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Take my advice; never travel to London at Christmas.

All the sights are there to see, of course. The cityscape is inviting with clean streets, polite denizens, helpful city workers, impressive architecture, decent pubs, and safe neighborhoods. One has every incentive to explore the multitude of offerings on foot.

Tired as I am of seeing so many European churches, the views at night can still draw moths to the flame.

Fortunately, there are more choices for the nocturnal tourist than the liturgical leftovers of London. Some of relatively modern sights are well worth a gander in the darkness.

I see you there. Pensively demanding examples.

All right, dear reader. How about if I smack you upside the imagination gland with, oh, say, the Tower Bridge? It might do. Perhaps you rather fancy the London Eye?

Maybe a stop in Piccadilly Circus. A stroll through Chinatown and Soho. Or just wandering Camden.

And if you get lonely at night, you can duck into any London phone booth to call a friend.

Just remember, tovaraş, Big Brother is watching you.

Despite a well-earned reputation for poor weather, London still manages to ensare the camera lens and captivate the visitor. Whether it’s the ring of Big Ben inside the clock tower of Parliament, an invasion of Imperial Stormtroopers, an exquisition original collection of Salvador Dalí, or interacting with local street performers, there are a variety of attractions to enjoy.

London is so energetic, you’ll find Santa playing rock-n-roll in the metro.

London is so exotic, even a urinal sports a penis.

London is so erotic, theatres feature porn for the dyslexic filmgoer obsessed with fat men in red suits.

You see, it’s not that you cannot have a good time; it’s just that you cannot get out. That’s the rub.

Catch-25, if you will.

For it is a well-kept secret that the entirety of the United Kingdom comes grinding to a halt in unison on Christmas. You can guess the usual suspects: attractions, museums, stores, shops, restaurants, and more.

But I wouldn’t waste your time, devoted reader, with closures of the obvious.

No, no. They close down the subways. They shut down the trains. They cancel the buses. They silence airport shuttles. The entire infrastructure of public transport is effectively dead. And tumbleweeds blow down empty streets.

The truth is hidden from travellers. Tourism websites make no mention of this vital fact. And it runs contrary to most of the rest of the world, which leaves visitors caught in a lurch.

Does your flight arrive in London (Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted) on Christmas day? Plan on amusing yourself at the airport because you’ll never arrive at your hotel.

Heaven forbid you have to switch airports to make a connection. You won’t get there.

And what if you’ve been visiting London and your return flight departs on Christmas?

Firstly, you will have already booked your hotel in the central London area for the duration of your stay because you figure the morning will provide plenty of time for the one to two hours journey to your outlying airport. Piece of cake.

However, once your ignorance has been burst by faint rumors of uniform closure of public transport and airport transfer services, you might immediately and incredulously begin inquiring of tube attendants and train station personnel the nature of Christmas day services.

The pity in their voices, as they realize you’re not inside the English circle of trust, adds insult to the injury of their confirmation that — in fact — no transportation of any nature whatsoever will be available for tourists on the day in question.

You panic.

You’re going to have to blow your last day in town on a scramble to locate sleeping quarters nearer to the airport, after cancelling your existing reservations under financial penalty, and packing your belongings for the early and unexpected trip out of London before they shut down.

Madly slapping at the face of your laptop keyboard, desperately wringing the very neck of Saint Google for answers to your accommodation prayers. Booking systems show full hotels. Emails from inn owners politely turn you away. Small bed & breakfasts show no signs of life.

When a ray of light shines through the clouds, you seize upon it. A room. A pillow. Near the airport. Good enough. Now, you have to pack up all the things you weren’t quite ready for, instead of having a good time on your vacation to London because the bastards close down the city without bothering to tell anyone about it.

This all takes place on the morning of the day before you even need to be at the airport. Because, of course, you’ve got to check out of your current hotel and their policy says 11am. And, so, while it’s far too early to go to the new hotel 90 minutes away, you dump out onto the public streets carrying your luggage.

It’s then you notice you’re not the only victim.

In fact, much of the local populace seems to be spending their Boxing Day inside the hoity-toity glittershops of Soho which leaves the balance of London to trickle a rag-tag army of trolley dragging, bebackpacked, and exasperated tourists everywhere you look.

