(no subject)
3.22
The overhead fluorescent lights stay on until midnight as the train slowly fills stop by stop. Finally after 1, sleep becomes me in careful fits, my legs and feet now pressed against/between six other legs and feet. The train drops us in Barcelona. Sleepy, hungry, and disoriented, we attempt to navigate the station. We succeed and again are in cramped spaces, facing forward. A woman comes and turns the seat in front of us around as if to have a conversation. I listen to music and watch the near-last of the Spanish countryside. In Girona, repeat. The bus this time contains a pair of annoying Americans. I wonder if these are the same conversations I have been hearing in Spanish. I would like to think 'no' but become all the more tetchy as my stomach rolls and jogs in time to the rain. Of course the pair has something to say about the hail too. I don't want to/want to go home. Maybe I will decide tomorrow.
Eating oranges and kiwi, we crabbily wait for the plane. Once aboard, we watch planes fly and swoop below us. I have never seen such air traffic. We see the serpentine in Hyde Park and the grandeur of country castles. From there, another crabby train to London and navigating the holiday underground. We find our hostel though nothing is right. All beds occupied, separate rooms, no pillows nor towels, a full lift with confusing stairs and numbering. We leave as quickly as possible for the Indian Restaurant we saw down the street. Grand buildings illuminate a bustling street that strikes a strange contrast to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.
The food is amazing but adds to the intensity of the waves in my stomach. We retreat to our separate rooms. Without an alarm, I get two keys and a plan to enter the other at 6:15. My roommates giggle and whisper in Italian. They all wear sandals and pajamas. The single male snores in the bunk above me, providing a consistent vibration to a slightly restless night.
The overhead fluorescent lights stay on until midnight as the train slowly fills stop by stop. Finally after 1, sleep becomes me in careful fits, my legs and feet now pressed against/between six other legs and feet. The train drops us in Barcelona. Sleepy, hungry, and disoriented, we attempt to navigate the station. We succeed and again are in cramped spaces, facing forward. A woman comes and turns the seat in front of us around as if to have a conversation. I listen to music and watch the near-last of the Spanish countryside. In Girona, repeat. The bus this time contains a pair of annoying Americans. I wonder if these are the same conversations I have been hearing in Spanish. I would like to think 'no' but become all the more tetchy as my stomach rolls and jogs in time to the rain. Of course the pair has something to say about the hail too. I don't want to/want to go home. Maybe I will decide tomorrow.
Eating oranges and kiwi, we crabbily wait for the plane. Once aboard, we watch planes fly and swoop below us. I have never seen such air traffic. We see the serpentine in Hyde Park and the grandeur of country castles. From there, another crabby train to London and navigating the holiday underground. We find our hostel though nothing is right. All beds occupied, separate rooms, no pillows nor towels, a full lift with confusing stairs and numbering. We leave as quickly as possible for the Indian Restaurant we saw down the street. Grand buildings illuminate a bustling street that strikes a strange contrast to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.
The food is amazing but adds to the intensity of the waves in my stomach. We retreat to our separate rooms. Without an alarm, I get two keys and a plan to enter the other at 6:15. My roommates giggle and whisper in Italian. They all wear sandals and pajamas. The single male snores in the bunk above me, providing a consistent vibration to a slightly restless night.