Thursday night we were honored with an invitation to a drinks party for the management team of Lifehouse Spa. Now, how Casey and I qualify as part of the management team I have no idea, but Americans are in high demand in this part of the world, so after work we found ourselves rapidly changing from mud soaked jeans in tatters, high visibility jackets, hard hats and steel-toed boots into sweaters and scarves. We were driven by Ian (the incredibly friendly and vivacious General Manager) to his apartment on the water in Brightlingsea, a much more pleasant town than any we had seen in Essex so far. There we were swept into a chic brand-new bar called Tarcini, where we were gien endless plates of h'ors d'ouevres (including melon and prosciutto, tomato and mozzarella, olives, prawn sandwiches, and other delicacies and heaps of desserts) and treated to all sorts of drinks by the super-generous executive team into which we had been accepted. Feeling exceedingly professional, we chatted with the head chef, marketing director, spa manager, as well as a few strangers and bar tenders. A cool jazz band played exuberantly, including a multi-talented, multi-instrumental frontman, a bassist who may have been asleep, and a drummer who, while technically profficient, didn't seem interested in any of the ambience of jazz. They were, however, excellent, as was the atmosphere and, ultimately, the evening. It was a big improvement on our previous office party experience, and made us determined to someday be part of the executive team (as much as we love the gardeners).
Friday, we were swept along by the wonderful English rail network to Brighton, where we were greeted by Katy Cronk. Upon arrival we quickly launched out into the streets and grabbed a couple burgers at GBK, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, a really cool and delicious place. Then we wandered the streets of the town and stopped at a pub called the White Rabbit. Brighton, which is on the southern coast of England, is a city of bright lights and bright people, lots of color and loud, happy voices. It is the gay capital of England, and is super liberal and sort of reminiscent of a combination between San Francisco and Sebastapol. The streets were garlanded in christmas lights, and trendy shops and healthy vegetarian restaurants caught the eye as we strolled through the North Lanes. Katy was a welcome change after a long line of Essex acquaintances, just as Brighton was a welcome change after Essex. After a glass of wine we walked through town and up to Katy's dorm (she is studying architecture at the University of Brighton) and met a few of her friends before collapsing cozily in front of the classic Disney Robin Hood, a favorite of all of ours and a wonderful brief trip back to childhood. We fell asleep to the joyful whistling of "Little John and Robin Hood, walking through the forest..."

Saturday we had a quick breakfast and then darted into town to complete our first and most essential task: Watching Harry Potter #7 Part 1. It was predictably dark and magical and overall could not have been more satisfying. Faithful to the book and deliciously indulgent (hard not to be with two long movie to spread it over) it was utterly absorbing, even for Katy who has somehow managed never to read a single HP book or see a single HP movie. I gave her a crash course in Wizardology before the movie started, and Casey answered questions like "Who is that white-faced guy in the dark robes with the red eyes trying to kill Harry Potter?"

After that absorbing experience, we were thrown quickly into another. We went to the Prince Albert, a dark little pub that we squeezed ourselves into (we were joined by three of Katy's very stylish and outgoing friends) to watch some incredible live music. We were in a tiny room with tons of people, and as it was afternoon the attitude was chilled out as opposed to overwhelming. The first act was a solo guy who played mournful tunes that brought to mind Thom Yorke, Jon Swift, and the Decemberists (if you can believe those three have Anything in common). He sang loud and forcefully, and seemed to really believe what he was singing. He was also clearly classically trained on the guitar, and played very beautifully. The next act was a duo from LA (we came all the way to England to see a band from LA...ironic) who sang folksy tunes with hand percussion and simple guitar. Their incredible harmonising and outgoing engagement with the crowd reminded us strongly of Jela (wished Linnea was here for all this). After they played, Casey went and introduced himself, complimenting them and inviting them to come play in the Mystic in Petaluma, on condition that they wait a few months till we are home. 
The final act (named Gregory and the Hawk) was utterly entrancing. A petite, dark-heared, big-eyed woman climbed onto the stage, muttering apologies for herself, and immediately captivating the whole room. Something about her was wonderful, delicate, beautiful. She was adorable and yet impressive and no one could turn their eyes away from her, even before she had begun to sing. And once she began, in a lilting lullaby of lyrical perfection, the room went into utter silence. People forgot to sip their drinks, eat their food, or flirt with whoever was next to them. All anyone could see was this strange little angel strumming a harp (literally, she played the harp, beautifully) and singing wonderful songs, with the occaisional interruption for another endearing joke or apology. We never wanted her set to end. But end it did, and we were thrust back out onto the streets, now dark. We were reeling, but joyful, and we walked excitedly back to Katy's dorm. 

