Week 1
Day 1… and little bit before Day 1 as well…
Today’s Subject: My Thirty-Pound Penis
And they’re off! Well, she is. Welcome to Day 1 of Leah Lugs Crap Around the World, which conveniently abbreviates into a nice play on words/subliminal message- LLCARTW. After months of planning, weeks spent on hold with embassies, travel agencies and pharmacies, and a whole lot of worry about which type of iPod headphones would be most conducive to an overall pleasurable travel experience (the standard white ones boast high sound quality but the crappy ear hook pair stay in my oddly shaped ear holes better), I now sit in JFK terminal 4 awaiting what could quite possibly be the most formative experience of my lifetime. Chewing an impossibly gargantuan size of Bubble Yum (regular flavor, or should I say, flavour?), sitting in an airport “café” with the wafting sounds of The Cosby Show, a cash register and a neighbor’s Ukrainian/ Russian/ Czechoslovakian/ language other than English weaving in and out of my present consciousness, I am calm, relaxed and eager to quite literally take on the world.
The same could not be said a few days back, nor even an hour ago when I first arrived lugging one 30-pound rucksack on my buckling back with another smaller but equally menacing version swinging from my right arm. In fact, it was only about three days ago when something suppressed deep within the most innermost portions of my psyche emerged with smirking tenacity. Apparently, a part of me was nervous.
Indeed, it was a much bigger part of me than I had expected. For months I had planned this trip obsessively, worked out every possible detail, calculated every expense and possible source of income, and researched every minute legal detail that might arise both here and on the road. Plus, I had already traveled quite extensively both on my own and with friends. At nineteen, I biked along the Norwegian coastline with a group of people I had never met before; at twenty-one I studied and worked in London, and traveled through Italy, Greece, Scotland, Belgium, France and Germany; at twenty-two (just four months before today’s date) I navigated around Barcelona with a brood of buddies on the Ultimate Spring Break Hardcore Exxxtreme!!!!; hell, even at age ten I was the pretentious child sprinting ahead of her parents and calling out, “Gate B10- this way. Hurry it up, father!” A little trip around the world? Bah, that was nothing to be nervous about!
So I wasn’t even remotely nervous, until Monday, July 3rd, t-minus three days to departure. It was around then something happened- something big, something drastic, something impossibly difficult! That’s right. I had to arrange an airport pick-up. That’s it. I just needed a ride from Heathrow airport to my friend’s flat in North London. C’est tout. But I couldn’t do it. How was I supposed to find a mini-cab company from the states? What if I found one on the Internet that wasn’t reputable and then some sex-perv picked me up while neglecting to wear his neon sexual offender badge and then proceeded to violate me in horrible ways before dumping my lifeless body in the Thames?
In other words, I had begun to think like a mother. My mother, to be specific, and quite frankly I have no idea how that woman walks around completing her daily chores because these new worries and sudden fears were absolutely paralyzing.
Luckily, though, when these fears hit me I was on vacation with my family on Martha’s Vineyard, a beautiful island off the New England coast. Rather than collapsing in one giant spasm of newfound fears, I was able to go to the beach and lie in the sun until my terminally ill pale skin bronzed up a few notches into just plain sickly. I regained my calm in the lapping of the Atlantic’s waves and in just a few ice cream cookiewiches, and readied myself for the adventure of a lifetime.
So effective was this beach and fatty dessert therapy that my calm remained steady over the next few stressful days, so much so that it failed to waver even while I completed the most blood pressure raising activity of all- packing my bags. Initially, you wouldn’t really think this would be a big deal. You get a bag, stuff crap in and voila, you’ve packed your bags. Congratulations and a round of drinks for all. Ah, my poor, sweet, naive friends let’s be realistic here. Nothing in travel- or life- is that easy, especially when you’re given the task of fitting a year’s belongings into one multi-pocketed backpack.
In order to meet this tall order, I had to do some things I hadn’t before been comfortable doing, meaning that I had to arrange and entangle my limbs and body weight in ways that would embarrass even Ron Jeremy or Jenna Jameson. I shoved my clothes into vacuum-sealed bags and caressed the air out of them with my sharp knees and pointy elbows. I mounted the backpack like a horse to pry open previously hidden compartments. I spread my limbs in every which direction as I coaxed clothes into impossibly small air spaces. I whispered sweet nothings to jammed zippers until they begrudgingly pulled through.
As I pushed and pulled and contorted and drew upon every weapon lying latent in my arsenal of feminine guile, something dawned on me. THIS is why I don’t camp. It’s one thing to lug a person-sized backpack to the airport, dump it on a conveyer belt and be free of it for the next ten or so hours. It’s another thing altogether to haul that amount of scoliosis-inducing crap hours and hours through bushes and tics just so that you can see a bunch of goddamn leaves.
I would have continued mulling over this newfound conclusion, but as it was dawning on me, something mind-boggling had occurred. I had pulled the last strap and zipped the last zipper. I was done. In an instant, I was filled with a jubilant warmth.
I did it! I won! I was the victor! The champion! The hero! This was the made for TV feel good story of the year!

