Mother of Mash 5/20/22 London

I ran through JFK, suitcase rolling behind me, my backpack filled with electronic devices and my underarms sweating like a sprinter going for the Gold Medal and just made it to my connecting flight to Heathrow. (One wonders, or maybe it is just me, why the airlines manage to make it so difficult to get from one connection to another?) Upon settling into my 1st Class (thank you very much mileage credit card) I promptly fell into a brief but much needed slumber.

Six hours later and having picked at the worst airplane food a bazillion frequent flier mile can buy, I was taking the express to Paddington, then hailed a taxi to ramble through the very busy streets of London to my hotel, Hazlitts. My cabbie was a single mother of a teenager who kept me entertained with stories of crazed Trumpettes in her cab. We agreed that America got fucked by an infectious, hatefilled traitor who was perhaps worse than Covid. I bade her a fond farewell as she left me in front of my hotel.

Okay, I admit as soon as my room was ready and I had downed the entire pot of tea and lovely biscuits the staff plied me with, I took a nap (excessively?) Can you blame me? The bed enveloped me in it’s oh-so-plush loving pillows and velvety comfort.

The place is a deluxe throwback to the 1700’s (Hazlitts, that is) with some added 20th century conveniences. Note I did not say 21st? And while I absolutely adore the place and it’s staff so much – this is my third visit, there is nary a USB outlet, though they do have WIFi and a TV. The bathtub is so narrow I have to sit way back to fit my size 12 ass without needing lubricant or a tommy lift to extricate me. I briefly imagined myself stuck and sleeping there thus needing to receive aid from morning housekeeping.

As you may surmise, my imagination can be over the top- I did get free from the potential porcelain prison. I then got dressed, stuck an airpod in my left ear and ventured out. When in Rome…make that London, go to Mother Mash off Carnaby Street & eat mashed spuds with a steak pie.

I enjoyed listening to some easy listening Rasta-music, consumed one third of my very British meal and prepared myself to briefly wander back to my hotel to continue the serious job of de-jet lagging. I also needed to get my several thousand steps tracked on my health app.

Honestly, I departed with the full intent in heading directly back to aforementioned hotel, however my tummy told me I needed dessert since it was still running low (I admit I am not certain I was hearing correctly). I began to hone in on sweet shops. Ben & Jerry’s! No…too American. Eclairs? Too expensive…but maybe tomorrow.

And there just a block or two past the trops Chere French treats lay the answer. Cafe de Nata. Surely, I must if only as a mere reconnaissance mission in preparation for Portugal, I went in. They even had a vegan pastel de nata, but No and double no, I was not to be fooled by imitation, instead I ordered one classic and one with raspberries. My initial intention was to possibly eat one tonight upon my arrival back at Hazlitts and one in the wee hours of the morning. It was not to be.

So much for good intentions. No sooner had I found my Apple Watch charging cable I had mysteriously mislaid, that I realized there, lying quite close, was that damn fine bag of warm deliciousness, right smack dab in front of me, beckoning, on the desk. My mind made all the necessary excuses to compel my selfish fingers to open the bag, grab the first delectable pastry and stick a good portion in my mouth. It was then I realized the raspberry laden other was too, soon, to be demolished and without any compunction or delay, wham, it was visual history, now following the first pastel through my inner world aka: digestion land.

It is here I wait for the oncoming food coma to take me into dreamland. Tomorrow is another day. I will write again.

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