My friend Zoe picked me up at Heathrow this morning. She was happy to see me but slightly shocked at the size of my two-cart luggage convoy. To be fair, I was packing for six months, so I didn’t think I was doing too badly. When I saw the size of her little Fiat in the parking lot, I thought we were going to need a separate car for each of my ginormous bags. I don’t know how—either it was a simple miracle of physics or Fiats come equipped with wormholes to other dimensions—but my bags all fit.
It’s nice to be in England again. Everything’s so damn English—it’s great. People drive on the wrong side of the road. There are no stop signs, only roundabouts. Two-story brick row houses abound and there’s a pub on every corner. Even the air is English, crisp and cold with the coming of winter.