Well, my darlings, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks going to the airport the night before a flight is a very clever thing to do. There is a veritable rave going on here - if you replace the derelict warehouse with a coffee shop and the "energy juice" with espresso shots. And the only music we have is the "swoosh swoosh" of the floor waxer. But the sentiment is the same. We are all locked in a huge building with a common goal...to stay up and rock the night away.
They say "rock the night away" at raves, don't they? I'm so kewl.
I really like spending the night here. It's kind of fun. All-night cafe, free internet, big building to wander around in...what's not to love? In fact, if I ever go traveling again, I'm totally putting this on the itinerary. Even if I don't fly.
It's 2AM, which means it's probably 9ish in the States. The added bonus of partying at the airport the night before I come home is that I've already gotten a leg up on my jet lag. I'm one day closer. But please don't expect me to be nice for a week.
Well, it's time for another espresso round. I'm getting sleepy...and bored. I feel like a 12-year-old stuck in a house all day with no video games.
I might post again, I might not. It depends on how loopy I get and whether or not I can get my fingers on the right keys. Also, we might form a scouting party and check out the tunnels. We're convinced that it's where Stephen King's monsters go to retire. This place is freaking spooky when it's empty.
It's SO much fun.
~
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
So Long, and Thanks For Fullfilling My Wish
This is my last real night in London.
I’m checking out of my hotel tomorrow and spending the night at the airport. My flight leaves at 8:30AM, which means I have to check into the airport by 5:30AM. The Tube doesn’t start running until 7AM, so I don’t really have a choice. I almost missed my flight when I came here (gads, that was a scare) and missing my flight home would be devastating...mostly because I only have 12 pounds left in my pocket. The extra money I had to pay for the room really killed my budget. But, it was all part of the journey. I wouldn’t have felt like myself over here if I wasn’t constantly worrying about money.
Even with the budget constraints, this was the trip of a lifetime. I’m going to miss the people and the places. There were things I expected and things I didn’t expect...which all makes for a very educational journey. Seeing how others live and relate to one another helped put my own little circle into perspective. I’ve been feeling very small lately, and venturing out of the bubble in Austin has shown me that I am, indeed, very small - but that everyone else in my bubble is just as small. It’s a very comforting realization.
London is what a city should be. I love the flow. There are main streets, and by luck or intention the residential areas fan out from them. So, you have the High Street where you shop for your food and clothes, then you simply turn off the High Street and BANG. You’re in a residential neighborhood. No one has to have a car unless they want one, because the buses and tubes are only a few blocks away. Every area is a mix of residential and commercial...not the faraway “burb living” Americans seem to think is so great. In London, everything is within walking distance...which is a good thing since the roads are always chewed up with construction.
But for all its faults the locals love to point out, London has it right. There are always tons of people walking around, which gives this city a community feel. There’s always something to see and do...even if it’s drinking water in a local pub and talking to the people next to you.
I will really miss London. There is power in its History...a knowledge in the eyes of its people who know they are deeply connected to thousands of years. They walk the same patch of dirt that their ancestors walked. They eat in the same buildings that hold their past. The memories locked in their DNA from generations past are as close as the brick they lean against while waiting for a bus.
That’s what I’ll miss most about London. The fierce pride of deep roots. The fierce pride of deep roots and their birthright to bitch about it.
See you guys in a few days. If the plane crashes, know that I love you all.
~~~~~~~~~
I probably won’t have Internet access, so if you have something important to tell me do it before 5AM CST Friday. Cheers!!!!
~
I’m checking out of my hotel tomorrow and spending the night at the airport. My flight leaves at 8:30AM, which means I have to check into the airport by 5:30AM. The Tube doesn’t start running until 7AM, so I don’t really have a choice. I almost missed my flight when I came here (gads, that was a scare) and missing my flight home would be devastating...mostly because I only have 12 pounds left in my pocket. The extra money I had to pay for the room really killed my budget. But, it was all part of the journey. I wouldn’t have felt like myself over here if I wasn’t constantly worrying about money.