Newscaster: This just in: Leah Kaminsky has packed her bag. Let’s go to our field correspondent for more details about this momentous event.

Field Correspondent: I’m here with Leah Kaminsky who has just managed to fit all of her crap for one year into one unfairly small backpack. How does it feel, Ms. Kaminsky?

LK: Oh it feels just wonderful, I mean really, just grand. It’s such an accomplishment and I would hypothetically like to thank all the little people along the way who helped me get to this point but they were all eating breakfast at the time so really I would just like to thank myself. Really such a wonderful, amazing, unbelievable achievement.

FC: Indeed it is and congratulations again Ms. Kaminsky. Now for the crowd’s reaction, let’s talk to Kaminsky’s mother, Martha, her grandmother, Carol, and her aunt, Beth. Ladies, what do you think about Leah’s recent incredible breakthrough with her backpack?

Grandmother and mother (in unison): She’s gonna carry that?

Aunt Beth: It looks like a giant penis.

With it’s long, stretched shaft, bulging side pockets, and generally phallic form, look like a giant penis it sure did. A gargantuan penis that would put any pulsating porn-star to shame. But at this point, I didn’t care. Despite what everyone else thought, I felt victorious. Plus, there was no way I was unpacking that unsightly beast (not even the outermost “testicle” portion) after all that work. So I did the only thing I could do. I strapped my thirty-pound penis to my back, battled my way upwards, fell over, landed hard on my back with my legs waving in the air like a dead buffalo, struggled upwards once more, and tottered out to the airport pick-up van, the top of my phallic backpack waving victoriously in the whims of a vaguely celebratory wind.
As the van pulled away, I waved goodbye to my family through the ominous shadow of my penis backpack and hoped beyond hope that when I re-strapped it to my back, the weight of it wouldn’t pull down my low-cut jeans and expose my still terminally ill pale tushy to the haggard travelers and oh-so-friendly and content JFK airport workers (it did, and the glare from my pale skin legally blinded a pair of tanned Swedes, which I personally think they deserved any way for being so damn attractive).
Now, as I sit here writing this, free of my well-endowed thirty-pound friend and within minutes of boarding my plane, I am Zen-like, ready to face the earth and every one of its people, one step at time. Despite the dangers of world travel, the sheer amount of things that could go wrong, the amount of paperwork I still have yet to sort through, and the intimidating amount funds I must accumulate to make this trip possible, I say to the world bring it on. In this life, it’s just my thirty-pound penis and me.
Let’s just hope my thirty-pound penis makes it through the “irregular luggage” rack in one piece.