That evening was a whirlwind of new people and excitements. All of Katy's friends were wonderful, fitting us just as well as the city of Brighton fit us. We hung around the dorm for a while, pre-lashing, and then went out on the lash, and rounded the night off by chundering everywhere. (If you don't understand this English slang then watch this iconic piece of english cinema http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKFjWR7X5dU). The people were entertaining, the city was lively, and we had great fun. It was the closest we have yet come to being in college, and both of us are Seriously considering switching to Brighton University!

The next day started late (perhaps due to the activities of the night before...maybe) and consisted of a long idyllic walk along the beach and Brighton pier. We relaxed on the smooth stones of the seashore and watched waves and clouds roll by. Katy found a rock shaped like a salamander, Casey found a heart, and I found a dinosaur egg. We got hot chocolate and organic chocolate cake at a super-healthy cafe and sat outside with Tom and Kate, two of Katy's friends. We explored a really cool vintage clothing shop and gave the streets of Brighton a thorough exploration. Then we made a massive feast of pesto pasta, salad, bread and brie. This was our thanksgiving. Not remotely similar to the true American thanksgiving, but sitting cozily in the Brighton dorm eating our homemade feast and drinking mulled wine (incredible heated wine with cardamom and cinnamon and a million other spices, tons of sugar and oranges), it was easy to give thanks. We dragged ourselves to our feet and completed the 4 hour journey back to Thorpe, thankful for Brighton, Katy, new friends and memories, a warm meal and, eventually, a warm sleep.

A few more characters, back by popular demand:

Habib: Originally from Bangladesh, Habib is a rigid Muslim (his only experience with alcohol was a disastrous one several years ago and since then he has stayed true to the faith and away from the poison), who has been living in England for seven years, manages the Prince of India with grace and hospitality (I should add that the Prince of India is a restaurant, not a...oh nevermind). Habib is currently in a state of wild excitement since next month he moves to Michigan to be reunited with his wife to be, who is living there now. Their situation is unusual and exciting to him, as theirs is a Love Marraige, and not the more commoin Arranged Marraige. He talks with touching fondness about his bride to be, and with excitement about the marraige ceremony and his new life. He is extremely engaging and entertaining.

Anjay: The Polish Head of Maintanence at the spa, a loud and enthusiastic jokester who struggles with English but is wonderfully friendly and upbeat. He is in a bit of a bind because the spa have not seen fit to give him any staff, so he squeezes himself in with the gardening crew, who are not thrilled.

Jenna: The PA of MD Bernie who I mentioned before (for those of you who don't have a real job like us, PA means personal assistant and MD means managing director), Jenna is the ultimate hard-ass who is obeyed by everyone. Her dog is a massive Alsatian, who obeys her meekly. Her husband is a hero of the military in Afghanistan, who also obeys her meekly. She is fiery, intense, and utlimately very sweet, but not the ideal person to have ordering you to "Lift that cupboard and move it to my office (a mile away). NOW!"

Three Nameless Clacton Girls: Acosted us on the train and proceeded to ask whether we were married, how old we were, whether we knew Miley Cyrus personally, why we would ever come to Clacton, why we would ever want to travel the world, and a million other annoying and bizarre questions we had to answer in the short train ride. Although these 13-year-old nightmares seem absurd to us, no one here seems remotely surprised by our description.

Stuart: Another one of the garden blokes, Stuart is a quiet but humorous tower of strength and ingenuity, who can reverse the tractor uphill at 50 miles an hour, can lift or fix or build anything, and doesn't take any bullshit. Nor should he.

