I have been in the UK for nearly a fortnight, and managed to finally check something off from the “list of miscellaneous things to do before dying” list: attendeding my first “proper football” match. After consultation and much debate among my colleagues, it was determined that the match to see this week that was both relatively close and possible to get a ticket for was Crystal Palace v. QPR.

Feeling comfortable with driving from the passenger seat, I decided to take my rental car to the stadium. I slightly questioned that decision after printing directions and seeing the nearly 40 turns required in the 26 mile journey, but a coworker took pity on my plight and leant me his navigation system. Aside from some initial misunderstandings of the robo-British spoken by the navigator, this machine was my saving grace. It has been commented by many in the US that Boston is one of the worst cities to navigate since most of the roads are paved over cow paths, with no real logic or grid pattern. While that may be very true, in the UK they apparently rounded up all their blind cattle, gave them a couple of pints, followed by some low-grade hallucinogenic drugs, then paved over the resultant paths. If it were not for the aid of the GPS, I am firmly convinced I would still be circling roundabouts followed by triangular intersections interlaced with random bus stops to this very day.

The instant I saw the lights of the stadium I abandoned my car in the nearest parking spot, impressed at the availability of parking this “close” to the stadium. A brisk 1.5 mile walk later and I found myself at the ticket window, and directed to the complete opposite side of the stadium for my seats. So much for close parking, but a little walk never hurt anyone.

With about 10 minutes to spare before kickoff, I indulged in two apparent traditions. Since beer is not allowed within sight of the pitch, a small congregation forms around the beer counter, downing beers in rapid succession for appropriate “lubrication” before game time. The cashier scoffed after I meekly replied “only one” when asked how many brews I needed before heading to the food counter for a Pukka Pie. This other tradition is essentially a pastry with filling super heated to instantly inflict 3rd degree burns on the roof of one’s mouth for hours after purchase. It serves as a pocket warmer before providing a strange combination of Indian spices with the British proclivity for putting dinner into a pie format, which as any good world citizen knows is best implemented as dessert.

My seats, while in the quiet section of the stadium were only eight rows back from the pitch, and provided an excellent view of the action by the Crystal Palace net. The first half was dominated by Crystal Palace, by many accounts the better team, but QPR poured on the juice for the 2nd half, nearly tying the game with several near misses. While slightly confused by the penalty calls for no apparent reason, followed by violent jersey tearing and strong arming that resulted in no calls, I kept up with the game for the most part.

The trip home was far more efficient, with only two missed turns, a model of efficiency once again courtesy of my satellite-connected friend, making the entire trip a thoroughly enjoyable venture. It’s certainly an event I’ll remember long after the minor intestinal and mouth damage inflicted by the Pukka Pie disappears.

Categories: Travel
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