Day Two
Oh my god, they lost my penis bag. My 30-pound penis and me managed to take on the world for all of about two hours and then, like every other boyfriend I’ve ever had it, decided to camp out in the JFK baggage check while I took off for an international adventure in London. Ah, alas, alark and other exclamations involving sighs, I guess this goes to show that in this life you can really only rely on you- numero uno-! Not even your phallic hiking backpack will stand by your for the long fight!
As is usual with these sorts of things, the bag (whom I have now named “Timmay” in honor of South Park and the bag’s dumbass disappearing act), I was not notified of the loss with any grand announcement. Rather, by the time I made it through customs nearly all the bags had been claimed and only a few lonely looking bags circled the belt forlornly. I searched among the remaining abandoned children, wondering if I had somehow missed mine (yes, a thirty-pound penis bag would be easy to miss), but alas it was not among the doe-eyed abandoned hordes. With sympathy I glanced over one bag and thought, “Buck up now, buddy. If you looked more like a piece of male genitalia, I’d take you right home.”
With that, I marched to the Virgin luggage desk to make a dramatic statement of my loss, one I hoped would bring stinging and empathetic tears to the extremely English-looking clerk.
“Yeah…” I began with understated pain. “I think you guys lost my bag…”
“Name?” she barked, clearly moved by my plight.
“Leah…”
“Leah Kaminsky?” She cut me off before I could finish my sentence. Apparently I was already famous in the Virgin world, something I’ve always strived for. “Your bag is still in JFK.”
“Oh,” I said as I was struck by a sudden troublesome thought. “They didn’t leave it off because it looked…”
“Because it was too heavy? No.” I had been thinking more of its embarrassing shape, but weight was a valid concern too. Before I could humiliate myself further by posing the question that was really on my mind, she informed me that I had checked in too early, meaning that they had put my bag in a waiting area to make room for people whose flights were leaving in the next three hours. This had put my bag on the fast track to JFK’s limbo for bags with owners with nervous, time conscious Jewish families (“MAKE SURE TO LEAVE FOR THE AIRPORT FOUR DAYS EARLY WHAT IF THERE’S TRAFFIC ON THE WAY IN???!!!!”). I’ve been told by higher powers that this limbo area is blessed by a rabbi every day, and yammachas are provided for the more devout bags. And yes, I have absolutely no idea how to spell yammacha.
So I said the only thing I could say in a situation like this. “Oh. Can I have it back at some point?” The clerk reassured me that yes, I could have it back and that yes, they would deliver it to me tomorrow. I responded with, “Oh well that’s cool,” filled out the necessary forms and spent way too much money on a minicab to my friend Chris’ flat in North London (I had pre-booked it thinking I’d be hauling a thirty-pound penis bag, not knowing that the penis bag would come to me). Upon arrival, I stomped importantly into Chris’ flat and the usual “I haven’t seen you in a year” type of small talk commenced.
Then Chris ran off to work and I was left to wander the streets of central London on my own. Even in my sleepless daze, I felt my love for London steadily increasing. I treated myself to a toasted ciabatta and melted cheese sandwich I Caffe Nero ( FILL IN

