"Good luck madam..."

...says the daily circular girl to me outside the grocery store and I wonder if she's a soothsayer, because she seems to say it deliberately. 

Today I do the most important thing. Nothing. Which is everything. 

I wash clothes, I clean, I run in the park, I grocery shop, I cook, I nap, I paint my nails, I write, I cook again, I drink wine, and I start a new show (Riverdale!)

It’s hard for me to have a day like this. The voices in my head whisper, “Do more, make it count, make it look good…” Even the writing I do today is an hour of "work" to prove I exist and serves as penance for not sightseeing. (This, written in words, looks so stupid.) Something Stella said to me last night when I returned home keeps coming back to me: “It’s all part of the journey.” Which is code for, “You’re good.” I love my best friend.

I’m good :) No big stories from me today, just some pictures from my pretty morning in the park.

Queen Victoria, moated badass #goals ;)

Elfin Oak

Scenes from the oak, carved from the oak

Elfin drama

Elfin romance

a visit to Peter: he loves me, he loves me not...
(really getting into this daisy gimmick)

"You're on the wrong train, unfortunately..."

...says the train attendant an hour into my trip. More on that crap in a minute...

I'm tired this morning. My jet lag reset is actually a return to factory setting, meaning I wake up stupid early no matter what time I go to sleep. It's great when I go to bed at 10p or earlier. Otherwise, it sucks. 

I'm too cold and tired to get out of bed and I'm not feeling especially motivated to do any sightseeing which makes me feel guilty. Starving children in Africa would kill to go sightseeing.

I thought she was real
as I walked around the corner

one, two, Freddie's
coming for you...

I finally, finally drag myself out of the cold house and into the freezing city center to check out The Museum of Childhood. I've had this place in my sights since I arrived in town and this morning is the first time it's been open. The museum is dedicated to all things children, mostly toys. The collection is vast, all pre-1950s. 

There are five galleries of exhibitions, so when I arrive I cut to Gallery 5 to try and get away from the crowd. This gallery is full of child-sized mannequins in different outfits and scenes. I'm taking pictures of the mannequins, imaging the different ways they would murder me, when the chilling sound of children's voices singing a nursery rhyme lilts into the room. This wakes me up. 

The other stand-out is the Doll Room, or "Creepy Dollies" as everyone keeps remarking. Most of the dolls are from your worst nightmares. What I find most interesting is a display of dolls from around the world. The display includes voodoo dolls, a gourd in a "dress" which is essentially a napkin, and other tribal dolls used to trap the souls of royalty when they die or encourage pregnancy or other useful day-to-day purposes. 

dibs on the Cat's Eye remake with one of these nightmares

Buoyed by the creep factor of the Museum of Childhood, I'm ready to attack The Palace of Holyroodhouse. My phone keeps trying to autocorrect to Hollywood, and I do, too. The word will not come out of my mouth correctly. If it sounds like I'm dragging my feet to go to the Palace, I am. The two major attractions in Edinburgh are the castle or the Palace. I'm only medium interested in the Palace, but I'm even less interested in the Edinburgh Castle for some reason. There is something about the military aspect of the castle that I find less inspiring than seeing the Queen's Scotland home. Plus, The Queen's Gallery is right next door to the Palace and art always wins.  

ceiling facade

Palace carpet game is strong

I buy my combo ticket and hit the gallery first. The Queen's Gallery features an exhibition called Maria Merian's 'butterflies'. Merian was a German artist and entomologist from the 1700s. The exhibition takes me ten minutes, and that includes checking out my audio tour. Obviously it's not a bad exhibition, I just can't muster the interest or patience to stand and listen to the audio tour. Weirdly, I find the brochure more captivating than I do the actual hung pieces. So I keep the brochure and I head to the Palace. 

contraband picture: just the Royal Family's family photo table NBD

artsy pic of myself &
His Royal Higness' bed

The Palace is way cool. I listen to the whole audio tour as I walk

busted being a D-bag

through and gape at the paintings and textiles (see, I appreciate art). The thrones, the paintings, the facades on the ceiling, the jewels, the abbey- the Palace is well worth the price of admission. I take pictures until one of the Palace people tells me to stop and reminds me that every room has a no photography sign. I look. She's right. I feel like a douchebag, especially because I was, of course, taking a picture OF MYSELF in a mirror when she busted me. 

