Introducing...MY NEXT BLOG!

I can't believe it's time to retire London Footnotes. Honestly, I feel like I just started it. But here we are: life, racing forward at full throttle.

And so we enter the next phase: The Great American Road Trip! Please join my travels on the blog specifically created for the next few months on the road: Moonpies and Cherry Slurpies. I thought the best possible name for my blog would be one composed of my diet for the next three months, and also the very things that make America grand: chocolate-covered, marshmallow-stuffed cookies, and cherry-flavored iced carbonated beverages. Please forgive me in advance for spelling slurpee wrong, but I like to think that just adds to the blog's charm. Plus, you know, now 7-Eleven can't sue me for making fun of one of the world's most awful drinks for three months straight. And by 'awful,' I mean, 'truly, truly awful.' (Moonpies, on the other hand, are untouchable.)

Please join me on my next great adventure!

Hugs,
Sharona

Admiral Boom washes my clothes.

You know that part in Mary Poppins where Admiral Boom sets off his cannon to mark the hour, and everybody in the family grabs a vase or a lamp to prevent it from falling and breaking while the house shakes? That's EXACTLY what it's like when my washer here goes into its spin cycle. It just now hit (although 'went off' is probably a better choice of words), and since I didn't have the wherewithal to do my usual run-and-grab, there was a domino effect as all of the cutting boards toppled over (their bang startling me so much I think I let a little out), knocking over the basket of tea bags, which then up-ended the sugar bowl. It was awesome. Or at least, it would've been if it had happened to somebody else. As it is, I just spent a significant portion of time trying to get all the sugar off the floor before the mice discovered it and threw a party.That's right, little mouse friends. I hear you squeaking. Don't think I don't speak your language.

I've got to go hang up these clothes now. Somehow they've got to be dry for packing tomorrow. I'll have to put them in the airing cupboard and hope for the best.

Next time I see you, I will probably be on American soil and blubbering through my last London Footnotes post. Thank you so much for reading this past year.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to change my pants.

North Dakota: it's not where you think it is.

The other night I had a small leaving-do with the friends I've made here over the past year, and the topic of my road trip came up. I made fun of the fact that I'm ridiculous for planning a road trip in the dead of winter, and one girl made a joke that it was going to be like one long endless Fargo. Once we explained to a shocked-looking companion that we didn't mean the pregnancy part, we meant the long endless snowy road with nothing but fence posts to pass the time and distance part, the topic resumed. Then somebody asked me, 'Hey! Where's North Dakota?'

I.
had.
no.
idea.

Of course I lied about it--after all, it's not like they knew, and I couldn't let my countrymen down by proving myself to be another dumb American--and waved vaguely in the air, 'sort of top-middle. Above South Dakota.' He holds up two index fingers: 'So if this finger is Oregon, and this finger is Chicago, where would it be?' I lowered Chicago slightly (to make it look like I knew what I was doing), then waved another finger vaguely between the two: 'It'd be, like, right here. With Minnesota and Wisconsin right here.' To indicate Minnesota and Wisconsin--one state in my mental map--I waved again. This appeared to satisfy him, I sighed with relief, and the conversation resumed on a much-less demanding course.

It has since occurred to me that I'm going to start driving across this landmass roughly a week from Sunday.

I know.

So today I typed 'United States of America' into Google maps. Just to, you know, 'check it out.' I wanted to see how badly I butchered North Dakota's location (turns out I had it somewhere up in Canada) and I wanted to see if Minnesota and Wisconsin were in fact two separate states (they ARE. And BIG ones). Now I'm hooked: this map is FASCINATING me. It turns out that between Diana in Memphis and Gina in Pittsburgh, I'm going to be going through KENTUCKY. And WEST VIRGINIA. Dude. That's WILD. KENTUCKY. WEST VIRGINIA. And then also I had totally thought I lied to a friend a few weeks ago when I said that of COURSE I was going through Mobile, Alabama, because really, what road will ever lead a person through Mobile, Alabama? but then it turns out I CAN TOTALLY GO THROUGH MOBILE, ALABAMA. Between New Orleans and Memphis! Isn't that INSANE? And I can even knock off a corner of Mississippi while I'm at it! MISSISSIPPI!

This trip is getting wild. I can't even handle it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a way to make St. Louis fit between Ohio, Chicago, and Wisconsin...

