The first time I met Annemari in person, I was 18 and she was 16 (a moment of ‘holy crap,’ please). I was spending three weeks in Oxford, and took a coach to London for the day to meet up with her. We found each other at the entrance to Kensington Gardens, and wandered down to Cromwell Road to visit the Natural History Museum.

By the time Annemari and I got to the Natural History Museum the Monday during our September trip, I was tired and wearing nine plasters on each foot, and I went off to sit on a bench after dramatically croaking, “Go on without me.”

(Okay, I did not say that, but I probably said something equally pathetic. Allow me the poetic license.)

I mention my pitiful state for two reasons: a) when Annemari and I first met, I still felt super awkward and tried to like, not be a disaster; not anymore; and b) this post is brief, a collection of photos I took as I trailed after Annemari throughout the dinosaur display and the mammal and reptile rooms. The mammals had considerably better lighting, though, so if you want snakes, you’re better off checking out my zoo post.

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a photo walk around the london zoo

ft. giraffes, hunting dogs, lemurs, penguins, flowers, small rodents, my best friend, and a meerkat

warning: photo-heavy as fuck.

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I’m going to tell you a little story about my sense of direction. I hope my sense of direction forgives me for it.

In April of 2014, I made the very scary, very terrifying decision to move to London on my own. Surprising everyone but especially me, I lasted a year before I moved back home. (It was a very good decision. That was a stressful year, financially.) In that time, I admittedly did not get out of Belsize Park much, and at least I eventually learned which way Swiss Cottage lay from the intersection of England’s Lane, Primrose Hill Road and Eton Avenue. Considering that’s precisely where my regular Starbucks was, it took four walks too many.

But anyway.

I went back in early September to retrieve the luggage I left behind with a friend. I wrote down directions, and ran out of battery on my phone on the Stansted Express, which, as it turns out, has plugs in it. I only noticed this two minutes before reaching Liverpool Street Station.

The google maps directions for buses were weird, and I walked out of the tube station and went down the street, then west on the street, then thought, “The fuck is going on? I don’t recognize anything. Is that way the way I went when I had that modeling gig at a studio on Fleet Street? No. Blackfriars? A bridge? St Paul’s? Y’all, I’m so confused.”

I had some battery left on my phone, which was very dark, so I checked again under the inning of an Itsu.

This was not the way to the bus stop.

I walked back to the station, and up the street beside it. There were letter signs on the station doors to that side, but what could they possibly be? People were waiting outside them, but there were no poles with bus signs on them, and it dead ended. But there were buses at the end of it, and — could one possibly be the number I was looking for? Where would it stop to pick up people?

Then I looked to the side and realized the letter signs on the station doors were bus stops.

Um, duh.

I made it to my next bus stop and saw Canada House. Unlike Liverpool Street Station, I’ve been to Trafalgar Square a few times. I know the area between it and Charing Cross Road well enough to not have to pull out a map while dragging other people places with me. This meant absolutely nothing to me this time, when I had to ask tourists with a map if Orange Street was on it (it wasn’t), and then found a Caffè Nero — my phone was completely dead by now — to pull out my laptop and check google maps on that.

Guess what? If you see the National Gallery, which you cannot miss, and walk to the left side of it until you hit a street, that is Whitcomb Street, which goes up to Orange Street. You can see the Thistle sign even if you’re nearsighted and wearing a t-shirt in 10-degree weather because you’re coming from Spain and you couldn’t be bothered to carry a hoodie somewhere outside your suitcase. The Canadian embassy with all its maple leaf flags is right in front. You can’t miss it.

Unless, of course, you’re me.

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The night before I flew to Spain in April, I had the chance to stay at the Travelodge opposite Euston station in central London. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect — I’ve seen a lot of Travelodge reviews over the months, and they tend to be rather mixed. They’re often worse for the more modestly located ones, but still I was hoping it would be like the pictures: no-fuss, clean rooms designed for comfort, the kind of solid decor I wish all studio flats had.

And reader, it was.

The Travelodge chain is budget hotels, and they are everywhere. There was in fact a Travelodge closer to the hostel where I’d stayed the night before — in Marylebone. But I got the Euston one, and I was very, very pleased. I was most pleased when I got a call and it took me ten minutes door to door to get from my room to an office on Oxford Street. That was such an eye-opener, and here I thought I had it good (I did) living in Belsize Park, twenty or thirty minutes from the city center by tube.

Add Euston to my list of pipe dream places to live, somewhere between Belgravia and Marylebone.

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