My hotel… My room reminds me of the one depicted by Fyodor Dostoevsky in Crime and Punishment. This is where Raskolnikov lived in St Petersburg:
His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room.
OK, my room is actually in the basement. I didn’t ask for it to be there, in case you’re wondering. I go there by lift. When I was leaving this morning, I tried to find a staircase to go upstairs, but all I saw were the rooms, with their doors open ajar, and the personnel already starting their daily cleaning routine. But it IS like a cupboard. It is by far the smallest room I’ve ever stayed in. Thankfully, it’s en suite. Also, the canteen where I’ve got to have breakfast between 7.30 and 9am is just a couple of steps away from my room, which again is hugely convenient. But I’ve also got the neighbours who slam the door every time they go in or out of the room.
I could be winging here about such experiences, but hey, what would I write about then? Besides, having neighbours, as I have already written previously, is very important.
My visit to London so far has been a check on my patience in relations with public transport. Yesterday, when I arrived at Euston, everybody was leaving, and the shops in the station were closing rather quickly. The voice in the loudspeaker, which is impossible to hear in the big crowd anyway, was saying something about alerts and the necessity to leave the station. Apart from those indiscernible words, the virtually first thing I heard upon arriving to London was “Yes, this is Tony Blair’s Britain”, coming from an Englishman.
And today there was a security alert whereby the trains on Piccadilly line towards Cockforsters were delayed. Those who have been waiting for the train to arrive were so keen to get in that they ignored those who were keen to get out. The station worker shouted in the loudspeaker: ‘Let other passengers off the train first, it may then be easier to get on’. The lady who stood beside me giggled: ‘You know, we’re actually supposed to be the nation of queues’. I giggled back: ‘Yes, foreign tourists have spoiled you’.
I said that in full consciousness, for the described scene has reminded me of many similar occasions that I’ve seen and experienced on the Moscow underground. I must say, though: nothing can substitute the experience of being lifted up by people around you and brought into the carriage. Nothing can substitute the sensation of floating in the space when your feet are actually dangling in the air a few inches above the floor during the rush hour. It is a powerful experience – to stare directly into someone’s sweaty face or tortoise skin on the neck with no possibility to turn away because there is nowhere to turn. So, I do recommend to go through it at least once, unless you live in Moscow or London or any other big city and such experience is hence a part of your daily routine.
As a matter of fact, I always let other passengers off first.
