Part 1.

6am. We had finally arrived at Heathrow Airport, London.

Aimee, my beloved high school friend, seamlessly morphed into being my one and only travel companion. One minute we were applying for passports in a cabbage-scented, small country town, and the next we were fresh-faced teenagers on the opposite side of the globe.

Our relentless efforts and decadent dreams had led to this…

The fucking London Underground!

Now, a sensible person might have booked accommodation ahead of their first night in a foreign country. Hell, not even a sensible person – lets say the average person – might have committed to a little research about where to stay, how to get around, how things worked? Not us!

We haphazardly picked a suburb at the ticket machine and commenced a multi-hour journey through the labyrinth of London. No SIM cards, no internet, no clue. We walked around like absolute fools in the cold, pulling along bulging suitcases that threatened to burst open on the cobblestone streets.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we found a hostel in Clapham, London.

Near tears, we tripped into the reception, shivering and rambling. The bartender was unfazed by our distress, insisting we make an online booking, despite the fact that we were there in the flesh. We did as we were told.

An 18-bed dorm. Triple bunk beds. Only the best.

Rain fell as the day darkened. We pulled up a pew at the bar and slurped Clover-etched foam from our pints of Guinness. Welcome to London.