April 6, 2011

I arrived in Gatwick, England after a 7 hour flight around noon yesterday.  The plane was late arriving into Toronto, and therefore we were delayed leaving by about 90 minutes or so.  Air Transat sure likes to pack their patrons onto their planes, especially in Economy class.  I had the brilliant forethought to request an aisle seat, and therefore my elbow and/or shoulder was banged every time a flight attendant passed by.  Seriously, the seats and aisles were tighter than those of West Jet planes... but to make up for it, I sat next to a very friendly man who was returning to his native Belfast for the second time in 45 years to surprise his brother at his niece's wedding.  This fellow used to be a professional soccer player and lived in both Edinburgh and London before finally moving to Grimsby (why, he did not elaborate), so he gave me a list of pubs to visit in both cities as they were his regular stomping grounds back when he "had hair longer than mine."

When the plane was landing my ears neglected to pop, but they did start to ring and begin to fill with a piercing pain.  I wasn't sure if my new former soccer playing friend and I were quite at the stage in our relationship where I could ask him if he could check if my eardrums had actually burst, but I was pretty sure that if he saw blood running onto my shoulder (and thus his) he would probably say something.  My ears still did not pop or stop ringing as I approached customs... try sounding even a little coherent and remotely intelligent to a border officer when everyone sounds like Charlie Brown's Teacher!

Once I made my way through customs, I took a train south to Brighton, a crazy touristy town on the coast of the English Channel.  I had two hours before I was to check into the B&B I had reserved, so I thought I would take a walk around town and get an idea of the layout of the area.  It seems my terrible sense of direction is not limited to North America... I spent two full hours trying to find the street where this B&B is which was repeatedly described to me as being "just 5-10 minutes that way."  Eventually, with the help of a friendly McDonald's manager and later a Boots pharmacist I tracked down the elusive street and checked in.  But I proceeded to get lost FIVE more times before the day was over.  On the other hand, I am pleased to announce that British motorists have yet to kill me, and I have given them ample opportunity, as I constantly look the wrong way first when crossing the street and I have no members of the Alan family tugging on my t-shirt this trip.

Today, I spent the day wandering around town some more (although I haven't made my way back to the B&B yet, so who knows if Charlotte Street has been moved yet again!), and toured the Brighton Pavilion (Prince Regent George IV's "play house").  I've concluded that I definitely do not want to live in a palace any time soon, nor be a tour guide for French middle school tour groups.  Other than that, just lots and lots of walking... which is a good thing, given my new found love for Cornish Pasties!

Tomorrow I am heading to Salisbury for a while, and then slowly making my way back toward Gatwick.  On Sunday I fly to Dublin to play in Ireland for 8 days.

I think that's about it for now.  I made it here alive and in one piece, caught up on sleep last night.