I don’t write much, or even take photos much in London. It’s partly due to the fact that I am no longer alone–Psychic Roommate is with me now en route to Avignon–but also partly because I’m not a tourist here. Not quite, anyway.
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In an attempt to spend down my euros before leaving Austria (I hate having spare change in multiple currencies–I still have about €0,69 in a piggy jar at home), I buy every prepackaged thing in the Vienna airport. (Der Flughafen, a word I adore.) Even their airport cappuccino is amazing, although I can’t say the same for their plastic-wrapped sandwiches. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches taste exactly the same no matter where you are: slightly moist bread slathered with slightly warm mayo with a limp piece of lettuce and tomato with half-hearted bits of filling in between.
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Oxford doesn’t feel like mine. It’s a funny thing to say about a city, but it’s true. It should perhaps be the funnier thing that I assume it should feel like mine, but I do. It’s the city which engendered Alice and Éowyn and Lyra–especially Lyra, dear Lyra–so I thought I would find a measure of my childhood here. I don’t.
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