Departure Nov 16-17, 2009

I sold my car b'fore heading over seas. My poor little gocart. It died 400 miles b'fore hitting 300,000 miles. Tear.

My flight to London doesn’t have free drinks. Seriously. And here I was all excited for my international flight. I really wanted some red wine to go with my Benadryl though, so I condone paying for it. Half way through Julie and Julie (not as bad as I was told, but it leaves you wishing for more than the airline’s geometric meal of processed chicken pressed into an oval (with fake grill hatching), potato triangles, and brownie squares), I again condone the need to pay for another little guy red wine. But this time my order doesn’t even show up. Airlines are truly doomed, aren't they? So I pop another Benadryl and pass out while trying to decipher the symbols in the Russian Home and Garden magazine the presumably Russian lady next to me is reading.

I wake up in London, and my pre-planned itinerary is immediately thrown for a loop. I had grand plans of going and picking up the rental car an hour or two b’fore BBE showed up so I could reacquaint myself with the excitement of driving on the left side of the road, but instead I was detained at Customs. It’s not like they put me in a windowless room with water dripping on my forehead and jumper cables on my nipples or anything, but it took a wee bit longer than I was expecting. It’s pretty funny to be stuck at Customs when you know you haven’t done anything wrong. The woman was not amused that I only had 10 Euros and 20 American dollars with me for my 4 week trip and no departure ticket from London. But we eventually came to an understanding that didn’t require money or me removing my clothes.

So instead of my driving refresher (crash course seemed like the wrong idiom here), I hung out in the baggage claim with Jefferson Starship and Wavves’ backing band. Most interesting collection of people at the baggage claim I’ve ever had to wait with.

BBE shows up and we hang out in the baggage claim for another minute or two b’fore making our way to the car hire to pick up our 5 seater Peugeot 307 (look at that sunroof. It was the entire ceiling).

I want to take the kids to go see Paul Curreri play that night in London, but I’m too jet lagged and the idea of driving into London on my first day behind the wheel sounds like a recipe for disaster. So after a pit stop in Reading at our awesome booking agent Shane’s flat to store some merch, we’re on our way to Cardiff.

Cardiff is cold and drizzly and we have a hell of a time finding a place to stay. I chalked it up to too many things to figure out at once. Between the time change, the driving UK habits, and the GPS idiosyncracies our brains were not working in super awesome combat mode. We end up at Premier Inn, only to find out 12 seconds after walking into our room that Premier Inn sucks. But that’s not going to ruin our excitement. So we wander down the street to the Shell station where the counter tendresses are much more friendly and fun to talk to than the lady working the counter at the inn. Maybe it's the extra make-up. She fills us in on the liquor and open container laws. I want to ask about the local gun laws, but I decide I won’t co-opt that little gem from David Sedaris’ battle chest.

We end up in our room drinking Scrumpy cider. It’s not the best instant headache I’ve ever tasted. But it’s totally worth it, cause every time I look at the can, a picture of Simple Jack from Tropic Thunder runs awkwardly through my brain.