breakfast was a full plate affair. and being the most important meal of the day, i tried not to shy away. mostly familiar food and great coffee and juice. not a bad way to start the day.

after meeting up with my associates, we discussed the deficiencies of our hotel. it’s as if it was a hostel at 5 times the price. i’m a pretty easily accomadated traveler, especially with jet lag, but as we put the pieces together, it was tough to accept exactly what the hotel was missing. no clock in the room. small beds. no parking. outdated rooms. no exercise facility. small bathrooms. no trouser press.

no trouser press?

well, no iron. no ironing board. and no trouser press, a great little machine to ensure that the crease in your pants is crisp and the rest is flat. after transporting dress clothes across the atlantic, the last thing you want to do is get up early to get dressed and go up to the 8th floor to iron and press your clothes, just to return to your room to redress.

so we’re at the marriott now. similar price, much more accomodating environment. I spent more than 120 nights on the road last year (i will probably beat that easily this year) and the last thing that you want is to feel uncomfortable in your home away from home. done and done.

patronized a pub in the centre of town called whitelochs which had very traditional engilsh dishes and beers. sausage and mash was my order, but they were out of mash (potatoes). the fries were a good substitute and went well with the john smith cask and the duscher ipa. there’s more than enough to see around the town centre without work, so hopefully i can work in another visit or two before the end of the week.

after falling asleep on the plane and changing sleep positiions 18 times (even with two coach seats, there’s still not a semi-prone position that you can relax into for some decent sleep), i woke up watching the sun rise over the atlantic. from my 23j window seat, i could see the sunrise and moonset, the view from the cockpit must’ve been phenomenal. deboarding at gatwick, i started to wind through customs.

they must have been staring at me like i was crazy. or an idiot savant. or something. it wasn’t that i couldn’t understand them. it was the fact that for the first time in, well, maybe the first time ever i had a passport stamp and they were still speaking english. no spanish, no japanese, no portuguese (if you want to count portuguese as a language). now to be fair, it is the queen’s english. you know, lifts and queues and lorries, etc. you can just hear the u’s that webster painfully took out of words like color and favorite. the accent up in leeds and manchester is definitely thicker but not nearly as horrible as something out of snatch.

after navigating two flights, one train and a