I head to a pub called The Regent for lunch and I eat lasagna that is hotter than the sun. I don't know how the U.K. makes food twice as hot as America does but I crave it, even though I tend to spit my first bite back onto my plate. Comfort food is so much better when it's so hot you feel the burn down your esophagus. 

Holyrood Abbey

The Regent's got WiFi so I'm using the opportunity to text my girlfriends. I really miss them. It used to be that I didn't only prefer traveling alone, but if I had to travel with people I only did so out of absolute necessity. Now, I don't know. Maybe it's the way I scheduled my trip but I feel like I'm missing something. Don't mistake me, I love what I've seen of Edinburgh but it's not inspiring the rabid devotion I've heard from so many people. I keep thinking if I wasn't traveling solo that I would feel That Thing that everyone else seems to feel here. Maybe Edinburgh is a city best experienced with friends or maybe I'm not the lone wolf I thought I was. 

squint and you can see the Palace beyond the cemetery

The thing is, my Air BnB house is practically a hostel. If I wanted to, I could hang around the common rooms and create my own travel buddies. I've met all my housemates at one time or another and they're lovely. But instead of running downstairs in the morning when I hear them making coffee and chatting, I stick to my room and eat my peanut butter and rice cakes, careful not to make too much noise so they don't think I'm avoiding them. I don't mean to be antisocial, but it takes me a while to warm up to my best friends in the morning, much less strangers. Being shy can be the pits. 

As I sit in The Regent drowning in neurosis, a woman sits near me with her gorgeous dog. I remark on the dog and we chat and exchange Facebook info and just like that I make a new friend. (Hello, Nikola and Finnegan!) I feel like I'm not such an awkward freak after all and maybe I should just shut the hell up now and spare us all. 

dedicated to someone for something (sorry)

I get lost again on my way back to my Air BnB to pick up my luggage and happen upon two different cemeteries in the space of five minutes. I had opted against going to the cemetery at Holyrood Abbey because I was running short on time, so I'm thrilled to stumble upon these. (In going back to confirm names, it turns out the first cemetery I find IS the cemetery at the Abbey I meant to see! But it's called Carlton New Cemetery. And the 2nd cemetery is the Old Carlton Burial Ground.) Plots are from as early as the 1700 & 1800s and they each feature a watchtower that guarded against body snatching into the 1930s. (Whereas digging up people wasn't precisely illegal - though it was frowned upon - keeping any of the dead person's clothes or jewelry was absolutely against the law. So when burglars did steal bodies, they were always careful to leave any possessions in the grave. People would dig up fresh buried bodies and sell them to the medical schools for a huge amount of money at that time. PS, Thank you, Merkat Ghost Tours for that helpful info!)

damn, I love old cemeteries

I'm tired and happy to get to my seat on my 4p train. I immediately fall asleep until the train attendant comes to take my ticket about an hour into the trip. We both discover I'm on the wrong train. My train was supposed to leave at 430, not 4. I'm blown away by this. I've had 4p carved into my head for so long, I never bothered to look at my ticket. Upgrading my ticket to stay on the 4p train would be "extremely expensive", so the attendant agrees to sell me a train ticket from Edinburgh to the next stop (Newburyport?) and I can get off there and hop on my correct train when it rolls through that station. 

Once I got a fix-it ticket in Burbank for a burned out tail light. I fixed the tail light the next day and threw the ticket away. Months later I was receiving warrants for my arrest with $600 fees in the mail so I went to court to contest them. When I told the judge I never proved to the City of Burbank that I fixed my tail light, he rolled his eyes, cancelled the warrant, and reduced my fee from $600 to $50. He called it an 'Idiot Tax'.

