Shake-up at St. Christopher’s.

Blackfriars Bridge at sunset

Sunday morning. Londoners seem to adhere to blue laws of old: Hardly any shops are open Sunday morning. Luckily, Londoners love their coffee and tea and so I am able to blog.

Last night was an interesting course of events. I met up with some Americans and a New Zealander at the hostel and we had some bonding time over a few drinks at the pub. It was a good time, but I wish I could have met some locals. One Londoner stopped us on the street and asked us for directions. This was a good indicator of the sheer size of this city. He was an extremely friendly fellow and was infinitely amused at our use of the exclamation “Sweet!”

As soon as I was ready to turn in for the evening, things got interesting. The hostel I was staying at was split into two buildings on the same block of Borough High Street, St. Christopher’s Village and St. Christopher’s Inn. My first mistake was misreading my bed reservation as saying I was staying in Room 1 of the Village. I went upstairs and found myself locked out of the room. I then realized I was supposed to be at the Inn, and walked down the street to be accosted by two large fellows standing outside bouncing the hostel’s bar downstairs. I showed them my room key and they allowed me through. I went upstairs and slid my key card through the door of Room 1, to find myself locked out there as well. I sighed heavily, trudged down the stairs, down the street, and explained the problem to the receptionist. He slid my card through his magic machine and told me the key would work now. I huffed down the street yet again and collapsed into my bed. Twenty minutes later, a young British fellow entered the room and wondered what I was doing in his bed. I replied that I was unaware that the bed was taken. I sighed more heavily than before, slipped my shoes on, and walked down the street yet again. By now, I could tell the security guards outside were becoming mighty suspicious of my behavior. I explained the problem to reception and he punched some buttons on his computer. He looked up my name and told me I was actually supposed to be in Room 10 at the Inn. I suppose it was an honest mistake of the receptionist that booked me, but I was quite tired and thus, quite peeved. I walked back to the Inn and collapsed for the night.

I remember distinctly falling asleep to the sound of a pissed English fellow explaining his plan to punch some other fellow’s stomach in. I laughed inside and fell right asleep.

Today I might take a trip to Notting Hill before I have to board the train to Stansted Airport to catch my plane to Glasgow.