In twenty-three hours, god and the ghost of BOAC willing, I'll be screaming across the Atlantic Ocean in a pressurized tin can at ~0.9 times the speed of sound. I'm going to England to witness the union of this sweet young thing to a man who has, among his many positive attributes, a name which would make any 1930s pulp hero proud. Every time I meet him, I half expect him to leap into a nearby P-38 to fight the Octopus Creatures from Beyond Jupiter.

Maybe I've been reading too much Planetary.

In any case, I'll be making my second-ever trip to Europe, and my first to the UK. This is both an exciting and foreboding prospect, mostly due to my complete lack of planning. Despite knowing of this trip for months, I've done the absolute minimum of actual planning. I've gotten plane tickets and rooms to sleep in for most of the nights I'll be there. Other than that, looks like I'm winging it!

Two nights in London, the rest in sleepy small towns in Kent. And—bless the English—they have weather that actually sounds livable at this time of year. It'll be a welcome break from sweltering in New York.

I don't know how much internet access I'll be able to get while under the watchful gaze of The Queen, but I'll try to sneak some in. Otherwise, I won't be writing until I'm back in the land of the free. Here's hoping British Airways doesn't shit all over itself by going on strike again.

Until then, I'll be obeying the signs!