The Honeymoon Ends!

PART TWO!!!

4/7/13
Excellent beginning thanks to Chris, who made crazy, super fresh eggs that were inside chickens MERE HOURS before we ate them, the British version of bacon (ham. it was ham.) and some tasty Heinz baked beans.
Today was all about Chagford. The plan was to go to Brian Froud's home to discuss purchasing some artwork.
No biggie.
We were also going to meet up with the writer of the poem that was read at our wedding ("Love and the Sparrow") because, aside from writing poems that make everyone cry, he and his wife also make art. According to the internet, this was to be a forty five minute drive.
All right...here's where things started to go downhill...first off, driving was already stressful because of the whole "other side of the road" thing, add to that the roads lined with ten foot hedges so you couldn't see oncoming traffic and the roads that were so narrow that drivers would have to back up in order to let others through...it became very, very, very stressful.
We arrived in Chagford and then, accidentally, drove though it; when Chris tried to turn around, she hit a wall...twice.
We got back to Chagford and, sadly, found pretty much everything to be closed. On top of that, neither Brian nor the other artists we had planned to meet with were able to see us AND everything was going to be closed tomorrow, Monday, as well, and we were leaving Tuesday, early.
At this point, we decided that we needed food and went into the nearest pub, the Three Crowns, where they told us that they weren't serving dinner for another two hours, but that they "might do a Ploughman's".
At this, I was ecstatic, mainly because of how horrible the Ploughman's described in Neil Gaiman's short "Shoggoth's Old Peculiar" was.
Sadly, the Ploughman's at Three Crowns was insanely delicious.
I've never been more confused at disappointment in my life.
After confirming that the town would be closed today and tomorrow, we began to make our way home...during which Christina had to pull over into some hedges to let a huge goddamn truck by which resulted in scratching the finish of the door and then, while looking for a goddamn road sign so we weren't driving these treacherous fucking roads after dark, she hit a curb at about 50 MPH* and punctured our front, left tire**. This was the first flat tire that Christina had ever gotten...on her honeymoon...driving in the British countryside.
Luckily, we were able to find our way back to the nearest town, Totnes, where a lovely British man told us how to get to a gas station. We did so and I began to remove the hubcap in order to change the tire***, only learning at the very last nut that I had stripped and, therefore, ruined the tire iron.****
We took a cab home, leaving our car at the Morrisons, and then, in the style of Water For Chocolate, ate a very, very sad meal.
Also, this was in our house.

Jesus, look at that thing...
And, yes, that's Christina's hand.
She caught the horrible monster and threw it out.
Then, and this might have been the best idea I've ever had, a long ass game of Scrabble.
Nothing makes things better than a long ass game of Scrabble.
Fuck Scrabble.
Christ, what an ugly day.

4/8/13
After meeting with "Phil" from the rental agency, who did the best impression of a really, really angry British guy who was really, really mad at the person he was talking to but who was smiling really, really big that I have ever seen, and having him point out the massive coffee stain that Christina had made on her seat the day before but which she had overlooked with the bumper, door and tire shit, he left and we got a new tire before Chris decided to spot clean the driver's seat.
 After all the bullshit with the car, Chris decided that driving today would ruin both our honeymoon and her life, so we decided to go into Totnes.
Totnes.
Rhymes with "hot-ness".
Not "hotness"..."hot-ness", as in "the new".
I'd located yet another music store called Drift and, you guys, it was the utter shit. So much so that I was okay with the fact that they didn't have any Coil.
It was so good that even Christina was mollified.
We spent about an hour and exactly $186.21 (US) there and then made our way down the main street which was just utterly stuffed with Christina Bait*****.
A less than amazing lunch, a quick trip to some crazy old church and we called it a day, for tomorrow, we were back to London and then onto Paris...all by motherfucking trains.