Day Three
The first matter on hand today was that of finding myself a flat. Having completed a similar search throughout London last year, I was well aware of both the excitement and the dangers of such a search. Generally, you will either luck out and find an amazing flat in your price range immediately or time and time again you’ll find yourself walking through dark, dirty areas of the city that you never before realized existed, wondering if that shadow trailing you is your own, a ghost’s, or yet another deranged minicab driver’s.
Last year, when my friend Becca and I decided to stay in London over the summer, our experiences held more closely to this second alternative. Time and time again we would find an advertisement for an amazing flat in a wonderful part of the city, we would arrive at the designated tube stop exhilarated by the local shops, cafes and general activity, thinking to ourselves, “This is it! This is it! We want to live HERE!” and then promptly find that our directions had us going twenty minutes outside of Putney on the bus, or turning just one corner off a busy, upbeat street to the single dilapidated council block tower (read: housing project) in the whole of Notting Hill, prompting us to respond, “Oh. Nevermind.” Several times we arrived just on the brink of evening, as the sun was quickly setting, and instead of risking sure death at the hands of a psychotic landlord, ran very quickly away back to the safety of our posh Chelsea dorm and our sheltered, white middle class upbringing. Indeed, there’s nothing like hallowed prostitutes in chunky thigh-high boots wandering dejectedly through King’s Cross to make you realize just how good you have it and just how nice growing up sheltered really was.
Last year there were a string of landlord and tenant comments like, “It’s quite safe here, only one bloke was stabbed up this road last month” and “Everyone says it’s so dangerous here but I don’t think so.” Perhaps the best and most accurate comment in these viewings came from a landlady’s eight year old daughter as she showed us a flat way out in the suburbs, occupied by a random Australian man and offering only one queen-sized bed for the two of us. The landlady proudly showed us the generous storage space the upstairs closet had to offer and extolled on its many shelves and large holding capacity while her daughter climbed about inside it, emerging only to loudly offer a poignant verdict of her own, “Mummy, it smells like chips in ‘ere!”
Alas, closets reeking of chips were the very least of our problems. Many of the flats boasted showers that “drizzled” rather than poured and some of them even lacked that mildly important feature they call “walls.” By the time we saw the flat we would eventually take, a three-story bedroom down in Southwest London shared with a medicine student at Imperial College, we would have settled for just about anything with a ceiling. I took one look at the flat and said, “PLEASE TAKE US.”
Arriving exhausted and lacking all of my necessary clothing items, I hoped this year’s search would prove simpler. I had arranged a bunch of viewings for the night and day after I arrived and thus began my quest straight off the plane. The first one, deep in the heart of the East End threatened to put me on track for another search filled with unsavory characters and intrusive landladies. Aside from the few trendy areas on the edge of the East End, this section of the city has always been filled primarily with immigrants and well, poor people. At this point, that means the whole East End is a relatively odd mix, filled primarily with Muslim immigrants and classic seventy-year old East End characters roaming the streets with a determined look permanently ingrained into their weathered skin, seeming to proclaim, “I will not move.”
Indeed, it was quite the experience searching for this flat deep within the East End. Next to lines of Muslim women veiled in heavy black burkas, my exposed ankles and bare shoulders clearly marked me out as a harlot. However, I was determined to see this flat, if only to foster Jewish-Islamic relationships (they give me a cheap flat, I let them see my ankles) so I pushed through the condescending glares and the cat calls from tiny speeding European cars. And then, there it was. The flat was finally upon me. Number 10. With a red door. Right off the main road. Appearing to have been slightly singed in a fire. Surrounded by a group of staring Muslim men.
Oh.
My.
God.
And so I resorted to that classic device honed by both Becca and myself only a year ago. I ran very quickly away, thinking to myself, “Run very quickly away.” An immature but effective technique to be sure. Perhaps Jewish-Islamic relations could wait until another day.
After this experience, I was convinced that the rest of my search would be equally terrifying and as a result, I fully prepared myself for more adrenaline-filled sprints to safety. The next flat on my list was in a very “posh” area, near to where we used to live while we were studying abroad in Chelsea. Despite its address, I held out little hope. Knowing my luck, it was probably one of those random council block towers they inexplicably erected in hopelessly posh areas during the sixties. There was no way a flat for that little money would be available in that area if there weren’t something terribly wrong with it, so I rode to its fancy tube stop in Sloane Square (a very ritzy area), and prepared myself to walk thirty minutes out into ghetto.
