorgeous baroque style fabric wallpaper, dark hardwood floors and beautiful people everywhere.
Somehow, two of my friends managed to befriend a restaurateur who took the three of us into to
the VIP lounge. It was pretty much like the rest of the club, except for the constant premium
bottle service and the air of superiority. This was another instance of “living it up.” I was

6. hobnobbing (as I so eloquently put it earlier) with London’s social elite. To the naked eye, I
could have been mistaken for a member of London’s social elite.
We must have gotten cocky, because the next night my flat mates and I tried to go to
Bouji’s, a club in South Ken that is best known for being a favorite of Their Royal Highnesses,
Princes William and Harry. The club had just recently been in the tabloid headlines because,
allegedly, Cameron Diaz got punched in the face there earlier that week. Still riding the high of
being VIPs the night before, we all got dressed up and walked around the corner to England’s
most exclusive club, where we were promptly denied entrance.
We had signed up on some bogus Internet guest list, but when we got to the front, the
doorwoman gave us a curt “Sorry guys, I just can’t do it tonight,” and there was just no arguing
with her. We had nowhere to go but home, so that’s where we went. Back at Manson Place we
sat around and discussed our utter mortification at being turned away. My self-esteem had never
experienced so many ups and downs in such close proximity. But that’s what happens when you
try to be something you’re not. Just because I could have been mistaken for a British socialite
one night did not, by any means, make me one on the next.
It’s all about who you know, though, isn’t it? I’m sure the friends of royals and celebrities
get the same luxurious treatment as their richer and more famous friends. So I was thrilled when
I found out that-- thanks-again to my friends-- I would be meeting and hanging out with a
celebrity! If you can believe it, people in the UK are even more celebrity-obsessed than we are
in America. If you’ve ever done anything at all that might make you a little bit famous, London
is the city for you. It’s also the place to be if you want to meet, or even just catch a glimpse of a

7. celeb in the wild. Befriending a celebrity is one of the coolest things a person can do. It was also
a part of my initial set of London Goals.
Celebrities, in general, are glamorous, rich, and popular. Ours was a cast member of
MTV’s Real World vs. Road Rules Challenge: Evan Starkman. So, as you’ve probably already
guessed, I’ve been using the term “celebrity” pretty loosely throughout the previous paragraph.
It was still an interesting experience to be sitting in a room and drinking a beer with someone I’d
seen on television countless times. He wouldn’t be able to get us into any exclusive events or
introduce us to movie stars, but he was staying in a really beautiful flat, not to mention he was a
genuinely friendly guy.
Operas, nightclubs and pseudo-celebrities are all pretty good indicators of success in my
quest for high-status-London-life, but there is one more example which best illustrates my point.
I call it “stuff.” Or more specifically: “Buying stuff.” No matter who one is, where one is from
or where one goes, one always shops on a trip. In London one inevitably goes to Harrods, the
world’s most famous department store. They are famous for selling literally everything—and
they have everything. Think I’m kidding? Try and find another store that sells both fossils and
robots.
When I walk around that store all I see is rich people buying clothing worth thousands of
dollars and jewelry worth millions. Now if I were living out my opulent London fantasy, I
would be seen in Harrods, browsing the Burberry trench coats, or grabbing a few Prada suits for
the weekend. In reality, you’d find me at Primark.
One could say that Primark is a giant warehouse of cheap fashion, but it’s so much more

8. than that. Imagine a giant room filled with racks of clothes and packed with bargain shoppers.
Now replace the shoppers with crack-heads, and the clothing with crack. If you can get out of
Primark alive, you have earned my respect. If you can get out of there alive and with a decent
outfit, you deserve a medal.
Primark is what I am, while Harrods is what I’ve been trying to be. And the truth is, I
can spend all the time I want walking around Harrods, but I’ve never left there with more than
three macaroons.
I think the juxtapositions of what my goals in London were, and how I executed each one
really show how I can put up a façade in order to help myself believe that I can be more than I
am. And there’s nothing wrong with that, because in the process of pretending, I have grown.
London provides so many opportunities to waste money, and grow as a human being. So what if
I didn’t find out what it’s like to be a Vanderbilt on vacation? I still had a blast; and I know that
for a fact because I ran out of money. There is nothing that screams glamour and excitement like
charging a $3.00 sandwich to my credit card at Heathrow International.