My ticket from Edinburgh to Newburyport was about £50. Maybe all Idiot Taxes average to fifty bucks. Jesus. 

"Look, he's licking his butt..."

...says Karam, my new son/boyfriend, and shoves his stuffed penguin's face in its crotch. I can't wait to tell this story, but first...

I wake up after ten deep, uninterrupted hours of sleep. No more jet lag! I'm cured! I better be cured. 

gorgeous things like this just hanging around
the city like it's no big deal

I take my time getting out of bed because it's cold. Really cold. I-used-my-Northface-as-blanket cold. Sidebar: Thank
God for my Northface. I could never imagine spending hundreds of dollars on a coat (Texas girl) until I was depressed and miserably cold enough on a job in Alaska to treat myself. Once the temperature dips into the 40s this coat becomes my second skin. I bow down to my Northface. 

My Rick Steves' book has a little Urban Hikes section, and I decide to hike to Arthur's Seat in Holyrood Park. Arthur's Seat is a vent of the 350 million year old volcano that is responsible for Edinburgh's existence. (Edinburgh Castle is perched atop another vent of the same volcano.) Steves' description of the hike is moderately strenuous- "for People," is my attitude. Not me. I'm active, I kickbox, and hiking is a low demand sport. 

When I get to the park I see people walking up a steep grade. I know the other way up is supposed to be easy, so obviously I follow the people up the steep grade because I'm me, and if it's not the harder way, it doesn't count. 

This hike is no joke. The first time I stop my heart is pummeling my chest, trying to escape it's cage. I'm walking fast because it's the only way I know how to walk, and I notice a little boy walking with me. At first I think he's mistaken me for his mother, but he keeps waiting for me to catch up to him and then darts away so that he's always ahead of me. I've done this. It's racing against an unwitting opponent.

Panorama mid-hike. Eddie Munster beating me on the left.

His look reminds me of Eddie Munster. I decide Eddie is probably my son in another dimension based on nothing but his brown hair and quick feet. I chat with him a bit and find out he's from Canada, that he's very fast and that he's winning and I'm losing. I check behind me and his mom and sister are so far behind us, we lose sight of them off and on. I hope she doesn't think the weird single lady is trying to steal her kid, but at the same time I don't want to leave Eddie alone. 

They finally catch up with us and she thanks me for looking after him. We go our own ways. But we're all heading the same place, and I run into them again at the summit.

Arthur's Seat, on top of the world

By the way, this whole hike is waaaaaaay harder than I was prepared for. By the time I've reached the summit I've scaled rocks and burned out my thighs. PS it's gale force winds in 50 degree weather. I'm moving so I'm warm everywhere except my hands and face which is getting stiff and chapped. At Arthur's Seat you know what the wind does? It tries to kill you by whipping you around the peak of a volcano. PPS The view is breath-taking. But so cold.

Rollin', rollin', rollin'

I finally officially introduce myself to the family and they are all effing adorable. I forget the mom's name the instant she says it but she's from Israel, she learned English 2 years ago, and has been traveling with the kids for months. Bital is the little girl, I'd guess 7 years old, and Karam is my 6 year old Eddie Munster fake son. We walk down the long way down together which takes us well over an hour. At one point the hill gets steep again and grassy- steep and grassy enough for the kids to log roll down. I can't help myself and I join them until I get dizzy. We laugh and laugh, and this is the highlight of my trip so far. 

 I fall in love with Karam. He speaks non-stop and when he's not telling stories, he's asking questions. Examples: Why do you smile all the time? How old are you? Do you have a husband? (To this one his mother says, "Why, do you want to marry her?" "NOOOooooo!" Karam yells. Me thinks he doth protest too much...) Do you have children? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you know what my penguin's name is? What are you doing today? Where do you live? Can we stay with you in London? Will you stay with us tonight? Do you want to know what I wish?

Karam & Bital & a new puppy friend

The answer to his last question: "I wished I made a big friend to play with me and it came true because it's you." 

