LONDON: Act I
March 3-4, 2017
THE WANDERER HAD not been on a plane for nearly seven years.
Thankfully, however, her excitement greatly outweighed her nervousness, and, like one of J.M. Barrie's fairies, she found that she could focus only on one emotion at a time.
She made her way through the Philadelphia airport with the wonder of a child. What an oddity it was, to be in an airport! Airports felt like little worlds unto themselves, a world with its own unique customs, traditions, norms. A limbo-world where visitors spent the majority of their time waiting—waiting to drop off suitcases, waiting to be scanned for harmlessness, waiting to board their plane.
Oddly enough, the wanderer did not feel impatient in this world of waiting. She glided through this strange world, marveling. When she and her companion eventually made their way to their gate, they found chairs to wait in by the huge airport windows. The wanderer watched the changeable sky gradually darken into night from behind the glass.
Soon, she would be in that sky.
ON THE PLANE the wanderer sat next to a British couple presumably returning home. This delighted the wanderer, to hear British people talking in their lovely British accents, knowing that soon she would be in Britain where everyone talked in their lovely British accents and she would feel as if she stepped into her favorite BBC television shows. All of her favorite television shows were BBC shows.
The wanderer was glad she was traveling during the night, for that meant she could doze most of the way, which she more or less did, putting on her handy-dandy headphones and falling asleep with a lullaby in her ears. At intervals she was awoken by airplane attendants carting food and drink. Would you like something to drink? Here's your dinner. Coffee or tea? Any trash to throw away? Good morning, coffee or tea? Here's your breakfast. Something to drink? More coffee? The wanderer didn't want for anything, and she had more food than she could eat. She groggily stuffed the banana, miniature bagel, and the rest of her breakfast into her backpack.
And then it was off the plane and through the Heathrow airport, another limbo-world of long, snaking lines of waiting people. A gatekeeper-man working in the limbo-world asked the wanderer and her companion a barrage of questions: What's your reason for being in Britain? How long are you staying? What are you going to do whilst here? You're here for school? What are you studying? The wanderer felt as if she were being interrogated and thought, They should be shining a light on me. That's what they do on TV.
At last, the gatekeeper granted them permission to pass. The wanderer reunited with her little red suitcase and left the airport before the gatekeeper could chase her down and tell her he's changed his mind, back to America with you.
AFTER A RIDE on the tube, the wanderer and her companion rolled their luggage through the streets of London to their hostel. They were early and could not yet check into their rooms, so they stored their luggage in lockers and ventured back through the streets of London. They ate a brunch of sandwiches on a bench in a nearby lovely little London park, where the bare, squiggly tree branches waved in the breeze and paths of delicate purple and yellow flowers lined the green grass. Their hostel was very close to the British Museum, so the two decided to meander there as they waited to check in to their room.
The wanderer found herself in an exhibit full of beautiful British watercolors. She examined the paintings, admiring the gorgeous nature scenes, where rivers ran peacefully through forests and valleys shone bright and green. However, it was only a matter of time before the jet-lag monster caught up with her at last, seeping into her bones and turning her into a tired, wandering zombie. It is hard to appreciate beautiful British watercolors when one is a tired, wandering zombie. The wanderer was glad when she finally arrived in their room in the hostel, collapsed on her bed, and slept.
AFTER HER NAP, the wanderer and her companion met up with their professor and his wife, and the four trekked through London. The wanderer walked along the Thames, gazing at the lights of the city shining across the water, at the red London Eye looking out across the river at them. She went into her very first Waterstones bookstore and marveled at all of the beautiful, beautiful books. Why were British books so much more beautiful than American ones? She wanted to take the whole bookstore home with her.
And then, finally, she was back in her room. The curtain had fallen on her first day in London. She fell asleep, still hardly able to believe she was actually in the capital of Britain, where people talked in their lovely British accents and squiggly tree branches waved and the Eye shone red across the Thames and the books were so, so beautiful and—
End of Act I.
