don’t know why, but I have a long-standing fascination with going out dressed in different places. I have been out in cities as far away as Honolulu and Seattle, as well as some more local ones such as Baltimore and Washington.
As a person who gets to travel quite a bit in the course of my work, I had thought about dressing in a foreign country, but there were always too many practical obstacles to doing so. That is until this winter. I have many relatives in England and have made any number of visits over the years to see them, always accompanied by my wife and children.
As it happened, some family business called me back in late February and, with everyone either working or going to school, I found myself boarding a $300.00 round trip United Airlines flight to Heathrow all by myself.
I had planned to spend most of my 12 day vacation with relatives in the North of England, but took the liberty of booking myself into a hotel for three nights in London prior to flying home. Care to guess what I had in mind?
In the days leading up to my trip I must have gone through my entire wardrobe twice trying to decide what would be right for three nights and maybe a day in drag in a world capital.
I finally settled on a basic black wool suit, a black polyester evening suit, and a deep red equestrian jacket with black velvet collar. I matched a few extra skirts, suitable blouses, and two pair each of mid-heeled walking shoes and high heeled evening pumps. Add the cosmetics and accessories, and boy oh boy, for three nights I had an entire piece of luggage filled! As a topper, I own a black wool trench coat by Jones New York. It was an expensive purchase, but as it buttons both sides and has no real feminine aspects other than a little shoulder padding, I wear it dressed as both a man and a woman. It has proved invaluable and undetectable. It was my main coat for the whole trip.
I was told by someone much wiser than I to make sure I had a few contact numbers in London before I got there, but all I did was take a page out of Tapestry Magazine that listed some. I figured that would be good enough. Browsing the Internet for information would have been a better move.
Now one of the sticking points of international travel is baggage examinations and Customs. Your bags are x-rayed going aboard and subject to search on arrival. I wasn’t much worried about arriving in England, they have a basic "Nothing to Declare" exit line that subjects you to only very rare inspections. But I wasn’t so sure about the U.S. Still, there is nothing inherently illegal about having a suitcase stuffed with women’s clothes, and I had my fall back lines "My wife is meeting me" etc. all worked out. Didn’t stop be being nervous at the prospect of facing some big American Customs guy who is holding a pair of pantyhose in my face. Well, I figured I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
My first "moment" (drag nightmare) was at Newark Airport where I was told the x-ray machinery was not working, so every bag had to be inspected by hand. And so my carefully packed "two-suiter" was popped open, revealing all the above mentioned clothes, etc. After running his hand through everything, a little too thoroughly in the lingerie section, I thought, a very effeminate young man said to "zip up". I looked down, but he meant the suitcase. And that was it, off to "Jolly Old."
On the other side of the pond
Customs in England was, literally, a walk through. After a week or so with family, I arrived back in London on a Tuesday afternoon. I use a very special hotel called the Merchant Navy Hotel, located on Lancaster Gate in Central London. Its a great spot, close to an Underground station and walking distance to the best shopping in town. The catch is that to stay there, you have to be a merchant seaman and be able to prove it. I am, and could, and have stayed there before, but the clientele is as you would imagine, mostly ship’s officers with or without their wives. Not exactly the most inconspicuous place for my comings and goings "dressed". And the lobby layout is such that you can’t sneak in or out, you have to brazenly pass right alongside the front desk. Still, when you’ve come this far and planned so long...
Before the going out, I had to know where to go. I found out right quick that everything in the magazine page was obsolete. Not one contact number came through. My next step was to try a newsstand and see if I could find anything about London’s night life that might be suitable. I was looking especially for TG/TV type places, but anything Gay would have done. There was nothing in the mainstream or fringe entertainment press. Hmm.
The last resort was the Yellow Pages. Yes, they have that there. I looked up "Gay" and found quite a few listings that seemed promising, including a few for Gay related publications. I dialled something called the Gay Resource Center. It wasn’t what I thought, it actually dealt with matching businesses or something, but the guy on the other end of the line was friendly, heard out my little tale of woe, and took pity. He gave me the name of a pub called the City of Quebec, about a fifteen minute walk from my hotel, and said I could find the Gay literature offerings there. So I went, still in "drab".
Once I got there, I had no trouble finding the papers I needed, plus I got into conversation with the bartender and a few patrons. They were kind enough to make suggestions as to what places I might like, and which to avoid. I went back to the hotel to dress, happy to have a plan of action.