Even with the budget constraints, this was the trip of a lifetime. I’m going to miss the people and the places. There were things I expected and things I didn’t expect...which all makes for a very educational journey. Seeing how others live and relate to one another helped put my own little circle into perspective. I’ve been feeling very small lately, and venturing out of the bubble in Austin has shown me that I am, indeed, very small - but that everyone else in my bubble is just as small. It’s a very comforting realization.
London is what a city should be. I love the flow. There are main streets, and by luck or intention the residential areas fan out from them. So, you have the High Street where you shop for your food and clothes, then you simply turn off the High Street and BANG. You’re in a residential neighborhood. No one has to have a car unless they want one, because the buses and tubes are only a few blocks away. Every area is a mix of residential and commercial...not the faraway “burb living” Americans seem to think is so great. In London, everything is within walking distance...which is a good thing since the roads are always chewed up with construction.
But for all its faults the locals love to point out, London has it right. There are always tons of people walking around, which gives this city a community feel. There’s always something to see and do...even if it’s drinking water in a local pub and talking to the people next to you.
I will really miss London. There is power in its History...a knowledge in the eyes of its people who know they are deeply connected to thousands of years. They walk the same patch of dirt that their ancestors walked. They eat in the same buildings that hold their past. The memories locked in their DNA from generations past are as close as the brick they lean against while waiting for a bus.
That’s what I’ll miss most about London. The fierce pride of deep roots. The fierce pride of deep roots and their birthright to bitch about it.
See you guys in a few days. If the plane crashes, know that I love you all.
~~~~~~~~~
I probably won’t have Internet access, so if you have something important to tell me do it before 5AM CST Friday. Cheers!!!!
~
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
You Say Potato....I say Tatty
The most entertaining difference between British and American culture I’ve found are the funny little colloquialisms the Brits use. They have such endearing names for things...such nice, wholesome labels that make anything appropriate for discussion in mixed company. The dichotomy between the stark harshness of Americans and the genteel constitutions of Britons is typified in the images these words produce. It makes even the most disgusting topic safe for dinner with the Queen.
For example, we have “sidewalks” in America. Get on the side if your going to walk. Out of the way. Walkers on the side. In England, they’re called “pavements.” It’s like a special area has been paved just for you if you want to walk. Paved of ment. Like a mint. Like a little after-dinner treat paved just for you and your walking needs.
“Retirees” are called “pensioners.” Instead of bringing up images of tired old people shuffling off to their Craftmatic Adjustable Beds, older Brits are taken care of in their golden years with the promise of wonderful money...so wonderful, in fact, that they are given the honor of the name as a reminder. It’s something for the younger crowd to look forward to. A pension. “I’ll be a Pensioner and get a pension”...instead of, “I’ll be a retiree and have to go to bed early.”
If you lose your job in England, you are “made redundant.” You aren’t “fired,” which brings to mind images of being burned alive as well as out of a job. In England you are still out of a job, but you have been made something. You are “made supervisor” or “made a partner” or “made redundant.” The only difference is the paycheck. It seems so much nicer that way.
And then there’s the “fart.” How crass is that? It even sounds like the name. Farrrrt. Here, it is a lovely “wind.” Like a spring breeze that smells of roses and honeysuckle. “Pardon me, I have wind.” Much better than, “Hey, I farted.”
America’s poor are often relegated to live in “the projects” like it’s some kind of special homework assignment. In England they live in “Council Estates” which makes you think of lovely historic buildings and palatial lawns. “I live on an estate.” It’s probably good for morale. So much lovelier than living in something that sounds like a shoe box meant to look like the Parthenon.
Children in England have a cute name for their...erm...number two. They call it a biggie. Which is probably why Wendy’s has never taken off in this country. After all, who wants to buy a poo fry?