126 Restaurants in 90 days. And they say I don't have vision.

I picked up Gourmet magazine today because of the headline '126 American Restaurants Worth the Money.' I figure since I'll be driving across much of America, I may actually have the opportunity to hit several of these...at least if my planning goes well. Otherwise, I'm going to end up back in SF with chalupa-hips. (Although, let's be honest, I probably will, anyway.) I'm considering the idea of photographing myself daily during my journey, with the eventual creation of a flip-book in which you can actually see me physically growing. It will be pretty sexy. Then I'll sell it for mad bank and it will be a huge best-seller and then Oprah will have me on her show and be like, 'So tell us, Sharona, how did you manage to accomplish such a daring physical feat?' And I'll say, 'Well, Oprah, it took three months on the road, and a lot of fast food, and I kept having to move my tripod back a few inches further each day to fit me into the frame, but it was a small price to pay for all this fame and fortune. Would you mind if I have a little snack?'

I just got done watching these sweet video clips. I wonder if Volkswagen can make packing fun? I think I'll write them a strongly-worded letter. I hope they get back to me before Thursday, since I've got a plane to catch.

Stratford-upon-Shakespeare and a host of non-sequiturs

* standing on a podium * 'It's been a week since my last blog post...' * smattering of applause *

Brussel sprouts are the big Christmas thing here. I'm just now realizing this, despite having spent Christmas here last year. I was looking through seasonal cards at Borders last week, and half of them had brussel sprouts on them. In the shape of Christmas trees, snowmen, reindeer. I also learned that brussel sprouts taste better after they've been bitten by frost, which is why they're harvested so late in the year. No doubt another reason they're served at Christmas. All of them. At once.

Last week in Edinburgh I got a book by Alisdair Gray called Ten Tales Tall & True. A rhyme adorns the fifth page: 'This book contains more tales then ten/so the title is a tall tale too./I would spoil my book by shortening it,/spoil the title if I made it true.'

This rhyme is the reason I bought the book.

I'm in Stratford-upon-Avon this weekend for a wedding. Everyone in London exclaimed when I told them I'd be here, 'Oh, Stratford, how beayoooootiful!' 'What a precious, quaint little town!' 'Did you know that's where Shakespeare is from?' 'There's a lovely river running right through it!' Interestingly enough, none of these reporters had actually ever been here. This makes me love Stratford for no other reason than its fine marketing job.

So far it seems neither little (by, say, Upton or Peebleshire standards) nor quaint, and I've seen more carparks than theaters, but I also haven't gone properly into the town center yet, so my opinions (currently) aren't worth a grain of proverbial salt. I hope to explore it more thoroughly Sunday morning, when all wedding festivities have calmed and the town isn't yet awake. I'm sure I've missed the precious bits in my fly-by drive. * determined to find precious bits if it kills me *

Right now I am in the lobby of this huge, gorgeous hotel-spa-golf-course-resort-thing less than five minutes outside of Stratford, where the wedding reception is to take place tomorrow night and consequently all wedding guests have congregated. The gardens are beautiful, really something, straight out of Pride and Prejudice, labrynths and roses and cobbled paths and ponds and fall colors and a bite in the sunny air, and I feel that if I were to stroll about the grounds, it would only be a matter of time before Mr. Darcy materialized. I can finally understand, looking out over the jointly manicured-yet-rugged landscape, why grounds-strolling used to be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon. 'Would you like to take a turn about the garden?' 'Why, yes, I would. The pond is looking positively lively this fine fall morn.'

It's 12:34 at this exact moment in time. I don't know why that excites me since I'm not ten anymore, but there it is. Excitement.

Speaking of excitement: a porter carried my bags to my room for me this morning. I think this is the first time that has ever happened to me. I felt like a princess swishing through the lounges as he wheeled his trolley subserviently behind me. I imagined people murmuring in our wake as we swept through. I also felt alarmingly Californian--unusual since I'm not from there, originally-speaking--as it struck me too late that everybody else--given their stares--probably carried their own bags, and I looked very tall against the porter's diminutive stature, and also self-entitled. But he offered, and I'm only human. (And by 'human,' I mean, 'lazy.') I also no doubt had 'American overtipper' stamped all over my regal forehead. However, as a result of all these attentions, and the manor-like setting, I do feel like a princess--or at the very least, an Elizabeth Bennett--and this is my court, and soon I will be taking a turn about the garden to improve my constitution. After which I shall take a turn about the spa to check out the facilities that I won't be using, then returning here to a tall armchair in a window overlooking my sunset grounds as a waiter-with-a-white-towel-on-his-arm proffers me a list of scotches to ease me into my evening. (That I won't accept, of course, Mother.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I have centuries to time-travel...and I think the portal is in that garden. Maybe Stratford-upon-Avon is magical, after all...

