First off, this may be a bit confusing to new arrivals (which, really, there shouldn't be), but this actually is the second installment of what critics are calling, "The most intelligent blog written to date!" "A masterpiece!" "Four stars!" The Guardian raves, "Sir Nate has done what other bloggers only dream about!" So if you wish to read the one that started it all, just scroll on down. (Perhaps I'll figure out the formatting and put them in another order (but probably not))
As my North Face (and Oh So fashionable) hiking boots had their first taste of London City Streets, I had a rather startling realization. Simply put, 'I am in London.' Not but a fortnight ago I was inhaling the cool clearness of the rocky mountain air, whilst now I am exhaling into the crowded and clouded morning mist of London. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. But as I looked to the faces of my comrades, expecting unsuppressed joy plastered on their bright and shiny faces, I found, to be plain, nothing. They were not sharing my introspective and fantastic moment. Though I cannot be sure, I imagine their excitement was bundled up quite comfortably just below the surface. So, with this in my mind, I snapped out of my joyous philosophical moment, and settled into an uninterested and rather casual stance. London? Who cares?
We did.
The team was rearing. As was I. So reared we did and off we went. Our subtle group of 16 had almost made it out of Waterloo station when, alas, a decision had to be made. 'Where should we go?' There were a few blank expressions, one or two mindless and obviously distracted shrugs, and a throng of suggestions. It should be known, before I continue, to all future travelers in large groups that the saying, 'Well we'll figure it out when we get there,' should never, under any circumstance, be uttered in the planning phase of your trip. Because, as it has happened so many times before, someone will start walking, then, as a group is wont to do, people will follow, then, after about 70 paces, someone will query, 'Where are we going,' which will thus cause the group to stop in, usually, an exit or, really, any tight space that makes it impossible for others to pass and makes the group the target of evil and venom soaked stares. Then, once the impassable fortress has been made the two or three "leaders" of the group will argue over where to go, what to do, while the other fifty people look like mindless bafoons scratching their heads and, often, backing into people. Finally, when a decision has been made, the group starts moving again with the "alpha-leader" up front, the mindless drones throughout the middle, and two or three sour faced "loser-leaders" in the rear complaining about how stupid the plan is. This is then repeated six more times in the course of a morning. So to all ye future group travelers I say, 'For God's sake, make a plan.'
Luckily, our experience was dissimilar.
We decided to split early on. 8 went to the Tate, 8 went wandering. I went wandering. With my wanders I will be brief. I wish I could describe everything in acute detail, but time is my enemy and here now I have only 30 minutes until I must go pick out wines for our steak dinner tonight (sigh). I would also love to tell a story of each landmark we saw, but, to be honest, those stories have been told and most assuredly better than I ever could. So it was, that we saw: the London Eye, Big Ben and Houses of Parliament, Westminster abbey, Buckingham Palace with the changing of the guards, (break for lunch) the Tate modern, Millennium Bridge, St. Paul's Cathedral with choral evensong, (break for dinner, check-in at hostel) (nighttime) Tower of London, Tower bridge, Queens Walk, London bridge, and a partridge in a pear tree. I would, as I say, love to elaborate on each and every one of the wonderful things we did, but, I think, I will let the pictures speak for me (if I can ever figure out how to put them on here).
After a curious night in the hostel we awoke early to once again seize the hands of time. After a brief "shower" (water to face+ deodorant), I trudged down the stairs eager for my free "continental" breakfast. As I reach the bar/lounge area my eyes are pleased with what they perceive: one or two guests leisurely eating breakfast and reading the paper, the smell of fresh coffee and shine of the food-filled platters welcome me to a new day. Jolly good, indeed. The kindly breakfast-keeper, as it were, approaches me and I flash her a keen smile that seems to say, "Good morrow to you my lady. Is it not the most wonderful morning your eyes have had the pleasure of viewing?" I am just about to say, "one for breakfast please," when she grunts, 'what's your room number?' A bit startled, I reply uneasily, '407.' A slight smile cracks her face, 'your breakfast is downstairs.' I turn from my purgatory and enter into the depths of hell. Crammed into a 10x12 "room" were forty people (slight exaggeration) eating noisily from their dull white paper bowls, drinking tea steadily from their drab white Styrofoam cups, and eating, well, distastefully their white bread that surely was on the verge of molding. Yep, this seems about right. Now...corn flakes or bran flakes?
With a fully empty stomach I was once again ready for a new day. After waiting outside alone on a suitably plain white chair with matching table for only two hours (slight exaggeration) I was joined by my slightly sleepy eyed yet fully eager travel-mates. The men this time took control: British Museum or bust, as the motto goes. The women would rather bust it seemed, they opted for the surely intellectually stimulating outing at the Notting Hill travel bookstore (if you know what the significance of this is you are, most assuredly, a woman (or a Hugh Grant fan (me))).
Our one plan, I think, for this trip was to go to the British Museum. There had been wild talk from those who had traveled to the great beast before us. "You could spend a whole day there without seeing everything." "I heard they just opened the Terracotta Army exhibit." "You have to see the Terracotta exhibit. It probably is the greatest thing I've ever seen." "You have to go!" So we went. Ready we were to see one of the amazing feats ever done by human hands. So incredible was this that grown men have been known to throw up their hands and wail in startling delight. Women have died lost in the sheer scale of it. Infants are silenced by its beauty. So when we entered that famed great hall of the immensely impressive British museum, looked to the banners proudly displaying a Terracotta figure, pronouncing, "Here! Here you shall look God in the face and he shall say it is good!" and saw that general admission to that godly goodness was only...12 pounds! We all three looked at each other and said, "Do you wanna just walk around instead?" Making a decision was never so easy.
So after a most enjoyable and, albeit, tiresome 5 hours, we had seen a very fair share of that great museum. We met up with the girls, who, of course, quietly raved about the beautiful simplicity of Notting Hill, while the men just nodded their heads and rolled their eyes. Women. It was time to go. And after a brief and semi-frustrating pout from one our members (who shall rename nameless) the west-bound train to Guildford was underneath us. A tired and most peaceful calm came over me as I sat recounting the affairs of the past two days in my head. It had been a rather wonderful trip and, as I sat looking from my dozing companions to the buildings slowly easing into lush woodland, I thought, "We'll have to do this again sometime."
How's next week?
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