~~~~~~~~~~
Big Brother Update - Jennifer, who is the pretty girl whom all the boys are trying to woo, was nominated for eviction. She's one of those popular girls who think she is the sweetest, the kindest, the smartest, and the most down-to-earth, but is actually an annoying pain in the arse because she thinks so highly of herself while putting everyone else down...in a "nice way" of course. Her reaction will be legendary. She'll probably cry...she does that a lot. You know the type. Huzzah for the underdogs.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lesson for the Day - Camden Market is the coolest place on Earth - but it’s hell when you don’t have any money to spend. I’m glad I waited until the end of my stay to go there...otherwise I would have been sleeping on a park bench for the last two weeks.
~
For example, we have “sidewalks” in America. Get on the side if your going to walk. Out of the way. Walkers on the side. In England, they’re called “pavements.” It’s like a special area has been paved just for you if you want to walk. Paved of ment. Like a mint. Like a little after-dinner treat paved just for you and your walking needs.
“Retirees” are called “pensioners.” Instead of bringing up images of tired old people shuffling off to their Craftmatic Adjustable Beds, older Brits are taken care of in their golden years with the promise of wonderful money...so wonderful, in fact, that they are given the honor of the name as a reminder. It’s something for the younger crowd to look forward to. A pension. “I’ll be a Pensioner and get a pension”...instead of, “I’ll be a retiree and have to go to bed early.”
If you lose your job in England, you are “made redundant.” You aren’t “fired,” which brings to mind images of being burned alive as well as out of a job. In England you are still out of a job, but you have been made something. You are “made supervisor” or “made a partner” or “made redundant.” The only difference is the paycheck. It seems so much nicer that way.
And then there’s the “fart.” How crass is that? It even sounds like the name. Farrrrt. Here, it is a lovely “wind.” Like a spring breeze that smells of roses and honeysuckle. “Pardon me, I have wind.” Much better than, “Hey, I farted.”
America’s poor are often relegated to live in “the projects” like it’s some kind of special homework assignment. In England they live in “Council Estates” which makes you think of lovely historic buildings and palatial lawns. “I live on an estate.” It’s probably good for morale. So much lovelier than living in something that sounds like a shoe box meant to look like the Parthenon.
Children in England have a cute name for their...erm...number two. They call it a biggie. Which is probably why Wendy’s has never taken off in this country. After all, who wants to buy a poo fry?
~~~~~~~~~~
Big Brother Update - Jennifer, who is the pretty girl whom all the boys are trying to woo, was nominated for eviction. She's one of those popular girls who think she is the sweetest, the kindest, the smartest, and the most down-to-earth, but is actually an annoying pain in the arse because she thinks so highly of herself while putting everyone else down...in a "nice way" of course. Her reaction will be legendary. She'll probably cry...she does that a lot. You know the type. Huzzah for the underdogs.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lesson for the Day - Camden Market is the coolest place on Earth - but it’s hell when you don’t have any money to spend. I’m glad I waited until the end of my stay to go there...otherwise I would have been sleeping on a park bench for the last two weeks.
~
Monday, June 30, 2008
Crazy For You
One of the main reasons I wanted to visit London was the people. It’s the people who make a location distinct, so I knew my London would be dictated by the people who live in it. I knew the basics from films and television shows, but it’s hard to get the true nature of an area from one-dimensional dramas and half-hour sketch comedies. For the past month I have planted myself in various cafes and pubs, nursing my coffees until the battery in my laptop runs out, watching and listening to the real London.
I’ve come to realize that we are all the same when it comes to the big things - we all have the same dreams and desires and wants and needs - but it is the little things that make the difference. It’s the little things that define a culture. If taken on their own these little things seem insignificant...but when you place them next to the multitude of other little things you can see just how different people are.
I have met a number of people here, and I suppose I should be grateful that most have been very kind and enjoyable - but statistics are an annoying fact of life. You can’t have a 100% hit ratio. Histograms don’t work that way.
In general, the people here are open and friendly. They sit down next to you and before you know it you are engulfed in their conversation. It’s just the way people roll in London. It’s in their nature to talk, and they enjoy it to the fullest.
