It’s Sunday morning in Luton airport. Fog had shrouded our 40 minute drive out of the city. The security lines are long and full of Poles on their way to Gdansk and Warsaw. An announcement comes over the PA: Last call of Eastjet flight 2027 to Amsterdam, departing at gate 16.
And so Luton quickly became a blur of moving walkways, dangling luggage, constructive criticism, shredded sandals and, luckily, our fellow passengers in transit to Amsterdam (up next).
There are a number of things you can’t do in Trafalgar Square at night. And there are a number of police officers who will kindly inform you that you are doing one or more of those things. Do not climb on the Aslans. Do not get in the fountains. Do not unfurl an IRA banner. But you can take pictures with the cops.
London is a city unto itself, modest in its headlong charge into modernization but still ornately adorned with history. (Admittedly, modernization seems to have skipped over my hostel’s shower facilities, pictures not included.) I keep feeling as though London could be Tokyo, if old Tokyo hadn’t been torn to shreds by Allied bombing missions. Cobblestone roads lead into red-brick train stations which, once inside, are covered in stainless steel, glass and computer readouts. And like Tokyo, there are trains everywhere. I love trains.