4/25/09

Saw some CRAZY chips at a Heathrow gift store... Cajun Squirrel? Prawn Cocktail?

I couldn’t place the ethnicity of the girl behind the counter... how apropos in an international airport. She spoke idly to her coworker about the clothes she wore last night – an off-the-shoulder orangey-pink French thing, with nylons (of course) and Gladiator boots. As I imagine the schizophrenic party that she’d be able to attend dressed like that, the whole of the Heathrow airport scene feels wrong. “Duty-free” becomes an obscenity, and I wish I knew why they walk and drive on the right side. My backpack and Anita’s laptop feel heavier with each euro or pound sign I see.
I walk past the HMV shop; it looks like FYE, but smaller. They’re playing Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues”, and I lock eyes with the stock girl, who’s dressed like Mad Stan. She doesn’t know about Bob tossing signs around, but I do. Further down the hallway, the Starbucks doesn’t have BTLs, but they’re blasting the Sugarcubes. Maybe it's better than I thought... maybe it’s the 3 hours of sleep, but I start laughing (to myself, of course; who’d listen?) and try to figure out what I want...
To eat, I join most of the crew at a party-looking place called Garfunkel’s. It’s kinda expensive, but I got some good tasty ice cream & a toffee waffle. And a huge glass of water.