Goodnight, London

We each have our own hotel room. Burbank wanted to share a room, but I told him no because I’m a heavy sleeper, and the last time I left him alone in my apartment, he thought it would be a good idea to give my dog a haircut and change all the settings on my mobile phone to Spanish. I’ll not have that again.

I got ready for bed around 11. I've got these funny striped pajamas that make me look like an old man. I've also got ratty gray slippers that smell like smoke and mustard, but I couldn't bring the slippers because I've only got the one bag on this trip.

At 11:15, when I was brushing my teeth, Burbank tried to get in, but I'd locked the door. He knocked for a while and then started singing "The Wheels on the Bus" louder and louder until a bellhop made him go back to his room.

I sat up for a while doing the crossword in the Daily Mail until 11:45 when Burbank came knocking again, saying something about how he finally noticed something good and wanted to tell me about it.

I let him in because I'm nice.

"I've noticed something good," he said, showing me his blue notebook with the words "Things Burbank Notices" underlined at the top. On the first line, it said "sometimes when you live in a city that has lots of smog, your boogers turn black."

"That's very good," I told him. "You'll have to see if that's true for all the other big cities we visit."

"You’ve been places before," Burbank said. "Can’t you tell me?"

"No," I said, like a proverb-spitting mystical nymph. "These are things you'll have to notice for yourself."

"But I've never really been places. Will it be scary?"

I shrugged. "Yes, but I'll be there. To prop the door open if need be."

Burbank fluffled my hair. I pretend to hate it when he does that.

"You'll be my guide," he said. "My guide to Europe. My living tour book. My travel companion. My tourist information kit. My very own walking, talking Baedeker."

Then I sent him along to bed.