I almost kidnap him right then and there. We discuss how I might find a shrinking machine to get him small enough to keep in my pocket and he says he's going to trap me and take me home with them. I have no idea what his mother thought of our love affair, but she kept taking videos of us. I assume she was either cool with it or she was gathering evidence so when Karam disappears she has something to show the cops. 

Saying goodbye to my new friends was sad, but I wanted to leave things on a high note. We had big hugs before we parted ways. As I walk away I imagine when I turn around I'll see Karam watching me leave and we'll have one last wave. I turn around. He is playing with his stuffed penguin, having already moved on. 

My whole "urban hiking" experience is over three hours in the freezing wind. I enjoy the hell out of the spaghetti bolognese I have for lunch and stop in a pub to write for a bit before my next thing. The pub is called Brass Monkey, and my bartender last night recommended it to me because I told him I liked cider. I love this place. It's warm, the bartender is a love, and the music is good 80's, not overplayed 80's. 

Brass Monkey chill

My next thing is a Ghostly Underground Tour that takes us down into the haunted vaults under the city. It's effectively scary (real history, proven spooks, and a couple of legit weird unexplained noises) and so much fun I almost buy another tour to do immediately after- but I don't for some reason and now I'm trying not to regret it. Boo. 

I get lost for the 126th time as I try to find a particular pub for dinner. I'm convinced there are rips in the space time/space continuum in Edinburgh because I'll swear I'm on the West end of town and suddenly I'll be dead center at the train station. Or the map says a street is supposed to be a block away, but somehow I miss it and next time I walk down the same road, there's the street! There are different street levels, stairs that go who knows where and curvy roads and "ways". I could get lost in a one road town on a good day, so Edinburgh is like a Mensa challenge for me. 

On my way to the pub I somehow find base camp for Avengers 3 and it makes me miss production a little. Then I hear they're wrapping at 6am and I get over my nostalgia. 

I can't believe I leave tomorrow. Poor planning McGee, that's me. 

"Tha fuhhk...?"

...I say out loud to myself when the train passes a farm on the English countryside flying a Confederate flag. Ugh   

Tues 1130am

I feel like I've been awake for a day and a half. Because I've been awake for about a day and a half. 

Last night, feeling the itch of addiction, I decide to start the next episode of 13 Reasons

train toilet pics

Why so I can watch as I get ready for bed. It's already past midnight and I've set my alarm for 630, but what am I going to do, brush my teeth in silence? 

I lay down with my lover and expect him to lull me to sleep. Nope. One episode autoplays into two... I try to turn off the world and really put all my attention on sleeping. Nope. Then I remember: the Earl Grey tea. Whimper. 

Lots of people think my caffeine sensitivity is bullshit. I would too. But I had a pot of tea at 530pm which means I will lay in bed wide awake until at least 630 or 7am. I can't take a sleeping pill because I'm catching a train to Edinburgh in the morning and I'm sketchy at best on how to get to the train station. I don't want to chance being a zombie so I lay in bed for all of five minutes before I pull my Netflix back up. I finish 13 Reasons Why at 6am. (It's not perfect, but it's visceral, heartbreaking, sensitive and fun. Highly recommend.) Do I ever get tired? Not even close. 

train view

I take my time getting ready and give myself and hour and fifteen minutes to make the 30 min trip to King's Cross station. Even taking morning rush hour into account, I think I've given myself plenty of time to make it to my train by 9am. You know where this is heading, right?

Spoiler alert: I make my train. With five minutes to spare. But not before I second guess my train choice (wrongly), haul Roly Poly up and down and around stairs and platforms, and pour myself in between morning commuters. I could have lifted my feet and the pressure of their bodies would have supported me upright, bless their hearts. 

