Leaving London

It was like my birth, like the foggy blades of grass in the morning. It was morning, and I was wet, but not at all surprised. London has never been held in high esteem, for me, weather-wise. I needed a printer to get my boarding pass, so my last day in the Great Smoke turned from a simple affair of a bus ride to a train station into an urban safari. I was both explorer and pack mule…during morning rush hour. After fifteen minutes of walking like a spawning salmon against the current of business suits and black umbrellas, I was surprised my eyes hadn’t been gouged out. As I reached the end of my patience and ability to haul my bags, which were getting heavier with each minute in the rain, I glanced into a travel agency that hadn’t yet opened. A young man’s face was illuminated by a computer screen in a dark room. Okay, I thought, please be a Good Samaritan. I knocked and caught my breath. He came to the door. I began to gush like some overzealous fountain—asking for the favor, some sort of explanation, apologies. I attempted to look needy, but attractive. In actuality, I’m sure I came across as desperate and crazy. My plastered to my head with rain, a strange mix of clothes that didn’t make it into my suitcase, sweat trickling its way down the small of my back, my low rise jeans slunk to an indecently level beneath my hips.

This was an adventure. As I was gratefully printing out my pass, I came to the conclusion that in order to make the more miserable situations bearable, I must look at everything as an adventure. And when you’re carrying 4/5 of your weight in luggage, things are bound to be more interesting.