Speak and eat.

London looked nothing like this today, so I'm giving you a picture from yesterday.  My conference is taking place right next door to this building, which is almost hidden from the street--so that it was only because I happened to look to my right as I passed its archway that I happened to see what's in there and knew to go back and photograph it later in the day.

Today was my presentation day, and all went well (save for the fact that my audience was on the small side).  People by whom I wanted to be seen were in my audience and have professed themselves to be impressed; other people by whom I wanted to be seen were not in my audience but have professed themselves to feel quite bad about that fact.  Both of these are desirable enough outcomes.

By the afternoon, I was so tired that all I really wanted to do was schlep back to Foyles, but when I returned to my room to read for just a few minutes and then head northward, I found myself instead wanting to take a brief nap.  And so I did.  And tonight, I plan to get a good, full night's sleep, because this trip is hurtling toward its close all too swiftly.

Tonight: Turkish food and wine, which brings my collection of this trip's national cuisines to four (counting the French breakfast on Sunday, the Moroccan dinner on Sunday, and the Lebanese dinner on Monday).  Perhaps I can find one more good one--Italian, say?--for tomorrow.

Meet and greet.

And now I am at work again.

As those of you who are academics will know, many academics don't like to (or simply won't) follow directions, which can include things like, "We will not be reading papers aloud at this conference but instead will do brief introductions to our topics and then have a discussion."  All of which bodes strangely for my own presentation, as I am in no way planning to read my paper aloud, and I do want my audience to discuss.  Which is more difficult than sitting and listening.

The view from lunch was, as you can see, lovely and neo-iconic.

A waking day.

On my first day of waking up in the city, I took the morning and afternoon a bit easy, finishing some reading for the conference for which I've traveled here, drinking all the caffeinated beverages that came with my room (woefully few!), probably perplexing the housekeepers by not removing the "Buzz Off -- I'm sleeping!" sign from my doorknob until 4:30.  I also took it upon myself to modify my room, whose windows bear this sign.  The first thing I noticed yesterday upon opening my room door was how stuffy it was in here--no doubt at least partly because my window opens on an interior court full of other stuffy hotel rooms' windows (see above for my upward-looking view--since this is actually very London, I like it just as much as I would if I were looking at almost anything else I could be looking at in this city, save the river or, say, St. Paul's).  Whereas the view is okay with me, the stuffiness is not, and there's no air-conditioning to make it any better.  Running a fan all night did the trick for sleeping, but opening the window seemed like an even better program(me).  And so, having cast about my room for anything that I could use to keep the window from crashing back down the six inches or so that I can raise it, I finally fashioned an appropriate prop from the toiletries block in the bathroom, and all was well and breezy.

But the real pleasures came after I left the hotel at 5:30 and headed to London wonders.  First, Foyles bookshop, of which I only became enamoured last summer, when I was making periodic trips down from Cambridge to work at the British Library and/or to see films at the National Film Theatre or theatre at the National.  The main Foyles is on Charing Cross Road, just down from the Tottenham Court Road tube station, and it's worth a visit if you're a lover of books.  I gave myself permission to buy a small group of books, whatever they were, even if they were new and not on sale, because almost nothing gives me the pleasure that buying books does.  And the permission worked; I walked out of there 45 minutes later grinning like a small child--in fact, much the way I did when I was a small child and was allowed to buy a group of books at a bookshop.

And from Foyles, it was off to a part of London I've never visited--Wigmore Street, just north of Oxford Street and just south of Marylebone.  Wigmore Street is home to Wigmore Hall, a chamber music venue built in the early twentieth century, where I heard the Sitkovetsky Trio (to whose cellist I would like to profess some kind of mad love).  And it is home to Comptoir Libanais, the Lebanese café I would suggest you patronize before you attend a function at Wigmore Hall. 

Yesterday, my young friend asked me, as we crossed the road, whether I would ever want to live in London.  My answer yesterday was that it's hard to imagine the circumstances that would allow me to do so; it's expensive here, far more expensive than I can even dream of affording right now.  But my answer tonight would have been yes, oh yes.  I still can't imagine the circumstances.  But I can imagine the life.

Oh, London.

Moving.

I long ago accepted that I have no ability to get a horizon straight while piloting the car. And straightening the horizon here at the airport (for I am now on my way) would mean losing that curly-headed cow in the bottom right corner, which clearly cannot happen.

After I'd checked in, I called my parents to tell them thank you for having taught me one very simple lesson (among all the others they taught me): always ask. My originally ticketed itinerary--involving an extra leg for no apparent reason (other than the cheaper initial cost of the ticket, which is why I selected it)--was highly likely to make me miss my flight to London tonight, so I asked politely at the ticket desk whether I could be rebooked for a direct flight to my international departure city. "If it were a domestic flight, I'd say no," the ticket agent said. "But since you're flying international, it will make everything easier for all of us if we make sure that you don't miss that connection in Charlotte."

And so, five minutes later, I was good to go, having reduced my number of flights (and my number of low-level worries today) by one. Now I can settle in with my short stack of books and my short stack of DVDs and pass the time before I'm London-bound through this hazy day.

* * *

Funny things are happening all along the way: the man at the bar who doesn't know where he is, having just arrived in Charlotte en route to somewhere else.  "What state are we in?" he asks me.  "North Carolina," I tell him.  For some reason, this episode strikes me as all too unsurprising, given how little it can seem to matter where you are, while you're going somewhere else.  We all get carded before we can get our drinks, and this newcomer (clearly over 21) does not hide his bemusement.  It is clear that he's unsure of whether to be offended, annoyed, or flattered. 

Earlier, a man sitting at a table with his wife has seemed to be talking to her, only to turn out to be talking on his iPhone, by way of the in-ear headset.  I compile small groups of rules for proper mobile phone use.  Top of the list: perhaps reconsider talking on the phone, using a headset, while eating lunch with your wife in an airport.

Waiting to leave Columbus, I set my watch ahead.  Now it is 10:11 p.m.  I find myself thinking, "I won't be able to take pictures as we leave Charlotte because it's nighttime." 

I will eat dinner at midnight.  I will try to get six hours of sleep.  In the morning, I will arrive in one of my favorite places.