As if we aren't uncomfortable enough, a homeless poet named Darren slides himself through us. It's sounds nicer than it was. Darren had something going on in his head that made him repeat himself incessantly. His message was nice ("My name is Darren, let's break down divisions, we're in this together, do you have a quid...") but he kept circling back to the name spot - my immediate vicinity - like a goldfish who forgot I'd already given him my orange. He didn't smell great, but he could have smelled worse, and the whole episode, on top of me staring at the clock willing time to slow down so I didn't miss my train, made my anxiety skyrocket into a tickling of motion sickness. I heard the gentleman praying under his breath, "comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon." Yeah. 

train view, too

I collapse into my train seat, a cold, clammy sweat hog. As the train departs the station I snuggle against the window and pass out dead- WHUP! Minutes later I bolt back awake as a train passing us causes the wind to create this weird force field air pocket thing that could be mistaken for the train hitting a wall. I wake up like this a few times, petrified. I'm so tired I want to cry. Instead I curl into a ball, burrow myself into my seat, and finally fall all the way asleep.

An hour and a half later I'm wide awake. Because thanks to the last 24 hours, I'm now back on Texas time. Awesome. 

view from my bedroom

9p

living room

Edinburgh is cold and beautiful. There are gorgeous buildings everywhere. I don't know what anything is yet, but it all looks important and old. My Air BnB is in New Town and is basically one of those college apartments made for lots of roommates to share a living room & kitchen. 

Kris, Susana & Suzanne were nice enough to hook me up with their sister-in-law Cathy, and she and I meet for dinner. (Pizza. It's been a gnawing craving.) After dinner we go to a gallery show at The Scottish Gallery, the oldest art gallery in Edinburgh, because Cathy is an artist. Cathy's friend Kate, an artist who the gallery will be featuring during the Edinburgh Festival, tells me, "This is probably actually all of Edinburgh's high society in this room, so..." and she, Cathy and I kind of shrug. The art ranges from wood things I don't at all care about to these industrial concrete and glass sculptures that make me pant. I am mentally art challenged so it's cool to walk through the show with an artist and get her perspective on the pieces. 

kitchen

My walk home is freezing and windy. On my way, I recognize the parking lot of trucks and trailers that come with a movie shoot and discover I've stumbled upon Avengers 3. Apparently they've been shooting here a while are going to blow stuff up in a few days. I'm told Edinburgh is notified via the news ahead of time so they won't think they're the victims of a terrorist attack. I think this is depressing and funny.

Let's see if I can sleep tonight.

Edinburgh Castle. See? Old and important.

"I'd love to have your feminist rant alongside the show..."

...says Stella to me as I was babble about how Jerry DOES NOT LISTEN to Lise for the bulk of An American in Paris.

I spend most of last night and this morning binging on 13 Reasons Why. Why? I'M ON VACATION. And I'm hooked. (Clay's parents, give it a rest, amiright?)

So that I have something to write about besides Netflix, I page thru my Rick Steves' London guide for a tour to take. My aunt Mary and Uncle Steve introduced me to Rick Steves' guides on my first Europe trip in another lifetime and I can't recommend them enough. His writing is detailed yet accessible and good humored. His Museum walks are my favorite for all the Pop-Up Video type trivia he includes when talking about specific paintings and sculptures  Also, today I saw a German pre-teen in headgear reading his own Rick Steves' London guide out loud to his parents so if it's smart enough for a German kid, it's smart enough for me. 

Bow down.

Anyway, I settle on Steves' West End walk because it's a beautiful day and I don't feel like being inside. Plus my show tonight is walking distance from the end of the tour.

Being out all afternoon and evening presents me with my most/least favorite question: What am I gonna eat? 

I have an awesome idea- tea! I can't remember the last time I sat down to traditional English tea so I'm long overdue. Is having a big fancy high class tea by yourself depressing? I don't feel like finding out so I do some research and find Soho's Secret Tea Room, which lives in Coach & Horses, a legendary pub. (Fun fact: It's the first pub to serve veggie & vegan food). I choose this place because the review consensus is the tea room is yummy but chill. 

Once I start the walk, I realize it might not be my cup of tea. (Heh heh.) The West End walk covers the West End obviously, but I don't so much think about what that means until I get to the starting point which is Leicester Square. Other highlights will include the major shopping and tourist areas in the immediate vicinity. 

