I cautiously stepped my foot down the one step to the little door of my pod, hoping I wouldn’t wedge myself and backpack and carry-on bag in the doorway.
So … this was what I was in for — a tiny room, with a tiny bed and a tiny toilet and a tiny shower.
Ahhh, sweet Yotel.
I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Notting Hill and Portobello Market — the winding streets of row homes all painted different colors, the little vintage shops and the pubs made me feel warm and fuzzy. It was easy for me to spend a day just walking around the area.
But it was the last day with Pat, his girlfriend and their friend that was my best day in London.
I looked in the mirror before we headed out to celebrate Shaun’s flatmate’s birthday. Messy hair back in a low pony styled by Shaun: hot. Smokey eyes: sexy Graypink vintage shirt, dark jeans: Not too bad. Then, I looked to my feet. Backpacker black flats: Ugh. I’m not the most stylish person, but I don’tContinue reading “Backpacker chic”
I nearly peed my pants on the way to Shaun’s flat. No, really, I nearly peed my pants. After having two rather large glasses of Peroni with Tim, I headed back to the tube. I was half way into Bank’s massive station when it hit me how urgently I needed to use the loo. “Sorry,” I saidContinue reading “A bit of Croatia in London”
I closed my eyes on the black leather sofa.
Ahhhh. It felt so good to just lay there. Backpack off. Messenger bag off. Both piled in a heap on the floor next to me.
As soon as I had found the key to Shaun’s, placed under a bench outside her flat, I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a wave of thankfulness sweep over me.
Finally.
The non-stop travel from America and the loss of my night and sleep had started to wear on me and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and just be.
But it didn’t last long.
By the time I got to Shaun’s flat in London, my backpack and messenger bag were brutally weighing me down.
Like I knew they would.
I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.
I had wondered through the Poplar area of town for nearly two hours before I successfully found Shaun’s home. It wasn’t her directions that were poor, it was the person following them had a serious case of travel brain.
The first time I tried on the little silver Fossil necklace adorned with 3-dimensional dove, the chain broke in my hand.
I wanted it so badly. I had been given a $25 gift card to Macy’s and was browsing the inexpensive jewelry, looking for something to symbolize the wanderlust I was feeling (cause, you know, a cheap piece of jewelry can so do that).
And there it was, attached to the flimsy plastic/cardboard holder with one word written all pretty on it:
“freedom”
“Where are you going? How long are you here? Where are you staying? How do you know the person you are staying with? How did you meet? How long have you known each other? What does your friend do? What do you do? Where do you live?” The immigrations officer fired question after question at me.
I stood at the counter, silently praying she would stop asking questions and stamp my passport.
Fortunately, she did.
I had spent my entire flight across the Atlantic paranoid. When I went to check in online earlier in the day, I was informed I had to call the airline — that my trip was beyond the limit for travel and a visa was required.
My heart nearly jumped into my chest.
How could I have missed this? I thought I was good to go.
I think I have the ugliest backpack known to man.
It’s two shades of dog-poo brown. But, I think it’s because of it’s lack of exterior good looks, it was such a steal. The 65CL REI pack was mine of the takin’ at a cool $180. That’s $100 less than it’s prettier counterparts, although color aside, they are exactly the same.
One thing’s for sure — the inside of that bag sho’ is good lookin’.
At the job I met T. He was the owner’s nephew and was working at the restaurant, too. I fell in love with him.
The awful, first love kind of way where you never think you will ever in a million years feel the way you feel about the man you are with.
Only, our relationship wasn’t a good one. T was an alcoholic, 10 years my senior, who despised life. While his self-loathing and misery didn’t rub off on me, it was entirely taken out on me. Our relationship was one of cyclical emotional abuse. It was pints of I-love-you’s with double shots of I-hate-you’s and lots and lots (and lots) of tears. And crazy wicked emotional hangovers.
D Travels 'Round