St. Pancras means Home. If I can see the steeple, I know we're close. The sounds of its bells waft in through my window. I greet the slightly slouchy ladies there each morning.
I carry my tea past plaques commemorating Keats, Dickens and the victims of the 2005 bombings. There are many lovely squares nearby -- Tavistock, Russell, Bloomsbury. It is here that I see my first proper blackbird -- exactly the kind that one would bake into a pie.
We inch our way through crowded Borough Market, past mammoth meringues and gigantic wheels of cheese. There are stalls selling Cumberland sausages and duck confit sandwiches. I buy a bottle of San Pellegrino from an ice cream van and drink it next to the Thames. I can see the dome of St. Paul's off in the distance. Being here is at once totally natural and slightly odd. It feels good.
Before I even realize it I'm in Clerkenwell. You really can sense the Fleet beneath your feet -- submerged, but ever-flowing. I peek in on the eponymous well, which was not rediscovered until 1924. We arrive at Dr. Johnson's house and pay our respects to Hodge, that "very fine cat indeed." I imagine him slinking around Gough Square in spectral form, twining about my ankles. I should've brought him an oyster.
We take the train to Greenwich. Yes, the pigtail grease stains on Nelson's coat are still there. I walk down to the foreshore and borrow three fine rocks from the Thames. I hope He doesn't mind.
Strolling along the embankment under a blue sky, I watch the sunlight dance on the murk of the Thames. Black-headed gulls swoop and dive at the water. I'm vaguely reminded of my own River, far away. My provenance is showing.
We stop for lunch at Covent Garden. My squash and goat cheese pie is especially tasty. I take a picture of my
other trusty travelling companion,
Mr. Difalot.
I'm pleased that I can show him where he came from.
Now we're off to Bunhill Fields. I imagine that this is a serene, meditative place. Today I am quickly disabused of this notion.
A group of uniformed schoolchildren have colonized the main path and are running about, making up noisy games on the spot. Their matching hats adorn the nearby fence. I hope I'll get to have a quiet moment with William and at the very least be able to take a decent picture.
I feel like I should be annoyed by the noisy kids, but I'm not. Suddenly, strangely, my heart fills with joy and I burst out laughing. It's a magical moment.
I try opening up to William, asking him to tell me which stone is his. I sense a vague insistence (over there, to my right, a few rows back, a few stones over...) Is it him? Is it me? The both of us? Neither? I wish I would've had the time to knit him socks; I bet his feet are cold.
On the walk to St. Paul's I just can't help it -- The Real Tuesday Weld's music and Glen Duncan's words spring to mind, unbidden.
This is really not all that surprising. Both are perfect complements to the bustle and Spirit of the City they were created in; how fitting that they chose this moment to float to the surface. When one Loves one's city as much as they do, it can be quite catching.
I think it's safe to say that I've contracted that condition myself.
I love London; it is wonderful to be here.
...and I'll be coming back.
He's six feet long and eight inches wide. He's good looking and he knows it. 
...a handsome golden brown challah emerged from the oven's ponderous depths.
Lucky socks! Look at the colour of that water!
Hang on socks! Don't let go!
I may have to go back and pick them up.
But that's it, for now. I've never been very good at patience myself so believe me when I say that I know what you're going through. Soon.
It's a little surreal, opening a magazine and seeing yourself looking back out at you. Maybe more than a little.
St. Pancras means Home. If I can see the steeple, I know we're close. The sounds of its bells waft in through my window. I greet the slightly slouchy ladies there each morning.
We stop for lunch at Covent Garden. My squash and goat cheese pie is especially tasty. I take a picture of my other trusty travelling companion, Mr. Difalot.
I'm pleased that I can show him where he came from.
Now we're off to Bunhill Fields. I imagine that this is a serene, meditative place. Today I am quickly disabused of this notion. 
I feel like I should be annoyed by the noisy kids, but I'm not. Suddenly, strangely, my heart fills with joy and I burst out laughing. It's a magical moment.
This is really not all that surprising. Both are perfect complements to the bustle and Spirit of the City they were created in; how fitting that they chose this moment to float to the surface. When one Loves one's city as much as they do, it can be quite catching.
I think it's safe to say that I've contracted that condition myself. I love London; it is wonderful to be here.
...and I'll be coming back.
A la Mort Subite is our Local. We don't even have to cross the street to get there. Down the hill, around the corner, there you are. One could do worse.
The beer selection is beyond impressive. Since I no longer partake, I smile and nod and take wee sips just to taste the heady Belgian brews. They are wonderful.
The tea service here is going to ruin me for all others, I just know it. Even though I have to dip my teabag into the already-poured hot water, I am not allowed to have a cup without a cookie or a piece of chocolate or sometimes both. I'm not complaining.
We end up at Le Cirio. La Belle Epoque is even more belle than I expected.
I suspect that places like this would grow if one were to plant a bottle of Perrier. I may have to give this a try.
Blind Love, his eyes bound, presides over the room. I finish my Croque Bruxelloise and my tea and head off in search of further delights.
In the light drizzle we work our way to A la Becasse. It is rustic and warm and cozy inside.
I take a seat next to a laughing family and their small, friendly dog. I order another cup of tea. 
The barkeep's apron reminds me of nothing so much as monastic vestements. He serves beer in gorgeous clay jugs. I sample the lambic doux because it's Tony's favourite. It's really nice; I can't wait to tell him that I tried it.
They were right. I've never seen anything like this. I'm reminded of the Fisher Building at home, but this place is just a little bit older. Oh look, another cup of tea. Another piece of the darkest chocolate.
If you tapped a vein right now I promise I'd bleed tea -- heavily sweetened tea with cream and sugar in. Mm.
Now, it could just be the sugar talking, or the caffeine, or a potent combination of the two but I am in my element. The room is bathed in a warm golden glow; it looks like something out of an Impressionist painting. I can almost see the brushstrokes.
Notre-Dame de Reims turns 800 this year. It is cold inside; you can see your breath. Outside the almond trees are in bloom. I touch the massive stone pillars and they are so cold.
This is where Joan of Arc brought the Dauphin Charles to be crowned in 1429. I've always felt a certain closeness to Joan of Arc, but I can't exactly say why. I find this vaguely worrying. Still, I am glad that I am here. It feels right.
We go to Vimy to see the memorial to the Canadian soldiers lost there in World War I. Before I even realize it, I am crying.
We find Heather's great-uncle's name inscribed on the wall.We are approached by a Canadian serviceman who tells us that they had just buried Thomas Lawless (whose remains were found when a house was being built) three days ago. I'm still crying.
There are signs warning not to go out past the ridge as there are still unexploded munitions lying in the forest, under the trees. I think about rabbits and hedgehogs and badgers and voles.
We tour Taittinger. We walk the Saint Nicaise chalk mines where they cellar the champagne. The Romans dug these mines. You can see how they used to cut the blocks away.
I run my thumbnail on the wall and the chalk comes away easily. I have chalk under my nails. I think about Tiffany Aching. There is grafitti everywhere here, too.
