COLUMN: A very British Valentine's Day

From Daniel Fienberg's, "The Fueb Orubt: London Cast," Fall '98 From Daniel Fienberg's, "The Fueb Orubt: London Cast," Fall '98 Somehow the legs sticking out from under the stall at the West London McDonald's seemed very appropriate. The snoring which accompanied the feet and resonated throughout the toilet (loo?) (WC?) (Gents?) was equally in order. The fact that the sleeping man was swathed in fairly expensive trousers also wasn't disturbing. Nor, finally, was the single red rose on the tan tiling -- an effort of flora which Dorothy Parker no doubt would have shunned. The English don't really celebrate Valentine's Day in quite the same manner as Americans tend to. The Peanuts Valentine's special wasn't aired even once. Nowhere in the city of London could I find a single bag of decorative cinnamon hearts. And while the card industry was active, it was exceptionally subdued when compared to the orgiastic revelry that Hallmark seems to want to spread. A brief discussion with my British peers revealed no overlapping memories of passing out cards to each and every person in your elementary school class. While generally people seemed somewhat apathetic about the holiday, the press was adamently anti-Valentine. Between February 7 and 14, no fewer than three local publications ran either articles, columns or editorials advocating the demise of this "Day of Lovers." And the only distantly romantic story covered involved Posh Spice's engagement to a Manchester United Football player, a union which prompted the British media to make that burningly passionate query, "So how much are they worth now, anyway?" The happy (if brain cell deficient) couple just smiled and showed off luminous rocks, seemingly proving that in an ideal world, Narcissus really could marry Narcissus. Still, the final stake in the NECCO heart (probably tenderly declaring "Fax Me" or "Love Me Cyber Honey") of the holiday was provided by a group expedition intended to allow a legion of Penn students to wash away the blues of either being single or missing loved ones on the other side of the pond. I'm Henry the Eighth, I am. It's hard to tell whose bright idea it was to make a day of it at Hampton Court Palace. Probably the basic idea seemed pretty solid -- a visit to a really big house. Perhaps no one realized beforehand the irony of a Valentine's Day trip to Henry VIII's abode, but the ultimate result was a "what not to do" guide for the lovelorn. Henry the Eighth, I am I am. The expedition was an instant reminder for those of us who whose high schools didn't offer European History that old Hank: Part 8 was decidedly unlucky in love. This was a man who continued to have portraits painted with Jane Seymour, Medicine Woman, years after she died (or went on to make a string of cheesy television movies). Now that's love! That's devotion! Actually, no. That's bonkers. I got married to the widow next store. Still, the house struck a distinct chord with all of the people in our group haunted by lost love. In fact, we arrived to pillage the palace only one day after the anniversary of the execution of still another Mrs. The Eighth. Her ghost apparently wanders the halls wailing that the royal family murdered Princess Di. The wife, we discovered, had been charged not just with one case of adultery, but with "multiple adultery." At this point a precocious 10-year-old girl, who had been eagerly asking questions the entire afternoon, piped up with the inevitable: "What is 'multiple adultery'?" Before the guide had a chance to offer an explanation (no doubt including several thinly veiled Bill Clinton jokes), our group eased out of the room. She'd been married seven times before. So we wandered out into the winding hedge maze that stands off to the side of the palace. As we wove through the bushes, avoiding fatalistic dead-ends punctuated with cut-out dragons, the day finally seemed to have redeemed itself. Seventy degrees and sunny made it the warmest Valentine's Day since somebody (doubtless a Brit) invented the thermometer. And while we enjoyed getting lost, we actually seemed to be finding some kind of true beauty, be it a glimpse of a regal statue or a patch of crocus sprouting months too soon. At the end of the maze, instead of a peaceful area free of evil winding topiary, we were greeted by a flat wooden replica of Anne Boleyn. Presumably it wasn't there back in the days of Henry VIII: Henry Takes Manhattan. That wouldn't have been a very romantic tribute to a former wife. But it made for a good photo op. With nothing else to do, we all whipped out our cameras and posed with her, pretending in our hearts that she was the Spice Girl of our dreams. Headless Spice, if you will. So what's the point? You had a bad Valentine's Day as well and you're not whining about it. Am I actually saying that love is a maze that leaves you beheaded? That love is dead? No. But sometimes, and maybe only in the United Kingdom, love prefers to just be passed out on the bathroom floor.