No Place Like London (Part 1: Arrival)

I have sailed the world
Beheld its wonders
From the Dardanelles
To the mountains of Peru,
But there's no place like....

London. The first city I visited on my travels, and, indeed, one that I've dreamed of visiting for as long as I can remember. Ever since the Sherlock Holmes stories as a kid, ever since Disney's The Great Mouse Detective (a movie that I still love), ever since the books I've read and the dreams I've dreamt, London has been this semi-mythical place across the sea. A place where the famous authors, poets, musicians, politicians that I know and love have lived and died and made history. And so it was with great excitement that I rolled into Liverpool Street station on a train from the London Stansted airport; my first glimpses of the city from the train had been less than inspiring - as most of you, no doubt, may expect, the portions of the city immediately around the over-ground train tracks aren't exactly the nicest areas around. But now that I was in the thick of it, I expected things to improve dramatically. And, although it took a tad longer than expected, they did.

After arriving at the station, I had planned on walking to the hostel where I was meeting the one, the only, Ms. Shea Kinser, old friend and crusader for justice extraordinaire. Now, on the map it looked simple enough. Not even a mile away... just a hop, skip, and a jump over London Bridge... a straight shot. Trust me, dear readers, if there's anybody who can screw something like that up, it's yours truly. It's a skill. I rather pride myself in it. So I set out from the station, gunning for a bridge. Didn't exactly seem like it would be the most difficult thing to find. And it probably wouldn't have been - if I had been going in the right direction. About ten minutes later, I had realized my error, tossed my plan to walk, and gotten one of those quaint-looking cabs. Ahhh... a much easier solution. I also had a rather pleasant talk with the cab-driver, who recommended Indian restaurants in Brick Lane, which, he was quick to point out, had been the setting of a rather famous recent British novel. I told him that I had read this very novel (uninspiringly entitled Brick Lane) for a college class, but he insisted on explaining the plot to me anyway. I didn't mind. I also learned from my cab-driving friend that my accent is unexplainable: when I first told him that I had come to London from Belfast, he commented that I didn't sound Irish; when I told him that I was an American studying abroad, he told me I didn't sound American either. It makes me wonder what I sound like.... I suppose I will never quite know. Finally, I got to hear Mr. Cabbie's thoughts on the American presidential election, namely his fervent belief that if Obama gets elected, he's going to end up like JFK (which is to say, dead). Definitely an interesting fellow, but, hey, he got me where I needed to go, and he was a card to talk to.

Having thus arrived, through vehicular means, at the St. Christopher's Orient Espresso hostel, I promptly strolled into the lobby, where I found the ever-patient Shea awaiting my arrival. It's always a pleasure to see an old friend again, and, after apologizing for my late arrival and telling her about my cartographical incompetence, we checked into the hostel, went out to dinner at a nice little Chinese restaurant, and sketched out a plan for the following day. I had been in London for about 2 hours, and already my adventures had begun. And that's the way it should be.