Europe: London
I could not for the life of me figure out why the whole of Australia (it seemed) wanted to work in London. In my post-French Riviera bad mood, I arrived to a windy, wet and bitterly cold ’summer’ day in London, and declared them all to be mad. Bonkers. This bad mood was exacerbated by the security measures at the airport, which I expected to be very thorough, holding up suspect travellers, I just didn’t think I would be one of them.
It went something like this - I showed my passport to passport control, he looked at me dubiously when I said I would be in the UK for a month, and then suddenly I found myself being interrogated for an hour by fat, angry men. Why didn’t I need a job? Why did I want to come to the UK? How did I know I had enough money? How could I prove I had any money at all?
After a while, I was beginning to think they were onto something. Maybe I didn’t have enough money? Maybe I was stupid to quit my job to go travelling? I had shown them flight tickets, itineraries, booking details and my budget, and was just about to stand up and scream ‘YES! I AM GUILTY! I AM AUSTRALIAN AND I DON’T WANT TO WORK IN LONDON!’, when they decided to stamp my passport and let me in the country. Lucky me.
I found my hostel and made my way to the warm, and free, National Portrait Gallery, which was amazing, some of the paintings so lifelike it was scary. I wandered around Leicester Square before seeing a movie and grabbing a slice of pizza, heading back to Camden Town and bed.
-Sarah
Tags: England, London, Travel
