God cursed me with two tickets to London. They fell right into my lap when I wasn't looking. Before I could produce a reason not to use them, my wife Yahaira and I were Underground.

If you're new to the London Underground, it is a place where you can travel several thousand miles before you realize that you're looking at the map upside down. Yahaira and I tubed our way from Newbury Park to Wimbledon Park to Not Quite There Yet Park, and from there we walked to Harrods.

Why Harrods? Because my mom said we had to do high tea at Harrods.

You don't argue with my mom.

When we surfaced in the sunlight, it was hard to see. I sheltered my eyes like a Sleestack from Land of the Lost. Bumbling down the wrong side of the street, I bumped into the same problem that we have in the states -- people. The place was crawling with them.

Harrods was the hub of the hubbub and the tallest department store you've ever seen. They tried to build it all the way to heaven but had to stop due to nosebleeds. On the 62,000th floor you find Harrods restaurant, home of the frou-frou. Overhead dangled a opulent-sized chandelier, casting a light in which it was hard to feel manly. The banquet tables were dressed in pink and covered with doilies. In fact, the rugs themselves were giant doilies.

"Two for high tea, I presume?"

That was the host, who led us to our seats by the window. Normally, commoners aren't allowed near the windows, but traffic was slow. Jeeves handed us over to Ian, who would be our extremely French server.

"Madame. Monsieur. Welcome to Harrods, where you will find the most exquisite teas in all of Europe. If I might, I would like to recommend the Ceylon Orange Pekoe."

I disliked the way Ian looked at Yahaira, as if he knew something about her that I didn't. I also disliked the way he struck the "h" in Harrods. Was there something stuck in his throat?

I hoped that Yahaira would speak on our behalf. Tea is not my cup of tea, and I don't speak Pretentious. She just smiled like a girl who had no idea where she was.

Ian left to serve richer, more coherent people.

A piano tinkled away in the background. The music matched the chandelier and reminded me not to touch anything. I kept my Yankee mitts on the tea menu.

Let's see, what do we have here: China White Blossom, Formosa Oolong, Assam...

I turned to Yahaira: "You drink these, yes?"

"That is right," said Ian, clearing his throat on the "r." He placed a complimentary crepe on the table and asked for our orders.

Yahaira hadn't come to yet, so I started.

"I would like the Earl Gray because it is the only tea I recognize."

Yahaira ordered "the other one, you know, the orange thing, the one from before."

Ian returned with our teas along with a multitiered, sterling silver thingamajig. It was filled with crumpets and scones and other foods you wouldn't eat if you weren't at high tea. Yahaira giggled because she had never been inside a Jane Austin book. I pulled some treats from the thingamajig and filled my plate (I never get full when I eat things one at a time).

Ian emerged to take our untouched crepe, which is evidently pronounced crap.

"The hors d'oevres, monsieur, are to be eaten individually from bottom to top," said Ian, gesturing to my plate.

"Yes, but I don't get full if -- "

"Of course, monsieur."

It was amazing how he could see me out of the bottom of his nose like that.

Yahaira and I nibbled on our food, bottom to top, and tried not to make any false moves. I could not shake the feeling that I was being scored for etiquette. I looked around for cameras.

"Milk for your tea?" said Ian, materializing again.

"Milk?" I laughed. "Of course not."

And he hmphed me! Right there in front of my soulmate, for declining milk in my tea. Yahaira asked for extra milk in hers. She didn't want to get hmphed. So it goes.

When Ian disappeared -- or so it seemed -- I sampled my tea and remembered why I don't drink it. It was bitter like tree bark (and, yes, I have tried tree bark). I raised my pinky as one ought, but I couldn't lift one eyebrow. Both eyebrows went up together, so I looked surprised every time I took a sip.

It didn't take long for me to suffocate in these airs. I couldn't relax knowing that I was losing style points. Do I pull from the bottom tier, or is it time to move up? Do I cross my legs like a man, or should I emulate these other chaps? Do I really need 14 pieces of silverware to drink tea and eat finger foods?

Ian dropped off the check. "Madame. Monsieur." And off he went.

I looked at the bill and bly me, it cost $45! Now, Jason, I thought. You have traveled 5,000 miles by air and twice that much underground to be here. You are not going to blow it now. Besides, look at that smile that hasn't for one second left Yahaira's face...