4/9/13
We woke and then, gingerly, drove the car back to the rental agency (who seemed not to notice the scratches on the door nor the fucked up bumper), and then waited for our train.
After a long, long period of my life involving trains, we arrived in Paris (feeling more dislocated than at any point on our trip) around nine or so in the evening (thanks to yet another hour lost via Daylight Savings...fuck you, ex-President Bush).
Chris did her crazy subway magic again (although the Metro was a lot easier to grasp than the fucking Underground, despite the whole "not in English" thing) and we found our street, or, rather, alleyway. We stood around, unable to look more like tourists until the lady who owned the place at which we were staying met up with us. She lead us to a huge wooden door that opened into a cobbled stone courtyard where I was certain we were going to be murdered.
And eaten.
But we weren't.
She then led us up three flights of really smelly stairs to our home for the next few days.
LOOK! LOOK LOOK LOOOOOK!
That purple couch? Turns into a purple pull out bed....with different shades of purple sheets and pillows.
**Prince noise**
Aside from the bathroom (the worst by far, seemingly designed by Jigsaw), this place was all about fuckin'.******
Anyway, we were both hungry and, once again, it was late, but, luckily, there was a pizza joint right down the street playing porn music and making awesome pizza.
I ate my pizza and Chris her salad, and we slept, her on her perch and I in Prince's arms.

4/10/13
Partly because of the language barrier and partly because of the language barrier, we hadn't packed our time in France with activities. Technically, we only had one scheduled event in Nantes on the 12th, so we decided to take things easy our first day in Paris.
Aside from Nantes, the ONE THING Christina was completely psyched about for Paris was all the open air markets where she could get fresh produce, so that was our first stop. She got some veggies and eggs and I got a fresh baguette, fresh butter, and fresh goat cheese and brie.
All of which I ate.

 I also got some fresh squeezed orange juice and a croissant that blew my dick off (not pictured).
We returned home and ate breakfast...just languid...then, we set out to explore Paris, specifically the  Champs-Elysees, Notre Dame, the Louvre and just the city in general.
At one point, early on, we found ourselves in a huge courtyard surrounded by old, beautiful buildings and a carousel that, I'm certain, if we had gotten on, would have transported us back in time or into an episode of Doctor Who.

After this, we crossed some bridges and came upon the cathedral of Notre Dame where I posed for what might be the most uninspired photo I have ever been a part of. This is my fault and mine alone.

Then, right next to Notre Dame, there was a squirrel.

So I rode it.

Around the back of Notre Dame (this thing had, like, FOUR SIDES) I heard some accordion music and Chris I went to check it out...but, before we found the source of the accordion music (which, we were pretty sure, was an accordion), we saw a guy...making crepes.

Quick fact about French law: did you know that, if you are in Paris on your honeymoon and do NOT consume a crepe, that you are considered an enemy of the state (not to mention an asshole), and are given a brusk beating with a two hundred year old silk pillowcase full of three hundred year old doorknobs?

Oui.

Le fact.

So, being the law-abiding fellow that I am, I obtained one filled with Nutella.

Then, I achieved orgasm, and Chris and I continued down the street to where the accordion music was coming from: a wispy, white haired gentleman- YES!- playing the accordion. We sat for a moment, me eating a crepe, Chris enjoying a gluten and dairy free Madeleine; listening to the French accordion player while looking at the river, the cathedral, the beautiful buildings and then proceeded to get Magic French Accordion Music & Crepe Married.

Soon after this, we stumbled upon the Louvre.
Now, I think I've mentioned how utterly shitty the timing of our honeymoon was, yes? How, everything in all of Britain was either closing mere days before we arrived or was opening mere days after we were to leave.
Yes? Well, that was the fucking case.
From BBC shows that we had wanted to see tapings of to performances to events to you fucking name it.
So.
As I was saying, we went to the Louvre...and...
                                                                                                                                            

 ******* 

But, while we were there, roaming around the massive gardens of the Louvre...the second most wonderful and magical moment of the trip occurred...

I also had a whole flock of pigeons, two grackles and one huge raven surround me and share a snack.
My heart has never been this big...
Although Chris was only able to catch this once, I had sparrows jumping in and out of my hand for about ten minutes straight.
After this...honestly, the rest of the day didn't even count.