There are two categories of people I’ve met in London...the nice people who talk with you and the crazy people who talk to you - then won’t go away.
There is a distinct difference here when you sit in a public place. I’ve heard from my trusted locals that the group mentality is the English way. There is no privacy when you are sitting on the streets of London...if there is an empty seat next to you, it’s fair game.
For the most part, the Sitters have been genuinely kind and helpful...but it’s hard to tell the difference between the ones who will chat casually with you and the ones who will drink too much and propose marriage. Loudly. I’ve had three drunken proposals of marriage so far, so by now I am an expert. The first time it happened I sat in numbed shock, humiliated and dumbfounded. Now, however, I know to shake my head, gather my things, and make a hasty exit. Apparently drunken marriage proposals are par for the course in London, so I now I feel like I’ve been initiated in some strange, embarrassing way.
Then there are the crazies who run in packs. They seem nice and friendly, but then one of the girls will start yelling at her boyfriend or the guys will start yelling incoherently at people passing by and things quickly turn pear-shaped. Before I know it, the people around me are getting chucked into the streets and I have to scoot away from them to avoid being towed in their wake. It’s fun to see it from across the room, but not so fun to be caught in the middle.
Still, most of the people here have been lovely. I’ve carved a little niche in this area, and that’s the best part about being here. I leave at the end of the week, but maybe one of the locals will talk about me to another visitor as they talk about the people who have preceded me, then they will carry me back home with them as I carry home the ones before me...even if it is just a thought or an image filed away in the back of the mind.
I have left my web-trail here. My tendrils will fan out in silvery threads.
~~~~~~~~~
Accomplishment for the day - I finally got that autograph from Blog 11. In fact, I got two. It was weird...I felt like such a fanboi.
~
I’ve come to realize that we are all the same when it comes to the big things - we all have the same dreams and desires and wants and needs - but it is the little things that make the difference. It’s the little things that define a culture. If taken on their own these little things seem insignificant...but when you place them next to the multitude of other little things you can see just how different people are.
I have met a number of people here, and I suppose I should be grateful that most have been very kind and enjoyable - but statistics are an annoying fact of life. You can’t have a 100% hit ratio. Histograms don’t work that way.
In general, the people here are open and friendly. They sit down next to you and before you know it you are engulfed in their conversation. It’s just the way people roll in London. It’s in their nature to talk, and they enjoy it to the fullest.
There are two categories of people I’ve met in London...the nice people who talk with you and the crazy people who talk to you - then won’t go away.
There is a distinct difference here when you sit in a public place. I’ve heard from my trusted locals that the group mentality is the English way. There is no privacy when you are sitting on the streets of London...if there is an empty seat next to you, it’s fair game.
For the most part, the Sitters have been genuinely kind and helpful...but it’s hard to tell the difference between the ones who will chat casually with you and the ones who will drink too much and propose marriage. Loudly. I’ve had three drunken proposals of marriage so far, so by now I am an expert. The first time it happened I sat in numbed shock, humiliated and dumbfounded. Now, however, I know to shake my head, gather my things, and make a hasty exit. Apparently drunken marriage proposals are par for the course in London, so I now I feel like I’ve been initiated in some strange, embarrassing way.
Then there are the crazies who run in packs. They seem nice and friendly, but then one of the girls will start yelling at her boyfriend or the guys will start yelling incoherently at people passing by and things quickly turn pear-shaped. Before I know it, the people around me are getting chucked into the streets and I have to scoot away from them to avoid being towed in their wake. It’s fun to see it from across the room, but not so fun to be caught in the middle.
Still, most of the people here have been lovely. I’ve carved a little niche in this area, and that’s the best part about being here. I leave at the end of the week, but maybe one of the locals will talk about me to another visitor as they talk about the people who have preceded me, then they will carry me back home with them as I carry home the ones before me...even if it is just a thought or an image filed away in the back of the mind.
I have left my web-trail here. My tendrils will fan out in silvery threads.