This was all still uncharted waters. I had noticed quite a bit about women’s fashions walking around Liverpool and London. Its a lot like New York. That is, there is no defining hem line, skirts go from micro-mini to ankle length. Coats were likewise, but for the most part, the women wear far more skirts and somewhat higher heels than American women do, with straps and chunky heels very popular. Virtually no one wears sneakers and socks with a skirt, even when commuting. I tossed aside my daytime walking shoes. I picked the black suit jacket for the first night, with a long black wrap skirt, and high heeled "T"strap pumps. It was pretty dressed down, but I didn’t feel too adventurous, clothing wise.
I took the elevator down to the lobby, buttoned and belted my coat, and strode out into the night like I owned the place. I must admit, it was big thrill for me to actually be walking down a London sidewalk in heels. I smiled all the way to the City of Quebec. The passerby on the sidewalks reacted, lo and behold, exactly as they do in New York. No reaction as all. Quelle surprise!
Pubs, Bars and Clubs
I must now give you a brief primer on drinking in England. There are three distinct venues for alcohol. The most popular and best known is the pub. Most of them are exactly like the image they conjure up; dark, lots of wood and overstuffed furniture, a long bar and some very small tables, generally quiet, except for the rumble of conversation, lots of smoke. Pubs are the epicenter of English social life and most of the clientele have a "local," a pub they go to above all others. It can make them cliquish and a bit cold if you’re on your own. They specialize in heavy English beers, although you can buy a lager if you want one. Above all, pubs open at 11:00am and close at 11:00pm, a real comfortable time to go home to bed. There must be thousands in the City of London.
The next level up (or down, as you prefer) is a bar. English bars are like some American bars, city style. They have lots of chrome and glass, serve mainly lager (read Budweiser) beer and spirits, have a younger, more gregarious crowd, and are much livelier places compared to the pubs. They also have music played loud, mainly rock. Bars open later and close later, usually about 1:00 a.m,, but they aren’t exactly common. You need to know what area of town to go to.
The last level I stopped at is the club. These are few in number, you need to know where they are, but huge in space. They don’t open until 10:00pm and run until about 4:00am. They are just like Limelight or Webster Hall, multiple spaces with different themes, masses of people, very loud music with a pounding beat played by D.J.’s and a very eclectic clientele.
I was told about some places called after hours clubs, but it didn’t appeal to me being up all night. I always wonder about the occupations of people that manage to close places like that around 6:00 a.m. Do they go directly to work? As what, surgeons? air-traffic controllers? demolition experts?
Oh, one last thing, liquor is expensive in England and is measured out by the "Gill", smaller than a shot. And no one ever free pours drinks, everything is measured out. It costs a lot to drink too much.
The bar scene
Anyhow, my first stop at the City of Quebec (its on Quebec Street) was about what I expected. Lots of Gay older men standing along the bar taking, smoking, reading, and drinking beer. I breezed in and ordered a double gin and tonic. Boy, was I out of place. Now I had told the bartender earlier that I moved in drag, and he said no big deal, but it seemed to be one. I took my coat off and sat near the door and had my drink, then decided, "to hell with it" and strode right down the middle of the pub to the Ladies room. I certainly got their attention.
One drink on an empty stomach gave me some Dutch courage and so on to a bar I was told about on Charing Cross Road called, simply the KU (pronounced Q) Bar. Also a Gay establishment, it meant taking the Underground. And so I did. And that apprehension vanished as riding the Underground is no more intimidating than the New York Subway. It isn’t any cleaner, quieter, or more comfortable either, and its more expensive. The trains seem to be more frequent though. Of course, the Underground stops running between 11:00 p.m. and midnight, something to keep in mind.
The KU Bar was as described above, some very friendly people, a really mixed crowd with a fair number of women. On thing that struck me walking from Charing Cross Station to the bar was the number of people, and the number of young people especially, that were on the street. In young I mean the 18 to 25 age group. Then I remembered that the drinking age in England is 18, so they are all out doing so. The same for the bar crowd. It seemed strange to be drinking with what looked like kids. Still, no problems riding the trains or walking the streets.
