Here I am again at Terminal 5, and everyone around here thinks it's my home. It might as well be, as I am through here at least twice daily, rushing into the City of
London.
Today I forgot my student ID (so I could go into the Maughan Library at King's College and borrow a couple books I needed) so decided to think on my feet, or rather in my seat.
"Excuse me, sir, but do you know London very well??"
He, American accent, smiling: "It's been years since I was here."
Me, smiling. "American?" He nodded.
So I asked the chap next to me, "Where should I get off if I want to find a great bookstore that might have some classics?"
"Piccadillly. W.H. Smith, across from the Meridian Hotel."
I thanked him, and got off at Piccadilly (Circus), realizing I was about to disembark into an area that once held great romantic promise for me. A young
man had scurried out of work and placed the backpack on my shoulders, wishing me adieu as I headed back onto the Piccadilly line to Heathrow in early February, 2005. I had sobbed through every stop, devastated when I arrived at the airport, only to hear my sweet little brother tell me that he was sure Mr. X had had some feelings for me after all (I had stayed at his shared flat in Hackney, but it didn't get beyond the respectful cuddle stage.)
So now here I was, all grown up and jowly, with my dry eye condition, my thyroid gland bulging and pants size at least 3 larger, wondering whatever happened to the lad. Oh yes, I saw on social media he'd grown up, married, and had a child. Good for him! (ahem)
Back to me: Piccadilly turned out to be the balm, the calm I needed because I found not one but two bookstores, neither of which were W.H. Smith - Instead, I first journeyed into Hatchards at 187 Piccadilly, and then was referred to the ginormous and glamourous Waterstone's down the street. I ended up with only one of the two books I needed - "Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies" by Hallie Rubenhold - but it was a smashing success. I even got to Facetime with Mom. See view from the 5th floor restaurant-cum-bar.
Which leads me to this non sequitur - that last night I was supposed to look at a 1BR for rent down the road from where I'm lodging, when all of a sudden a fox darted out across the road! I was terrified, for I had just walked several metres (I will admit, I am trying to get the lingo down) from my inn, and to think I could have been eaten alive by a fox! A man laughed this off, "Oh yes, plenty of foxes here. But they won't heeurt ya!"
I blanched. And as I stood out on that road waiting for a landlord who never showed (I gave him 20 minutes) I could only deduce that living amongst so many foxes would not suit my delicate nature. No, I am far better off looking for a flat in Notting Hill, where the only kind of fox I'll find is Hugh Grant.
Here I am again at Terminal 5, and everyone around here thinks it's my home. It might as well be, as I am through here at least twice daily, rushing into the City of London.
Today I forgot my student ID (so I could go into the Maughan Library at King's College and borrow a couple books I needed) so decided to think on my feet, or rather in my seat.
"Excuse me, sir, but do you know London very well??"
He, American accent, smiling: "It's been years since I was here."
Me, smiling. "American?" He nodded.
So I asked the chap next to me, "Where should I get off if I want to find a great bookstore that might have some classics?"
"Piccadillly. W.H. Smith, across from the Meridian Hotel."
I thanked him, and got off at Piccadilly (Circus), realizing I was about to disembark into an area that once held great romantic promise for me. A young man had scurried out of work and placed the backpack on my shoulders, wishing me adieu as I headed back onto the Piccadilly line to Heathrow in early February, 2005. I had sobbed through every stop, devastated when I arrived at the airport, only to hear my sweet little brother tell me that he was sure Mr. X had had some feelings for me after all (I had stayed at his shared flat in Hackney, but it didn't get beyond the respectful cuddle stage.)
So now here I was, all grown up and jowly, with my dry eye condition, my thyroid gland bulging and pants size at least 3 larger, wondering whatever happened to the lad. Oh yes, I saw on social media he'd grown up, married, and had a child. Good for him! (ahem)
Back to me: Piccadilly turned out to be the balm, the calm I needed because I found not one but two bookstores, neither of which were W.H. Smith - Instead, I first journeyed into Hatchards at 187 Piccadilly, and then was referred to the ginormous and glamourous Waterstone's down the street. I ended up with only one of the two books I needed - "Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies" by Hallie Rubenhold - but it was a smashing success. I even got to Facetime with Mom. See view from the 5th floor restaurant-cum-bar.
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