~~~~~~~~~
Accomplishment for the day - I finally got that autograph from Blog 11. In fact, I got two. It was weird...I felt like such a fanboi.
~
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Ramblings
I know I promised to write about all the crazy people I’ve met here, but I’m tired so I think I’ll leave it for another time. It takes work to think of those loonies again.
It’s another gorgeous day in London, and I just want to sit on a bench and look at 600-year-old buildings. That’s become my favorite past-time. Really, you can’t imagine it. When you see places in pictures and films, you automatically assign proportion and proximity to give it a sense of reality. When you finally see the object as it stands you realize that all of your preconceived beliefs are wrong. So, you have to go back and rearrange everything in your mind to fit reality.
It’s more exhausting than it sounds, especially if you’ve given these objects and places a lot of thought throughout the years. You have to sift back through the mountains of pictures filed away in the dark corners of your brain and change them. All of the boxes labeled “London, Eng-a-land” have to be pulled off the dusty shelves and its documents redrawn.
I’m reminded of The Alamo. Remember The Alamo. All my life I imagined that the crumbling building was located in some vast field with only the wind and the tumbleweeds to keep it company. When I made plans to see it for the first time, I imagined a long, bumpy bus ride to a lonely desert somewhere. It was a total shock to discover that the Alamo was located in downtown San Antonio, surrounded by modern buildings that overshadowed it with 20 stories of steel and glass. It still boggles my mind.
It will take time for me to rearrange all these places in my memories...and I still find myself feeling shocked every time I get off the bus and see Big Ben by the river - I imagined that he would be smack in the center of town, surrounded by “Ye Olde Arms” and “Queen’s Arms Inne” and people dressed in frocks and powdered wigs. I know, I know...but that’s how I imagined London.
I love sitting in St. James Park with the spun sugar steeple of Westminster Abbey peeking out over the trees. It looks like a fairy tale...I can squint my eyes and imagine what it would have been like for a maiden 500 years ago taking a break from scrubbing the stone floors of her thatched-roof house. It’s easy to go back through time in this spot I’m sitting it...but I have to block out the tourists with my hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big Brother Shocker - Housemate Dennis was booted out for spitting in the face of another housemate. It might be the accepted way of saying, "You're a twat" on the streets of London, but Big Brother didn't find it as effective.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lesson for the Day - Buckingham Palace, while being the “Official Royal Residence,” has only housed the Royal Family for less than 200 years. It started out as some guy’s house. All the cool stuff happened in other castles.
~
It’s another gorgeous day in London, and I just want to sit on a bench and look at 600-year-old buildings. That’s become my favorite past-time. Really, you can’t imagine it. When you see places in pictures and films, you automatically assign proportion and proximity to give it a sense of reality. When you finally see the object as it stands you realize that all of your preconceived beliefs are wrong. So, you have to go back and rearrange everything in your mind to fit reality.
It’s more exhausting than it sounds, especially if you’ve given these objects and places a lot of thought throughout the years. You have to sift back through the mountains of pictures filed away in the dark corners of your brain and change them. All of the boxes labeled “London, Eng-a-land” have to be pulled off the dusty shelves and its documents redrawn.
I’m reminded of The Alamo. Remember The Alamo. All my life I imagined that the crumbling building was located in some vast field with only the wind and the tumbleweeds to keep it company. When I made plans to see it for the first time, I imagined a long, bumpy bus ride to a lonely desert somewhere. It was a total shock to discover that the Alamo was located in downtown San Antonio, surrounded by modern buildings that overshadowed it with 20 stories of steel and glass. It still boggles my mind.
It will take time for me to rearrange all these places in my memories...and I still find myself feeling shocked every time I get off the bus and see Big Ben by the river - I imagined that he would be smack in the center of town, surrounded by “Ye Olde Arms” and “Queen’s Arms Inne” and people dressed in frocks and powdered wigs. I know, I know...but that’s how I imagined London.
