Reservations

Beautiful, merciful, and replenishing sleep.

Didn’t get any of that on the train. I did however receive the cacophonous chorus of the most delightfully hyper kindergarteners this side of Disneyworld.

I peaked from under the brim of my hat to notice that I was literally surrounded by Barney’s key market (or whatever the French equivalent is). My heart certainly skipped a bit, but I was reliably distracted by the shrill of “ARRÊTE! C’est la mienne!” as it drowned out even the most powerful Aretha Franklin on my iPod. This was of course accompanied by the intermittent light and heavy kicks to the back of my seat. Defeated.

Somehow I squeaked out some sleep during the 2.5 hour journey across the English channel and but I’m sure the endorphins from my excitement of escaping Neurology in Europe evaporated all but the most stubborn of my sleepiness. I briskly walked toward the train exit but this time my distraction took hold of the most beautiful train station I’ve ever seen, St. Pancras.
Apparently I was some sort of church or something prior, but it is no less than a spectacularly remain train station that delivers you into central London from the Continent. As I peer out the doors, I see brown figure tower over some homely Britons. That would be Dubai and this would be our third country (France, United States, UK).

Joyous salutations abound and we are off to get Ethiopian food per (Ribs, my med school friend and sister-from-another-mister, somehow influences effortlessly everything she’s involved with, even in absence). Dubai waves and glows as he fraternizes with the workers whose own smiles suggest more than a casual knowledge of this Londoner. Unfortunately, they ain’t got no room.

“Hmmm....come back in 30 minutes. We should have something then.”

Off to Rouge Lounge across the street:
Vanilla Stoli and Coke
Vodka Soda
Work, Play, Travel and combinations thereof
Ribs, Chicago, schedules

Voilà. 30 minutes and we’re back at the Ethiopian restaurant. It was nice to share Ethiopian with someone who I may argue likes the East African food more than me and the sharp use of English was garnish. It pained me that I perhaps would missed this opportunity despite the very independent nature of my cousin and Halles back in Paris. No matter, as the past washed away and we were off to pre-party, or better yet, prepare.

We went to Dubai’s and shared his red currant vodka and I shared with him when we in the medical field most often refer to the berry (intussusception if you’re curious). As is often the case when one visits the place of someone’s residence, there were three surprises.

1. Dubai has wall after wall of postcards from corners of the earth that would fill Odysseus himself with wonder; and quite the odd collection too. He apparently requests the oddest-shaped and least-blue postcards from his and his friend’s travel.

2. Dubai seems to be no less than an indefatigable individual, but even I wouldn’t have imagined that he would live literally across from his work in an architecture firm. This was thankfully balanced by his admission that he is regularly late despite the cross street walk.

3. His door says 88. This may not seem so unusual save for the fact that down the hall of this second story hall, the apartments are designated as follows: 1, 2, 3, 88. Apparently there was a Asianese guy there before that preferred not to have the number of death, 4. After sharing some more Zoot Woman, and talk of Tecktonik were hopped on the Tube to rendez-vous some friends of his at a suitable locale to hang out. Thus began our evening.