Sky blue, sky blue, sky blue, sky blue, sky blue.

I love comments. I do. My self-esteem is directly proportional to how many blog comments I get. I can refresh my blog for hours just looking for * one more. * On days that I've written a post that I'm really pleased with, I haunt my blog for feedback (usually nil) and then on days that I've flipped one out that shames me with its brevity/witlessness/fatigue, I get a handful of remarks. But regardless of where it occurs, I love that handful. I NEED that handful. It's what sustains me, makes me post another day, makes me shout (okay, murmur) into the void.

Then today I read this by Okie (also linked above), and while I know that posting nothing but a link means I won't get any feedback myself, that's absolutely okay. Because this is too nice not to be shared.

Scotland and Sherwood Forest, in no particular order

I landed in Glasgow on Monday afternoon, for a relaxing week in Scotland. So far my days have been spent reading, sipping from the bottomless cup of tea, and eating tiny little ham and coleslaw sandwiches. I can't get over how good they are, or how many I can pack away. When you're only eating tiny squares, you somehow manage to convince yourself you haven't just had the equivalent of three full sandwiches (or more likely six to ten, if we're being completely honest).

Tomorrow leads me to the far-off land of Edinburgh--or rather, to a tiny village just beyond. I'm looking forward to it. I'm visiting a woman who is so incredibly talented in the kitchen she makes me want to retire my apron and subsist entirely on ready meals the rest of my life, because WHY when there's someone like that in the world? It's like when you think, 'Hey, my photography's pretty good,' and then you go to Flickr and think, 'I may as well shatter my lenses now.'

Ah, well. So is life.

Whatever that means.

More as events warrant. In the meantime, some photos from Nottingham and Sherwood Forest last Sunday:

The above and below pictures are (nearly) identical, except that the one below I zoomed out to get more trees and to the top I've applied a focused filter. Can you please tell me which you prefer? I've looked at them both so many times I feel blind. I can no longer see the forest for the trees (so to speak).

A day in London, in pictures

I'm having trouble figuring out what to post. Not because I have nothing to share, but because I've been a bit camera-happy recently and now I've got too much. Somehow my camera has become my journal and I photo everything: walks, places I eat, books I'm reading, sunny parks and foamy cappucinos. It hardly matters how important my activity--snap-snap-snap--there it goes. I don't usually do anything with these photos--I don't fix them, crop them, sometimes even look at them--but they're there. Sometimes I may look back--maybe while looking for something else entirely--and see one or two and think, 'ohmyGOODNESS, I remember that deli!' and the moment, the day, even what I was thinking about or reading comes rushing back instantly. It's a crazy rush, a mad trigger. But usually there they sit, in my archives, untouched by time or attention.

I remember I saw a movie once ages ago where the main guy kept taking photos of these divey motel rooms and his girlfriend said something like, 'Why do you take pictures of the hotel room and not the Eiffel Tower?' to which he replied, 'I want to photograph the things that I'll forget.' And while the rest of the movie is a complete blank--I may have changed the channel five minutes later--that part stuck with me. And it has, in part, guided my own picture-taking philosophy: there's nothing too big or too small to capture--what matters is that you don't forget. It doesn't have to be a good photo, well-framed and balanced and perfectly lit. Just take it, capture it, immortalize it.

So...here's last Friday in pictures. I don't feel like doing explanatory captions today, but if you have a question about anything, do feel free to ask. In short, my day consisted of Brick Lane, Rochelle Canteen, some classic London shops, a gallery, and Late at Tate Britain, where a couple deejays performed some classical works in a very nonclassical style. It was a good day.

I am SO almost done.

As you may or may not know, I have had a HECK of a time planning my road trip itinerary. (And by 'a heck of a time,' I mean, 'I haven't even looked at a map yet, but I'm pretty sure New Orleans is near Memphis and that both of those are near Austin, so right away it's all looking pretty good.') But part of the reason I haven't really 'touched' the itinerary yet is because I've commissioned Map Wizard Dusty to help me, and he lives in OKC. So of course I have to wait to tackle this project until we can get together. Plus I like to plan things on the fly. It lends an element of excitement, nausea, and panic that really gets me going. Some people do drugs: I procrastinate.

