Part 1: London

I'd like to open this post commending Air Canada for being quite the airline to fly for over 8 hours with. First, I wasn't carded or charged extra for ordering a mini bottle of wine with my pretty-decent chicken dinner and the small screen in the headrest in front of me was not only stocked with both arthouse and hollywood flicks, but all were available free of charge. It made the flight a thousand times better than it could have been, and I'd certainly like flying them again.

I haven't quite decided just how I'd like to approach this blog. Writing in once a week (roughly) means that attempting to recap everything that's happened in between each post would be both tedious and rather boring for all of you. Instead, I'll just hit on some main points and post pictures once I sort out how to get them off my SD card and onto my laptop. For now, pretend all the photos included were taken by me except with a better camera and a hint of photographic skills.

Hostel Horror
If you read my Japan trip postings, you'll know that I'm really extra talented at getting immediately and irrevocably lost by myself in a foreign country. So, after being in the air and on layover for over 12 hours, finally tasting the relief that is solid ground and fresh air, what else was I to do? Wander around in the rain with a huge suitcase, of course. The Tube (London Underground) directions were easy enough, the maps posted at each station with the various lines are infinitely easier to deal with since they aren't in Kanji, but the struggle came after I left the station.

I'm not sure what it is about these hostel websites, but I guess accurate and well-written directions aren't important. Google Maps proved dangerous as well; the printout I had brought with me was really accurate as to the place Google had decided I wanted to go, which wasn't at all the right address that I'd entered in. I ended up getting buzzed into an entirely different hostel and having the clerk there re-search and give me the proper directions. With a laugh, the real destination was located and I dropped my bag off. All hostels have a check-in of 2 p.m., giving me a solid 3 hours to spend, sweaty and dressed in athletic shorts, jersey and a fitted, to put around London smelling like plane and BO.

I came back and checked in, lugging 50 pounds worth of urban street clothing and 2 pairs of my boat-sized shoes up 5 flights of stairs to my room. Thank God for showers and nice German people, giving me a warm welcome and a great way to finally feel clean after travel. The Astor Hyde Park hostel provides both decent beds, en-suite shower and toilet, and a free breakfast in the morning (cereal and toast, including peanut butter and nutella spreads) and is a great location in Gloucester Road a few stops from all the most important stops.

However, what's not so great is trying to sleep while a handful of drunk Hostel-stayers sit outside the hostel at 3 in the morning belting out Disney songs, Journey, showtunes and everything in between. The girl had, at least, taken a few singing lessons and so wasn't too out of key but her male compatriots were not so... polished. As I lay awake, splitting headached and jetlagged, I fantasized about dropping the various items my roommates had lying around out the window at them. Nothing says passive-aggressive like mortaring a backpacking bag at some Irish people and ducking back into your room. The next nights weren't nearly so nightmarish and I'd certainly stay in this place again.

Whatchu Starin' At?
While in Japan, I became accustomed to quite a few people looking at my 6'2 white self on the subway or in the streets, especially when exploring non-touristy areas. However, I arrived in England half expecting not to have the same experience. I was, of course, incorrect. Sure, my fashion choice on the first day was a bit different, but the looks continued to come, and not all were very friendly.

At first, I felt a bit angry at all the stares. Perhaps it was a preconceived notion that being anglo and of UK descent would have given me a physical appearance that would allow a certain degree of blending in here in London. Maybe these looks made me feel like an outsider somewhere I desperately didn't want to be an Other. However, after this week, I feel more or less alright with being picked out as foreign. I'm not ashamed to be from the States, and I'll just pretend all this attention is because they love the Obey tee combo'd with the black Analog shorts.

Stylistically, if I wanted to fit in with the London crowd (at least in the center/affluent areas), I'd need to overhaul my wardrobe to include tight blackwash jeans, collared shirt, shoulder bag, and some kind of brown leathery shoes that absolutely are never ever made in a size 15. I've observed a couple of these people staring down at my sneakers (called Trainers) who do not break their gaze even when they notice I see them. It's odd.

More to come soon, I've finished my cappuccino and I need to get some food in me. Quick shoutout to Nic, hostel roomie and cool dude. Enjoy N. Ireland breh