London has no stop signs. I mean, if there is an intersection, it's a traffic light. And since the city isn't on a grid, there is little use for stop signs. It's either a traffic light or just a small street going on to a larger one in a "T" shape. And in place of a lot of intersections of course they have roundabouts, or ring roads, which I think are brilliant. "Big Ben, Parliament..."

Slept all afternoon and went to a club night called Candy Box somewhere near Leicester Square - the club itself was sweet but the best part of it all was afterwards. Alice had left early and her friend Tanya walked me to the bus stop to get the night bus. Her bus left early so I waited around for the 38 back to Islington and this guy walked up and started talking to me. A little guy, dark skin, looked Hispanic but had an English accent. He was dressed in a big puffy Gap jacket and was wearing this backpack that looked like it was full of books. We started talking about clubs closing too early in London and the like but all I kept thinking about was what the fuck he could have had in that backpack. The guy was out, albeit on a Wednesday night, but he was out and he was full of drink and it was 3AM, but he had this huge backpack on. I was the one supposed to be loaded down with all the gear.

"Hey man - do you want to go and get a drink?" he asks.

"I dunno where the hell can we get a drink at 3 in the morning on a Wednesday?"

"I know a place. Pepe's. We will go to Pepe's. You'll come?"

"Bout it bout it," was my response, which solicited both a wry face and a friendly motioning wave to follow him.

So we leave. I learn that he's from South Africa, name of Sasha. We retreat to an alleyway and turn corner after corner. I think I would have been worried in the states because he could have had a gun or something, that he was a freak, but he was a little guy and I was in a perfectly (beautifully) gunless country, so I kept on. Finally we came round a corner and there were people walking the other way. I was having trouble staying on either the sidewalk or the street, and there's little distinction between the two sometimes on the back streets. "Pepe's-you know where we fill find Pepe's?" he asks of passers-by. Finally someone passing offers up and points to a door. A group of four is gathered outside and finally a huge Hispanic guy opens the door and surveys the crowd. Seriously this guy was like a foot taller and wider on either side than any of us. He says nothing but finally points at everyone but Sasha and I and sends them upstairs, then turns to close the door as he steps in. "Wait a minute," Sasha argued "I've been here before, mate - I was here last week. You saw me here. You didn't work the door but you were here." The guy just looked at him. "I don't know you-you don't get in." And he closed and latched the door Emerald-city style.

Sasha stepped back onto the street, one foot still on the curb, eyes still fixed on the door. He took a drag off of his cigarette and fired it at the door. "Fuck it, Fuck this - Fuck him. I know another place. They play better music there."

We stepped out onto a bigger street and there was a garbage truck picking up all these bags of trash on the street. I saw these two guys running towards us and I stepped aside, only to watch the two of them run and jump, careening into the bags of rubbish. The most fascinating thing was that the guys picking up the trash didn't even say anything, didn't notice or didn't care, and these two guys got back up and ran halfway up the block again, as fast as they could with their smokes hanging out of their mouths and long hair blowing in the wind, diving headfirst into all this trash. One of them flipped over and landed on his back even. Finally they pissed off the trash man and he grabbed one of them by the leg and dragged him off the pile and into the street. I think they got filthier by landing in the street than they did hanging out in all that trash.

We turned a corner after a few blocks and Sasha headed into a doorway and up a stairwell. I could hear loud dub music coming from an upstairs room but I didn't see any windows, and there was definitely no address or name of the place, whatever it was. A black woman with long dreadlocks stood at the top of the stairs and Sasha stopped in front of her. "Five pound admission, please" Sasha dug around in his wallet, trying hard to keep his balance between whatever he had been drinking and his backpack full of bricks. He paid the woman and started in but I was still trying to get his attention. I didn't want to spend the five pounds as I knew I'd have to watch the tour expenses. He motioned to me and I started to speak ... now the lady at the top motioned me "Come ahead, it's good. You will have fun. He has already paid for you." It was all I needed to hear and I pushed past to follow him in.

It was a tiny room, very little light. Just a light in a corner behind the "bar" which was no more than a few bottles in the back and a refrigerator and jambox behind a counter. We stepped up to it and a guy came from across the room, which was populated by no more than about fifteen others, and stepped past the side of the bar and came around. "How many?" he asked, to which Sasha replied "Two." The guy whipped out a bottle of vodka and poured two shots into plastic cups, then topped them off with cola, and we exchanged him three pounds each for them. A couple of chairs sat against the wall so we lead ourselves over and he finally took his backpack off. I think after all that walking I finished mine off in about two minutes so he went back up for another.

He was talking to the bartender for much longer than just to order drinks, though - and the bartender pointed to his right, to a doorway just inside where we came in. Sasha nodded and stepped inside of the door and closed it behind him. He returned a couple of minutes later and walked back over to me, kneeling down to unzip his backpack and began digging through it. "How much money have you got?" he asked. I knew the right answer to this question, going nowhere near my wallet, only to pull about a pound and a half out of my front pocket. "Not much - maybe a pound fifty? Only enough for the bus, I think." He looked around and again went to the backpack, frustrated. "I need about ..." he paused "I need about five more pounds to get some coke."

There is a certain realization and sense of relief when one realizes that he or she is in the wrong place and with the wrong folks. It was a camera shot out of a movie where the scene turns personal and the main character looks straight into the camera as if to share a moment with the viewer. I turned to my right, picked up my cup and drained the last bit of Vodka Coke, then stood up. "We'd better go." Sasha looked behind him, still crouched over his backpack, then turned, zipped it up and threw it over his back.

"Which way is the bus?" I asked when we poured onto the sidewalk after a hasty retreat down the stairs. He stopped and stared around for a second, then pointed up the street, obviously turning to head another direction himself, which was fine with me. I stepped off in that direction and turned to shake his hand. "Alright Sasha - you take care. I gotta make this bus," and ran off in the direction he had pointed. Sure enough when I got there the number 38 pulled into the stop. I got on the bus and never looked back.