First things first: You be pooping.

First things first: you be pooping.

As quiet as you possibly can.

But you can’t help it – the farts are just too loud, man, and the UK doesn’t seem to believe in bathroom fans (I have yet to find even one. Also, small rant, they are all claustrophobic and 1-ply fun).

You hope the seven other hostel roommates are too passed out to care.

But, whatever, you let it rippppp. You got places to be and ain't nobody got time to take it slow.

You pack your day pack and are off down the street, Google Maps in hand, like a little Dora the Explorer.

You’ve already been here for a little bit, so you get used to the busy streets and the bonkers intersections (which have directions on which way to look for traffic, painted on the cement – super handy).

You have sort of a plan, but not really, you just want to walk until you see something interesting.

So, you walk towards adventure and hope it finds you.

You walk by ancient bars with silly names that are older than every single structure back home. In fact, older than your entire home country. Here, something is like hundreds and hundreds of years old. And even then, you think that's old? Oh that's nothing, nbd, you know? You stop at said ancient bars, have a few beers (which are super light – the strongest IPA being like a Mike’s Hard Lemonade equivalent of 4.2%), and just vibe with a good book or conversation with people around you.

You pay using tap-to-pay, which everyone, I mean everyone uses. Like, you're convinced that probably someone who robs you will ask to tap to pay them. Everything is just so efficient and quick to pay with just a swipe of your phone. You haven’t seen any physical currency exchanged by anyone, anywhere. You haven't seen a single debt or credit card swiped. Seriously, not even once. Bars don’t do tabs and they don’t do tips and you’re confused on why it’s so easy (you also wonder if maybe they don’t do tips because they treat their citizens with an affordable wage? Unlike the US? You tell yourself to research this more when you’re on a long, hot-ass tube ride later across the city).

You walk by So. Many. People. From every walk of life with so many different languages chattering away. It’s comforting coming from such an isolated home country. It's such a poetry of words and that makes you happy.

You go on river cruise with the most enthusiastic tour guides you've ever met. You also just happened to book the tour that is basically 60% poop jokes. You find it fitting with how your day started.

Zoom into their faces. You'll see what I mean...

You stop by Starbucks, because of course you do. You try their version of a grilled cheese sandwich, but it has mustard in it and then suddenly you hate everything about humans and society and think we're all doomed for our sins.

And yet, you persist. You continue.

You see and hear Oasis everywhere.

You book a tour to walk along the famous London Bridge and learn a lot of fun facts about engineering and British history. Also, you remember, bridges are absolutely nuts and it's so cool they exist.

You run into a torture museum and see an actual chastity belt...

and you’re like what the FUCK.

You continue and run into the Anchor Bankside Bar where Shakespeare might have gotten drunk at. It's older than a lot of entire countries, so man, who knows anymore.

You walk along the river Thames, famous for…famous for something really cool, but you have no idea. You just like walking rivers.

And then you run into the Globe, where the complete replication of the original Shakespeare’s theater is (only 2 blocks away where it originally was demolished [all seriousness aside, you find it super fascinating the history of the religious war in the UK way back when that killed and destroyed oh so many things and people]). You find the very last ticket in the very back for quite a fee, but you buy it because YOLO.

You take the absolute breeze-of-ease public transportation across the city and realize that America done fucked up with their continuation of cutting public transit funds. You ride the front, top of the Harry Potter-ish double decker bus like a sugar rushed kiddo.

You get to the “world famous” Wynd Museuem and you see things that are absolutely, totally normal, like Kylie Minogue's poop or an actual preserved skeleton or stuffed dead squirrels playing fantastic music in a forever embalmed band.

 
So yeah, again, total museum norm.

You go, hmmm, traveling is pretty cool, man.

Then you go upstairs, have some Absinthe in the Absinthe bar, think about Gogh and his poor ear, and then head back to the hostel.

You get back and run into your friend you met the night before from the other Washington (D.C.). You meet more friends from Scotland and the UK and you drink and tap and drink and tap. (Whoever made drinking this easy is an absolute genius and peace prize nominee).

You meet even more people who are fascinating and you talk and talk and talk and you just can’t get enough of new people.