Spring flowers in Leicester Square.
Ridiculous pretty right??

My problems with this: 

~ I have an allergy to touristy anything. 

~ I hate crowds (my more positive way of saying I hate people) especially when they amble, stroll or fully stop in the middle of a thoroughfare. 

~ Capitalism makes me angry. 

~ Shopping feels like light torture.  

~ I do not like the smell of pee. (Gimme a tourist spot and I can show you a puddle of human pee on any given corner.)

So why am I doing this to myself? Siiiiiigh, BECAUSE. I'm too lazy to rethink my day, and I can't very well cheerlead/nag people about keeping an open mind if I can't. And I like to do this. Watch, I'll probably do it to you somewhere in this blog. 

So I give it my all on the West End walk, which takes me about 2 hours. Highlights include:

Monty Python once lived above
Neal's Yard Remedies! 

~ I find the TKTS booth in Leicester Square. Now I have a destination for 10am every morning I want to see a show. 

~ I pee! Instead of public toilets, there are 2theloo areas where you pay a pound to number 1 or 2 in a nice clean place. Totally worth the money. 

~ I discover Nate's Yard, a charming courtyardish picnic table area surrounded by healthy cafes and wine & cheese shops. It seems like Stella and I would feel at home here. I'd love to come on a weekend when she's off work, but I can only imagine the crowds. The fact that today is a Monday is helping this walk out a lot. 

~ I find a heavenly used bookstore on Charing Cross Road, where the street is lined with bookstores. It's stacks and shelves and a windy staircase of rare, medium rare (their awesome words) and obscure books. Of course I don't note the name, because I'm not a real travel writer. 

~ I walk through the sex shop part of Soho and thank God it's daytime. Still, there is a prostitute offering herself around, and it's very uncomfortable because she looks like someone's mom. Modest flower dress, Keds and mom hair. If it wasn't for her cigarette, leather jacket and that fact that she's bellowing to passing people advertising herself, I'd have never guessed. 

By the time my West End walk ends at Piccadilly Square, I'm beyond ready for my tea. The bartender at Coach & Horses lets me up the steep spiral staircase to the tea room. If you ever try this place, perhaps call ahead for a reservation. I got lucky because I was a single - yay me! - and they had one table left. When I enter the tea room that glows with pastel and features walls lined with quaint tea china I "Aww..." in the rad cuteness of everything and the waitress looks at me like she's really mad I exist. 

Tea! Scones! Clotted creammmme...

I get over it quickly because, to be fair, the place is jammed with people and she is the only server. I opt against full traditional tea with all the sweets (I'm boring, I don't want to break my no dessert kick today) and get a pot of Earl Grey tea & scones with clotted cream and jam instead. 

I get my tea & milk (yum) and despite registering all the accoutrements like tea strainer & cozy, I burn my hand on the pot and pour tea grounds in my cup. I do this enough times that I'm super proud when I actually remember to strain my tea. 

Coach & Rigs. Clear eyes, full hearts, clotted cream.

Now for my scones & clotted cream. The scones were great but really just a vehicle for my clotted cream. What is clotted cream? Clotted cream is nectar of the Gods by way of a cow. It looks like butter, but it's So Much More. Words can't do it justice, like trying to describe what your toes feel like when you realize Tim Riggins is in front of you at Cafe Medici on a Sunday morning (true story) or the color of the stars you see when you hear Coach Taylor's voice as he passes you walking out of the H-E-B (another true story). Just come to the U.K. and eat it and swoon. 

I text Stella to remind her I'll be seeing a show tonight. "Stay awake!" she texts back. Boy, do I! An American in Paris is beyond stunning. But my seat is as far away as you can get from the stage and not be in the balcony. This isn't a tragedy, I stay in my assigned seat for the first act and totally enjoy the show (despite a healthy helping of no-means-yes archaic storytelling, which I know, I know this story is set in post-WWII and I'm being picky, but still. It bugged the crap out of me.) but it's like I'm watching it on an iPhone. 

