The city

        I'm in London. It's completely, entirely, unshakeably surreal. An hour ago, I was on a plane flying from Chicago, then suddenly I was on a bus on my way to Kensington. Honestly, it feels like any other city, any other bus, heading to any other hotel. It could be New York, Seattle, Chicago, St Louis. But then I realized that the driver is sitting on the right side, the road signs are round, the police sirens are strange and round-throated.

        The plane ride was equally strange. Sure, they had English accents (oh bliss! oh joy!), but it was bland, it was like a show in a concert hall, all cardboard and brittle smiles and playacting. I almost felt like we were flying in circles, and we'd end up in a Hollywood backlot where we would wander, awestruck tourists, until we'd discover that Buckingham Palace is flat and Kensington Park a matte painting, that everything was run by hollowly grinning directors and harried stage crews.

        But I'm here. And it's real.

        Modern structures nestle companionably against crenelated near-ruins. It's oddly charming. There are pubs, some obviously run for tourists, some worn by regular patrons like an old tweed coat. On High Street, there's disappointingly familiar shops (McDonalds, H&M, the GAP). There are also excitingly, nauseatingly exotic ones, things you only see on streets where everyone wears coats made out of panthers and shoes of manta ray skin. Or something equally ridiculous and expensive.

        I've yet to make it to my college's campus, which, I'm told, is in a dodgy part of town. An guaranteed adventure, I'm sure. Reports to come, I promise.



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