Metra

Friday night started out simply enough – go to Leicester Square to find a club.

Or at least we thought it would be that simple. We went to Bella Italia for dinner, where the food was about £7-10 and was okay, I got some pesto pasta that kinda messed with my stomach, but there was a delicious “Godfather” dessert that we all shared that was chocolate ice cream, whipped cream, and a brownie. Yum.

Then we got ready at the hotel, and headed off on the tube. After a lot of frustrated arguing about prices of clubs (they’re all so expensive!!), we chose Metra. The drinks were disgustingly pricey – they promised us a free shot of tequila, Chris ordered one and it ended up costing a ridiculous £7. The cheapest thing was a glass of wine for £4.50 & a beer for £5.70, but who knows how bad the wine was, and personally I hate Beck’s beer which Chris ended up getting. We danced off all of dinner’s calories for an hour or so, and me & Sarah hit up the stripper pole for a few minutes. Kara & Brittany met British boys(!) who were cute but their friends were pretty meh so me & Sarah & Chris wandered off to see what else the club had to offer.

Then we met Trina & Mustafi. By accident we had stumbled into the champagne room, but we ended up sitting down after the extremely intoxicated Trina invited us. Over the course of the next hour, I had a lot of alcohol breathed in my face when she “sang” songs, she asked Chris, and I quote, “Would you like to fuck my man? He has quite a big dick.” Mustafi was kind of a creeper; he told me about his friend that got kicked out of the UK for dealing kilos of coke and is now in Long Island, and offered Chris some ecstasy. We were also molested a bit by Trina in her effort to compare chest sizes, she told us that she was classy but from a rough neighborhood (she’s a lush but somehow in Law School), and learned that Mustafi’s 25th is on Monday. The two most frustrating parts of the club were that Chris wasn’t allowed on the pole ‘cause he’s a guy, and the worst, MY NAME. I am OFFICIALLY changing my name for the next four months. I mean, I knew from Austin Powers/the English language what randy means, but I got SOOOO much flack from Mustafi for it and I’m afraid of what others will say. At least five times *as he stared at my cleavage* I got “your name is Randy? I won’t be forgetting you…” Apparently I’m also “shy.”

The rest of the night was a disaster. Long story short it took an hour and a half to find a bus, and along the way I ate the world’s worst hotdog and stepped in vomit. Not fun. My favorite was a homeless guy who was playing “When the saints go marching in” on his recorder (horribly), and I said “Aw, that’s probably his only possession.” Brittany, really pissed off “He should learn how to play it better.” I guess serious clarinet players take that stuff seriously.

We also went to Westminster to see the abbey, Big Ben, and the London Eye.




Here's photos from the last few days!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2014744&l=1d796&id=1379550005