The downside to waiting for The Dusty Hour (Dusty, I apologize in advance that 'The Dusty Hour' now means 'The Very Last Possible Second') to plan is that you--yes, you, and don't hide behind your curtains, I know you're there--will get approximately... * 45 seconds * notice before I knock on your door demanding a free meal and a couch to crash on. But I'll also come armed with a six-pack (of Diet Coke, Mom), so we'll still be friends.

But just in case Dusty figures out who the AntiChrist is in the next 48 hours and gets himself martyred (sidebar: does one 'get' martyred? Is that just my inner okie speaking again? Professor Gray, please to clarify), I've got a back-up plan!: The Pioneer Woman's book tour. That's right. SHE PUT IT ONLINE JUST SO I COULD FOLLOW HER. It's SO obvious. I mean, LOOK at it: she planned her tour for the EXACT same dates as my road trip, and starting it from the same place I'm starting mine. Coincidence? Methinks not. I'll be verifying her need for me when I show up at the Tulsa signing with my handmade 'I heart Ree' tee shirt and start licking her new cookbook. I think I'll buy eighty copies JUST BECAUSE I CAN. Plus in the length of time it will take her to sign all of them, I'll be able to hide away in her luggage.

p.s. Once, when Dusty and I were super-popular thirteen-year-olds, we made a three-dimensional map of Middle Earth for an English project. It was fantastic. We made trees out of toothpicks and dyed-green cotton balls, and tin foil rivers, and crusty clay Misty Mountains, all to scale. I know. Our awesomeness blows my mind, too. I hope that we approach my road trip map in a similar fashion, as I like to 'conceptualize' journeys before I take them. And then when I'm on the road, I'll be able to instruct my navigating passengers to look in the backseat to find out how close we are to our destinations: 'Do you see that brown foil strip? That's the Mississippi. I think we just crossed it. Now look for New Orleans. No, no, it's marked by a string of beads. Do you see it? How close are we? NO, I don't need to turn on my GPS. I've got this MAP.'

a virtual choctaw hayride

You know how when you have a sore throat, you should be trying not to strain it? You should be speaking as little as possible and definitely not shrieking at sports teams or calling to someone across the street? Well, I've been doing okay with all that--very conscientious about my current limitations--all aided in part by the fact that I could care less about sports and the only people across the street are construction workers who do enough calling on their own. Until this morning, when all attempts at voice preservation flew right out the window.

It began with breakfast.

I was reaching for the eggs for my morning scramble when I saw the butter. And the bacon. I glanced toward the cupboard and with my x-ray vision, I saw flour. All of the sudden, I KNEW. It was biscuits and gravy time. I immediately turned to the Joy of Cooking for a drop biscuit recipe (I miss you, Pillsbury Flaky Layers), pulled out the gravy fixin's, and a few short minutes later...bliss.

(photo from The Pioneer Woman Cooks Biscuits and Gravy)
(I read this recipe post whenever I need a pick-me-up. It totally works.)

Then...here's where I lost voice control: while in the biscuits and gravy zone, I turned my itunes to Alison Krauss. I know. I KNOW. I may as well have strapped on my overalls right then and there, because I was headed down a slippery slope straight back to my Okie roots. And--as usual--Alison BEGGED me to do a duet with her. She needed my accompaniment and wouldn't take no for an answer. So the next thing you know, I'm pushing away my empty, gravy-covered plate and pulling out my air dulcimer. It was like I too was aiming for my 27th Grammy.

So yeah...now my voice is gone again. And it was so worth it, because heck.*

I may as well just get a pickup for my road trip now and call it a day.

(picture courtesy of my sister, who is selling her 1971 Ford. If it weren't for the mileage, I'd be all OVER this.)

*More of a sidebar than a footnote: Only in Oklahoma do you hear 'because heck' as an excuse for doing something. Occasionally it's accompanied by reasoning: 'Because heck, Harold, the dog was hungry! How was I to know he'd choke on the bone?' But just as often as not, the excuse is left behind and all you get by way of explanation is 'because heck' all by itself. And everybody understands. 'Because heck' can also be substituted with 'well, hell' but that's in less holy circles. We disapprove of such language in our buckle of the Bible Belt and leave that particular variation to our drinking, smoking, hell-bent brethren. Because heck!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to drink some tea and start whittling this bar of soap into a clipper ship. And don't even get me started on the peas that need shelling.

