I estimate that it’s been ten years or so that I’ve been wanting to visit this patch of the world. I’m not sure how or even why the fancy took hold — possibly my habit of reading Poirot mysteries — but I added “going to Europe” as one of my life goals a while ago.
London, as I half-expected it would be, was both everything and nothing like I’d imagined it would be. I don’t think I would ever have anticipated the sheer volume of immigrant communities; in some senses it very much reminds me of San Francisco, or what little I’ve seen of it anyway. Either that, or there are a lot more tourists from Europe than I expected there to be. The point being that since my entire conception of the UK comes from Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, P.G. Wodehouse, Doctor Who and Sherlock (in chronological order), I have no idea what London actually is meant to look like.
So far we have taken the tube down from Heathrow to Holborn, checked into our AirBnB place, had a prolonged early dinner at an Authentic British Pub (overflowing with meat pies and fish and chips, no place for a self-respecting vegetarian) and then walked home and collapsed. Well, I’ve collapsed, since I’m the only one who has just traveled transatlantic.
Tomorrow is visiting day, and possibly with a bit more sleep and sanity I can unearth more of London.