Celvin: The extremely good-natured member of the Garden crew who seems to see through each and every flaw in the vast scheme that is building this place. He asks the questions that no one wants to ask like: Where do they expect people to park now they have dug up the parking lot? and Why are there 35 cleaning ladies cleaning an empty hotel? He should really be on the management team, or at least be hired out for consultancy, but for now he keeps everyone laughing on the very skeptical garden team.

The Cleaning Ladies: Now I know I have been making everything sound light and easy here, but it is not. We have adverseries. Enemies. The 12 Cleaning Ladies. Now as I mentioned above, these cleaning ladies are surplus in the first place in an empty building, but they show up every morning right as we are going to work, and crowd into the kitchen for six cups of tea (there is no work to do, remember?). They force us (trying to throw together some meager breakfast) OUT of the kitchen, and then proceed to glare at us and quickly busy themselves re-cleaning every spotless thing we try to use: toilet, shower, kitchen, even door handle. They are constantly outsmarting us, with a combination of superiority, hostility, and wicked cleverness. Today they even took apart the little singing birthday card Casey had recieved from home. Oh yes, it is WAR. I should add a little conversation I had with one of them:
"So what do you do?"
"We work in the garden mostly."
"Oh....a gardener" [End of conversation, she supercilious and viciously derogatory when she says "gardener"]
In my head: You. Are. A. Cleaning. Lady.

Boris: But it's not all bad news, at least we have Boris, Jan's psychopathic and hilarious Jack Russell, who keeps everyone going in the garden. Jan introduces him as "the real head gardener."

I will add one more thing. And that is about the radios. Each member of the garden crew has one, and the management team has a few. These conversations, though they are meant to be official, are one of the ways everyone keeps the humor going and the work not going. Here are a few conversations.

Louise: Why has the water stopped running in the shed?
Celvin [As rain pours down from the heavens]: Drought?

Jan [After a shipment of beer is delivered to the restaurant]: Stuart, has that beer been delivered?
Stuart: Whaaad dijoo sayy?

Bernie, MD [After a load of furniture has come in]: Gardening crew, come in.
Gardening crew: silence.

Bernie, MD: Jan, where have those two American boys gone? I need help moving furniture.
Jan: I don't know who you are talking about. I haven't got anyone I can spare. [Thank you Jan]

Anjay: YANOUSH! [Very loudly yelling into radio the Polish version of Jan's name]
Jan: [Long pause] Hi again Anjay.

And now, into our penultimate week at the Spa. The garden work is still demanding and satisfying, our vast unoccupied hotel still luxurious, and our day-to-day still fulfilling. The weather, though, is vastly altered. No more rain for the last two days (it is Tuesday) but it is cold. Each morning, we wrap up in every item of clothing we have brought with us (damn California for never teaching us about coldness) and step out of our warm luxury into the gardens. The ground is so thoroughly covered with frost it looks like snow, and each leaf that has fallen is delicately outlined in white crystals. As we cross the bridge over the waterfall (which is sluggish in this cold) to the Gardening Cabin, the mist rises over the lake, reminding me of the iconic line from Great Expectations, which I have just finished (thank you to Brandon Spars for teaching me about quote integration) : "It was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen, and the world lay spread before me."
It is truly a beautiful sight, despite the cold, as the wisps rise up off the lake and again as they settle onto the fields as we finish work in the evenings, and indeed we are constantly surrounded by the feeling that, despite our employment and location, the world truly is spread before us. It is a good feeling. And it is aided by the sunsets that we have on the cold, clear days. These sunsets put Mediterranean and Caribbean vistas to shame, exquisite layers of pinks and purples and oranges flowing over our heads and settling finally down into the trees over the Essex fields and the gardens. One night, I went running around with a camera, desperately trying to capture various moments and views in the tiny interval between when we finish work and when complete darkness settles. Running with light steps (obviously no longer in my steel-toed boots) up and down the stone staircases and past the ponds and rose bushes, I get an overwhelming sense of joy and excitement. Cheeks flushed and smile bright as they can only be when you come into somewhere very warm after being outside somewhere very cold. The same feeling we get when we return to the Gardening Cabin for a cup of tea after hauling cut down trees or re-planting shrubs or clearing out ponds or one of our various other jobs.
This week we have been moving the offices of the management team, no easy task as they are in overdrive mode and literally grab telephones and computer cables out of your hands before you can set them down. But everyone is good-natured, though they are all work-weary, and so the new offices are quickly filled with massive cupboards and desks that miraculously appear with no help from us. They are extremely grateful and eager to reward us (today we even got a mini mince pie for our efforts, which was an unparalleled delight).
So the week wears on, with all our accustomed trials and triumphs, and we soldier on through the icy cold, which brings rewards like sunsets, flushed cheeks, a cup of tea, and the mists rising solemnly every morning.