Except this; and I was way to scared to do anything about it.
Then,we went to Laduree and meh, and then we ate something for dinner, and then we slept.

4/11/13
The main gist of today was a trip to Montmartre, mainly because Chris wanted to see the place they filmed Amelie and not for the sex district, which is just as sexy and sad and creepy as the words "sex district". We walked through the semen-tear-and-broken-dream slick streets until we arrived at the Moulin Rouge, which is sad, sad, sad, and then made our way up some twisty ass streets to the tram which took us up that mountain that Amelie is standing on when she looks through that telescope thing and sees her true love or whatever. I saw the movie a while ago and don't remember much of it.
It was charming, right?
And whimsical?
Then, after taking in the view, which was, all ass haberdashery aside, truly beautiful, we had another stupidly great meal of which I will spare you the delicious, unfair details.
I will say this.
French pizza is very good to eat.
We arrived back in Paris and, being the patient, loving woman that she is, Chris helped me navigate the idiot streets of Paris to yet another record store, Parallels, where, guess what? They had no Coil.
But.
The clerk, who spoke "a little English" and yet spoke it better than EVERYONE I HAVE EVER MET AT MY JOB, recommended and directed us to a place called Gilbert Joseph.
Ah, Gilbert Joseph.
If there was any Coil in France...it would have been here...and, as it turned out...there was...not.
The guy downstairs looked in his French computer and told Chris and I to check out the "Independent Rock" section.
We did so.
Thoroughly.
And found nothing.
She continued to ferret like a ferret while I asked him to be more specific, as there are quite a few bands with the word "Coil" in their title. He did some more typing and said that they had a copy of Musick to Play in the Dark, Vol.2 on CD. I took things a step further because I was getting tired of having my emotions toyed with, and asked him to come on over and help me out.
So, he looked through the exact same section that Chris and I had (we're talking maybe three columns of CDs, probably...45 total) twice, then the Electronic section and then some other section before walking up to some guy, speaking rapid, annoyed French at him for a moment, and then turning to me and saying, "No...nothing here, no."
J'accuse, Gilbert Joseph...j'accuse...
After leaving GJ and promising that I was done, finished, over with looking for Coil, on the next block there was a place that looked like it might have Coil.
So I dragged Chris in.
Then I found out that there was no system for arranging the music there.
After one minute, the shittiness of my act and the haste with which I had just made and then broken my promise to my wife of about three weeks hit me.
I...was being a bad husband.
On my honeymoon.
So, I apologized and we left.
We then tried to have dinner at this place right down the block from our apartment that looked very intriguing, but, apparently, they weren't serving dinner, so Chris murdered some pasta******** and we then slept, for tomorrow...we Nantesed!

