The First Day

My first day in London rivals that of my first day in Brussels all those months ago. First of all, my flight left Portugal so early I had to be up at 6am, not my favourite time. Second, when I got the airport, my flight was delayed an hour and a half. So I sat in “Departures” waiting for my flight to show up on the screens. Then a lounge full of ornery British people on vacation attempted to squeeze through the only available gate, and then piled on a tiny bus to our waiting plane. Being the resilient and experienced traveller I am, I was barely fazed by this. Except for the early wake up call, I was sitting pretty: I had my book, a wheelie suitcase and my iPod. I was impervious.

My flight landed without incident at Gatwick airport and I managed to maneuver the luggage carousel, buy a train ticket and get to King’s Cross/St. Pancras without incident. Following my parents instructions I took a cab the 5 minutes (and £5) it took to get to my residence.

Full of glee and laden with two suitcases a purse and a backpack, I walked into the reception and proudly claimed I was here to check in. The young women at the desk took my name, checked her list and after a while gave me a key card to E204. She said it was in the annexes and thrust a piece of paper at me with instructions and off I went.

First, a note about the building I live in. There are 4 floors, but only 3 have rooms. Then there are three annexes located outside the building: Tavistock, Endsleigh and the one where the warden (or person who manages the hall) lives.


It took me 5 minutes just to get outside. I rode the elevator on every floor except the one I wanted, was distracted by meeting a fellow Canadian and checked every floor in the main building before realizing my room was outside. Once outside, it didn’t get any easier. I had no idea what annex I wanted. I tried the wrong two first of course: one I couldn’t get in (the warden’s probably), and the second took me climbing the two flights of stairs (with no elevator and carrying ALL my stuff) only to find my key card didn’t work. I finally realized what the “E” in my room number meant and headed to Endsleigh annex, walked up the two flights of stairs (again no elevator), waved my card in front of the scanner and saw the green light. Absolutely giddy with relief I heaved a spine trembling sigh of relief and opened the door.

Immediately something wasn’t right. The bed was made, had sheets and towels were neatly folded on the edge. There were papers and folders on the desk and cosmetics on the sink.

“Wow, way to clean up for me,” was my immediate thought. The hall is used as a hostel in the off season so I assumed someone had just moved out and they hadn’t cleaned up. Then I went to the closet and found clothes still there, shoes near the bed and a jacket behind the door. After a slight debate over whether I should leave it or complain, I decided on the latter.

At reception, the woman checked the computer. “Oh, that’s not your room,” she said. Well that explains it. Turns out I’d changed my move in date once and they gave me the wrong room. She gave me another card to my room (this one in the main building) and I went there immediately. I shed one of the layers of clothing I was wearing and went to the other room to begin the process of transferring stuff. I got there (outside, up the stairs, then up the stairs to the room, etc) and found it locked. Strange.

I went back to the reception and she gave me another card. I went back and tried it again. Nothing. I went back to reception where people know me now and this time she comes with me. She opens the door with her master key and ends up helping me to move my stuff into the other room—which considering she sent me to the wrong place, is the least she could do.

After she left, I took stock. I was drenched with sweat from the constant moving and going up and down stairs. This room was smaller than the other one and I had to share a bathroom and shower with a floor that seemed to go on for days (it wasn’t actually that bad but I was a bit hysterical). I tried to console myself that I wasn’t going to be here very long—my contract didn’t start for another 4 days and I was told this was a temporary room until then.

Then there was the matter of the Internet. A friend of mine had already moved into residence and was on the internet that night. Of course it wasn’t that easy for me. I needed an Ethernet cable, which of course I didn’t have. So with a rough map and rudimentary advice provided by reception (someone other than that woman, but still bad), I set off to find my materials. It took half an hour but eventually I found my cable—I went to three stores as the first had closed minutes before I got there—but got lost coming home (one of several times that week). I got online, checked my email sent my parents an “It’s OK I’m still alive” email.

Next was the phone. I wanted to call my friend to let her know I was in London. But I couldn’t just dial the phone in my room that would be too easy. No, I had to buy a phone card and set that up. When I arrived at her flat an hour later, I was exhausted and on the verge of tears.

London had not welcomed me.