Saturday November 13th was Casey's birthday. We rose fairly early for breakfast in bed, which broke our standard diet to include bagels and tomatoes and bananas and biscuits and tea (and teaffee, Casey's new bizarre beverage, the name of which explains it all) and juice. Then we caught a train in to Colchester, the neighboring town (probably roughly the same size as Petaluma, though far less nice). We headed straight to the local Castle, which was a powerful piece of Norman construction, William the Conquerors biggest keep, as well as Britains Capital under the Romans, and a place ravaged by the famous warrior princess Boedicea (think Bianca Bisson but a tiny bit more vicious, if that is possible). The castle is a place swimming in history, with a cool historical museum inside (complete with a warhammer bedecked scaled model of the town in Roman times) and sprawling public gardens outside. In the gardens we had a picnic lunch (pork pies!) and watched the local teenagers and the local squirrels play nearby (we liked the squirrels a lot more actually, and they seemed a lot happier). After our picnic we went to the local movie theater and saw Due Date, which was absolutely HILARIOUS ("What are you, a girl or something?") and was a fun treat since we haven't watched a movie in ages and both love to do so. Then we rode back to Thorpe, where we went out to the local Indian restaurant for an incredible (my mouth still waters at the though, days later) meal of chicken and lamb tikka, mushroom rice and, of course, popadoms. After the meal the owner found out it was Casey's birthday and ordered us over to the bar for some free drinks and a talk about his upcoming move to America. We talked to Habib for hours. He is a fantastic guy, and we will be spending more time over the next few days at the Prince of India, in his company. We walked back to our home (a massive resort, it is still hard to believe we live there) down the long oak-lined avenue, leaping over puddles in the pitch darkness as hurricane force winds tore past. We went up to our room for a final treat of chocolate cake and ice cream, and then sleep even richer than the cake which preceded it. Despite fairly low expectations (Thorpe is not exactly the dream place for your birthday) the day was utterly enjoyable and utterly memorable.
Sunday we woke late, and went outside to find the whole site and gardens utterly deserted, as they had never been since we arrived. So we wandered around the gardens, for the first time just for enjoyment and not for work, and it was a beautiful (though grey) morning, with birds singing and the garden looking excellent. The whole place is expertly designed and laid out, and the paths meander through its avenues, some wild, others organized, but all delightful. It was an excellent way to start the morning. The day that followed was a leisurely one, as Sundays really should be, that consisted mostly of getting caught up on correspondence, travel planning, and blogging, as well as an utterly useless trip into Clacton and several cups of tea.

