St. Pancras Hostel, London. 8 January 2012. 18:58 UTC.
Swollen feet and sleep deprivation do not lessen the feeling of triumph: I am in London. I set my bags down only minutes ago and still it does not hit me that all my from-home possessions are contained within the blue backpack and green REI expandable duffel bag. My life is collapsed into essentials and small conveniences. Yet the awaited experiences will fill my life more fully than the bags are now.
The Underground train took longer than expected, 25 stops, but there was a strange familiarity attached. The ride was akin to the countless trips I took from Berkeley to SF on BART (subway of the Bay Area in California). There was more of a status commonality of the passengers than that of BART, though: coming home either way from work or play, there were teens and adults, families too, but I did not notice any homeless or crazies in my railcar. The subway is not just cheap here, it’s widely used by the general public.
From the Underground I found the hostel about two blocks down. I went in a direction by gut and spotted the place from a nice double-door entryway. The room: 17 GBP (pounds), a lock 3GBP, a travel adaptor for the UK outlet 4GBP. After a 5.45 GBP trip on the Underground, I’d say I had a cost-effective first day. But now I must eat. I think there’s a café in the lobby.
21:23 UTC
I just got back to my room. It was quite an interesting time at the café.
I decided to sit down at a table occupied by a guy I saw checking in while I was. The guy seemed mid-thirties, partially bald in the front but had a nicely kept ponytail in the back. His arms were painted and tattooed stylistically and as I sat down, I realized why. In front of him was a notebook, more pages full than blank, of countless graffiti-esque lettering and tattoo and shirt design logos and figures. He was a street artist by trade. For the next hour and a half (forty minutes of which I waited for a poorly-made but relatively cheap beef chile con carne at the cafe--took forever, only one cook was on hand apparently), Jason the street artist talked to me. I would say "we talked" but that would deny the fact that this guy really wanted to talk and I didn't mind listening. He mentioned how Banksy was both an inspiration to him as well as being an offensive fellow street artist--he built up to this point by pouring over his art to me and explaining how the artistic circle of London used to be so much broader and more opened than it has become in recent years. Strangely, I was able to keep up with him for the most part but some things struck me as beyond me: he swam for charity and not just a few miles but around 20-30. He's currently training to help his sick friend and he plans to swim 50 miles open water. On a familiar note, we talked about being excited for the upcoming second series of the modern-day Sherlock TV show. There reached a point where I grew too tired to stay up and headed back upstairs. Nice fellow, though.
Upstairs at around 21:30 I met my only roommate at the time, Frank--a Chinese-born Penn State graduate student in industrial engineering; an hour later I met a Manchester-resident Ontis who is a Sargent (of police? I have no idea.) and then as if by clockwork, a third roommate arrived the next hour as I was going in and out of sleep. It was rather noisy at first but somehow I settled down under the comforter and the sparse bed. The lights went off at some point. Strangely I got up at 3 and realized my world alarm clock had its time as 15:30. I quickly made the change to 3 and double-checked the 8:30 wake-up alarm time. I took an Advil, the jet-lag was still not gone. Finally I fell into a deep sleep.
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