Row "double zed"

At intermission I moved up to some much closer seats and the show went from "Wow!" to "WWWWOOOOWWWWWWWWW!!!!" I'm fully immersed in the spectacle and I've got a perma-grin until I give a standing ovation to the cast. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!

I leave tomorrow for Edinburgh and I haven't quite done the research I should on where I'm going and how to get there on both ends of my train trip, so off I go!

"50% less sexy without the accent..."

New fav bestie pic!

…me to Stella about a man we were studying at the pub who we thought was British but ended up being American. “Yup,” Stella confirms.

Sunday 830p

Saturday morning I pass back out after my blog post and sleep hard until past 10 which I’m pretty much allergic to in real life. Stella and I walk to the Portobello Market, a street market in Notting Hill. The market is packed, the day is stunning and the neighborhood is charming as hell. I'm so happy to be here I narrate our whole walk: "Look, cashmere! Look, poms! They have silver? OOo purses! Darth Vader!"

By far the best part is the Acklam Village Market that is chock full of food stalls representing street food from all over the world and Bay 58, my favorite bar I’ve been to in London. I want twelve stomachs so I can try food from every stall and then a 13th stomach to fill with cider, but alas the gyros we get are giant and we fill up to I-hate-myself level fast. 

In love with Bay 58

The bar is eclectic and gorgeous, using recycled everything from theatre seats to giant paper flowers to fill out the space. A girl plays her acoustic guitar and sings and she’s so good, I video her original song so I can share it. After her set, she walks around selling CDS and we learn her name is Livvie Beers and she is indeed a girl, braces and all!

I will put my face through
any hole

Stella and I spend the rest of the day doing a bunch of nothing, which is the thing we are best at. It turns out one of the best places for Thai food in London happens to be at our local pub so we go there for dinner. (Thai or die! I'm making it happen.) I eat the best curry I’ve had in forever while Stella and I people watch.

You know what London has a bunch of? Cute boys. We have an ongoing discussion about why. Is it the accent? Dumb question. Is it because I’m generally mad at all white American males lately? Could also factor. Is it the clothes, the stubble, the variety, the friendliness? Those all work, too. We sit at our table like scientists researching theories. Do we talk to anyone? Um, did I mention there was food in front of us?? Of course not. Food before dudes.

Finally, some good sleep!

Saturday night I relent and take one of Stella’s sleeping pills and I go into a coma for nine hours. Thank you, God and Stella.

Sunday we go to Soho for brunch at Palomar. They serve food from Jerusalem in small plates (like tapas) so you order a few and share. This is one of Stella’s hangs so I let her order everything for us which is why, consequently, I don’t know what anything was called. So from my perspective we had bread with yummy sauces, chorizo sloppy joe, pork belly with apricots, and a cooked salad. And the nicest of nice cocktails featuring ginger.

The rest of the day we do errands and lots of nothing. When I check my email and get a ticket confirmation for An American in Paris on Monday night, I remember that I woke up at 6am and went online for a little bit. And clearly bought a ticket to a show, so I have that to look forward to tomorrow! 

Drugs are funny.

not statues & they scared the crap out of me

Greek food, for the win

"THIS is the happiest place on earth," I told Stella. Obviously, she agreed. 

The Easter egg colored houses of Portobello Road - so cute

Stella's amazing rooftop view

"Attack me, Woman!"

...shit-talks Henry to me during our game of checkers.

Sat 130am

Oh man. My body hates me. Jet lag: like a thousand, me: 0

Friday morning I never went back to sleep. Thank God for Girl on the Train. She's kept me highly entertained so I don't just drown in the internet while I lie in bed. However, at this rate I'll need another book in about 4 hours. 

