When I think of tourism, I think of Disneyland. I think of the pretty side of foreign lands--of Kensington Palace and St. Paul's Cathedral (both of which I have seen.) I think of the carefully packaged, if gristly, history, such as the period the British tour guides keep referring to as "The Time of Popping Heads Off." I don't think of the muck lurking beneath the surface, but one of the creatures from that much rose up and grabbed me last night. Worse, in my naivete, I think I helped him grab someone else.

Freckle-faced, twelve-year-old boys can contain an amazing amount of ugliness even when they have cute British accents. That ugliness seems far worse when it appears a reflection, even if a bit distorted, of a greater ugliness. For all the cosmopolitan, good-natured gloss of the tour guides and numerous money exchanges, this city has a problem. A lot of people only want foreigners to visit, not to stay. While this problem is hardly unique to London, London does not hide it very well.

Yesterday night Mr. Philately and I ate at a very good Lebanese restaurant in a very upper class area of town. The restaurant was not a fast-food place. It had tablecloths, wine glasses, and elegant demitasses.

A twelve-year-old boy, with two buddies partially hidden behind him, walked in. At first, I thought he was just confused. Mr. Philately apparently thought he was a joker of the Prince-Albert-in-a-can variety. He asked for sausages to take away (which in British seems to mean "take out.") He insisted they had sausages because he saw them through the window. The Lebanese hostess patiently and gently explained that he was looking at dolma, something wrapped in spinach. He left and I thought nothing of it.

He returned less than five minutes later, asking how much it cost for something to eat. She told him the cheapest thing on the menu was �3.65. the little, well-dressed juvenile delinquent then insisted she should give him something for free. He also kept insisting on good, English sausages. He looked neither very hungry nor poor although I know looks can be deceptive. His manner seemed as threatening as someone young, gunless, and not quite five feet can manage. His buddies were snickering somewhere in the background. He would be eased out the door and return, looking as if he would snatch food if he could figure out how to reach it over the plastic partition by the kitchen area.

I still thought he was just an annoying would-be or already-there juvenile delinquent. He certainly had the cockiness. And then things escalated. He came in demanding to be paid a pound with an unspoken "or else" in the air. He opened the door and shouted racial slurs.

I had had it. The hostess was sweet and soft-spoken. Although I don't remember, Mr. Philately says she was alone then, because the owner/cook was out of the area, perhaps downstairs. I couldn't watch and do nothing. While my outrage meter was going off, my danger meter was not. (I guess I spend too much of my professional time with juvenile delinquents.) I got up, went over to the door, backed the boy out of it, and told him the game was over and it was time to go home to hs mother. This Jewish girl found herself standing up and defending the Lebanses woman. I had had enough of the ugliness. Mr. Philately must have had enough too because I suddenly realized he was standing right behind me as I faced off with the boy.

I went to lock the boy out but the cook/owner, who must have just come back into the room, asked me not too. "These dirty British boys will break down the door," he said. He went out and bellowed to the boys that they should stay right there to make it easier when the police came. He went next door and banded together with the Arab gentleman from the fruit stand and they paced in front of the two places together.

As they paced, I could see they were doing a familiar dance. They had faced other boys since coming to London. They had driven off boys before and expected to do it again. They preferred to outlast them but I had shamed the owner/cook into action.

My heart was in tthe right place but I am no longer young enough or naive neough to be sure I did the right thing. I meant to support and, instead, I think I shamed some men more although they did nothing to deserve it. I don't like my impetuousness.

More important, I no longer feel as warmly about London now that her sons put me in that position. The fierceness of the time of Popping Heads Off remains. I'ts just outer-directed now.

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