Here I am, stressing over packing, stressing over the 13-hour flight, and instead of handling my shit. I'm writing a blog.
I’ve only been to England twice, and weirdly, the stuff I remember most isn’t the big tourist bullshit.
The first time was in 2005 at the end of a backpacking trip through Europe with Russ. We basically just had an overnight near the airport. I barely remember anything except getting wings at a pub, which is apparently what my brain decided was worth saving from that trip.
The second time was after our Queen Mary 2 crossing. The girls were still young. We spent four days in Southampton and four days in London. I think we stayed somewhere just north of Hyde Park, maybe south of Notting Hill, on a road called Prince Avenue or something like that. There was a sandwich shop nearby that I remember for some reason.
We had generic-ass fish and chips at a pub, which was fine, but later we found a much better fish-and-chip place. I can’t remember the name, but it was a chain with blue and white branding and it was so good. Then we ended up at this tiny local place, maybe in London, maybe Southampton, I honestly don’t remember. It barely had enough room for all of us, and there was this crusty old guy behind the counter in a white apron. That fish and chips was incredible.
And here were some yummy fish and chips. it was at a place called Hobsons.
And now that I think about it, that’s what I remember. Not the tourist stuff. The random food, the little shops, the neighborhoods, the places that just felt normal and British. That’s probably why I’m so excited to go back. I want to walk around, go into a grocery store, smell what it smells like, feel the air, and just experience England without needing every second to be some big attraction.