Needless to say, returning to little Thorpe-le-Soken was a shock, but showing it to Whitney was enjoyable. And as we arrived, the weather descended mercilessly down upon poor Essex. Amazingly, although already November, we had thus far been spared wet weather, and had enjoyed a few brief showers mixed with cloudy and more than our fair share of sunshine. In fact, the weather was so good that working in the gardens was easily the best job on the whole Spa site, as we got to enjoy for nine hours a day that endless angles among the trees and shrubs and flowers and ponds. Not so, starting Monday morning. The only thing worse than the pouring rain was the mud it created and constantly enlarged, and the only thing worse than that was the biting wind that would nip inside our inadequate layers right at the wetest and rainiest moments. But still we worked our long hours, in good company and slightly-less-good-than-usual cheer. (I was reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato-Peel Pie Society, a joyful clever book recommended by Pooty Mahood, which I also recommend, and that helped to lift my spirits a bit). But for the most part we were wet, sopping wet and the cups of tea that we would enjoy in the gardeners caravan became utterly precious. But, after a few days, we were greeted by sunshine, the value of which had increased ten-fold by its pointed absence.
Whitney left after a few days (apparently there wasn't enough going on in Thorpe...Ridiculous!) and changed residencies. We had been living in a B&B owned by a harmlessly mad little old woman who treated us with excessive (almost cloying) kindness and care, but on Monday we moved up to the Spa itself.
But first, our departure. We left with a bang. Our hostess had been increasingly kind and generous every single day for two weeks, had never denied us anything, and had gone far outside her duties as a B&B owner. She even took our wet clothes after work and put them in the drier when it was raining. So Monday evening, returning wet and finding her asleep, we stuck them again in the drier and went upstairs. What followed when she found the clothes in her drier without her permission was a rant of such cataclysmic proportions that plaster rained down from the roof. The rant included lines such as "You are the most disrespectful children I have ever met!" "I hope you don't treat everyone you meet like this!" and "How Dare You" [Got that last one quite a few times]. Honestly, I have not embelished the story, we truly just stuck wet clothes in the drier as she herself had done a few days before. But she broke off from her rant to kiss us goodbye and then continued to steamroll as we faded away down the street and towards our new destination.

And what a place it was (and is)! The site, which included two hotel blocks and a massive spa as we

Our first night there (Whitney was still around) we explored the endless halls, and had massive secret agent battles running from room to room. Having 89 hotel rooms to choose from and no one to stop us from firing or swinging lightsabers at our enemies is the fulfillment of a lifelong childhood dream, when running down hotel halls is forbidden and reprimanded. Now we have a little paradise to ourselves, and after about 8:00 every night, it is totally empty.

So this week, despite the rain, became a wonderful one, as every evening we would return from work, wash and dry our clothes in the massive industrial machines, shower under powerful boiling water, make some dinner, and explore a new part of our castle (I cannot disclose further details of our explorations while we are still in the employ of Mr. Cronk, who might be reading). Evenings end with a cup of tea, falling asleep on the heated cushions in the spa while reading, and then crawling upstairs to collapse gratefully into bed.

But I haven't even gotten to the best part, which is the acoustics in the stairwell. The echo and amplification are wondrous, so we go in ever few minutes and play, everything from old favorites to new compositions, to gypsy-style jamming and crazy new inventions. None of it ever gets old, and we make new discoveries every day. We have gotten into a rhythm, in every facet of our lives. ll as a smaller treatment center, (also a pool, hot tub, sauna, juice bar, real bar, five star restaurant) is not yet completed, except for the small treatment center and one hotel block. As yet no one has slept in it, but there we were, courtesy of Mr. Cronk. We chose the biggest suite in Block A, in the center of the second floor, with sweeping views of the gravel garden (into which we had planted), the upper pond (which we had weeded around), and the sunken Victoria rose garden. The room is not yet furnished so we wrapped the (incredible!) mattresses in sheets and put our sleeping bags on top. The room is big and comfortable and luxurious, and as we will never be able to afford it when the place opens (it is literally one of the nicest rooms and we could not afford a broom cupboard here) we are relishing every moment. We spend much of our time in the small spa, which has (among other things) an incredible shower, heated floors, and comfy couches. We make meals in the little kitchen and drink tea and read sitting on the heated floor after a long day's work. It is beyond delightful.

With the long week done, a hundred trenches dug and paths laid, we had earned a break. So with Friday turning into a very wet and rainy day, we departed after work for Oxford. There we would be reunited with ubiquitous Whitney Turley and the wonderful Katherine Skingsley (who is attending Oxford University's Keble College), Whitney's best friend, who has visited California. But before we could see them we had to make the journey, which is another long one. We saw two interesting things at Paddington Station in London (we realized that between Grand Central, Gare du Nord, and Paddington, we have seen some of the greatest Train stations in the world). One was a bit upsetting: they charge you to go to the bathroom!! What? That cannot be legal. i am fairly sure that urinating is a human right. Apparently not. Apparently it is just another commodity. Disgusting. The next was more exciting. A massive orchestra of wind and brass instruments called the Paddington Station Band, made up of very old professional musicians, who gather regularly to sight read and perform incredible music. We listened to Handel's Water Music and Fiddler on the Roof, and I met the conductor, and then we had to depart. Very, very cool group.

