In the land of grump and crank.

I’m finally back in my favorite city on Earth: London. It’s been a whirlwind couple of days, and I’m pretty well dazed.

Sunday evening we left Boston on a red eye flight to London. Last year, I took a similarly scheduled flight and couldn’t sleep a wink. I arrived in London at 7:30 a.m. not having slept in most of two days (I’d deprived myself of sleep the night before my flight so that I would be tired on the plane), navigated my way to a hotel, and passed out face down on top of my Kindle from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m. Of course, waking up at 10p.m. after 7 hours of sleep completely screwed my internal clock, and I ended up spending my first few days in Spain sleeping for ghastly amounts of time. Our plan this year was to avoid this pattern and sleep on the plane at any cost.

Thus, we went straight to the airport bar. I drank a glass of wine and took some melatonin.  By the time we boarded the plane, neither L. nor I could keep our eyes open.

Me: “I’m so tired the world is spinning! Do you know that feeling?”

L.: “You’re drunk.”

Me: giggle

Indeed, between the wine and the melatonin I was completely useless and beyond tired. So was L. And yet, at 6:15 a.m. when we arrived in London, neither of us had slept at all. Moral of the story: we can’t sleep on airplanes.

Aside from the immediate irritation of being sleep deprived, we were also irritated because we had each invested a great deal of time in trying to make sure this didn’t happen. Not only had we carefully planned and executed our pre-departure activities; we had also spent the week prior to the flight adjusting ourselves to the English time zone. I spent most of last week waking up at obscene hours (3 a.m, anyone?) and going to bed at equally ridiculous times, and all for naught.

So, alas, we arrived sleep deprived and, in my case, hella cranky. We took what seemed like an interminable Tube ride to King’s Cross, and from there sought our hotel. It turned out to be just a scant block or two from King’s Cross, but we had a small amount of difficulty finding it. The difficulty stemmed largely from my insistance that we were not where we wanted to be, despite all indications to the contrary. Poor L.

But we made it. We expected that because it was only 9 a.m. we would only be able to drop off our bags but not check in. Thanks to some miracle, however, the extremely friendly woman at the desk ushered us straight to the room, where we promptly collapsed from exhaustion.

Our efforts to adjust to the time zone may not have been a total waste; when we eventually arose around 2 p.m., we were surprisingly not too disoriented. We struck out in desperate need of food and wound up at a nearby pub where we fortified with red meat and beer (ok, I drank cider). As we stuffed ourselves, the pub began to fill with eager football fans hoping to see the England-France match. We were joined at our table by a middle aged man and his young daughter. I was torn between thinking it was cute that he had brought her purple backpack full of distractions and thinking that perhaps he should be finding something else to do with her. I supposeit is neither here nor there.

We left as the game began and headed into Picadilly Circus and Leister Square. We wandered around for a while, eventually procuring for me a suitable outer garment. I neglected to pack a jacket, convinced that it would be in the mid-60s while we were here, and I intentionally didn’t pack my rain jacket because it’s rather enormously too big for me at this point. My pitiful umbrella was less than effective, however, and my sweatshirt was not really the look I was going for, so shop we did, and buy a remarkably satisfying waterproof windbreaker I did. Huzzah.

Although we had felt refreshed after our nap, we were quickly tired again, and we headed back to the hotel quite early. Having nothing much better to do, we watched a BBC show about birds, toadlets, and otters.

It may not have been the most outstanding start to our vacation, but considering the sleepless circumstances, we agree that it was a success.

The times they are a-changing.

I had a moment yesterday, standing in my kitchen with my favorite yellow mug full of coffee, looking out my window at the somewhat dilapidated roof of our crazy neighbors’ house and at the side of the apartment on the third floor in the next building over. (There is a young couple that lives in that apartment. On one dark winter night, I tipped my head back to catch a piece of spaghetti, and as I did so movement in their glowing window caught my attention. I turned my eyes and saw the man that lives there doing the exact same thing.)

It was early, 6am, and the view was gray and foggy. I had been awake for a while trying to teach my brain to accept the time zone I’ll soon be in. The European Adventure has nearly arrived, and the view out my window looks different when I’m seeing it from the future and another continent. This feels like home, and for that I am deeply grateful. I haven’t felt at home in a long time.

And yet I am equally grateful to be jetting away from this home and into a wild adventure.  Last summer, I fell in love with traveling alone. This summer, I’m realizing that traveling together isn’t a compromise; it’s an expansion.

My message from the universe today was, “happiness is not diminished by sharing.” Cheers, universe. I’m looking at you.

European Adventure Redux

Ok, the name is still under debate:
– European Adventure Redux
– European Adventure, Part 2
– Cupcake and Muffin Go to Rome
Please vote.

The deal is this: L. invited me to join him and his family on their vacation in Italy this summer. And then he suggested that he and I also visit England and France.

I’m guessing you can accurately predict my answer.