‘Should I leave my room?’ is not, I expect, a question that troubles the brow of your average tourist. Of course you should leave your room. What, after all, would be the point in being in a world-famous city like Paris or London if you’re sequestered away from it the whole time? Why suffer the attendant costs and hassles of travel if you’re never really going to experience your destination? But as the months wore on I found myself increasingly crippled by this question, even if I still, with rare exception, made an appearance outdoors. That’s why cheap hostels, for all their hideous deficiencies, are ideal. When your digs discourage lounging and function solely as locations in which to sleep and shower, you have a persistent incentive to go outside, to fill your days with activity, to do what you’re supposed to do when you're overseas: explore.
My place in London could not exactly be described as luxurious; I was sharing a small apartment on the 22nd floor of a tower block in Kennington and I never experienced more than five consecutive minutes of hot water. But it offered privacy and the use of a kitchen, two amenities which can make even the dreariest of accomodations feel homely and inviting—provided, of course, you’re as adept at keeping yourself amused as I am. Such cosy arrangements pose a danger to the would-be explorer. London is a fine city, no two ways about it, and I’m not surprised that people—people?—persist in endorsing it. It’s London; you’re supposed to like the thing. But how could it possibly compete with a bed, a beer and block of cheese? It’s not as if I didn’t try, or rather explore, other options. I even, on one occasion, dined at a fancy restaurant. It wasn’t especially expensive (in the scheme of things), but when I invest anything above, say, six pounds on a meal, the sensation of loss, the dawning realisation I've invested poorly, tends to dull my palate.
So my memories of London aren’t much to write home about. I wandered the streets, poked my head into some galleries and museums, and sulked in the odd bar. In truth, I’m not sure the city ever quite came into focus during the week I was there. I left with no sharp observation, no special insight that could not have been gleaned from a cursory glance at a cursory travel feature. But it was comforting to learn there were relatively few ingredients in the recipe of my happiness—even if this prospective vegan hadn’t expected one of them to be cheese.