Apparently, these are your competitors who must have somehow learned about the blackout faster than you and subsequently booked all the hotels while you were still eating orange marmalade at breakfast tea.

Fast foward.

You spent a couple hours playing the part of baggage-toting tourist. It’s dark. You’re at Victoria station — which you had to walk to from another tub station which cost you $3 because the tube Victoria Line stops at Victoria station were cancelled — to locate the last bus of the night which will take your companion to her own outlying airport which, infuriatingly, is different than your own.

You’ve got to manage to traverse the city to the St. Pancras International train station where you can hop onto the last ride to your own airport so you can spend a boring night by yourself. Amazingly, Victoria station actually has outbound tubes on two other lines but not its’ namesake (which is the one going to St. Pancras).

You’ll have to go the wrong way in order to change lines and wait around for a $3 tube going back in the right direction. A costly detour which results in your being late to St. Pancras. In fact, just as you hit the escalators you can hear the last train of the Christmas holiday, which goes to your airport and for which you prepaid a whopping $26 fee, pulls out of the station without you.

A uniformed employee ropes off the tunnel and sends you back to the information booth for alternative transportation tips. That booth is now closed, though just one minute ago it was open. So, you ask another staff member for assistance.

“Take the tube to Victoria Station on the Victoria Line. If you hurry, there’s still time to catch the train to Gatwick from there.”

Explaining that Victoria Line doesn’t stop at Victoria Station earns you a surprised look. A bit of fumbling eventually suggests you can take the Northern Line south. Spend another $3 to Tower Bridge station where you may have a small chance of catching the train.

Zoom! (You’re gone.)

At the Tower Bridge station, the subway is crawling with metro workers trying to sweep lost passengers out of the rapidly closing tunnels. They’re not even running a full schedule tonight, but are closing down services early.

Apparently, the train left some time ago. Employees want to know why you didn’t just go to Victoria Station where you could have caught the train. After sharing the news of closure, you’re advised to find a bus to East Croydon.

So you head outside and talked to the few bus drivers that will bother to open their windows when you knock. None of them are going to Croydon and none of them know of a bus that will. Not around these here parts, stranger.

Talking with a policeman bears the suggestion you should probably just hire a taxi. Although, he admits, it may cost you $200 or more.

The two tube security personnel kicking stranded people out of the building confide that there’s a long shot to go to Elephant & Castle station for another $3 tube ride, but only if you leave right now, and maybe there you will possibly find someone who knows something.

Zoom!

Waiting for the next set of subway cars, it begins to dawn on you that the train has probably already left Elephant and Castle, if ever stopped there to begin with, while you’re still here waiting for metro. But what else are you going to do?

Of course, Elephant and Castle is your last stop on the tube because it’s a one-way roach motel. Humans come out, but they cannot get in. It’s closed. Talking to a security member, you’re directed to some roach-infested, coffee stained “mini-taxi” hole-in-the-wall who may take you to the airport.

They want $120.

Walking back to the tube station to check with a different uniformed staff, you get advice on how to catch the last bus out of town to Croydon. From there, you’ll be closer to Gatwick and may be lucky to find someone who can help.

Zoom!

There’s no telling how much the bus ride actually cost you, but your prepaid Oyster card is now empty. You can tell because the card reader is beeping angrily at you as you board the bus. You look at the driver as if to say, “wtf?” In the Christmas spirit, he shrugs a “whatever” and motions you to take a seat.

Seventeen days later, you’ve crossed three galaxies to reach downtown Croydon. Outside the semi-warm confines of the swirling the bus cabin, the crisp cold air of December nights has not deterred several hundred local kids who are staging miniature riots in front of several night clubs.

Apparently, you look a little funny in the dark, carrying your bags and trying to get your navigational bearings. Their laughter is reward for your efforts to entertain them. But where you can find a bus to Gatwick or a taxi or just about anything, really?

Who knows. The buses are dark. Sleepy drivers refuse to answer your knocks. Mini-taxi stations do not exist. Drunk pub goers seem to be draining the city of normal taxis, each time they stumble out of a bar.

You opt to walk around a little, hoping to find a street sign of some kind showing the way to Gatwick but for some reasons all roads to lead to somewhere else. You circle back to the downtown party riot laughing Croydoners, intent on stealing one of their cabs.

It works.

