Ffolkes,
My butt is firmly planted on a chair in London, England, and I am writing this in my room at The Abbey Court Notting Hill, Kensington. I am at once excited, and exhausted. The plane ride over the pond from SF took over 11 hours, counting the time sitting on the ground, not moving, and I got stuck in a middle seat on a 747 with about 490 other people. By the time I wound my way through the airport at Heathrow, caught the train into town, and grabbed a cab to my room, I’d been on the road for over 18 hours, and all I wanted was a shower and a bed, in that order.

I took both, and then went out to see what was in the neighborhood…. It’s really cool, walking around the streets…. the crowds are very cosmopolitan, and you’ll hear a dozen languages and five different English accents in the space of a block. My steps didn’t go far away from my B&B before stumbling upon my first English Pub, The Old Swan….

It’s right out of a movie from my youth, with all wood furnishings, lovingly polished to a high gleam, and a menu full of typical and atypical Pub Grub. I tried the Steak and Ale Pie, and it was quite good, putting the lie to the old French tale of how tasteless the English food is to the refined palate…. I couldn’t do the meal justice, so I’m going back to try the bangers and mashed for supper.