I love sitting in St. James Park with the spun sugar steeple of Westminster Abbey peeking out over the trees. It looks like a fairy tale...I can squint my eyes and imagine what it would have been like for a maiden 500 years ago taking a break from scrubbing the stone floors of her thatched-roof house. It’s easy to go back through time in this spot I’m sitting it...but I have to block out the tourists with my hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big Brother Shocker - Housemate Dennis was booted out for spitting in the face of another housemate. It might be the accepted way of saying, "You're a twat" on the streets of London, but Big Brother didn't find it as effective.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lesson for the Day - Buckingham Palace, while being the “Official Royal Residence,” has only housed the Royal Family for less than 200 years. It started out as some guy’s house. All the cool stuff happened in other castles.
~
Friday, June 27, 2008
Oh, The Horror of Man's Fetid Soul....
We have a coffee thief amongst us.
Yesterday morning I awoke at 8:15 (not bad for someone with no alarm clock, eh?) and was greeted for the first time with the dismaying sight of an empty coffee urn. The breakfast table is “First come, first served,” which translates into, “Grab it before someone else does, because we ain’t filling it again.” It’s my only shot at real, filtered coffee (surprisingly, these cultured English people think powdered crap is a viable alternative) so I was doomed to spend the morning caffeine-free. I know from my recent experience with the White Trash Lemon Cleansing that: me - coffee = bitch for a day. It’s not the most pleasant equation to wake up to.
So, this morning I told my brain to rouse me at 7AM otherwise it wouldn’t get its daily injection of wake-me-up. My brain is so prompt when it's motivated.
At 7:03 I was at the first one at the breakfast table. I passed the cereal boxes and stale croissants to grab the first cup of brownish goo they pass off as coffee. The virgin cup. I clomped back upstairs to my room and spent a lovely 3 minutes drinking it. Empty so soon? Never mind. It was only ten past the time service began. Surely it was early enough to grab another round. Besides, the coffee thief might have checked out. I slipped my sweater over my pajamas and walked down for another cup of coffee.
But it was gone.
Not only was it gone, but in their thieving haste the selfish bastard hadn’t even bothered to place the carafe back in the machine. It sat smoldering in the middle of the table, mocking me with its brown ring of dregs at the bottom. I stood there, stunned. The coffee thief had struck again.
My only comfort is in the knowledge that the coffee thief’s life is a miserable, worthless, insignificant, contemptible, wretched waste of cells...because it takes a real ass to steal coffee from a hotel full of people.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big Brother task for the week: Choreograph and perform an exact rendition of the OK Go treadmill video. They won. There will be cookies and beer this week.
~
Tomorrow, by request - “The Loonies of London”
~
Goodness...I almost forgot! Today there was a little party for Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday in Hyde Park. I went down earlier just for the honor of being in the vicinity of such a great man. The juxtaposition between the sacrifices he made to fight for the rights of Man and the selfishness of a hostile regime bullying its people during the election in Zimbabwe today seem poetic in its disparity. However, it started raining as soon as I got off the bus so I didn't stay long.
I admire that man, but my camera was getting wet. Sorry, Nellie. Maybe I'll see you on your 100th.
~
Yesterday morning I awoke at 8:15 (not bad for someone with no alarm clock, eh?) and was greeted for the first time with the dismaying sight of an empty coffee urn. The breakfast table is “First come, first served,” which translates into, “Grab it before someone else does, because we ain’t filling it again.” It’s my only shot at real, filtered coffee (surprisingly, these cultured English people think powdered crap is a viable alternative) so I was doomed to spend the morning caffeine-free. I know from my recent experience with the White Trash Lemon Cleansing that: me - coffee = bitch for a day. It’s not the most pleasant equation to wake up to.
So, this morning I told my brain to rouse me at 7AM otherwise it wouldn’t get its daily injection of wake-me-up. My brain is so prompt when it's motivated.
