Keeping One’s Eyes on the Prize

Yeah; this may be a bit muddled/mispuncuated because I am on a foreign computer.

(Written yesterday; Sept 8th)

So here‘s one for you- I had booked a flight to Oslo for today; so I should be there now, yes? No, I am in Paris. Allow me to explain. Actually, first of all let ,e just finish my stay in London: All in all, less fun than last time when I was a bit less stressed and a bit freer with my money. Hyde Park is one of my favorite places in the world; but I did not get around to seeing it this time. Nicole and I still had a fun time of things though—she had a close encounter with an Aussie named Sam, and I with the auto,atic closing doors at the British Museum. Aside from this, Nicole had a close encounter of the violent kind when a passing homeless man kicked her in the shin as we walked peacefully and unoffensivly down the street. Ah, Crazies. Can’t live with them, can’t kick them back. My flight to Oslo left at noon on the 8th, so instead of waking up early for the flight, I decide to sleep at the airport: SO, I go to the train station to get said airport. I tell the man in the ticket booth I’m leaving from Prestwick Glasgow, and he gives me a strange look and says, “Nooo……you mean Gatswick. Fine smartypants, Gatswick. So, he’s being very friendly and ventures, “Single?” I smile, look down, probably blush, mutter something in the affirmative follwed by something I hope will be recieved as humorous self-deprecation, avoid eye contact for the rest of the conversation, only later did I realize he meant ‘single’ as opposed to ‘return’. I am a moron. BUT WAIT, it gets worse, I swear. Obviously, I get no impressive amount of sleep at the airport, and go to check-in at 10am. 10:30 happens…. 11….still my flight is not listed amoung the departures. I hope perhaps this is because of a delay, but this, alas, is not the case. My flight did leave from Prestwick and here I stand—right time, right airline, wrong airport. My only consolation-very lacking as consolations go—is that the ticket only cost me 30 dollars, so it could be worse. I check the prices of outgoing flights that day, but eventually decide to cut my losses and take the chunnel from London to Paris. And here I am. Apparently, it’s a busy weekend, because everywhere seemed to be booked. 9pm, my pack becomes too heavy for having eaten nothing all day and I pay too much for the last available room at a hostel in northern Paris.—the upside—I have a bathroom and tv to myself, so I am free to wear what I want—or not. I find myself now trying to figure out how to lighten my pack and watching what is apparently a French epedimic as well…reality tv. My winning dinner for the evening: peanut butter and orange juice.

TODAY, Sept 9: Paris agrivates me, so without seeing anything there, I board a train to Brussels. I’ve got a good feeling about Brussels; A Book Two Nights At The Same Hostel good feeling. I’m sure I’ll get back to France.