Hello again, old friend.

I arrived in London on Thursday, fresh off an overnight flight from San Francisco that a gaggle of French kids mistook for an all-night high school party. Seriously? What are you, American? The lights are dimmed, kids. Sit down and shut up! ...s'il vous plaît?

We finally landed just before 11:00 AM. Armed with no small amount of "I've been here many times before" arrogance, I skipped through Heathrow to the tube station for transport into town. I smiled at the poor American woman who couldn't figure out how to get there, and I felt quite superior as I patiently helped her get a ticket and make it down to the platform to catch her train. Such a seasoned traveler. So wise. So helpful.

Then I remembered something. I'm a total idiot.

"A fool is he who thinks he knows his way round the streets of London simply because he's been there before." -wayward traveler, Kevin August, whilst walking in circles around Westminster

While it's true that I've visited this town umpteen times over the years, I still have no clue where I am. It's almost as if they haphazardly designed this city over centuries, allowing anybody to slap down a "road" in any direction, with streets that seem straight actually taking you south-southwest before changing names and directions without even offering up a street sign. Did I say it's "almost" like that? Whoops. Understatement. That is London. If they had an international sense-of-direction challenge, London would be where they weed out the pretenders. And I, most definitely, would fail. I blame California - with its cities built after the invention of the car, all neatly lined with parallel streets in an easily navigable grid - but getting lost in London is one of the more humiliating experiences I've come across. Mostly because it happens every time I walk...anywhere...here.

There's a reason these things cost so much

My first test? Finding my friends' apartment. They're out of the country chasing the sun but were kind enough to offer me their digs. It seemed easy enough (thanks to google maps), just under a mile away from Kings' Cross, a major tube station on the Northern Line. Allow me to describe how this one went wrong with the use of said google map:



The starting point down in the bottom left? That's Kings' Cross. Barely visible dot on the wide road on the bottom right? Angel Station, also on the Northern Line, and a two-minute walk from their house. Turns out google doesn't know where anything is in London, either. It isn't just me. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

NPR represent

Like Hillary Clinton at a Georgia fundraiser, it didn't take me long to acquire that familiar local twang. In fact, the first person I spoke to thought I was from England. "You're from America? You only have a mild accent." While I was quite honored to fit in, I couldn't help but think he expected all Americans to sound like they were the lovechildren of John Wayne and George Dubya Bush. If such things were legal in the US and A, of course. Also, I refuse to believe I broke my "promise" not to pick up that funny British lilt three hours into my visit. That would be a record.

I spent the weekend in Kent ("the garden of England"), avoiding the snow and catching up with friends who feel like family. It's only with the best of friends that the passing of three years feels like three minutes, even when they move to Australia, get married, and have kids in the interim. And, sure enough, when Alex scooped me up at Tonbridge station, there were no "let me get a look at yous," "I can't believe you're heres," or "you're looking like an old mans." Nope, just a "hey Kev, this is my daughter, Sasha," and "all right then, what's for dinner?" The answer, of course, was that most traditional of English meals: curry at our favorite Indian joint, Happy Cuisine. Still delicious after all these years.

Happy Cuisine

The rest of the weekend felt like a family reunion with the Malihoudis clan and several of my old Brighton Bucs' teammates; I couldn't have kicked off six months of travel any better than this. I even have a legitimate excuse to sit indoors and book additional travel details for later in the summer: it's bloody cold. Like, constantly-tea-drinking, three-layers-wearing, soup-for-every-meal, feet-are-actually-freezing cold. Thank god I bought that ugly puffy coat before I left. I've barely taken it off since I got here.

Good lads

But, oh, London. I do love this town, difficulty to navigate on foot, crap weather and all. Not much has changed since I was last here, but there has been a noticeable influx of two distinct phenomena: very odd skyscrapers and Mexican food. I'd seen "The Gerkin" last time I was here, but now they've added a new monstrosity to the skyline, affectionately dubbed "The Shard." Not sure how efficient it is to erect a building resembling a broken piece of glass - complete with jagged edge - but you can't judge art. More sublimely, a Mexican food craze has fully ensnared La Londres. A decade ago, four other Yanks and I drove three hours out of our way just to get a burrito. At Taco Bell. Now I can't walk five minutes without seeing another Mexican joint. I even ate a burrito here on my first day, and I have to say it was delectable.

From left: Me. iPhone. Shard.

The Gerkin at night ("gerkin" is Limey for pickle)

Very few places I've been make tourism easier, and I've already fallen into my fair share of surprisingly enjoyable traps: the nighttime Jack the Ripper walk, the Dickens' Museum, the British Museum, a run along the Thames, the Tower at night, drinking local ales in proper pubs. Off to a show in the West End tonight.

That's all for now. Here till Sunday, then it's off to Scandinavia for a week. Cheers.

No PBR?

Tower Bridge

At least Google knows where to find me...

Proper Englishmen eat with two hands