Handle With Care by Hayden Stone

Day 1

Keep going, Dylan. I splash along a London street that must be hundreds of years old. It’s lined with brick buildings, a mirrored office tower reflecting the moody sky, and followed by even more brick buildings. Then, at street level, there’re all the glass-fronted shops. The museum’s got to be close. You’ve gotten halfway around the world, after all.

With the help of printed out maps and free Wi-Fi, of course.

It’s not far now.

And I can’t stop smiling. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Forget the rain.

It’s a soggy, blustery London day, which admittedly does no favors for my leather shoes or my styled hair. Or for making a good impression on the first day of a new job in a country I landed in three days ago. And it’s the first day where jet lag isn’t totally kicking my ass.

I get a little lost on my way from London Bridge station somewhere along the modern gray tiled path leading past the Old London City Hall. The problem being something called Old London City Hall looks very modern and new, with its endless windows and curved oval structure, which is part of what got me confused. Because everything old in London’s supposed to be, well, old. Like really old. And this building is anything but. I squint at the building through the rain at the edge of an equally sleek plaza, dotted with leafy trees boxed in with low hedges, concrete benches, and contemporary art installations, all overlooking the Thames.

Old London City Hall looks like it was built yesterday.

This must be some prank to play on the tourists.

I pull out a slightly crumpled page from my pocket with one hand and hold on to the umbrella with my other hand. I haven’t sorted out my phone yet, and I don’t want to pay roaming charges. My printed-out map reliably shows Potters Field Park beside the Thames and the Old London City Hall plaza. Plus, there’s the iconic Tower Bridge nearby as a key landmark, and an X in blue pen marks the museum to the east. Raindrops splatter the page with dark spots before I hurriedly tuck it away.

I’m back on track.

The museum must be straight ahead, past the park—my destination—down at the end of the road or the block or whatever people call it here. I start walking again with purpose. Like I belong here amid the Londoners who happen to know where they’re going.

At least, I think it’s the museum at the end of the street. I haven’t actually seen it before, except on Google Street View.

Distracted, I end up making an unscheduled detour down a side street to see more of the surrounding area, which has one-way traffic. But there’re more modern buildings again down this way, and I work on figuring out how to loop back on course before I’m late.

Look right, then left. I keep repeating my new mantra when I cross the street, then hurry up another street toward the museum as the weather worsens. Everyone drives on the opposite side of the street from what I’m used to.

I grip my umbrella tight against another gust of wind.

A red sports car screams past as a wind gust turns my umbrella inside out.

Then an icy tidal wave hits me like a slap, and I reel.

“What the fuck—” I yelp, the umbrella useless in my hand.

An airborne puddle soaks me. Right from my head down to my now very ruined—rather than partly ruined—new shoes. Leather never deserves a flood of water, never mind my face.

Water pours off me in sheets. I’m left sopping wet, gasping and spluttering.

Me and my wet rage, dressed in soggy smart casual. My light cotton blazer, perfect for actual summer, turns out to be incredible at soaking up water like a sponge.

I stare after the red car rocketing up the road toward the museum, its taillights a sharp dazzle against the soft gray world even through the rain. My fists tighten while I drip.

Too bad I didn’t pack a towel in my bag, but I didn’t expect impromptu bathing today.

Asshole.