Sleep—sleepING—is going to be a challenge.
It’s Sunday. I love sleeping late; it’s delicious and makes me happy. And, if one considers my new situation, today I did sleep late: I got up when it was dark outside my window, and 11:00 GMT in London.
That felt quite different from my experience a day ago, when I arose in my fourth-floor walkup a block from Victoria Station, strolled to get my morning latte, and returned with two Cornish pasties. I ate one at my tiny kitchen-table workspace as I charged devices, made arrangements to leave, and finished packing.
Then I strolled to Buckingham Palace, my only sightseeing of my 71 hours on the ground in the UK save walking past The Monument near the Tower of London as I went to my employer’s office in The City of London.
A quick shower and we were off to Heathrow…all before noontime, my waking time today.
There’s a bit of relativistic confusion here for me: what’s early? Our bodies say it’s before the sun rises. In our westernized world, we mean “before the time on the clock that we generally wake up at on this day of the week,” or “before other people around us get up.”
I’m having to depend on the clock for now; my watch is set to GMT, and the little dial in the middle shows me PDT. My eyes show me darkness, my skin says “cold out,” and the internet tells me that my regular coffee shop isn’t open yet—too early. So I found another. Weird, my mind thought, that there are only two coffee shops open when it’s the middle of my day.
And of course, it is, and it isn’t.
I have so much to (re)-learn. My family, I’m sure, is going to help me with that, as our different senses—different decisions, I guess—about what time it is collide and coexist.