Oxford was a bizarre place to drop into. Over the course of the night, we walked all over the town and were introduced to hundreds of people, none of whose names we could hear over the surging bass of the club we were in. It was a serious college scene, unlike any we have ever seen (oh yeah, we have never been to college). But ultimately it was a great party and we had a great time, stayed up into the small hours and ended up crashing in Katherine's dorm, apparently the social grand central of the whole University. The next morning Whitney gave us a tour of the college, where she had been several days, and it was incredible. It is hard to unstate the beauty and power of a school so established, with such rich history, tradition, and stunning architecture. Walking around it felt like an incredible privilege, although the people there are utterly normal.

And then, before we had really begun to feel the ground under our feet, we were on the train again, grabbing a few minutes sleep before arriving in London.
OH LONDON! A brilliant city! A place I feel so inadequate even attempting to capture in words. People! Culture! Theater! History! Food! This is the best I can do in lieu of a real description. Exclamation points!!
This city, we realized as we wandered, is the city of everything. Now, although that may sound like a ludicrously vague description, it was, in fact, our overwhelming impression after seeing various Shock and Awe elements of this great city.

 Saturday, arriving on the train we went straight to Portobello Road, a famous street market north of Hyde Park. We wandered for several hours up the long winding street, never reaching it's end. To either side were rows of brilliant shops bursting at the seams with trinkets and treasures, and flowingn out onto the streets were stalls selling even more. Every few blocks would be a massive self-contained market, a dark cave into which we dove, only to be surrounded by more brilliant oddities. We were surrounded by throngs of people, in themselves fascinating and exciting, but there was simply too much to look at. We saw more strange and wonderful treasures in a few hours on that narrow London street than we had seen in any market across the world before. Any attempt to sum up what we saw seems futile, but the wonders included more vintage records than Casey had ever seen (that's saying something), dazzling clothes and furniture, venetian masks, a Scottish or Scotch shop, old-fashioned leather soccer balls, maps, beautiful art, ancient leather-bound copies of Dickens and Shakespeare, knives and coins and truly everything that you can imagine and many things you cannot. And the food section was a maelstrom of overpowering scents, paella, roast pig, pizza, foccaccia, chickens turning on the spit, cheeses and bread and fresh vegetables and all mouth-wateringly presented. And the street-performers we mgnificent and bizarre, ranging from two Scottish blokes reminiscent of the Proclaimers, and a very cool indie guy playing Somewhere over the Rainbow on the Ukelele.

But eventually, tragically, we had to tear ourselves away, hop back on the Underground, and zip over to Covent Gardens and the West End, where after a delicious baguette enjoyed sitting on a fountain in the center of a wild crossroads, we collapsed into the red-velvet seats of the Cambridge Theater to watch Chicago. We had seen it before, on the screen, but there is no comparison. It was hot. Red-hot, sexy, wild and overpowering. Lustful, bloody, and beautiful. The dancing was breathtaking, gorgeous choreography, stunning musical numbers,great acting and singing, tragedy and trauma and victory and hilarity and
All. That. Jaaaaaaaaazzzzzzz!