THE WANDERER HAD not been on a plane for nearly seven years.
Thankfully, however, her excitement greatly outweighed her nervousness, and, like one of J.M. Barrie's fairies, she found that she could focus only on one emotion at a time.
She made her way through the Philadelphia airport with the wonder of a child. What an oddity it was, to be in an airport! Airports felt like little worlds unto themselves, a world with its own unique customs, traditions, norms. A limbo-world where visitors spent the majority of their time waiting—waiting to drop off suitcases, waiting to be scanned for harmlessness, waiting to board their plane.
Oddly enough, the wanderer did not feel impatient in this world of waiting. She glided through this strange world, marveling. When she and her companion eventually made their way to their gate, they found chairs to wait in by the huge airport windows. The wanderer watched the changeable sky gradually darken into night from behind the glass.
Soon, she would be in that sky.
ON THE PLANE the wanderer sat next to a British couple presumably returning home. This delighted the wanderer, to hear British people talking in their lovely British accents, knowing that soon she would be in Britain where everyone talked in their lovely British accents and she would feel as if she stepped into her favorite BBC television shows. All of her favorite television shows were BBC shows.
The wanderer was glad she was traveling during the night, for that meant she could doze most of the way, which she more or less did, putting on her handy-dandy headphones and falling asleep with a lullaby in her ears. At intervals she was awoken by airplane attendants carting food and drink. Would you like something to drink? Here's your dinner. Coffee or tea? Any trash to throw away? Good morning, coffee or tea? Here's your breakfast. Something to drink? More coffee? The wanderer didn't want for anything, and she had more food than she could eat. She groggily stuffed the banana, miniature bagel, and the rest of her breakfast into her backpack.
And then it was off the plane and through the Heathrow airport, another limbo-world of long, snaking lines of waiting people. A gatekeeper-man working in the limbo-world asked the wanderer and her companion a barrage of questions: What's your reason for being in Britain? How long are you staying? What are you going to do whilst here? You're here for school? What are you studying? The wanderer felt as if she were being interrogated and thought, They should be shining a light on me. That's what they do on TV.
At last, the gatekeeper granted them permission to pass. The wanderer reunited with her little red suitcase and left the airport before the gatekeeper could chase her down and tell her he's changed his mind, back to America with you.
AFTER A RIDE on the tube, the wanderer and her companion rolled their luggage through the streets of London to their hostel. They were early and could not yet check into their rooms, so they stored their luggage in lockers and ventured back through the streets of London. They ate a brunch of sandwiches on a bench in a nearby lovely little London park, where the bare, squiggly tree branches waved in the breeze and paths of delicate purple and yellow flowers lined the green grass. Their hostel was very close to the British Museum, so the two decided to meander there as they waited to check in to their room.
The wanderer found herself in an exhibit full of beautiful British watercolors. She examined the paintings, admiring the gorgeous nature scenes, where rivers ran peacefully through forests and valleys shone bright and green. However, it was only a matter of time before the jet-lag monster caught up with her at last, seeping into her bones and turning her into a tired, wandering zombie. It is hard to appreciate beautiful British watercolors when one is a tired, wandering zombie. The wanderer was glad when she finally arrived in their room in the hostel, collapsed on her bed, and slept.
AFTER HER NAP, the wanderer and her companion met up with their professor and his wife, and the four trekked through London. The wanderer walked along the Thames, gazing at the lights of the city shining across the water, at the red London Eye looking out across the river at them. She went into her very first Waterstones bookstore and marveled at all of the beautiful, beautiful books. Why were British books so much more beautiful than American ones? She wanted to take the whole bookstore home with her.
And then, finally, she was back in her room. The curtain had fallen on her first day in London. She fell asleep, still hardly able to believe she was actually in the capital of Britain, where people talked in their lovely British accents and squiggly tree branches waved and the Eye shone red across the Thames and the books were so, so beautiful and—
End of Act I.
This is wonderful oh my gosh.
ReplyDelete<3
Delete