You and your new friends drink and karaoke and sometimes break glasses that make bar tenders angry.

You’re a little drunk, but you all decided to go out into the city and try to find open bars (never mind that London’s busiest pub days are Thursdays and that most bars don’t stay open late at all. You’ll find out later why, another topic for another entry...).

You walk (read: stumble) around the city with strangers laughing your ass off, get underground, but then a dispute on where you're all going separates your party. Three of you wave to the 2 left on the tube shooting off to the next stop while you're on the platform, and are like "peace" and “good luck!” And then you stumble back to the hostel and keep drinking. You met some cool people that night and it's something you'll remember for a long time.

You check your pictures while laying in your cramped, tiny hole in the wall hostel bed that night and you’re like, uhhh, what/where/huh happened tonight? And then you try to fall asleep but it’s hot, and you keep rolling around hoping the dude below doesn’t hear you from the top bunk. You haven’t seen him get out of his bed in two days. He could be dead but you’re too scared to check.

You wake up proper early (see, you’re already becoming a Brit) and again venture out in a random direction.

You find it hillarious and take pictures of TK Maxx to send to your sister, while the security guard looks really, truly confused and doesn’t understand why anyone would be taking pictures of this store.


You go watch Shakespeare redone as an American Western. It’s weird and wild and you grin the entire fucking performance. In fact, you may say this is one of the coolest things you’ve ever seen. The audience interaction is wild (I mean, I don’t think Mercutio would make out with random audience members in the states now, do you?).

You’re on an absolute high. You're taking in such deep history and it's intoxicating. You keep walking and exploring and drinking and eating.

You should watch your budget – this is an expensive city - but you get back to the hostel and you go with your new friend to a paint n’ sip night with house music. It’s amazing and great and you’re pretty proud of your artwork. 

You go back to the hostel and make great conversation carrying around random terrible artwork (you tell yourself to try this trick when trying to talk to women at bars back in the states). Most people go back out on the town, but you say no because the other night was enough and you’re 39, dude! And every one of those stories end up terribly, you know (okay, well, also really fun, but whatever, not the point).

You end up staying at the hostel bar, meet an honest to God Australian farmer. It’s both boring and FASCINATING how into the farm life he is, and you try to keep up with your Stardew Valley knowledge base. It doesn't work, but damn you learn a lot from Brett the Farmer.

Then...

You pass out and forget absolutely everything Brett the Farmer taught you

You're not even sure his name is Brett, but you think he looked like a Brett.

Or maybe a Bret with just one t?

Oh well.

You wake up and go to a church service at St. Mark’s Cathedral.

It has one of the largest domes in the entire world and it blows you away how majestic and beautiful it is.

But the service starts and you feel empty and confused and you try to figure out why your relationship with religion and God is so complex. Sometimes it’s painfully absent, sometimes it’s not and it's oh-so-present. And you laugh a little that your relationship to religion is just as complex and confusing and fucked as your head sometimes.

You go downstairs and have a beer in the church crypt (very London, man) and for some reason, you feel God there more than in the majestic beauty above.

You walk and explore and meet new people and drink new things and eat fun and not so fun food (you wonder, what is up with Britain's love for mashed peas, like, it's terrible guys).

You grab the tube to a new accommodation – some random ass apartment over a bar in the absolute middle of nowhere. You sit in a bar filled with 100% locals, not a tourist in sight You love talking shit about Trump with the bartender (because everyone and everyone in the greater big wide world talks shit about Trump [as they should])

You get out your laptop and you just start typing, not even thinking about the sentence you’re typing. You try to write a running commentary blog like that time in Bangkok, and make it neat and broken up and organized. But it has been years now and you feel so much more chaotic than then (what happened, you ask yourself?!?)

It’s just so much, all at once. Life is all too much at once.

And that's lovely to you.

You type and look around and can’t wait to see what adventure comes next. You want to type more but you realize that to go on an adventure, you must first step out your door. You have to drop all the technology that everyone is glued to. You have to just get up and go.

You need to turn off your phone, say hello to the person at the table next you, and then close your lapt-