I was told of a sort of nightclub called "Madame Jo Jo’s" that was a do-able walk from KU Bar. I had been told there were drag shows on weekends and all manner of strange people during the week. My kinda place. After a few drinks and some nice conversation I decided to give it a try. It was approaching 11:00 p.m., about when these places get organized, but the streets were still full of people as I made my way there. Big mistake.
I should have known when I was asked for a 7 pound cover charge that this wasn’t going to work out. I hadn’t run into a cover before and I though it a bit high for early on a Tuesday. Still, I had come this far and only had a few nights, I laid out the money and went downstairs into a relatively small rectangular space. The bar was to the left, and at the far end was a sunken area of seating and a small stage. For some reason it reminded me of the late Sally’s II. I was told on arrival that there was only music that night, no floor show. I had a very expensive drink served by a TS, one of several apparently working there as hostesses. As nothing was going on and I was sitting at an isolated table, I decide to leave about midnight. As these things go, I was amazed to see that by then, every table and chair was occupied and when I reach the door, there was a line to get in. I consider the place a tourist clip joint, you know, "come and see the wierdos while you’re in London", and I found out later that I was mostly right.
By now I had had enough fun for the night, and I caught what turned out to be the last train to Lancaster Gate. The guard slid the metal gates shut behind me as I walked off to my hotel. Which had the door locked. I had to buzz for the night porter to let me in, which he did with a smile and a "pleasant evening?" "Yes, very" I replied, and hit the stairs running. Not much chance of slipping past in that situation.
The next day
The next day I visited tourist attractions and did some more fashion watching. By 5:00pm I was getting ready with no real plan of action. I love the theater in New York and London and have seen many productions each city. Except in New York I have seen as many "dressed" as not. Time to work on the other side of the ocean. I had seen advertisements for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest "Whistle Down the Wind" all over London. It hasn’t made it to NYC yet. I decide to give it a try. I put on the red jacket with a black velvet skirt, white high neck blouse, sheer nude hose, and a pair of high heeled black fabric ankle straps. I liked it.
I took the underground to Covent Garden and immediately got lost when I came above ground. You know, one of the great things about New York is that, for the most part, you can’t get too lost. I mean, you are always going uptown, downtown, or cross-town, and go one block the wrong way and you’ll know it. Not London. Its as confusing as Boston, my worst nightmare in a car. And upon leaving an Underground station it can be a real challenge to find a particular street. Shows in London start early, 7:30 p.m., so instead of fighting my way there, I grabbed a taxi to the Aldwych Theater and got there about two minutes to curtain.
To my immense surprise, there is a "stand-by" price for shows at the box office (there is also a version of TKTS in Covent Garden). I paid only 7.50 pounds for a 35.00 pound ticket. Nice. Not a really great seat, but unobstructed, first balcony, halfway up. I’ll mention the show at a different time.
At intermission I went to the Lobby bar for a drink. Remember I said drinking was expensive? Well, not very many people came out to the bar, and I was left standing fairly openly in my red jacket and above the knee skirt. What can you do? I took some looks, but finished my drink and saw the second half of the show. When it was over, the pubs were about shut, so Underground to KU Bar again.
At the bar a person was circulating with a card allowing reduced price admission to a club called "Heaven". You had to be in by midnight, so after a drink I again hit the Underground and went back to Covent Garden. "Heaven" was pretty nice and, as I said, a lot like Webster Hall. There was a small cover and a metal detector. And I got lucky. I met my first TV in one of the dance areas (there were at least three). She turned out to be a lawyer from Oxford that was in town for a convention. We talked about things in common and I found out she never dressed in Oxford, too small a town, but never missed a chance in London. And the center of TV/CD activity was a hotel called the Philbeach. After a couple of hours dancing, drinking, and talking to some of the sometimes unusual but very diversified crowd, my new friend drove me back to my hotel. Where I had to get buzzed in again. This time I greeted the night porter with a big "Hello!" Thus, night two.
The last day
My last day in town I did some shopping and had a really big pub lunch. Apart from the full English breakfast every hotel serves, I hadn’t eaten much. The lunch begat a nap, and while I had planned on a shopping expedition to Harrod’s in drag, by the time I was ready to go, it was too late. I wore the black wool suit with a much shorter skirt and the T-straps again.
I had made a mental list of "things to do dressed in London" and I had done a few of them, missed one (Harrod’s) but figured I could do some others. So Underground to Embankment and I walked around Trafalgar Square, down to the Thames, and along the bank. I walked past the Houses of Parliament and the Westminster Clock, heard Big Ben strike, and then went past 10 Downing Street.
