Briefly
Stop what you're doing. Right now. Go into the kitchen, butter up some nice bread, both sides, and then fry it. Swear to God, it's delicious.
Fried Bread... only from England.
You're Not From Brighton, by Fat Boy Slim
We boarded the plane without any problems. Taking off was like hitting the first big drop on a roller coaster. It was a Boeing 767, our captain made sure we knew it, reminding us several times. The plane's fuzz, static-plagues television monitors and failing interior lights reminded me, however, that despite Zooms obvious pride in this acquisition, it was still a used vehicle. The probably got a discount and some air fresheners tossed in with the deal, too. Watching the world dissolve beneath me, I tell myself to think like Superman, and imagine what this would be like without a vessel. I get some ideas for stories.
The ground feels no different, and the air tastes the same as Toronto as we exit the London terminal, looking for the infamous cousin Dennis, who is to be our guide and escort. Then there he is, long, graying hair bouncing recklessly with the pace of his stride. He's balding, wearing a dirty black t-shirt with rows of barbed wire crudely illustrated on it. He's probably what my Dad would have become had he not met my Mom.
The first indication of just where we are, exactly, hits when we get to the underground parking lot, and comes in the form of a beautiful, gleaming silver sports car, with a giant, panoramic license plate. In fact, all the cars sport the yellow plate, and are all quite tiny. As we pass numerous expensive-looking luxury cars on the way to Dennis' vehicle, a hopeful idea skips through my head, but is soon dashed. Dennis' 'van' is a monstrously ugly burgundy crimson thing called a Peugeot, which looks worse then it sounds. It is, however, charming, a perfect match for Dennis, and I can think of nothing better for our first car ride on British soil. The sliding door beside refuses to close all the way. It crashes open on the highway, giving me a nice view of the pavement blurring by. Dennis drives like a madman. I can't believe we've made it.
