DAY 1:We arrived in Heathrow two minutes late. The two minutes were my fault, because I lost my passport in Flesland while Lindsé looked at pewter Vikings and souvenir cheese slicers. Luckily, we found it without too much delay. We bought our Travelcards, like good student travellers, and managed to get lost twice on the way to the hostel.So far, everything was as it should have been.
When we finally found our lovely hostel, we walked in and were politely informed by the cocky American-surfer-esque desk clerk that there were no beds available. Brat. As soon as our shoulders sagged
with the combined weight of our backpacks and the prospects of sleeping in a shop door for the evening, we were rescued by a moody-looking Australian. That was Rory. He told the other guy to leave us alone, and he pointed us in the direction of our beds. Lindsé was in love (for about the fifteenth time since we left the States), and I was in awe. That man was cool. Sincerely, he looked like a fifteen-year old Humphrey Bogart with a darling smile and sad eyes. Also, he could swill with the best of them. We never saw him without a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.And a bottle of something potentially intoxicating in his hand. Great guy. Wonderful Trivial Pursuit player.
My first thought upon entering our room was "Cool. Co-ed dorm." Yup. Pretty fun, that. I was still recovering from all the marsipan I'd eaten on my way back from Bergen. Yuck. I was definitely sleepy.
