CHEESE PLEASE

My friend Sarah compiled an amazing (and much appreciated) list of neighborhoods for me to explore, restaurants to try and tiny tucked away shops. One of her fantastic and tasty suggestions was Borough Market, an outdoor food bazaar.

As a New Yorker, I have to admit that I immediately thought, 'Please. Doubtful that London will present a culinary experience I haven't already encountered.' Wrong. Very wrong. There were food stands of every variety, organic vendors galore and an entire row dedicated to cheese. There were cupcakes and pies, steaks and sausages, and veggie burgers being sold by a surprisingly attractive hippie (he's known as the "Market Sweetheart"). Rasta boy sells a disproportionate amount of veggie burgers. Crowds of locals enjoyed an afternoon pint (or two) and visitors flocked to stands selling fresh fruit sangria by the cup, straw included.

Although the sky was sprinkling and the requisite afternoon clouds had set in, my friend and fellow Virginian, Becca, led me on a guided tour of Borough Market. Our first stop, the sangria stand. After all, everything tastes much better with a drink in hand.

BEDAZZLED TOES

I love to travel. I loathe airplanes. I'm not scared, I don't have some overly exaggerated fear of crashing and I don't get claustrophobic. I have motion sickness. This is not something to be taken lightly. I'm a pale, pale little Irish girl and the reality that I turn even paler is just terrifying. Dramamine is my best friend and on an overnight flight, the original drowsy brand is my very best friend.

Monday night on my gross Delta flight (I longed for Jet Blue), I had the bulkhead window seat. It doesn't get much better than a bulkhead window seat. This is the first class variety of the peasant seats. My neighbor was a 150 year old Indian woman who spoke zero English. She was swaddled in beautiful fabrics protected by an armor of bangles. For some reason, I immediately loved her.

Let me tell you when I questioned my love.

In a wonderful Dramamine haze around hour four of our flight, I stirred. My eyes slightly opened only to see two miniature tan feet atop my tray table! Now remember, I'm in the bulkhead...so that tray table is even closer to my body. The kind that pops up out of the armrest vs. the seat in front of you kind. FEET. Bare feet. My Indian great grandmother was fast asleep. She looked comfortable. I thought to myself, if your airline cabin neighbor props their feet up on your tray table...is this an invitation to do the same?

DO YOU MIND IF I CUT THIS LINE

Unfortunately I am notorious for blindly traveling. It is a regular occurrence for me to be unaware of my airport (in NY we have a lot of them) or my airline the morning of a flight. In fact, this is the one area of my life where I just relinquish all control, all worry, all responsibility. All rational behavior. I have been known to argue with airline managers pleading for an emergency check in (Bermuda), dragged off of resort beaches by hotel staff who are cognisant of my departure time...let's be honest, departure day... (Dominican) and left cabbies dumbfounded when they ask, "What airport?" and I respond, "Hold on a second" (Everywhere).

That's me. It's never going to change and I apologize now. Besides my good friend Lindsay, I pity my fellow travelers.

London, Newark, Monday evening. I made it. Early. Shocking. Being early is terrible and utterly boring. I'm never doing it again.