Speaking of the internet... (I buckle into a puddle of fury and disgust.) Every time I go online, I'm struck dumb by political news. I can't even put words to the boil of anger I feel at every way this administration is basically trying to annihilate anything that isn't old, rich, white and male. These last few months have turned me from someone who refused to speak politics out of respect for other people's beliefs to an emotional, marching, rallying, Twitter devouring mess who likes to troll John Cornyn and makes calls to my TX representatives (I say I'm my mom. She agrees with me and gave me her permission so, shhhh!) despite my stupid, yet petrifying phone anxiety. 

I feel so privileged in ways I never felt or realized before, and it's important to me to fight for people who aren't as lucky as I am. I also feel minimized in ways I've never felt before, and that fucking pisses me off. All of this has me at a fever pitch to fight the patriarchy. 

However. I want and need a vacation and that makes me feel like a spoiled brat. So when I hopped online last night and read about Pence breaking the tie to end Title X funding to clinics that include abortion services and about Breitbart targeting Kamala Harris (fingers crossed, our future President!), I decided that every day of my vacation I would donate to a progressive candidate or group. Last night was Kamala Harris. Tonight it was DSCC. Tomorrow it will be Beto O'Rourke. Shut up, Guilt, I'll be back on the phone April 19.

"To die will be an awfully big adventure."

Back to London, Friday am. I leave the house after hours of puttering and head to Hyde Park. The air is crisp and damp so that it feels like Fall but it looks like Spring. Trees are just now budding and Spring flowers look as if they've literally just birthed themselves from the damp, dark soil. It's stunning! I'm excited to be here a few weeks so I can come back and watch Spring bloom more and more. 

The park is full of people, dogs and ducks. One thing I love to notice about places I travel is the differences in native species, particularly the birds. When you can walk through a park and see four other types of ducks OTHER than the regular white or brown ducks you see all the time, I thinks that's just the coolest thing ever. It makes the world feel exotic and special. 

I seek out two specific destinations in the park to pay homage: Princess Diana's Memorial Fountain and the Peter Pan Statue.  I see Peter first. My jaw drops. He's gorgeous. The statue is of Peter on the rock as the water is rising, and the water is made of different characters and moments in the story. It's the moment when Peter's daring heart overcomes his fear and it beats to him, "To die will be an awfully big adventure." I have this quote tattooed on my ribs. For my favorite quote from my favorite story to be in front of me in such a stunning representation takes my breath away. 

Princess Diana of Wales Memorial Fountain

Princess Diana's memorial is similarly poignant. It's not a fountain you would picture in your mind. It's far too large to get a decent picture, but it's not showy in any way. I become emotional when I read the  info placard on how the swirling and cascading of water that meets in a calm pool represents her life, and how the bridges giving people the opportunity to meet at the heart of the fountain represents her openness. Once I read that, I walk all three access bridges, crossing the heart of the fountain each time to honor Princess Diana's legacy. 

Mummy & Maisie

Henry the Destroyer

In the afternoon I meet my old friend Crockett and go with her to pick up her kids, Henry & Maisie, from school to take them to the park. Sounds like no big whoop, right? It's actually a big whoop! The nicest parents, the cutest kids with THE CUTEST ACCENTS, and crisps! (That's chips to us Yanks. I'll talk about crisps a lot on this trip. The U.K. has the best flavors.) Crockett's friends are beyond lovely with city suggestions for me, and a random surprise free ticket to see The Glass Menagerie that evening! Free. Ticket. To Tennessee Williams!! 

Thai or die

After the park, the bulk of us go to the local pub for pints & dinner. I have fantastic pad Thai (Thai or die!) ("Stop trying to make fetch happen!") and get my ass slammed in checkers by Henry. He's seven. He mocks me without mercy. It's so fun. 

Whimper...

I head to the theatre for The Glass Menagerie and I'm beyond excited. The main thing I want to do this trip is try to see some theater. Scoring a ticket in my first 24 hours feels like a giant win and a great omen for the rest of my theater going! 

Except. JET LAG. The play starts and my head immediately falls as I fight passing out with everything I have. It's. Torture. I lose and sleep until intermission. Feeling sacrilegious, I go home at intermission and pass out dead. 

Stupid jet lag.