Two Twenty-Four Hours

Let me tell you the tale of two twenty-four hour periods. 

Sunday:

An early rise, a leisurely bus ride. At Trafalgar Square by ten.

How’d the date go with the Lunar New Year parade in London’s ChinaTown? Front row, standing room only and a full camera roll.

Then off to warm up at a coffee shop that I later learn is pretty famous for its pastries.

A friend meets me and, two cinnamon swirls and a chocolate bun later, we are full of great conversation, unstoppable giggles and ready for the next stop.

The National Gallery.

My first Monet. My first Van Gough. My favorite museum so far.

Finally, a sunset stroll over the Thames, a few more giggles over sandwiches and a race to the buses.

One hell of a day.

Saturday:

Scramble out of bed, guzzle down some oats and run out the door.

A good boxing class.

Decide to walk to the grocery store and then home. A two hour journey.

I lose feeling in my toes after the first half hour. London cold is truly something else.

I learn the “Sainsbury shuffle”, but forget the coffee.

I make it home, shaking with chill to my bone, and look at the time. I have 40 minutes to shower, dress and eat before a tour on the other side of town.

I shower and dress. I scarf down leftover cold oats. It’ll do.

The first bus is delayed enroute.

The second is five minutes late to arrive.

I miss the third entirely.

I rush up to Piccadilly Circus, check the clock, pray for 3pm!

“3:20”.

Fair. But disappointing. The tour is long gone.

I try a call to my partner but Picadilly Circus (a true Vegas Strip look-alike) is too loud.

I try to find food - a line out of every door.

Find a bus, take it home, warm up.

Look for something to eat besides oats.

Current objective:

Sit with the good, sit with the bad. Don’t overthink either.

Talk soon.

e