This is the first time I've shared a bed with someone with a penis since I was six.

We wake up to a massive English breakfast.

It's easily the best breakfast I’ve had on the continent.

I feel awful about it; this is obviously not "par for the course" around here. I hate the special treatment.

I make up for my embarrassment with the most effusive praise I can muster, really laying it on with a trowel.

JB, meanwhile, hasn't been offered a full breakfast... He's busy eating some cereal that he bought the day before. The family seem pissed about that.

There’s a tension here that I can’t really describe. Maybe it’s just me, but I feel tense. A weirdness. There's something yucky about this...

And I hate it. Gotta get out.

So, that’s the day's plan: Find an alternative.

Scoping out the potential accommodation options should take me on a walking tour of the whole city.

That suits me just fine...