I've always thought of myself as a reasonably big Beatles fan. When I was growing up, they were the only pop music my mother would agree to listen to, so we wore their greatest hits albums pretty thin through many evenings cooking dinner together. I was always on their side in the inevitable Stones vs. Beatles debates (though I do admit that the intro to Gimme Shelter is one of my favorite musical moments). I knew the rudiments of their history, at least that Ringo wasn't the original drummer.

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I've recently left London to research Cambridge for a few days. My time here, though extremely pleasant, has been a little disconcerting for a number of reasons, including, but not limited to, the following:

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Through some incredibly handy family connections (probably the first time I've ever been able to say that), I manage to score myself a private tour of Westminster Abbey. I arranged to attend Evensong and then meet my contact, a sacrist at the Abbey, after the service. Things got off to a slightly rocky start when I turned up for church. Knowing that many travelers (cough *and Let's Go researchers* cough) like to check out famous churches during service times to avoid paying admission fees, the Abbey posts staff members to make sure that anyone who comes in for Evensong stays for Evensong. I run up, a little late, in my usual work outfit of flip flops and backpack (though I did at least put on a dress that day). The marshall at the entrance gives me a slightly skeptical look. "Are you here for evensong, young lady?" I explained I was, that I was a guest of one of the priests, and that there was supposed to be a seat reserved for me "in Quire." The skeptical look deepened, "Alright, go in and tell that to one of my colleagues down the way." This interaction was repeated three or four times, until finally I was told to stand aside from the trickle of visitors coming in for the service. I loitered, feeling super awkward while all the tourists thought "clearly she's one of us, come on, she has a BACKPACK." Finally, just when I had been handed off to yet another staff member who seemed about to banish me to the plastic chairs of the tourist quarter, my sacrist appeared. He greeted me enthusiastically, told my current handler to deposit me in one of the fancy pews of the choir, and scurried off to vestry. I confess I looked a little bit smug when my legitimacy was at last confirmed.

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Terms of endearment with which London bartenders have addressed me:

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There's a running joke in the Let's Go office that some day I'll write Let's Ho: Prostitution Around the World. Given that my previous Research Writer stints have involved Thailand (including a 5-day visit to Pattaya, renowned for its prevalence of sex workers) and Amsterdam, I've become a touch accustomed to the presence of flagrant prostitution in the cities I'm researching. Ignoring my personal views on the ethics of sex work, let's just say that it's been a little weird that so far I hadn't seen a single trace of anything XXX in London (barring a few bars that turned out to be strip clubs).

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