When we emerged London was dark but still buzzing. We had bite to eat at a funny little Bento Box place and then went to Foyles Bookstore, a place Whitney had discovered and which has forever altered the course of my life. The place was massive, a temple of literature and knowledge and art. Four stories, shelves overflowing with every book I ever knew existed and hundreds of thousands I cannot even conceptualize. There were whole wings of the bookstore dedicated to sub-sub-subjects like Late 20th Century Comedic Theater Critisism. My head was spinning and I could barely see straight. The site of so many people in such bliss surrounded by books was exhilarating. There were millions of places to read. So we spent hours there, Whitney launched off to the Coffee and Culinary sections, Casey to Architecture and Art and Tolkein, and me to Music and Theater and Shakespeare and Dickens. Finally, after endless wandering we regrouped in the children's section, where Whitney read out-loud Charlie and Lola, and then I read Dr. Seuss and a brilliant bok (courtesy of Kate Detrick) called Instructions. Exhausted but exalted, heads spinning, we merged again onto the street, secretly wishing we could spend the rest of our lives within that brilliant temple.
We wandered past St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tate Modern, Shakespeares Globe, and across the Millenium Bridge. We settled down in a warm pub on the Thames and had a beer, as the city glittered before us. By the time we decided to head home (home was a brilliant little hostel in Chelsea called the Boka Hotel), the underground had closed (I didn't even know that happened) and so we had to walk home. Seven miles, down the twisting and winding roads of London, past Buckingham Palace and St. James Park, Sloane Square and down Kings Road. Navigating a strange city where all the streets are curving and street names change every two blocks was not easy, but eventually we made it (with the help of some rejuvenating ice cream) and stumbled exhausted (REALLY EXHAUSTED) down Eardley Court Road, into the hostel and onto our beds. We lay down to momentarily take the weight off our feet before getting ready for bed, and woke up hours later. An Odyssey, and a brilliant way to see the city.

Our second day in London started bright and beautiful. I woke up rejuvenated and walked around the endlessly stately and elegant avenues and private parks of Chelsea (Aston Martin parked on every corner) before meeting up with Casey and Whitney. We walked over to Hyde Park, past the Albert Memorial and Royal Albert Hall and the Victoria and Albert Museum (God damn Victoria really did have a major crush on that guy didn't she?) and arrived at one of my favorite places the world over: The London Natural History Museum. The entrance into the ornate victorian building is shocking, a massive hall of stone and glass with a full skeleton of a Brachiosaurus dominating the space with it's archaic majesty. We then wandered endless halls of dinosaurs (including live Velociraptors and a T-Rex) and incredible skeletons, and stuffed birds and animals, full scale models of whales and dolphins and creepy crawlies, an incredible wildlife photography exhibit, and basically every wonder of the natural world, astoundingly showcased in a gorgeous old building. Best Museum Ever.

Afterwards we had lunch (wierdly at another Bento Box place, very suspicious) and wandered up one of London's main shopping drag. Continuing our Shock and Awe tour, we went into Harrods, the most vast and lavish excessively opulent Departmet Store Complex in the world. Harrods was a vast maze, a beehive of jaw-dropping clothing and perfume, furniture and electronics. The selections were vast and the prices were even greater. Luxury and wealth (or an aspiration at both) dripped from the people elegantly wandering and inelegantly grabbing from the overloaded shelves. Christmas music played seductively in the background, sneaking into subconscious minds to increase the need to purchase (Now! Presents! For everyone!). We wandered in exuberant wonder into the Toys sections, streaming down memory lane with nostalgic shelves of Playmobil, Legos, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and the Gruffalo. The old favorites and the new creations were equally delightful and we all would have given anything to be transported back in time to the days where we could point and cry and within a month the desired treasure would appear under the christmas tree. We left in a daze and dragged now exhausted feet down the street to Victoria Station as evening fell rapidly over London.

On the bus back to Thorpe, listening to Vampire Weekend, my sense of awe at the vastness and variety of the city only grew. I have been there a hundred times, but this time the incredible scale of it was thrust upon me, having seen the wilderness of Portobello Road, the temple of Foyles Bookstore, the catacombs of the Natural History Museum, and the decadent palace of Harrods, as well as our midnight romp through seven miles of Belgravia and Mayfair. Stunned, but satisfied. Everywhere we went we saw more quantity, more quality, and more beauty in the vast and flawless collections of everything from dinosaur skeletons to vintage records, clothes, books, food, and people.

Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
The Gunpowder treason and plot!
I can thin of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Today, Nov. 5th is Guy Fawkes Day, the celebration (including lots of bonfires and fireworks) which marks the failed attempt of Guy Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

It is also exactly two months since we departed on the Greyhound that distant day in the fog of the past.