However, as I emerged from the tube station and followed my map towards its address, the trees and houses stayed the same. Full leaves, recently painted buildings, trimmed hedges, buzzing cafes, overflowing restaurants. The direction I was going was continuing to be nice. “Uh-oh,” I thought. “There must be something wrong with the landlord. He must be crazy, some sort of pervert, perhaps he’s the reincarnated version of Jack the Ripper. Oh God. Oh lordy lord.”
My fear worsened as I realized the full glamour of the place I was seeking. Located just over Chelsea bridge, the building’s outer walls were made entirely of windows and faced the Thames. Once over the bridge, I called the owner to make sure I was in the right place. “Yes,” he (Rajah) assured me in a thick Indian accent. “To get to my flat just turn right at the big fountain and walk down through the long row of smaller fountains. At the edge of the last set of lighted fountains, turn left and I will buzz you in.” I was speechless. This place. Had. Fountains. What?
The entire way up to the flat, I studied my reflection in the mirrored elevator, wondering if I was about to be stabbed to death by a lonely rich man who posts ads on the web for flats as a means of luring young girls to his lair. To my surprise, the man who opened the door looked nice. He wasn’t a psycho killer at all, he was an Indian-Malaysian lecturer in law at Metropolitan University, and his wife and children had gone back to Malaysia for the next seven months to visit family. How… nice…. The flat was large with two bedrooms and overlooked the line of fountains bubbling peacefully four stories below. Not only did the shower not “drizzle”, it had three separate settings- low, medium and massage. That’s right, a massage shower in London. Not a drizzle shower, not even a highly overrated “power shower” (which in America, we simply call “a shower”). Whaaaaat?
More important than anything, though, was the smell. In this foreign city where I wandered the streets literally without any worldly possessions to tie me down to normality, this place smelled of cleaning products and Indian food, and together, that smelled of Arthi’s house. For those of you who don’t know Arthi (by the way hey Arthi, what’s up?), I roomed with her for the past three years at school, and often raided both her dorm and home fridge for a proper Indian feast. As I stood in the hallway of Rajah’s unbelievably posh flat, awed by fountains and overwhelmed by high pressure showers boasting constant hot water, I thought of only one thing- this smells like home. So I followed the instructions of my nose, and for the same price I was paying to live in a just alright Zone 2 suburb, I now live in a ritzy apartment overlooking the Thames in one of the most active, poshest parts of the city.
Thank you, nose.
That night, I went back to Chris’ flat in Finsbury Park to brag to both him and my other newfound friends about my find, but found it difficult to have an actual discussion given the sheer noise of the music blaring from the speakers downstairs, notably surrounding the futon on which I was meant to sleep. I had forgotten that Chris’ four gay flatmates were throwing a super-gay party that night, right in the guestroom I currently called home. Around the time I came in, the party had escalated from a mere chat around a chips bowl to a full out gay dance party. For reasons only known to him, Stefan, the flat’s owner, had dressed himself in short-shorts, the pink Euro-pride flag and stiletto heels, an outfit that matched the stilettos and short shorts of his horribly out of shape life partner. Great, I was finally back in London, the place where men actually pay attention to me, and I was surrounded by men in stilettos. The closest I got to a straight man that night was when I dug through my penis bag for a fresh pair of underwear.
As time marched on around the guest room along with a horde of gay men dancing to Madonna, more and more gay men arrived at the door in matching outfits, announcing in internationally super gay accents, “I’m heeeeeere!” Indeed, if there’s one thing that can unite people from around the world, it’s the similarity of homosexual accents in every country. In saying this, I do not mean to confirm or play off stereotypes, but let’s face it, these stereotypes exist for a reason. Even one of the less flamboyantly gay flatmates turned to me at one point, rolling his eyes and saying, “This is way too gay for my tastes” before running out the front door to a gay club, where he believed it would be less gay.
After watching this amusing but exclusive sausage fest, I informed Chris that I’d be sleeping on his floor that night and lay myself down to sleep in his room. With the knowledge of my beautiful fountain flat warming the back of my mind, I fell asleep to the tapping of a gay man’s stilletto’s tapping on hardwood and Gloria Gaynor singing “I will survive” on the stereo, wondering what new adventures the next day would bring, and how I could get my legs to look as nice as Stefan’s.

