London - Part 3

1. London In the Morning

Then time, at last moved quickly. I was delirious and confused and blissful because an ordeal was over. I stumble around the corner and into the Tube station. I wait in a long line, tell the man in the booth where I want to go and he hands me a token. The next hour and a half seems like a blur of streets and past advice. I haven’t even noticed that cars drive on the left. It seems like they just drive everywhere. Unlike what I expected, London is not New York. There is no order and there is room to breathe. It is both cleaner and dirtier than New York and after a period of being pleasantly lost, I find Campbell house.

It is 9:30, check in at 12 but I ached so I sat down, ate some cookie and then made my way to the door. There was an intercom that you press and sign that said, “Clearly announce your arrival and someone will let you in.” I stood for a while trying to think up what to say. Some one lets me in before I have to debase myself by talking. The lady says I can check in as son as the room is cleaned so I sit in the TV room and read Q magazine.

Someone comes eventually and I get my key and put down my stuff, set the alarm and collapse on the bed. I awake eight hours later. I wash my hair in the sink and get dressed and set out to find food, a magazine and a calling card. There is more wandering but less lost. It is eight o'clock and everything is closed. I buy Time Out in a posh little grocery store and look for food. I find myself in a district of expensive trendy restaurants. Nothing looks right. I get courage from desperation and I enter a friendly looking kebab shop. It is good I think but hard to eat so I throw half away. A man walks by yelling to himself and asks me where Courtford Street is. I tell him I don’t know and he screams “What do you fucking mean you don’t fucking know? Why did you come to this fucking country?”

I come back and nap before embarking to find a phone to call home. I feel guilty, certain that they are worried. No phones take change outside. The phone booths all smell of piss and are plastered with pictures of naked ladies. I go back to the house and ask. When I find the phone it is surprisingly easy to use. I leave a quick message and feel better. On my way back to bed someone in the common room talks to me. There is a group of about ten, all from MSU. It feels good to talk to Americans, shamefully good. They are friendly and fun and encouraging.

I have more hope for social prospects while I am here. After a while some Irish students come and strike up conversation whilst drinking vodka and iced tea. We discuss stereotypes and impressions. Someone actually says, “fanny-pack”. It is fascinating, though I have the impression that this conversation will be repeated countless times before I get back.