We all see it out of the corner of our eyes — the name begs us to give it a try, and our stomachs heartily agree. "The Globe," a quaint little pub tucked on a side street of Covent Gardens that shares its name with the famous Shakespearean theater, couldn't have been more perfect. We sit down inside, promptly ordering the classic fish and chips. As we wait, a stout, gap-toothed, friendly middle-aged man comes over. He introduces himself simply as "H.R.," the owner. We start to talk to him, how he left Bangladesh for London to take advantage of the better wages, with him adding in how much he loves Americans ("Americans. I love Americans — they the nicest people in the world!"). He asks where in America we're from, and we tell him Los Angeles. He points with a finger to a wall of pictures, one of with a signed picture of Hillary Clinton. "Hillary Clinton come here — I get her autograph. Senator from L.A. come here. That's picture of us." He flashes his gap-toothed smile. We all laugh. We continue talking with him — about LA, Washington D.C., Bangladesh ...
"We take picture, yes? I put you on the wall," he says suddenly, picking up one of Sarah's fries directly from her plate, munching nonchalantly on it. "I eat her old fish, no?" He chuckles, reaching over her shoulder again, picking apart a piece of her fish with his fingers and popping it in his mouth.
"So we take picture? I come back. Hurry, finish your food. Hurry, hurry. You finish. I come back." We all laugh as he takes one last fry and walks back behind the counter.
After a while, H.R. comes back to check on us. "I buy you drink, no? We celebrate! I be back, I buy you drink." He comes back with a bottle of champagne, helps Erin crack it open, and we all toast to our first day of class and to H.R. After a glass and a shared plate of brownie and ice cream between the four of us girls, we believe it's time for the check. We are worn out from the good greasy meal, the delicious brownie and ice cream, and an hour of non-stop laughter.
We take the picture with H.R. on our cameras and he gives us his card, saying, "You send picture, and I put it on the wall." We tell him we are coming back in two weeks (after our trip to Stratford) and we'll send him the image, then come back to take a picture of ourselves next to our picture on the wall. "Very good! Very good!"
We sit down to talk for a bit more until we feel sleepy and content and H.R. is fast asleep in a chair, arms crossed over his belly, a small glass of red wine sitting untouched in front of him. We say goodbye as we get up and remind him we'll be back in two weeks. He groggily wakes up, nods, smiles, and waves.
And I get to thinking, perhaps in 10, maybe 20 years, I'll come back to the quaint little pub off a side street in Convent Gardens, see our picture of four young girls in the heart of London, and remember what fabulous adventures I had with such fabulous company.
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