Wednesday, 18 December 2013


It seemed weird to me that I've been in Paris as long as I have and hadn't made the trip across to London yet.


It's barely two hours on the Eurostar, and you get a fun passport stamp with a train on it to boot.


Rather comfortingly, they get the same lovely weather they do in Paris. Leave your cute leather maryjanes at home and get yer wellies on. They invented these out of necessity!

Aside from arriving in a sideways pelting rainstorm, It dried up and got cold and windy, but nothing unbearable.


I walked and walked and walked. The sun is even lower on the horizon here, so it's a really quick day.


They have much better quality and quantity of ethnic food choices here than Paris. They seem to have acknowledge early on that their food just isn't the most fantastic, and bowed down to the ethnic overlords to cook them dinner from that point on. I had fantastic Pho, really amazing curries, and some acceptably good dim sum, all within three days and without really trying too hard to find great places. Just oh, this place looks decent, and Boom!, it was.

I somehow stumbled upon my favorite vintagey junk store in Soho without trying to hard.


I still cherish my Elvis Presley cookbook I got there years ago even though I have never even made a single thing from it. One day, I will throw a brunch and make a Fool's Gold sandwich and eat the entire thing myself.

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Oh, surprise. I know they are common here, but as the sun was setting, a fox came out to try his luck at the overfed squirrels in St James Park.

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I've been to London a handful of times, and I really do think it's a fantastic town. The food situation has improved noticeably since my first trip over (as has my budget, which I'm sure has helped). The eggs with bits of shells and the food served hot from the microwave still exists I'm sure, but I didn't encounter it this trip.


Especially in the East End- the rows of Brick Lane curry houses remind me of East 6th st in New York.


And, oh, how lovely a dingy old pub is on a rainy night. The smell of wet dog, the threadbare carpets, the crazy geological dig of decor, the friendly bartenders.

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