Brighton, Bert's, Bill's, and The Lost Boys

Yeah, okay, so...I didn't really find any audio books that 'felt right' for my road trip at the library yesterday, but I * did * check out a pasta, pizza, and polenta cookbook (I know, right, like I need to find more ways to gain weight other than sitting at the computer all day?). But come ON. It's pasta, pizza, and polenta! What more could a girl ask for? * nudging the scale out of sight *

Today, however, I am earning the triple-p's because I have so many errands to run that at LEAST a zillion miles will be covered by foot. Maybe more. And then tonight I'm having JAPANESE for dinner, which we all know is about as healthy as you can get, as evidenced by one, the size of the average japenese person, and two, the abundance of raw fish on the menu. * Pretending not to see all the tempura and noodles *

Omigosh, speaking of amazing Japanese places: check out this place I went to on my last trip to Brighton. It was recommended to me by several locals (yes, I am not above stopping people on the street for food recommendations) as 'huge portions for super cheap. And it's GOOD.' I was lucky enough to nab a table on the sidewalk (it was a warm and sunny weekend, how lucky was I??), although eventually, due to the massive, un-ending line out the door, ended up with two strangers sitting with me. And they--in all their dreadlocked glory--were totally cool. They too kept going on about how great the value was. It was like a Brighton-wide pavlovian response: you say 'Pompoko' to ANYONE, and they immediately say the words 'So big! And cheap!' In fact, I dare you to test this. A bowl of noodles says I win. And all reports were true: I got a huge bowl of chicken katsu with a poached egg and so many noodles that I couldn't even get CLOSE to finishing them, all for £5.

I just realized when digging through my Brighton folder to find this picture that I never posted any Brighton pics! (And I have another 500 Cornish ones to go through, but we won't talk about that now.) So here we go! Forgive me in advance for the very food-centric nature of the below. My trip was definitely an exercise to test my stomach's capacity. You will be pleased to know it did very well. * patting it proudly *

Where I had lunch the Friday I arrived...

It's both good and bad that the walk to my b & b required me to go past Bert's Homestore fifteen times a day...although this time I DID manage to abstain from any buying. Mostly by forbidding myself to go in any further than the doorway.

Ahhhh...the Maison Mascara. My home away from home.

And the reason I stay at the Maison every time I go to Brighton. I was in that tub with bubbles up to my ears at least four times a day, not gonna lie. I watched late night t.v. from it, I read from it, I drank coffee from it...I'm lucky I even left my room.

And don't let me forget to mention the newest perk of the Maison: breakfast in bed! You check off a little menu when you arrive telling them what you want and when you want it, and ta-da! A tiny little knock at your door the next morning, and breakfast is served! I barely had to leave the tub.

Plus right down the street from the Maison is Uncle Sam's, the best burgers in England, I kid you not. They're like a cross between In-and-Out and Sonic (please, stop for a moment and salivate with me), and you could easily toss back at least two. I hear. There's no seating--it's just an ordering counter in a tiny pink space the size of a closet--but with the beach at the end of the block, you wouldn't stick around, anyway.

You won't believe it: this was also the weekend of the Brighton Food and Drink Festival! I KNOW! I couldn't have planned it any better...

But of course the ENTIRE weekend wasn't about food...

Shopping in The Lanes.

Shopping on the beach.

Shopping in the North Lanes.

And another lunch (please don't count how many lunches I had in a 3-day time period) at Bill's Produce Store! You will be pleased to note that they still had the peppered steak sandwich on the menu, although it wasn't served on the onion foccaccia, which was a bit disappointing. So then I requested regular focaccia, which they were willing to do, except oops! It's 3:00. All out of focaccia. And every other bread on the menu except for sourdough and granary. Bill, how DARE you make your bread fresh each day and then run out. What kind of operation is this?? I'm kidding, Bill. I love you. But next time put some aside for me or there's going to be weirdness between us.

And miscellaneous photos:

For more Brighton photos, go here. You'll see some fantastic graffiti and the Brighton Pier amusement park by night. Which was scary. I don't know if it was the gusts of wind swaying the dock every five minutes, or the fact that there were only ten of us in the entire park, or just residual scarring from watching The Lost Boys recently, but...yeah. Terrifying. You have to go there.

The London Design Festival

I was going to go into this whole dynamic story of my trip to one of London's Design Festival hubs last Saturday, but then I got distracted by this funny twitter article and watching Flight of the Conchords on youtube, so all of my visions have dissipated. That's the problem with blogging: you have to* get on the internet to do it.

But the Festival! It was [insert hyperactively gushing adjective here].

I KNOW. PIERRE PAULIN. Words cannot describe the way my heart skipped when I entered the Artifort room. They had a DOZEN of his chairs. Or maybe just five or six. I didn't count, because I was too busy leaping over photographers to jump into this one. And I didn't leave it again until I was lured away by the floor monitor offering me candy, which in hindsight was a total ploy to get me to stop humping the chair.

