They were. Odoriferous, these olives were. And the girl was kinda getting up in my grill, which is annoying.
But before the olive-eating up-in-grill-getting girls sat on the bus, I unabashedly whipped out my phone and took numerous pictures of the drive home on my beloved 91.
I adore seeing the red brick around the city-I want to say it’s the Victorian part of London cropping up, but I may be totally making that up. This is part of St. Pancras International, though the red brick is prominent all over Bloomsbury.
The city is such a contradiction: odd shapes, building styles . . . modern next to Georgian, punks next to suits, nothing fazes the unflappable Brits. I guess things have been such a strong visual juxtaposition that nothing fazes them anymore.
I especially love to see the modern shapes butting up against the old stone, and the feel of the cobblestone under my feet shifting to smoother tarmac. Riding the bus really is, I think, the best way to see the city in action. You can peer out at everything from the top decker and see all parts of London, as it really is (though NOT the tour buses . . . please. pretty please).
a self-portrait . . . if you can spot me!