On the bus

...bumping through London, a part of Islington I've been through many times, but still don't recognize. It's only 6:30pm but it's been dark for an hour. Streetlamps are sporadic here, and don't penetrate the gloom. A row of restaurants--eritrean, thai, japanese, and "Mississippi fried chicken" vie with typical tandoori and kebabs. Six months ago I'd never heard of Eritrea. The road markings are familiar now, the zigzags approaching a zebra crossing, the bus lane painted red, the "no" sign that doesn't have a line through it, so I always think it is giving me permission instead. I smile as we pass "Balls Pond Road." I am tired--today I went into what passes for the company office--and it will take at least 90 minutes to get home, 12 miles away. I am not denegrating public transport; driving wouldn't be any faster, and I am grateful not to have to wend that gauntlet.

I've gone underground, at King's Cross, which I know well--it is the intersection of the Piccadilly and Northern lines, which was my route to Jessica's for almost a year. I can't believe I've been here so long. There are 267 stations on the underground, but I have used less than 40; there are still huge swaths of London I've never set foot in. It's getting late--I can tell because there are seats available on the tube.

I'm back on the bus for the final leg, a 1 mile hop from Ealing Broadway. I managed to find a place that was equally inconvenient to three tube lines, though on a map it looks amazingly well connected. I need to buy a car. I need to find a place to live. I need to see the world. I need to take care of my family. I need to call my friends. I need to make dinner. I need to take a nap. So many demands, and the time keeps slipping away.