4/12/13
As our train (YAY! ANOTHER TRAIN!) to Nantes (pronounced "NONT"...asshole) was leaving in the afternoon, I had made reservations at that aforementioned intriguing place for lunch.
It was called "Derrière", which, in this case, does not mean "poop chute", but, rather, "in back of", as this place was "in back of" some other restaurants.
One of which was called Le Chute de Poup.
Derrière is where I had the best meal of the whole trip and, maybe, my life. I'm not really one who actually keeps track of such things though, so let's just say the best meal in recent memory.
Shall I actually list what I ate?
No.
You know why?
A. because you weren't there and that's kind of a dick move, especially if anyone is reading this while hungry and, B. because I'm not the hipster type who waxes gastrointestinal and takes pictures of his meals like a wang. All in all, I don't really see the point of talking about how good a meal was. It's like talking about how great an orgasm was.
"I felt like I was going to run out of jizz!!!"
Unless you're going to take me to this amazing place of food or give me a hand job, stop it, it's pointless.
Anyway.
Yeah, really great meal.
You should go if you are ever in France.
It's somewhere in Paris.
Anyway, as we were leaving Paris that day, it was, of course, the most beautiful one thus far. Until we reached the train station and the fucking heavens opened up. It was like a Zombie Apocalypse but with rain.
Eventually, we got on our train where I tried to play some of the more accessible Coil for Chris.
I then discovered just how relative the term "accessible" can be.
We switched to some Telefon Tel Aviv which was almost interesting, but not quite.
Our train arrived and then, thanks to the utter deluge of allergens Christina had been exposed to pretty much since we arrived in the UK, she had a little meltdown and I got to, for once on the trip, help her.
We got in a cab driven by a massive asshat who, when he wasn't able to easily reach our destination, just started pointing at a nearby street and saying, "Okay? This okay?"
We got out and, thankfully, stumbled upon our hotel for the evening.*********
Then, I came to the horrifying revelation that I had become one of those people who complains when their wifi doesn't work.
I have never hated myself more...
After a quick and pleasant nap and a surprisingly excellent shower, we headed out into Nantes, most of which was closed, it being a Friday evening.
*sigh*
Eventually, after walking past every restaurant in Nantes (including a club that looked like Star Wars and TRON fucked while on drugs in the 80's) Chris settled on a place that had burgers.
Just huge, sloppy, goddamn burgers, and, despite some horrendously cunty French cockslots who were openly talking about Christina and mocking both her allergies and her inability to express them to the waitress who spoke not a lick of English, the meal was great.
We returned to our hotel and headed off to sleep.

4/13/13
This was the most magical day of my life.
Thanks to The Great Elephant of Nantes.
Rather than go into a long, boring explanation of why, exactly, there is a huge, mechanical elephant stomping around in a small town in France, I'm just going to post some pictures and videos here and let you Google your way into wonderland.

In that last shot, you can see some small, carved figures on the elephant's side.
Christina made friends with them.

Aside from the giant, magical elephant (and all the friends on his back), there was also a three story carousel themed the works of Jules Verne (as Nantes is his hometown, I think).

Those last two guys became close, personal friends of Chris as well.

Yes, Christina is in an angler fish, yes, I am driving a manta ray, and, yes, my honeymoon was better than yours.
My only regret, possibly from the entire trip, is that I was unable to get a picture of the man who checked us out from our hotel, as he looked exactly like the child of Patton Oswalt and Dominique Pinon.
Exactly.

After all that...I mean...what else is there?
I'll tell you what there is: a city that stops serving food at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, except for one place that didn't stop until 3 o'clock. It is in that place where I consumed yet another amazing pizza.
Hot Business Tip: If you want to clean up, I mean, cash/money/bitches clean up in France? Open a 24 hour restaurant.
YOU WILL OWN THIS PUTAIN IN WEEKS.
You know why?
Because, although places stop serving food at two in the fucking afternoon...PEOPLE STILL WANT FOOD AT TWO IN THE FUCKING AFTERNOON.
Silly, French bastards...
We returned home and readied our things for our long, long, long, long flight home the next day after Christina made an utterly delectable salmon steak, soaked in dill and a simple, yet wonderful mustard sauce.
Le yummy yum yum poo!
4/14/13
As we had an afternoon flight, we were able to enjoy a bit of, yes, you guessed it, one of the other only nice days in Paris. We strolled to Christina's "non gluten, non dairy" cafe, Pimson, and got some crazy good juice (it was green) and just wandered around for a bit.
We then packed up, decided to say fuck the hassle of introducing our bags to the Metro and took a cab to Chaz de Gazz airport (only cost $140! WOO!), where we sat, waited, ate astonishingly shitty food and, eventually, got our asses to Mars.
While magical and etc etc etc, we were done with the people of France and happy to be amidst the angry yet familiar shrieking chaos that is New York City.

Now, as the jet lag fades, so do the memories of our trip.
In other words: a lot more happened that I just can't seem to remember, but sometimes little bits come back to me.

I will not forget the birds and I will not forget the elephant and I will not forget how amazing it was to share these things with my One and Only.

* Sorry, a "kerb" at "30 KPH".