We dabbed our lips for crumbles, then crossed a doily to the exit. The cashier was conveniently located inside a gift shop selling frills for the road. I was disappointed because I couldn't find a souvenir for my mom. I wouldn't settle for anything less than a bib reading, I Kept It Down at Harrods.

When I got out of college, I embarked on a mission to find a job doing nothing. It didn't matter what the job entailed, so long as it didn't entail responsibility.

I stood outside jewelry stores holding jumbo signs. Look at me. Look at me. If I jumped up and down, the owner would slip me a twenty. I felt like the guy who drives the Weinermobile, only without the prestige.

For a time, I produced "stress balls," those things you squeeze when you want to shoot someone in the head instead. After all the money my folks spent on tuition, they were pleased to find me on the balcony stuffing balloons with bird seed. Then one night I left the seed outside, and it disappeared to a pack of pigeons.

The most enlightening work took place at Toops Real Estate, where I spent my weekends. I'm still not sure what my job was there. Mostly, I wrote agent bios.

If you haven't been to a real estate office, I encourage you to go. Pack a lunch and take the kids. Tell them you're looking to pay cash for your home -- they'll massage your feet throughout the conversation.

The real estate agent works on commission. Like other percentage pirates, they are never not working. I felt bad for the saps who walked into Toops looking for a home. As soon as the door opened, the scent of commission wafted into the building, exciting a frenzy on the floor. Before the guy could say hello, sixteen agents materialized, business cards in hand.

Perhaps my view is jaded because I worked alongside the weekend agents. They are the ones who had to make cold calls and call you "sir" (unless you were a woman, in which case that would be awkward). The rookies worked in cubicles because you have to earn your way into an office. If you wanted to know how far you had to go, you consulted the Victory Chart in the break room. It outlined your value as a human being.

Pierre worked the floor every Saturday, determined to make a million dollars like BJ upstairs. Although Pierre spoke perfect English, he became Pepe Le Pew on the telephone. His call list consisted of people who were French, part-French, or European enough to like a guy named Pierre.

Beside Pierre sat Harry in his wheelchair. Harry had been climbing the Victory Chart in recent months, so everyone hated him. But only on the inside. The real estate agent is always happy on the outside. People bought houses from Harry because they felt if push came to shove, they could, well, push him over. Harry didn't mind. Rumor had it that he wasn't crippled in the first place.

Finally, there was Sebastian, who spent his time hitting on me. Like so many others, Sebastian thought I was gay. And he wasn't deterred when I said things like, "Sebastian, I'm not gay." So it goes.

Today, Sebastian's mind was on other things: he had just sold a million-dollar shack in Malibu. If Sebastian normally walked on air, now he was scraping the ceiling. He whistled at his cubicle as he finalized the paperwork, then floated past my desk and -- with a wink -- upstairs to see BJ.

The agents were in charge of foreplay; BJ did the screwing. BJ made sure the numbers were confusing and that the fine print paid for his Mercedes. He carried himself like a man who couldn't decide between going to the bathroom or doing another line of cocaine. Greed does wacky things to you.

BJ stepped onto his balcony and announced that Sebastian had just found a special place in his heart.

"Justin," he said to me. "Make a note in his bio."

I didn't tell him my name is Jason. That's as close as he came to getting it right.

There's an art to writing the real estate bio. You have to dig for talents like "familiar with community" or "good with numbers" but leave out more obvious traits like "will sleep with your wife if need be."

Here is an example, parentheses mine: "During his limited time in the U.S. (27 years), Pierre has become a real estate pundit (oxymoron). He specializes in exotic properties befitting his European lineage (gag me with a spoon)..."

Here is another: "Harry has sold more homes than any other physically disadvantaged agent in California. With Harry, you won't purchase a lemon -- he won't stand for it!"

Whenever I finished a bio, I had to shower. That must be what it's like to write speeches for the President. I saw what happened behind the scenes. When an agent walked a family into the conference room and drew the shades, you could smell the BS for days. The husband would ask questions about local schools and the climate; the agent would nod and appraise the man's watch.

It's not entirely the agent's fault; he was commissioned to behave that way.

Looking back at Toops Real Estate, I thank God that I went to college. It has allowed me to pursue more dignified work. Like stuffing balloons with bird seed.