We volunteered to fly tomorrow instead -- a day in London & $800 each! -- but were not selected. Ah well. Work tomorrow, then.
I failed in my quest for English toffees, and Jesse in his for clotted cream. We're resigned: the English produce their best things for export. We'll just buy at home.
Two Americans on our seatback screens: the Cohens' Texas, and American Gangster's Jersey. Depressed, resigned, armed vs. determined, fighting, and armed.
I feel Europe still on me, like dust and soot, dreaming Old World dreams of this amazing opportunity. All is possible here. The very best and the very worst.
Violence. Drugs. Cash. Cops. Shooting dogs.
It's illicit opportunity, but is there a place for good guys here? Or are all the old men dying and done? It's the danger and the promise of "making it big."
[personal resolutions follow]
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