Misnomers

It has come to my attention over the past week or so that the name of this blog is not entirely accurate. There are rhinos in London. In fact, there's one in my flat - albeit a small stuffed rhino from my pen pal - but even beyond the walls of my room, London is apparently teeming with rhinos. It's a bit odd, given they are so close to extinction. But my discovery of the various rhinos of London brings us back to my weekend with Andy, which I have promised to recount.

In a weekend full of adventure, Andy and I saw The Importance of Being Earnest (though my close personal friendship with Oscar Wilde did not earn us free seats), adventured to Greenwich to meet Andy's friend Norbert (where I met a Dane and bonded with him over our shared enthusiasm for Jon Stewart and our shared incredulity for Newt Gingrich's moon base plans), and went to Camden Market in search of leather pants for Andy. We also went to a trivia night Sunday night with some of my other friends. We were warned that there wouldn't be any American questions. Not a problem. I just needed my trivia fix. Away from Phil, the king of New Hampshire trivia nights, I was suffering from a spot of separation anxiety. Also, my useless knowledge was going to waste. So we settled in for a few hours of trivia. I startled everyone in my group - and the room, for that matter - by getting an obscure British pop culture question correct. It didn't help us. We came in last.

"There's no shame in coming in last," the host told us. We weren't ashamed anyways, but have vowed to brush up on British trivia.

But what of the rhinos? They didn't ask me how many kinds of rhinos there are (five) at trivia. The rhinos were discovered after our afternoon with Oscar Wilde.

Wandering back in the direction of my flat, Andy and I happened upon a gentlemen's club: The Spearmint Rhino. I've learned from the internet that such gentlemen's clubs also exist in the United States. But standing across the street from the Spearmint Rhino, I was confronted with the sad realization that I had misnamed my blog and that I probably could not hang out at the Spearmint Rhino. The fake mustaches back in my flat could only do so much for me.

But there are rhinos in London. There might be more, too. I haven't been to the London Zoo yet, but if it's worth its salt, there will be at least one kind of rhino. And he will be named Bertram. It just seems like a good name for a rhino. No matter what his name may be, I was left with the knowledge that a strip club had made a liar out of me like it had probably done for so many before me, although in a slightly different sense, one assumes.

Solace came to me on Wednesday. Our history of London walking tour led us from the monument of the Great Fire of London around to St. Paul's. On the way, Katy led us down a street called Threadneedle Street.

"What kind of business do you think was on this street?" she asked.

"Tailors?" someone in my class said.

"No."

"Prostitution?" I offered.

It was. Katy told us it was originally called Gropecunt Street, but as sensibilities changed they altered the name. Apparently vague innuendo is more acceptable in street names than clarity. Either way, I think the City of London and I can both chalk the names up to creative license.