My London Adventure
warning: incoherent and enthusiastic rambling under the cut.
Friday. Too nervous to eat. BAD idea. On board of the plane spending way too much pounds on a Twix bar. Stormy weather in Brno, take-off delayed for 20 mins. Turbulent air during the flight. Drizzling rain in Stansted. I have now an Oyster Card. Probably loaded it with too low amount because I couldn't tell if the guy at the Office was saying thirteen or thirty.
Stansted Express keeps speeding up and slowing down and my stomach disagrees with the majority of those movements. Queasiness persistent from the plane, because usually I am not sick on the train.
Caught, literally (it was about to leave and I made such a puppy face that the driver stopped again) a bus for Charing Cross. Beautiful station building. Ariane's description of the place she'd be waiting for me is flawless - found it on first try. Little walk to put my stomach under control, then a train to a certain Palace.
Occupying the sofa for the majority of the evening save for the time I am shaking with laughter on the floor. Sign of Tree is truly a memorable episode. Nothing better to cheer you up than a drunken Sherlock.
Everything is perfect. The food, the drink, the host, the mood, and I could go on for about forever but I am not my eighteen-year-old self who could pull 80 hours without sleep any more.
Sleeping like a log, sadly only till the exact hour when my baby boy back at home would have woken me. Can't switch off the inner clock it seems.
Total shock in the morning: for the first time in my life, I am sitting on the left front seat in a car and there is no steering wheel in front of me! Also, I keep fighting the urge to correct the driver on which side of the road to drive on. Not to mention that I've been looking for the traffic signs and wondering why there weren't any, only to realise I've been looking on the wrong side of the road.
Victoria station is huge and busy. Diving into the Underground and starting my Sherlockian route.
The queue in front of Sherlock Holmes Museum is perhaps the most impressive thing I've seen in the whole of London. I go to Regent's Park instead. The sky clears off and spreads wide and blue. I wander around and wonder which one of the two bridges there is the one from Heart in the Whole.
Then off. Marylebone Road. To the right and bearing steadfastly southeast. Great Portland Road. Crossing Oxford Street. Giving up on Regent Street. For the first hour, I duly press the buttons on the street lights and wait for the green, only to be the only one left waiting while everyone else crosses on the red. Towards the end of the day, I already cross like a proper Londoner. Soho is beautiful. Like an explosion of colours and impressions. Picturesque streets with cafés and theaters. Meandering through and ending up in Covent Garden. Street artists and performers everywhere. Live statues, jugglers. Back alley behind the Savoy Hotel is the shortest way to the River. A street worker asks me if I am lost: upon hearing a single word from me he asks if I am French. I admit being Czech. "Oh, la Reppublica Ceca!" - "Lei conosce la Reppublica Ceca?" - "Lei anche parla italiano?" Five minutes of a man hell bent on improving my conversation skills in Italian ensue. Coming up to the Thames at the Somerset House. The sun is blazing.
Walking along the Embankment up to the Big Ben. Seeking refuge from the heat in the Underground again. It's a bit of the trip to St Pancras but I love trains. They wouldn't let me see the TGV though! Stricter security than on the airport. At least they have pianos in the Station. One key is mute, so I play my piece transposed.
Feeling hungry, sore, and a little heatstruck, ending my route in Regent's again. Texting my friend Pavla on the details on how to get to her place. She navigates me to the Marylebone bus stop and warns: "It's a bit of a roadtrip but manageable." I check the timetable. Whoa, 69 mins on off-peak? I begin to realise how small my own city is when compared to a real metropolis. I hop around the corner to the Tesco Express I knew it would be there because I once wrote a piece of fiction where John was shopping there. Meticulous research pays off. With a cake in hand I get on the bus and enjoy a sight-seeing route from a double-decker. Eventually, I fall asleep.
When I get down to alight, I am surprised to realise I am the only white person in the bus. Reminds me of my time in Stuttgart where I lived surrounded by people of all nations, my best friend being Japanese of all things. My friend's neighbourhood is very community-like. Good for the kids. Speaking of the kids: after I have a shower and a cuppa, we pack and head off to Greenwich Park in my friend's car. She drives like an Englishwoman so my stomach is uneasy again.
Weather turns into a promise of a storm so at last we head home. I crash on the sofa and refuse to move.
The alarm goes off at 4:30. A Nigerian cabbie takes me to Liverpool street. It rains again, because I am leaving England. No problems on Stansted Express save for their wi-fi. Reading Johnlock on the way. Stansted is just like any other airport I've been to. Organic chocolate is the best thing to take into the plane. I'm dozing off, the flight is smooth - once I wake up wondering whether we are still flying and only the noise of the engines convinces me that yes, we are still 10 000 feet up in the air - and the weather in Brno is beautiful again.
My children have missed me. But not very much.