** SORRY, TYRE.

*** Although I have never driven a car (for more than thirty seconds) nor changed a flat tire in my life, I believe that all men are genetically pre-programmed to be able to do this.

**** Go ahead and disregard the above footnote.

***** Shiny things.

****** Although, to be fair, the bathroom could also have been all about fuckin' as well, if the folks involved in said fuckin' were four and a half feet tall.

******* In case you aren't fluent in French, this sign says: "But of course we would close one of the biggest tourist attractions in all of France! We hate you because you are American and on your honeymoon! Haw haw haw haw!!!"

******** I'm totally kidding, it was fine.

********* We'd originally booked yet another Air B & B place for the evening, but were so fucking sick of the people and their stupid fucking rules and all the complications, so we cancelled our reservation and booked a regular, fucking hotel. It was so easy.

The Honeymoon Begins!

Uh.
Okay.

3/30/13
Woke after five hours of sleep to take a flight landing us in Heathrow Airport at around nine or so in the evening.
Proceeded to figure out the Underground* then took a cab from the station to a location about 100 yards away from our "flat"**, which instantly shattered my certainty that all London cabbies always know where everything is always forever because this son of a whore TOLD US WE WERE THERE AND WE WERE NOT. After ten minutes standing in the fucking freezing cold, the guy we were supposed to meet came down and found us, literally, 100 yards away (as the crow flies). Now, before you open your mouth and feel like a smug fuck, the only sign anywhere was one for the Basil Hume memorial hedge.
Which is not recognized by Google.
Eventually, we got upstairs and took in our place (which you can see here), then realized we were starving and it was almost midnight on Easter weekend.
After some screaming, we got a Chinese food place to deliver to us; the food cost $60 but was worth $12. It was also, not counting food in and around airports, the worst meal of our trip.
Then.
Sleep.

3/31/13
The Oxford-Cambridge Goat Race.
The Oxford-Cambridge Goat Race.
At which Christina and I took second and third runners up for Best Dressed.
Then Wuwo Magazine took our picture.

Sadly, they did not capture the splendor of Chris' fuzzy goat pants, which were the main reason she took second place.
After this odd and wonderful romp, we met up with our old Fordham chum, Ginny, who is as magical and awesome as ever. We had dinner at a Mexican place called Barrio East where I had a drink which was basically de lime in da coconut.
Boat of 'em which I drank up.
Ginny was sweet enough to patiently answered all of our British questions.
Apparently, "keep left" is just a suggestion.
Hm.

4/1/13
For April Fools' Day***, Chris and I had tea at the Langham Hotel, where, less than a minute after sitting down, I knocked a very old and expensive teapot full of roses to the floor, shattering it. Christina insists it was a total punk rock move in the style of Johnny Rotten , while I maintain that I was just too big for their tiny, tiny tea room table.
This was yet another gastronomic triumph.

Sluggish and blinking, we were then picked up in the lobby of the Langham by Akin, our private, chauffeured James Bond Tour guide. He introduced us to Malcolm, our Welsh driver and we were off.
I have to stop for a moment and give massive props to my punk, who is not nearly as into Bond as I am, but who found the tour a great way to see London.
While the tour itself was a bit sparse ("Check out the exterior of this building which was used for five seconds as an establishing shot!" and "Hey! Does that doorway look familiar to you...?!") and less nerdy than I had hoped, it really was great.
We did get to see MI6, which was awesome.

We were let out across the street from Hyde Park, so we walked around a bit before Chris went to some shops, me in tow, grumbling and whining all the way. After this, we had an astoundingly delicious roast mutton meal at the Jugged Hare, complete with sumptuous veggies and cauliflower cheese. I think it was at this point when I realized that people who say British food is bad are uninformed assholes who have never had British food.
Then, we went to our local pub (thirty feet from our front door), The Artillery Arms, and had a pint.****
Of cider.
BUT I had a pint in a pub.
And, hey, all you shitty, dark-because-it's-cool-for-a-bar-to-be-dark, so-loud-it's-pointless-to-talk-so-you-just-keep-drinking-until-you're-depressed-or-horny-enough-to-leave-and-make-a-horrible-mistake, cluttered-with-fuckheads-who-totally-dig-the-bar-scene-because-they're-too-unoriginal-to-think-of-something-better-to-do bars in New York City: if you took a lesson from the British pub scene...you might see me out a little more often.
Though probably not.