The security in the area was intense, lots of police and lots of cameras. I wondered if they picked up on me going by. Boy, what an idea for a terrorist, go in drag! When I reached Trafalgar Square again I grabbed the Underground to High Street Kensington, since my acquaintance of theprevious night had said the Philbeach Hotel was somewhere in Kennsington. I came up next to a department store on a main road and so got to do some shopping in my favorite clothes. Now encumbered with shopping bags, I decided a taxi was in order, especially since I didn’t know where I was. Well, it seems my friend didn’t either, because the Philbeach is in Earl’s Court, a completely different Underground stop. Not to worry, London cabbies are nothing like the New York version. They actually know where things are.
The Philbeach Hotel is located on, of all things, Philbeach Gardens. A lovely old facade contains a lovely, old, hotel. But it is very, very, transgender friendly. I no sooner stepped in than I met two CD’s sharing a drink in a small alcove in the Lobby. Directly back from the entrance is the "Wilde About Oscar" restaurant. Down a flight of stair is a quiet bar called "Jimmy’s". There I found about a half a dozen CD’s drinking and talking. My friend from the previous evening had left. The conversation was lively and interesting. Most of the group had come from around England and were taking time out to dress and socialize. I met a person from Toronto, also on her first time out dressed in a foreign country. There is a curious business being conducted there. Apparently an ex-TG performer keeps a room year round. It’s full of clothes, shoes, make-up, etc. She (Bobby, Billie?) pays for it in a few ways. First, you can pay a few pounds to use it to change in. If you’re a regular, you can rent space to keep your wardrobe. Finally, if you are from out of town, you can rent an entire outfit. Some of the TV’s at the bar changed twice while I was there. The best part is, if you stay out late, the Front Desk will let you in to change back or return the clothes. Pretty neat.
Although I had planned on leaving after a drink and moving on to something else, I found myself enjoying the company and staying longer, until it was too late to go anywhere. Most of the group were going out to a once a week drag evening at a bar in the area. I almost went, but the setting was off public transportation routes and I wasn’t secure in a ride back to civilization, plus the place was (I’m told) a converted warehouse with loud music, bright lights and expensive drinks. I had that the night before. So I hung out at Jimmy’s and a well turned out 24-7 TV, an author of a book being made into a movie (!), drove me back to my hotel. I meant to bring my night porter (named Lucky of all things) a flower but I forgot.
The next morning I had an early flight, early departure from the hotel, and guess who checked me out? Yelp, Lucky. Now he had seen the coat I was wearing about five hours previous, and its unmistakable with the AIDS pin in the lapel. Still, he never batted and eye, just asked if I enjoyed myself in London. I assured him I had the time of my life.
Homeward Bound
The trip home was uneventful. Customs in Newark used the same procedure as London, walk through the gauntlet and see if someone wants you to open your luggage. No one did. So, what did I accomplish? I rode the Underground, shopped, went sightseeing, did the theater, and tackled the night life, all dressed up. What did I miss? I didn’t ride a London bus, didn’t shop Harrod’s, and didn’t walk past Buckingham Palace. Well, next time.
All in all, my experiences in London were not much different than New York. People in cities like these are a lot alike. They don’t take much notice to begin with, and they are accepting when they do. I never felt uncomfortable (except maybe at the theater), never got the cold shoulder or grudging service. I was treated as a woman when I was dressed like one. I couldn’t be happier with the outcome, and if you knew the foreboding I had the first time I hit the sidewalk in a skirt, you would understand how excited I am. I’m also pleasantly surprised that the Merchant Navy Hotel management didn’t call me in for a little talking to about my evening habits. For what its worth, the cleaning girls are all East Indian extraction and I’m sure they started discussing me one morning when I came down for breakfast. Two of them looked right at me and got very conspiratorial, giggling as I went by. Maybe I’m paranoid.
One very important thing is that I have now laid the groundwork for myself, or anyone else, to go and enjoy the pleasures of London. I have the information at hand and will make it available. I will tell you again, dress your age and the situation, make your presentation fit the circumstances, and go out and enjoy yourself. I always say there nothing we can’t do "dressed", and though I’m not amazed anymore when this proves true, I am always pleased.