London, I miss thee already.
Friday. Too nervous to eat. BAD idea. On board of the plane spending way too much pounds on a Twix bar. Stormy weather in Brno, take-off delayed for 20 mins. Turbulent air during the flight. Drizzling rain in Stansted. I have now an Oyster Card. Probably loaded it with too low amount because I couldn't tell if the guy at the Office was saying thirteen or thirty.
Stansted Express keeps speeding up and slowing down and my stomach disagrees with the majority of those movements. Queasiness persistent from the plane, because usually I am not sick on the train.
Caught, literally (it was about to leave and I made such a puppy face that the driver stopped again) a bus for Charing Cross. Beautiful station building. Ariane's description of the place she'd be waiting for me is flawless - found it on first try. Little walk to put my stomach under control, then a train to a certain Palace.
Occupying the sofa for the majority of the evening save for the time I am shaking with laughter on the floor. Sign of Tree is truly a memorable episode. Nothing better to cheer you up than a drunken Sherlock.
Everything is perfect. The food, the drink, the host, the mood, and I could go on for about forever but I am not my eighteen-year-old self who could pull 80 hours without sleep any more.
Sleeping like a log, sadly only till the exact hour when my baby boy back at home would have woken me. Can't switch off the inner clock it seems.
Total shock in the morning: for the first time in my life, I am sitting on the left front seat in a car and there is no steering wheel in front of me! Also, I keep fighting the urge to correct the driver on which side of the road to drive on. Not to mention that I've been looking for the traffic signs and wondering why there weren't any, only to realise I've been looking on the wrong side of the road.
Victoria station is huge and busy. Diving into the Underground and starting my Sherlockian route.
The queue in front of Sherlock Holmes Museum is perhaps the most impressive thing I've seen in the whole of London. I go to Regent's Park instead. The sky clears off and spreads wide and blue. I wander around and wonder which one of the two bridges there is the one from Heart in the Whole.
Then off. Marylebone Road. To the right and bearing steadfastly southeast. Great Portland Road. Crossing Oxford Street. Giving up on Regent Street. For the first hour, I duly press the buttons on the street lights and wait for the green, only to be the only one left waiting while everyone else crosses on the red. Towards the end of the day, I already cross like a proper Londoner. Soho is beautiful. Like an explosion of colours and impressions. Picturesque streets with cafés and theaters. Meandering through and ending up in Covent Garden. Street artists and performers everywhere. Live statues, jugglers. Back alley behind the Savoy Hotel is the shortest way to the River. A street worker asks me if I am lost: upon hearing a single word from me he asks if I am French. I admit being Czech. "Oh, la Reppublica Ceca!" - "Lei conosce la Reppublica Ceca?" - "Lei anche parla italiano?" Five minutes of a man hell bent on improving my conversation skills in Italian ensue. Coming up to the Thames at the Somerset House. The sun is blazing.
Walking along the Embankment up to the Big Ben. Seeking refuge from the heat in the Underground again. It's a bit of the trip to St Pancras but I love trains. They wouldn't let me see the TGV though! Stricter security than on the airport. At least they have pianos in the Station. One key is mute, so I play my piece transposed.
Feeling hungry, sore, and a little heatstruck, ending my route in Regent's again. Texting my friend Pavla on the details on how to get to her place. She navigates me to the Marylebone bus stop and warns: "It's a bit of a roadtrip but manageable." I check the timetable. Whoa, 69 mins on off-peak? I begin to realise how small my own city is when compared to a real metropolis. I hop around the corner to the Tesco Express I knew it would be there because I once wrote a piece of fiction where John was shopping there. Meticulous research pays off. With a cake in hand I get on the bus and enjoy a sight-seeing route from a double-decker. Eventually, I fall asleep.
When I get down to alight, I am surprised to realise I am the only white person in the bus. Reminds me of my time in Stuttgart where I lived surrounded by people of all nations, my best friend being Japanese of all things. My friend's neighbourhood is very community-like. Good for the kids. Speaking of the kids: after I have a shower and a cuppa, we pack and head off to Greenwich Park in my friend's car. She drives like an Englishwoman so my stomach is uneasy again.
Weather turns into a promise of a storm so at last we head home. I crash on the sofa and refuse to move.
The alarm goes off at 4:30. A Nigerian cabbie takes me to Liverpool street. It rains again, because I am leaving England. No problems on Stansted Express save for their wi-fi. Reading Johnlock on the way. Stansted is just like any other airport I've been to. Organic chocolate is the best thing to take into the plane. I'm dozing off, the flight is smooth - once I wake up wondering whether we are still flying and only the noise of the engines convinces me that yes, we are still 10 000 feet up in the air - and the weather in Brno is beautiful again.
My children have missed me. But not very much.
London, I miss thee already.