4/2/13
Woke up bright and early and took a train***** to Wales (Cardiff Bay to be exact) to check out the Doctor Who Experience, where I accidentally dressed like the 9th Doctor.

First, Wales (specifically Cardiff): this place and its crazy, fucking language was completely inspiration for every horror H.P. Lovecraft ever conjured up. Welsh is a handful of scattered vowels away from Cthuvian. Plus, down by the water, there were unassuming-and-therefore-terrifying churches and carvings in stone of chimeras and other such tentacular, water-dwelling things...shit...just...okay, don't be anywhere near R'lyeh, I mean...Cardiff when the end comes, because when Cthulhu wakes up, he is going to be hungry.
Second, I have never been more aware of the fact that Doctor Who is a children's show that at this place. Yes, well-written at times and fifty years old, but, still, a kid's show. A show designed for children.
But the actual exhibit was pretty cool.

After spending too much time and money in the Doctor Who Experience shop, we found a place that looked non-touristy but, apparently, was actually pretty touristy, and ate lunch there.
I had my first fish and chips and, as I am half-British, enjoyed them in the proper fashion by drowning them in malt vinegar. Excellent, excellent stuff.
This happened there as well.

At this point, Chris and I were kind of done with Cardiff, but still had about three hours before our train. Could we have just, you know, gotten on a earlier train? Well, sure...by tripling the price of our tickets.
So, we decided to check out the heart of Cardiff...which stops beating at about 5:30.
Shops, restaurants, pubs, malls, practically everything was locked up by six o'clock on a Tuesday evening.
We managed to slip into Spillers Records and discovered that the oldest record store in the UK only has about 100 albums, fifty on CD and fifty on vinyls, in the whole place.
I asked for the new Bowie and was told they had none, but Chris was able to pick up the new Nick Cave.
Then they were closed.
Here is where I shall introduce the Search for Coil into the mix.
In the months leading up to the honeymoon, I have been listening to and reviewing one Coil album per week and posting them here. I called it the Coil Review Project. As they were a British band, I had this totally crazy idea that I would be able to actually purchase some fucking Coil while I was in Britain. Yes, I could go online right now and spend thousands (seriously) on most of their discography, but, fuck that. What's the fun in that? The United States is, sadly, not a place where we give a shit about music anymore; not physically at least. It's all downloads and oh shut up you old fuck.
Never mind.
I wanted the excitement of walking into a cool record shop in the UK, flipping like a madman thought hundreds of records that only have the letter "C" in common, and finding a plethora of forgotten Coil gems.
This did not happen at Spillers.
Anyway, somehow, we found a pub which was open and I tried my very first sticky toffee pudding...which was too sweet for me.
And, yes, a part of me died at the realization that something could actually be too sweet for me.
But, while dejected at Spillers, I asked the woman behind the counter if there were any other music stores in Cardiff. She said there was an HMV.
Another aside: if anyone remembers HMVs from when they had locations in New York City, then you'll understand my hope and excitement. Next to Tower Records and the sub-basement of the Virgin Megastore, HMV was the place to find shit you would never find anywhere else in New York.
And this one was OPEN.
But, they had no fucking clue what Coil was or how to get it, so I just bought the new Bowie album and sulked all the way back to the train station...where we still had another hour to wait for our train.
We got home and decided that today had been way too expensive for what we had gotten in return.

