Friday, November 2, 2012

My Bed Has Curtains

No sleep
Six hour layover
Train to Palmer's Lodge
No "War Horse" today
breakfast next to Bloch store
(poor Stortos, uneaten and wilting)
extra plane food
V & A
sleep-deprived delirium
poor, poor me

That's a poem I wrote after the 24 hour trip from Honolulu to London. Or I'm calling it a poem has a nice shape to it, and an appropriately poignant ending.

We're staying at Palmer's Lodge this time around, a hostel in north London. It's no Passfield Hall. Palmer's Lodge is like going camping, where every new discovery reminds you what a nuisance it is to go camping (and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible). Bunk beds with wooden beams hammered at random diagonals, requiring you to stoop constantly or bump your head every three seconds; showers with no door or ledge; showerheads that only spray for 20 seconds. And yet, I am clean, warm, comfortable. So far, so good.

We are way, WAY up in the attic.  Room 302 is up three flights of stairs, through the bathroom, up two more flights, then down a short hallway leading to a spacious area under the roof where 12 bunks are stuffed into whichever corner they fit. Small, public, and no storage space.  That being said, it's a beautiful old Victorian house, and I can imagine this to be the servants quarters, which gives it a little charm. And even if have to be a servant, walking up and down four flights of stairs is much less painful when you have a carved bannister and a suit of armor on the landing.

It is now 4:30pm, I have finished my roast beef, and there is no energy left for anything but packing and then sleep forever.

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