Every time I travelled, England was that one country where I felt most at home in. They spoke my language, both literally and figuratively, and leaving there was always a hard thing to do. I remember the first time I arrived in London, at Victoria Station, and it just felt like I was coming home to the place I should have been born in.
Which is why my first re-forays into the country, this time, were so darn frustrating. The first thing I needed to do was get a SIM card — something that should have been no problem. When I was in Łódź, all I had to do was walk up Piotrkowska from the bus stop and there was a phone store about halfway up. Same thing in Oslo: I got out of Oslo S, wandered around a bit, found a Telenor store and a couple minutes later, had a Norwegian number with data, voice and text.
So, I thought I'd have much of the same experience in the greater London area. Ehhh, not so much. The W.H. Smith at Stansted Airport had SIM cards, sure, but I had to buy one and get it topped up...which was the precise moment the cashier's till went on the fritz. Then, nobody seemed to know how much top-up I'd need to get a specific amount of data and text. And of course, nobody in the store had that little pin-thing I needed to get the old SIM card out. Gah!
Add onto all that still feeling sick and frustrated at feeling sick so many thousands of kilometres away from home. I thought I had crested whatever this bug is during my last day in Tromsø, but it came back with a roar in Oslo. At first I thought it was just the normal consequence of staying out late — really late — and having too many beers — the hours bled into each other until it was suddenly 3am — but a day later, I was still feeling just as miserable. I'm still not walking very fast so my stomach can feel steady, I've still got major chills at night, and I slept about 14 hours last night.
But on the bright side, I'm so lightheaded I feel high, so it's like all the trippy benefits of drugs without having to pay for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment