Travel Diary

I am so bad at diary-keeping. I spent a semester in London a couple years ago, and the journal I promised to store my memories in is ridiculously skimpy and vague.

One page reads,

Sunday September ?
Kenwood House, Hampstead Heath:

I am so tired. A man said "Jolly Good" to me.

Keats House:

[Just a smudge of soil on the page labelled "Keats Dirt!"]

The only time I got some serious ink down on the page was while I was trapped on a long bus ride from London to the Lake District. Even then, the diary mainly consists of strange ramblings, rather than insightful travel logging

October 17, 2006

Here I am again, setting out on yet another crazy lone adventure [...]I'm feeling like a bit of an idiot for taking a coach to Keswick. Christ, this is going to be a long ride. Also, I stink of orange.
NO! I am determined to enjoy myself like never before!!!!
Weee! Hurrah!

- omg, these seats recline! GLORY HALLY-LU-YA! This improves things immensely

- I'm so lazy. My brain is a blob of mush.
[drawing of a brain, with sections labelled:

• sleepin'
  
• slackin'
  
• procrastinatin'
• chillin'
  
• messin'
  
• skivin'
  
• thinkin']

- There are so many old ladies doddering about these North London streets. What's up with that?

- The woman behind me doesn't care for dimly lit cafes. She likes to see what's on her plate!

- I want my first husband to be named George, so that if I'm widowed I can mourn "Darling George" for years, just like Amelia Sedley in Vanity Fair, or Rose Nylund in Golden Girls

- I wonder how much the drivers earn?

Agghh! I want to not be on this bus anymore, thanks. This has been a total old ladies wagon. When the old ladies get off at their stops they have people waiting for them with hugs and probably cars and hot dinners.
Bleh. I am jealous of old ladies because at best I'll find a McDonalds, then walk in the rain and dark to a mysterious hostel which may be difficult to find.
And I'm ALONE, ALOOOONE!

Starting to get motion sickness!
FUCK WHY IS THIS ROAD SO WINDING? I bet it is charming in daylight, but right now I FUCKING DESPISE IT."

Can't wait to show this writing to my grandchildren. Although, in a later entry on the same journey I describe the scenery as "outrageously bucolic." I think that turn of phrase alone should get me some offers from the travel mags.

P.S. I have just looked it up, and contrary to my statement in October 2006, George was Blanche's husband, not Rose's.