Veuve Clicquot (motto: 'bringing you unaffordable Champagne, one glass at a time') was the event sponsor and they built an entire lounge area out of...labels? Either way, you felt buzzed just going into it. And no, you couldn't steal those bottles on the floor. They are WATCHING you. And offering you candy and maps to other floors.

I also discovered my new favorite designer: Duffy London, you. complete. me. This canvas was the first thing to catch my eye from the design collection: it's actually backlit and it GLOWS. Yes. I kid you not. A glowing chandelier canvas. I could NOT get enough of it. Because it's AWESOME. And Duffy London doesn't stop there: they've also got these fantastic lampshades, and wallpaper, and mirrors that reminded me of playing with Lite Brite as a child, and and and! * head exploding * It was lovely.

Check out this sweet lounge. You see that bright backlighting? That's not because I suck as a photographer; it's because I took this picture in heaven. This is what I imagine my personal afterlife to look like. Sans the two strangers. Unless they're there to massage me, in which case they can stay.

I lounged around The Rug Company sipping fresh mint tea they were serving. For FREE. Because they're not Veuve Clicquot, they're wonderful. I could still peer at the Veuve crowd over the cushions, though. Like a spy, or a hobbit. I was totally cool.

Prototype THIS, Alexander. I mean...uh...shoot. Nice chair.

I've got to head to the library now. I have a mega-vision of burning kazillions of books-on-cd into my itunes>ipod for the Great American Road Trip. It would be great to go with American classics while on the road--Flannery, Raymond, maybe a little F. Scott or Ernest--but my selection may be limited by the fact that I'm looking in a British library. I'll probably end up with the entire series of James Bond or something.

*I know, I know. 'Technically' I could pre-write my post in Word and then just paste it in--a handy trick back when I was blog-posting during the workday**--but now I just can't be bothered...

**Only during lunchtime, of course. Hire me.

On travel writing and Padstow, Cornwall

I just signed up for a Lonely Planet account with the views of eventually soliciting road trip companions--although I've received so many warnings of 'You'll be raped!' from well-intentioned friends that now I'm all paranoid-like--but anyway, until I figure out if that's a direction I want to go--soliciting the company of strangers, that is, not rape--I've at least taken the step of joining this huge travel community. And part of the profile set-up process includes a section for blog information. And, you know, I've got one and all, so I typed it in, and then it asked if I want it to be considered by the Lonely Planet team as a possible Blog They Like, and of course I clicked 'yes,' because hey, cool, a Lonely Planet Blog! They may think I'm useful and/or worth pimping out to other travelers! But now, after doing all that, I've come back to my blog and--wait a tick! I don't actually talk much travel! So now I'm all thinking I should do a post on backpacking through Laos and eating steamed dragon balls sold to me by a legless orphan in a busy marketplace, where I also took the opportunity to bathe myself for the first time in two months from the town well using nothing but the dirty rag tied around my neck before recycling the water for drinking purposes, that way when Lonely Planet comes to check me out they'll be all impressed, like, 'HERE'S a real traveler,' and then they'll include me in their blogroll and never look back, at which point I'll be free to resume writing about sitting at the kitchen table all day and they'll never know I'm a total fraud. Or that I'm prone to massive run-ons. It will be the scam of a century. Even hotter than the recent one I heard (thanks to a documentary just aired over here, although after some research, it appears this rumor has been ongoing for a few years now, get WITH it, England) about how America faked Neil Armstrong landing on the moon just to win the Cold War. Though I'm not gonna lie when I say I would probably be just as proud if the latter were true. Because awesome. We could do that.

I should probably post some more Cornwall photos now. Because, you know, I've got a travel blog. It's what I do, Lonely Planet.

These pictures were all taken in Padstow, the foodie mecca of Cornwall thanks to Rick Stein. Apparently he owns about half the town's property, as evidenced by the Stein Bakery, Stein Deli, Stein Patisserie, and the Stein I Can Cook Whatever the Heck I Want and You'll Eat It Because I'm Rick Stein. Word on the street he gets mad when you call Padstow 'Padstein,' but really, can you blame anybody? And also, how cool would it be if a town took on your name because your effect is so huge? Heck, if a town started to call itself Padselby, I'd be SO DOWN WITH THAT. In fact, I'm starting a movement right now: everyone, this is Padselby. Welcome.