Room No. 5, Morgan House, London, England

Without further ado, I am hereby adopting a habit dependent on technology, a habit I swore I'd never pick up: blogging. Whether this whole blogging idea turns out to be a blessing or a burden... that will just be determined later. The point of me blogging is simple: if you're reading this, then it means three things. . . 1) I love you. 2) Because I love you, I still want to let you know what's going on in my life, and vice versa I should hope! 3) You might never read this blog again (and I don't blame you) because let's face it, this is just another piece of text on your computer screen to steal away a few more minutes of your life. I figure if I aim low, I'm bound to succeed somehow. With that said. . .

I'm currently sitting in quaint Room No. 5, complete with two single beds, a fake fireplace, a sink in the corner, a fantastic electric teapot (which I've already taken full advantage of), and quite possibly the best asset yet: a lovely view of London's temporary blue skies. And as I type this, the notorious white, puffy clouds are rolling in once again. The only thing that's missing is a person by the name of Rachel who happens to be a friend of mine, who happens to be traveling with me, who happens to be missing even though her flight arrived six hours earlier than mine. . . hmm. I gave her stellar directions, suggestions, the whole nine yards, and England does speak English, so I'm not worried. . . yet. I've realized that one's more likely to hear any other language but English in these parts, and so far the list includes German, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, and something bordering on Russian/Greek/Farsi/who knows. It was just harsh, and loud, and in my ear.

Favorite memory thus far: Upon maneuvering my way up THE most narrow staircase in the British Isles to the second floor (though I would've guessed it was the 32nd), I was about to collapse on the carpet until I realized it was still being thoroughly cleaned. As I awkwardly stood there in the non-existent hallway RIGHT outside my unknown neighbor's door, the door is suddenly whipped open and I'm face-to-face with the shirtless, ripped, ghetto-tattooed occupant of Room No. 6. Given, he was black. . . given, he was attractive. We exchanged casual, apologetic smiles. He kindly said "sorry," but I'm not sure whether it was to me, or the lady in his dark room at 2 o'clock in the afternoon?? I'll leave that decision up to you.

Update: Rachel's been found dragging her body up the steep steps after learning, with great difficulty, how to navigate England's Underground. More important update: Occupant of Room No. 6 has a name and a story. His name's Jodi, from Chicago, studying at Hamilton, hasn't received his financial aid check yet, first time o'er here. . . and yeah, negative on the lady in his room.