The afternoon brought its familiar heat. The air seemed warmest where it left the pavement and swirled around my feet, slowing my steps. People retired to shuttered rooms for a siesta, slowly emptying the streets. We made our way to the shade of the Parque del Retiro, a large expanse of green near the city centre, thick with trees, and strolled for a while, along the gravel tracks that spread confusingly in all directions and down next to a small canal and fell asleep. It was our first siesta.
York
Dodging traffic in London, chests heaving, burdened by still unfamiliar and uncomfortable backpacks, Claire and I started our ambitious trip, on a tight budget, through places where English is never heard.
We’d reported for our ridiculously cheap Megabus to Leeds, from where we planned to make our way to York, relaxed and on time. The driver asked for the obscure combination of letters and numbers that serve as a ticket, which I confidently presented. He looked and them, shrugged, and told me I had somehow got them wrong. I had presented him with the code for a bus from Glasgow to Aberdeen. A bus we would take, later on, which I couldn’t remember booking.
Retiring to the nearest internet café, to scratch heads and book another bus, I found the right number, emailed to me shortly before the ticket to Aberdeen. I slammed my laptop shut and we sprinted back to the platform, only to find it empty. We were forced to book a more expensive ticket, on a National Express bus, leaving later that morning. It did conveniently go all the way to York. Continue reading York>>