You manage to flag down an eager driver who sees your luggage, realizes your probable situation, and quickly pulls over with dollar signs in his eyes. Climbing in, he verbally informs you that since it is now after midnight and officially Christmas that his mileage rates are 150% of what’s currently shown on the meter.

“So, how much to Gatwick?”

He wants about $160, basically $10 a mile, which seems like a bit of highway robbery. You throw your bags inside, but do not get in yourself until you’ve had a chance to haggle him down a little.

He reluctantly agrees to do it for the rate on the meter (which you already know is double normal fare because of the holiday). You barely afford the fare with cash on hand. The legal fare eats up $122 to go less than 20 miles. And, sadly, you didn’t have enough in British pounds, so you had to suppliment with actual US dollars.

So, you’re at the airport. Hoorah? No, because you need to make it to your hotel which will cost you another $10. Time for the bancomat, frate.

Except it’s Christmas. So the charge for the airport taxi to your bed is now running $20. And it’s nearly 1am. So, yeah, like, uh, whatever. Let’s go.

The cabbie doesn’t bother to help with your bags. He can tell you’re not going to tip him. You get your hands dirty opening up the hatchback on his filthy wagon.

At long last, you’ve made it to the bed & breakfast! As the cab drives away, you hear the sound of someone coming to open the door you’ve pressed the buzzer on. A young lady answers with some trepidation and surprise.

“Hello. I’ve got a reservation here tonight.”

“Are you sure? We’re not expecting anyone.”

She lets you inside from the cold and the two of you try to sort out the difference of information. Fortunately, there’s a room available but the downside is she helps you realize that the taxi driver, in fact, has dropped you at the wrong place.

The names of the two B&Bs are similar, but this isn’t where you have a room booked. She’s super helpful, even at this early morning hour, and prints out a Google map of where your hotel is. A little over a mile down the road.

Saddle up your bags, it’s time for a walk down the dark streets of this semi-rural village. After a couple of minutes, you hear shouting behind you. You turn around and off in the distance you can see the same woman in her pajamas and slippers trying to get your attention on the windy and wet street.

You head back and she apologizes for having told you the wrong direction to walk. But, hey, instead of just leaving you to the wolves, she had the integrity to get her feet cold just to help you. So, you thank her profusely.

Time passes, like the cars pass you and you pass the drunks stumbling home.

And there it is! The destination you’ve battled for. Shivering, you rap at the windows, ring the bell, and shake the door handle for a good 10 minutes before giving up. The owners aren’t about to come let you in. They’re hiding inside like you’re some zombie attacking the compound bunker.

What will you do now? It’s well after 2am.

So, you load up your gear once more and hoof it back down the lane. Stick out your thumb in vain hope someone might stop and save your feet from the swelling blisters. But you end up walking over another mile all the way back again to the person you last saw awake.

You ring. Twice. She answers, clearly awoken after having just fallen asleep. She let’s you in, gives you a key, and settles the bill.

It’s nearing 3am. You need to use the pay phone to call your companion and make sure she arrived at her hotel with less trouble than you’ve had over the past 6 hours. But the phone won’t make international calls to a Romanian mobile phone and you don’t know the local London hotel phone number.

So, you ask the poor girl at the front desk if she could possibly turn on her computer and get the number for Holiday Inn at Luton becasue, you explain, the payphone won’t allow calls to Romania.

Her eyes widen.

“Romania? I’m from Romania.”

“Nuuuuu…. din unde eşti?”

“Petroşani.” Her wide-eyed gaze begs to know why you speak romaneşte.

“Aşa e. Am fost locuiesc la Braşov doi ani.”

It seems her family runs the guest house near Gatwick airport. And I was fortunate to have accidentally bumped into yet another example of Romanian hospitality on a dark, rainy night of endless struggle. Rooms were simple, clean, and comfortable.

A little small talk later, it’s time for somn uşor. And five hours later, I was on my way to Gatwick in another $20 taxi.

Thanks, Maria. You saved my ass that night.

As for the rest of you, here’s the travel tip: don’t count on being lucky enough to stumble onto the kindness of Romanians. Just avoid London during the Christmas holiday like the plague. Its’ depth of sucktitude is interminable and insufferable.

(Most photos by she, a few by me.)

It feels as though I were almost acasa again. Dar, home is where the inima is.

Ce faceti acolo?