Living in a city you love really is like having a relationship with someone, which is precisely what I wanted to convey in my novel. London is a character, a person to love and hate, and love and hate it I sure do. There are good and bad days, and on those bad days, I really do hate being here. Everything gets on my nerves, every little thing is a frustration- tourists, bumbling around on the tube; slow movers walking in bands so that you can’t get around them; buses that take forever to arrive; the sound of traffic. But on good days, those things fall away and all you can see are the beautiful parks, the amazing museums, and the vibrant characters the city has to offer. Notably, no matter how bad the day was, I find a night bus ride through the city will make me fall in love again (even after a frustratingly long wait for it to arrive). I sit back and watch the city go by, content in my life and in my relationship with the city, back in the place I love and happy to be here.

Days Four-Seven
The rest of the week was a blur of activities designed to make me fall in love with a city I have worshipped completely ever since I arrived in January of 2005 to study abroad. I spent most of my time wandering around the city, from South to North, East to West (well not so much East, if, as the English say, y’know whatimean), discovering little nooks of the city that I never before knew existed. In his off time my friend Chris (who yes, mother, is JUST A FRIEND) helped me reacquaint myself with the London lifestyle. I’ve picnicked in Green Park with him and his friends, dined on the canal in a café in Little Venice, and completed a successful pub crawl in the most posh of areas down King’s Road, reminiscing about our time studying abroad here, the people we loved and the adventures we had. I had forgotten how unique London is with its many beautiful parks at practically every corner. This is perhaps my favorite feature of London, how you can be wandering down a busy and overwhelming noisy road, and just turn off into a gorgeous, peaceful park or hop into the National Gallery for a calming (and free!) view of world class art.
As many city dwellers probably know, these calming aspects of the city are perhaps the most important, as most people living here develop a love-hate relationship with the whole place. For me, living in London really is like having a relationship. When you’ve had a good day, everything about the city is absolutely amazing- the food, the culture, the people. But when you’ve had a bad day, claustrophobia sets in and everything is an annoyance. Tourists clog the streets and don’t move, people jam up the doors on the tube, buses take far too long to arrive, and when the umpteenth tourists jams you in the back with a shopping bag, you just went to shout, “Fuck OFF.”
But in London, at least, there is always salvation in the parks, museums, and movie theaters. With its snaking serpentine, which twinkles in the summer sun, and long walks of bursting green trees, Hyde Park has got to be one of my favorite parks of all, and is fortunately only a fifteen minute walk from where I live. On top of that, I’ve also rediscovered Regent’s Park which is located in North London and is probably the most beautiful park in all of London. Regent’s is filled with floral arrangements, well-trimmed hedges, fountains, and long, tree-lined walks, all of which really remind me of old photos of the English countryside. I’m not sure whose idea it was to incorporate such serenity into so many corners of the city, but it was bloody brilliant, innit!
What’s even more wonderful is the area I’ll be working in, which is located right near Russel Square, next to the Senate Building (which is where I believe 1984 was penned, yes?) in the heart of the University of London. During the daytime, students from all over the world fill the university’s many squares to eat lunch in the sunshine, and tweed-coated professors stroll along around its edges. When my friend Vanessa comes to school here this fall, she’ll be located in a building right across the way from me and we’ll be able to join the kiddos in their feasts!
Which brings me to the most important point, the thing you all have been waiting for all this time. The food. Good god, I’d forgotten how amazing it is, and apparently, so had my thighs. Every type of food imaginable is available here, from classic toasted ciabatta and melted cheese to those Japanese pancakes (I’m not going to try and butcher their name here) and world class Indian food. And when you’re walking all day, you can eat as much of it as you like!
So this is how these past few days have gone. I wander the city, seeking out adventure, noting the characters and trying in vain to imitate the fashions (so far I’m still sticking to my arsenal of black shirts, but once I start earning a pay check, a spree may be in order). So far Chris and I have seen and met the greatest characters, from Billy Kavanagh, seventy year old world class animal presenter (he presented animals in the Bronx and London zoos and could get you all in for free, just so you know), to a woman with a bubble butt who brought her scooter and nine-zillion bags onto a crowded night bus last night, trying to scoot around the night bus over people’s toes (“ExCUse me Miss! That was my TOE!”).
One of these days I changed my wandering location to Windsor, taking the train out and meeting my old Ben & Jerry’s bosses for a nice Italian meal. We sat in an outdoor restaurant, caught up on the past year and exchanged travel tips (by the way, mom, Philippa had just been to Morocco and said she never once felt in danger, and dad Philippa said that Jimi Hendrix used to use Morocco as his personal get away, so there!), and it was generally a lovely day except for one thing. As some of you may remember, last year I tried my best to adjust to English manners of speech, but had an infinite amount of trouble with one thing- the greeting. Rather than saying, “Hi, how are you?” when many English people greet each other, they say, “Yawright?”, and rather than saying, “FINE THANKS! HOW ARE YOU?” (which is what I always said), you’re supposed to say, “M’awright. Y’awright?” And they’ll either say, “M’awright” or “I’m proper knackered!” and that’ll be the end of it.
Well try as I might, I couldn’t stop answering that I was fine thanks, how are you to this one English guy who worked in the office and asked me this question every day. It was just a knee jerk reaction. Someone comes in first thing in the morning and asks me something, and I say fine thanks how are you. It was just ingrained and try as I might, for a good month, I could not get rid of it. Finally though, my proud moment came. The man came into the office and said, “Y’awright Leah?” And I said, “M’awright. Y’awright?” And he said, “M’awright.” And there it was. I had done it! As could be expected, I quickly sent off emails to my family and friends announcing my triumph.
And triumph it sure was, until I went back to visit the office this past week and was sitting in the waiting room of their vibrantly painted offices. Of course, this same man came round the corner and the test began all over again. “Y’awright, Leah?” he said. Now well trained in both English and American greetings, I confidently and cheerily said, “GOOOOOOD!”, which of course isn’t really a proper greeting in either the states or England. Yes, after all that time, I had failed, and miserably so. ‘Ow bloody hard is it really to say “yawright?” Alas, I am a failure, a distinctly American failure.
Other than that though, my time back in London has gone smoothly. For the most part, coming back feels like greeting an old friend you haven't seen in a year. There's that initial excitement, and then you just get back into the groove of things as if you'd never left in the first place.
So those are my entries for the week. Expect more when I start my job!