At 7:03 I was at the first one at the breakfast table. I passed the cereal boxes and stale croissants to grab the first cup of brownish goo they pass off as coffee. The virgin cup. I clomped back upstairs to my room and spent a lovely 3 minutes drinking it. Empty so soon? Never mind. It was only ten past the time service began. Surely it was early enough to grab another round. Besides, the coffee thief might have checked out. I slipped my sweater over my pajamas and walked down for another cup of coffee.
But it was gone.
Not only was it gone, but in their thieving haste the selfish bastard hadn’t even bothered to place the carafe back in the machine. It sat smoldering in the middle of the table, mocking me with its brown ring of dregs at the bottom. I stood there, stunned. The coffee thief had struck again.
My only comfort is in the knowledge that the coffee thief’s life is a miserable, worthless, insignificant, contemptible, wretched waste of cells...because it takes a real ass to steal coffee from a hotel full of people.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big Brother task for the week: Choreograph and perform an exact rendition of the OK Go treadmill video. They won. There will be cookies and beer this week.
~
Tomorrow, by request - “The Loonies of London”
~
Goodness...I almost forgot! Today there was a little party for Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday in Hyde Park. I went down earlier just for the honor of being in the vicinity of such a great man. The juxtaposition between the sacrifices he made to fight for the rights of Man and the selfishness of a hostile regime bullying its people during the election in Zimbabwe today seem poetic in its disparity. However, it started raining as soon as I got off the bus so I didn't stay long.
I admire that man, but my camera was getting wet. Sorry, Nellie. Maybe I'll see you on your 100th.
~
Thursday, June 26, 2008
A Room With (No) View
Unfortunately, I have finally been moved to the smaller room. I’ve taken to calling it the naughty closet, because that’s exactly what it feels like. “You won’t pay an extra 10 pounds for a room? Naughty...get in the closet until you learn better.”
There is just enough room for a bed, a table, and, in the most improbable renovation decision, a sink. What was the reasoning behind the sink? A compromise, perhaps? “You don’t get a bath in the room, but we’ll meet you halfway by giving you a sink next to your bed so you can listen to it dripping all night long and dream that you are wealthy enough to afford a proper room.” There is no cross breeze and the view stinks. Still, I am saving some money, and I’m finally meeting the other guests...who for some reason never come out of their rooms until I am trying to make the mad dash down the hall in my towel after a shower.
Tomorrow I am going into the heart of London again. On my first trip in, I spent most of the time getting lost, but with my new and improved map I think I’ve got this tourist thing licked. This time I am bringing my camera, and to all the people who look at me with contempt while I block the sidewalk trying to frame the perfect shot I say, “Sod you.”
Less than a week left. I’ll miss the people I’ve gotten to know, and I won’t miss the crazy people who can’t take a hint. One thing I’ve learned is that the people who live here are either really nice or really insane. This is a city of extremes.
~~~~~~~~
What I’ve learned today - Shopkeepers do not know what “flip flops” are, no matter how skillfully one tries to pantomime it for them.
~
There is just enough room for a bed, a table, and, in the most improbable renovation decision, a sink. What was the reasoning behind the sink? A compromise, perhaps? “You don’t get a bath in the room, but we’ll meet you halfway by giving you a sink next to your bed so you can listen to it dripping all night long and dream that you are wealthy enough to afford a proper room.” There is no cross breeze and the view stinks. Still, I am saving some money, and I’m finally meeting the other guests...who for some reason never come out of their rooms until I am trying to make the mad dash down the hall in my towel after a shower.
Tomorrow I am going into the heart of London again. On my first trip in, I spent most of the time getting lost, but with my new and improved map I think I’ve got this tourist thing licked. This time I am bringing my camera, and to all the people who look at me with contempt while I block the sidewalk trying to frame the perfect shot I say, “Sod you.”
Less than a week left. I’ll miss the people I’ve gotten to know, and I won’t miss the crazy people who can’t take a hint. One thing I’ve learned is that the people who live here are either really nice or really insane. This is a city of extremes.
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What I’ve learned today - Shopkeepers do not know what “flip flops” are, no matter how skillfully one tries to pantomime it for them.
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