Waking up to the regular thwack of tennis balls being hit in the tennis club next door.
People like to listen to recordings of whale sounds or rain in the Amazon or birdsong; let’s make one of tennis balls, it’s very restful. (When it gets too restful, throw in some grunting and shrieking. Your neighbors will think you’re watching porn again.)
Bonus activity: Trying to get a glimpse of the hot instructor across the fence. (Have not woken up early enough but my source guarantees it.)
After walking across miles of museums—and sales—throwing yourself onto a park bench to calm your screaming feet and realizing the bench has a history.
I’m not even a serious shopper, but everything is 70 off. (In Manila stores have the nerve to mark their stuff down 20 percent and call it a sale. That’s not a sale, that’s not even an employee’s discount.)
At dusk, which at this time of year is about 9 pm, walking across Hyde Park to Buckingham Palace, hearing someone singing Band on the Run and realizing that Paul McCartney is having a concert. It’s great to be in a city where there’s a McCartney concert on and you forgot because there are so many other things to absorb your attention.