YHA St. Pancras Station
London, England
Arrggh, my head! Brits drink ale as if the supply were running out and they've got only this one last chance to get fully pissed. I haven't seen so many attractive, intelligent people loaded to the gills with alcohol so early in the evening since my college days. In fact, the bar at The Water Poet near Liverpool Street Station was blanketed with empty pints by 7:30 PM. It was like something of an errant fraternity party. Outside on the street a collection of more empties stacked on the curb grew larger by the minute. Periodically, one of these would smash to bits as some banker fresh from work inadvertently kicked one over. What's more, this scene was repeated every few blocks throughout London.
Anyway, I arrived in London on Thursday morning after just three hours of sleep on the flight from B
oston. I made it my goal to stay awake until sundown so that my circadian clock might have a reasonable chance of setting itself straight. This meant that I wandered around Bloomsbury and the British Museum in a fog of fatigue and caffeine that by evening approached hallucinatory proportions. Now I know what those zombies in Shaun of the Dead felt like. I'll be going back to the British Museum today to appreciate it from the vantage point of the living.
When I finally fell asleep that first night after simple pub grub (a decidedly average chicken burger) and a very good locally-brewed half pint at Mabel's Tavern it was about 10:30 PM. My sleep was restless, interrupted as it was by ambulance sirens, the sweaty heat of my room, and odd dreams of being lost. When I eventually rose from bed the next day at 12:30 PM I was so shocked by the hour that I suspected my watch of malfunction.
It took me most of the three hours to bathe, dress, and fully awaken. When I did finally depart the hostel, I headed to Tralfagar Square and the National Gallery. The museums here really are wonderful. It's great to be able to wander in and out without cost. I'm truly at liberty to enter just to appreciate one or two rooms or even one or two paintings and then to head off again in search of tea or a used book, only to return again later. I appreciate the paintings more fully this way, instead of rushing about trying to see everything in a museum. The individual works get lost in the context this way and I can't give them the attention they deserve. How many of those artists suspected their works would 
be displayed next to hundreds of others and viewed by tourists rushing past at high speed?
After a half hour spent drinking tea and people-watching on Tralfagar Square and an hour in the National Gallery, I wandered into the handsome church that sits next to gallery. This, it turns out, is St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Inside a small ensemble was practicing a Bach piece so I sat in the pews and enjoyed it greatly. Churches in England and Europe have incredible histories, of course. For example, both Handel and Mozart performed in this very church. There is a candlelight concert tonight at 7:30 PM and I hope to attend if tickets are still available.
While wandering about I made contact via text message with Luis and Stefan and Anna, all of whom I'd met on the Thailand tour. Luis is Portuguese and Stefan and Anna are Austrian but all live in London for work. It was this group, and a few of their coworkers, that I met at The Water Poet. After the pub, Stefan, Anna, myself, and Anna's brother Oliver all headed off to get some bangers and mash. Sadly, their favorite shop was closing so we ended up instead at a fine, or at least expensive, Italian restaurant. It's odd to be hanging out in London with locals who are actually from somewhere else. I may have learned more about Austrians than about London. Still, great to have something social to do. Traveling can be a terribly solitary business.
London, England
Arrggh, my head! Brits drink ale as if the supply were running out and they've got only this one last chance to get fully pissed. I haven't seen so many attractive, intelligent people loaded to the gills with alcohol so early in the evening since my college days. In fact, the bar at The Water Poet near Liverpool Street Station was blanketed with empty pints by 7:30 PM. It was like something of an errant fraternity party. Outside on the street a collection of more empties stacked on the curb grew larger by the minute. Periodically, one of these would smash to bits as some banker fresh from work inadvertently kicked one over. What's more, this scene was repeated every few blocks throughout London.
Anyway, I arrived in London on Thursday morning after just three hours of sleep on the flight from B
oston. I made it my goal to stay awake until sundown so that my circadian clock might have a reasonable chance of setting itself straight. This meant that I wandered around Bloomsbury and the British Museum in a fog of fatigue and caffeine that by evening approached hallucinatory proportions. Now I know what those zombies in Shaun of the Dead felt like. I'll be going back to the British Museum today to appreciate it from the vantage point of the living.
When I finally fell asleep that first night after simple pub grub (a decidedly average chicken burger) and a very good locally-brewed half pint at Mabel's Tavern it was about 10:30 PM. My sleep was restless, interrupted as it was by ambulance sirens, the sweaty heat of my room, and odd dreams of being lost. When I eventually rose from bed the next day at 12:30 PM I was so shocked by the hour that I suspected my watch of malfunction.
It took me most of the three hours to bathe, dress, and fully awaken. When I did finally depart the hostel, I headed to Tralfagar Square and the National Gallery. The museums here really are wonderful. It's great to be able to wander in and out without cost. I'm truly at liberty to enter just to appreciate one or two rooms or even one or two paintings and then to head off again in search of tea or a used book, only to return again later. I appreciate the paintings more fully this way, instead of rushing about trying to see everything in a museum. The individual works get lost in the context this way and I can't give them the attention they deserve. How many of those artists suspected their works would 
be displayed next to hundreds of others and viewed by tourists rushing past at high speed?After a half hour spent drinking tea and people-watching on Tralfagar Square and an hour in the National Gallery, I wandered into the handsome church that sits next to gallery. This, it turns out, is St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Inside a small ensemble was practicing a Bach piece so I sat in the pews and enjoyed it greatly. Churches in England and Europe have incredible histories, of course. For example, both Handel and Mozart performed in this very church. There is a candlelight concert tonight at 7:30 PM and I hope to attend if tickets are still available.
While wandering about I made contact via text message with Luis and Stefan and Anna, all of whom I'd met on the Thailand tour. Luis is Portuguese and Stefan and Anna are Austrian but all live in London for work. It was this group, and a few of their coworkers, that I met at The Water Poet. After the pub, Stefan, Anna, myself, and Anna's brother Oliver all headed off to get some bangers and mash. Sadly, their favorite shop was closing so we ended up instead at a fine, or at least expensive, Italian restaurant. It's odd to be hanging out in London with locals who are actually from somewhere else. I may have learned more about Austrians than about London. Still, great to have something social to do. Traveling can be a terribly solitary business.
