I rolled out of bed at 6:08am Friday morning to catch a train down to London. It felt like a regular PLANETS trip- getting up before the sun, leaving a nondescript hallway to go out into the world with my one little bag to destinations known only in theory with not enough sleep and barely enough coffee.
I actually didn’t have any coffee on Friday morning since I planned on sleeping on the train journey, all 5 hours of it. It’s the earliest I’ve been up since I got here- I basically crashed from jet lag and told myself that I’d never see the dawn again. I didn’t realize the dawn would start happening at such a convenient hour for viewing- the sun’s going to start coming up after 10am in a month or so, I hear- but nonetheless, I haven’t see the early side of seven o’clock in months.
I was the third person on the platform for my train, about twenty minutes early. It’s weird to me that I can get on a train and be in another country, despite having done this at least a dozen times before. It’s weird to me that I’ve packed an overnight bag for a weekend in London. And it’s all even more odd at 6:45 in the morning.
***
The train was delayed by about an hour because of a failed train on the tracks north of Newcastle (I know this because they announced it at every stop along the way) but I’m not sure I minded. It was actually quite a lovely ride from Edinburgh to London and it was the more sun than I’d had on my face in weeks. I listened to the Nerdist Writers Panel episode with Maureen Johnson which I cannot recommend enough- there are multiple stories in which Maureen puts out literal fires and Marc Evan Jackson, Sparks Nevada himself, comes in at the end.
Once of the first Vlogbrothers videos I watched was one where John was in Amsterdam and gets on a train to Antwerp and goes to a zoo, among other things. It's a fun video, but what I distinctly remember is him being on the train, typing away on his keyboard and thinking about how soothing that must be, what a perfect way to spend time and what a wonderful place to write.
I can now confirm my initial suspicions as true.
***
In the internet age, it’s easier to maintain constant contact with someone who’s an ocean away, so the trope about talking to someone you haven’t seen in months and it’s like no time’s passed at all has changed. I’d say it’s been months and I’m still as comfortable around them as ever. And genuinely happy to see them.
In our first London afternoon, we:
-went on a walking adventure
-got tea and scones
-fist-bumped a giant statue and casually saw the Rosetta Stone and bits from the Parthenon
-went on more of a walking adventure
-found a pub and had fish and chips
-saw Kinky Boots
London has been lovely to us.
***
Oh hostel life. How I did not miss you. After years in hotels with a room to myself, going back to bunk beds with people who may not speak my language no longer seems fun and exciting. It’s the way to do it, if you’re backpacking and broke, but once you’ve gotten used to queen beds and your own bathroom, going back to anything less feels like regression.
Oh god, I'm bourgeoise.
Oh god, I'm bourgeoise.
On our second day in London, we walked everywhere. We walked to see if we could get tickets for Les Mis or Wicked, which ended up involving walking by Buckingham Palace and past more police and people than I expected. Then we walked by Trafalgar Square, which had more lions and sculptures of horse skeletons and gigantic white painted bronze fingers than I expected. We walked into a tea store and smelled all the teas and then to Starbucks to get caffeine and plan and we walked to a pub to watch Manchester United play (which was the most I’ve ever enjoyed watching a football match).
Then we walked to St. Paul’s and I asked, “Where is this?”
This is has been the source of much existential angst for me because I walked by St. Paul’s daily the last time I was in London. I didn’t use the tube at all and so I would take this walk from the hostel down to St. Paul’s, across the Millennium Bridge to the Starbucks, then up the river past the eye until I could see Big Ben, then back home again. I loved that walk. I loved St. Paul’s. How did I not remember this? I can remember the TV room of the hostel we stayed in with near perfect clarity, but not the facade of one of the most famous sights in London.
Memory. Weird, right?
Pamela sold me on climbing the absurd number of steps up the dome of St. Paul’s and thought I complained at the time, it was worth it:
Then we walked across the Millennium Bridge
and to the Globe and to the market and back across London Bridge and to Leister Square and to the St. Martin-on-the-Fields where we listened to Mozart and Schubert and Beethoven. Then we walked to a tube station and then we walked home and planned all the walking for the next day.
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| Pictured: the World's Smallest Kite |
and to the Globe and to the market and back across London Bridge and to Leister Square and to the St. Martin-on-the-Fields where we listened to Mozart and Schubert and Beethoven. Then we walked to a tube station and then we walked home and planned all the walking for the next day.
My feet were thankful for my bed that day.
Oxford was kind to us as well. I don’t know what I was expecting from the place that gave us a clarifying comma and every academic handbook known to man, but I was relatively pleased with Oxford. Quaint isn’t the word I want, but I think it’s the word that comes closest. It’s Chapel Hill if Chapel Hill’s architecture were a tad older and basketball wasn’t a thing.
We went to church at St. Michael at the North Gate and the mayor of Oxford was there, golden chain and all. It was a lovely Christ the King Sunday service, if you’re into that, and I was. Then we went for a walk (which included a market and a bookstore [bookstores do the heart good]) and lunch and a climb back up the tower, which offered this view:
Then a little bit more of a walk and coffee and over to Christ Church for a little Harry Potter and a little John Locke and a little John Wesley,
then a long a river walk
and down to, eventually, the Eagle and Child, where CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien and friends had deep conversations and where we played Trivial Pursuit with makeshift pieces and dominoes instead of dice.
then a long a river walk
and down to, eventually, the Eagle and Child, where CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien and friends had deep conversations and where we played Trivial Pursuit with makeshift pieces and dominoes instead of dice.
Back to the train and Paddington Station, then out to a pub,
then back to the hostel and I remember what it was like backpacking, how you would spend days walking everywhere known to man and seeing everything made by man, and then, in the days of my youth, going out at night with friends from the hostel and crashing before waking up to do it all over again. I was never good at the second part, the going out and making stories part (though you’re welcome to read through that summer if you click here), but I was good at seeing things and thinking about them. That’s who I am. I’ve been told that’s okay.
then back to the hostel and I remember what it was like backpacking, how you would spend days walking everywhere known to man and seeing everything made by man, and then, in the days of my youth, going out at night with friends from the hostel and crashing before waking up to do it all over again. I was never good at the second part, the going out and making stories part (though you’re welcome to read through that summer if you click here), but I was good at seeing things and thinking about them. That’s who I am. I’ve been told that’s okay.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m doing it right. I feel like I’m experiencing things and making memories and sucking the marrow out of life in the best way I know how. It’s a calmer life, more separated and safer, but I wouldn’t think it less fulfilling if I didn’t have others’ lives to compare it to.
Actually, I don’t know that I do think it’s less fulfilling, come to that. Not in any way that matters.
Actually, I don’t know that I do think it’s less fulfilling, come to that. Not in any way that matters.
😀
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