11:45PM: Hyde Park Towers, London, England: The extremely British pizza I had for dinner I’ve since dubbed “Megadough,” since that’s basically what it was. Spoiled in yet another way by the largess of my native land, I cannot imagine life under the bland tyranny of England‘s tomatoes. Fortunately, it’s not a major concern since it’s not like I have no idea how long I’m going to be here or anything like that. I had been hoping to find some tiny killer Indian restaurant around the corner from here that would let me taste the residual fruits of an empire other than my own, but no dice.

I couldn’t decide as I walked out of the St. Pancras train station if the sky was volcano-ashy or if that was just London.

Either way, yes, I made it to London, and managed to sort of defraud an impressive three national governments in the process — the Dutch, the British and the Belgian — though I assume if either my name or that of Ricky (who turned out to be a legit good Samaritan helping someone in need) were on a national security watch list (do they have those here?), I’d have been pulled aside either way. Just a tiny loophole big enough to get me from The Netherlands to the UK today. I’ll take it.

I was in Belgium just long enough to screw up ordering a coffee in French by not realizing when I was asked if I wanted it to go or to stay. “Un petit Brésil, s’il vous plaît… merci,” and then the whole thing went to hell. Guy thought I was a jackass, and I speak just enough French to know that’s what he was saying to the other guy working the register.

Having occasion to order coffee in French has always been a dream of mine, by the way. So there was that.

Shortly thereafter, it was onto the EuroStar train for me. I am in jealous awe of the European high-speed rail system. Obama has said a couple times that he’d like to install something like it in the US, but given the heft of the transportation lobby and the issue of cost, I doubt it’ll ever happen. What a shitter though. Imagine going from New York to Chicago in like three hours without having to deal with airport bullshit. My heart’s a-flutter.

The ride was pleasant enough, and I had The Machine‘s second album to keep me company. They sound even more like Colour Haze on record than they do in person, sometimes painfully so, but I didn’t have any Colour Haze immediately accessible (a definite mistake) and those sweet tones were decent companionship for looking out the window at the sprawling Belgian pastures and small, periodic towns that seemed to be rolling by in fast-forward, so you won’t hear me complain.

One cab ride later and I’m here at the hotel The Patient Mrs. booked for me from back at headquarters in the valley. She has been second to none — not even Walter Roadburn — in the level of accommodation afforded me for this trip, and I hope someday to thank her face to face. Still more or less a mystery as to when that might happen though.

Tags: London, UK

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