After a morning of rushing my apartment into the Civic, I found myself with only an hour or two to pack for my trip. Every option became a last minute decision. Dosteovsky had to stay behind, but Calvino slipped easily into the pockets of my suitcase. I sacrificed a pair of boots for a party dress and left the soap behind. Surely it would be better in France or so I figured.

While waiting for my plane to taxi, I tried activating my French cell phone. The only directions to accompany the phone were these: “Place SIM card into phone. Align angled corner with that of the slot.”

I did exactly as it asked, failing again and again. I gave up, feeling technologically disabled for the first time in my life. Observing my attempts was my seat partner, Simian, a youthful Brit with an affinity for McDonald’s and being crass with his mother. His first words to me, in a high, whiny and condescending English accent, were these: “Oh, you have to put the SIM card into your phone.” Considering this was the first time I had even seen a SIM card, I was a little taken aback by the youngster’s knowledge. Through this exchange, Simian learned that I did not share his intellectual capacity; he assisted me with every aspect of the flight. I let him choose how far back my chair would lean and the temperature of our air, which games I would play and whose headphones I would use to listen to my movie (which I had the audacity to choose on my own). Four hours later, he slept like the 6-year-old child that he was, cuddled against my arm.

My first impression of London was a positive one. Aside from the sheep and windmills spotted from my window seat, the first thing I noticed was the fresh air. There are few other words to describe the way it felt and smelled. Damp, clean and filled with oxygen. Fresh. On my way to the neighborhood where I was staying, nearly every passerby offered to help with my luggage. I waited at a café with Joyce and my baggage for Darrell, my flatmate. Darrell is a traveling professor and writes art columns for several impressive dailies. His undergrad was with Columbia and his master’s with the University of Chicago. He loves opera: he praised Tales of Hoffman at the Bastille very highly and assured me that it is the best show going on worldwide.

After Darrell showed me my room, I ran to the toilet. The norovirus hit hard for the long hours following my simple and relatively fashionable arrival into Europe. Somehow, I eventually managed to get my phone in proper order and made calls for sympathy.