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On the ground in London.

It's still kind of amazing to me that I've traveled in so many amazing places around the world and yet have never been in the UK. Especially given the theatre thing. But here I am and etc.

First, of course: the jet lag. I've had bad, BAD jet lag before, and have managed to turn things around pretty quickly. I have insomnia, I'm used to a certain amount of fixing where my sleep is concerned. But here, where I'm not only working for someone, I'm also middle management in charge of implementing how all my students will be dealing with their jet lag - ok. I did not love that. In fact, it made me crankier than almost anything else I've ever run into with traveling, with the exception of some inept and complete dickhead planning on the part of a travel partner causing me to almost miss my flight to the Galapagos. Or those guys that ran the Indiana Collectivo that couldn't decide whose turn it was to drive. Anyway. I know I have grown more protective of my sleep, but holy fuck. The rage I felt when the administrator for the trip left no room in the schedule for my hoped-for one hour nap was pretty fucking impressive. I was ready to pull his face off with my teeth. I simply quietly made note of the many ways I hoped to damn his soul while limping through the 2 mile tour of our classroom and neighborhood, and then the obligatory welcome (yet oddly unwelcoming) dinner.

One more complaint and then I'm done. London: get a grip on your fucking sidewalk situation. Eighteen different materials appearing in 2 blocks of sidewalk is bullshit, especially in an area where every second building is under construction. Also: don't use stone unless it's already been there for 100 years or more. I'm ok with my middle-aged feet dealing with Virginia Woolf era stone. Or with Dickensian stone. Or Chaucerian stone. Or with stone that goes all the way back to the fucking Ancient Britons, but really. Pull it the fuck together. My feet loathe this city with the rage of a thousand fiery suns (or, as a friend of mine once misheard that: "the rage of a thousand fiery nuns." Your call). The few (rare) sections of asphalt mixed in make me feel like I'm walking on fluffy rugs made of kitten and bunny fur.

I was ready for a lot of walking. I was not prepared to walk on sidewalks the Romans would laugh at.

Ok. Now that's all out of my system. Moving on. (More slowly than I had planned on, and with a slight limp.)