London. I am operating on no sleep and am slowly falling into a daze of perceived helplessness.
Customs was a nightmare. It was the factory-farmed fight to the finish that you hear about but never believe. I stood waiting in line for two hours. As soon as I spoke with the immigration officer, she asked of my business abroad. I told her everything I knew. One thing I did not know, and still do not know, is where I am to sleep tonight. 72 hours without sleep would be a catastrophe.
I have been here for five hours and have yet to step outside. This train is heading for Paddington Station. An Australian couple sits ahead of me and recommends that I find lodging accommodations at Paddington. They, as everyone else, told me I should have made reservations ahead of time. I told them they were right.
New York and London are strikingly similar thusfar. Everything is arbitrarily numbered, lettered, or named, and it requires a vocabulary of contextual babble in order to survive.
Armed with my granola bars imported from America and bags beneath my eyes the size of lady fingers, I must set out to face the city. Ciao.