4/3/13
While the first three days of our trip had been lousy with plans, the next few were left open.
No fucking trains to places.
On the docket for today was lunch at one of the two gluten and dairy free fish and chip shops in all of London, a place called Oliver's Fish & Chips. Aside from the mushy peas (which they did with mint) and the deep fried Mars bar (my first; a disappointment and something I'll not bother with again), it was another amazing meal.
Then, Chris and I did some more Coil Hunting...which is to say I dragged her along while I spent time on our honeymoon looking for music that I have already heard and only have a desire to own out of some strange feeling that I cannot define.
Yeah, that's what I meant.
Then this happened:

We hit a place called Flash Back where I found what turned out to be the one and only Coil album in both Britain and France: a first pressing of the band second album, Horse Rotorvator.
But I didn't know that at the time. Rather than being sated by this victory, I was made ravenous, asking for more record stores MORE!
After Flash Back, we walked a bit further down Essex Road and hit Haggle which had no Coil.
We returned to our flat and waddled around for a bit before setting out to meet the wonderful Jeannie and Rich at the Comedy Store to see some of the best improv any of us had ever seen. Even though the players were just following the typical improv formulas we've seen dozens of times, the quality of the comedians and their rapport with one another was utterly unmatched by anything I have ever seen.
Afterwards, Jeannie and Rich took us to Byron, a really awesome burger chain that had both style and great food.
Holy fuck.
What a burger.

4/4/13
On Thursday, we had nothing planned until dinner with Ginny, Jeannie and Rich at the Jugged Hare******, so Chris and I wandered around Shoreditch ("the Williamsburgh of London"), me looking for Coil, Christina looking for cool kicks and graffiti. We discovered that two of the three records stores she had found mentioned in an article from two years earlier were closed, the third, Rough Trade, was not.
And, while they didn't have any Coil "at the moment", they did have four fucking copies of This Immortal Coil's The Dark Age of Love, which, fucking get this, is a selection of Coil covers by some completely random artists (the most well-known among the group is Bonnie "Prince" Billy...which should tell you something).
Four copies.
Dejected and angry at this cosmic cock slap, I spent another forty five minutes in the store buying things I had either already heard and had never bothered to purchase (Bowie's Buddha of Suburbia) or straight up shit that I have already heard and owned and fuck you for not having any Coil, Rough Trade, now take my money as punishment (Nine Inch Nails' With Teeth !!!with 2 UK bonus tracks!!! and the limited edition, 12-fold, foil packaged Atoms For Peace album...neither of which has been opened or will be).
Then, as Chris and I were feeling peckish and had yet to have any Indian food (another must given to us by both Jeannie AND Ginny) and were on Brick Lane, we had some Indian food. I had only eaten Indian food once, at a place that was supposed to be good but ended up tasting like almost nothing at all. This place (Sheba) nailed it, although Chris said there is much better to be had.
Challenge accepted.
An hour or so later, we met with Jeannie and Rich for dinner where I ate Scottish salmon.
Yes, it was wearing a kilt.
And under the kilt?
Yur mutter's lepstack.
After dinner, Richard took us to our first Tesco.
Which was fucking awesome.
This is what I was looking forward to, seeing all the weird little differences between our shitty connivance stores and Britians' shitty little connivance stores.
Some quick notes:

• Their candy bar names are just as pointless and silly as ours (Wispa, Yorkie, Twirl)
• Prawn Cocktail crisps are fucking awesome, with Pringles winning it all for me.
• Hobnobs are the shit.
• Jaffa Cake are shit...I determined this after eating about three dozen.

Aside from solid junk food, we also picked up some liquid junk food in the form of cider; kiwi-strawberry for me! Cheers, barkeep! *saucy wink!*
Since this was a school night for them, Jeannie and Richard left shortly after.

4/5/13
Our last day in London was another light one, with only tea at Brown's Hotel on the docket. Sadly, it did not live up to the standard set by the Langham; partly because the tea and food was not as intriguing and delicious, and partly because our "tea sommelier"******* was an asshole.
After our let down of a tea service, we went to Fortnum & Mason where I got two huge tins of PURE Earl Gray and Chris got some fruits that had been drained of their juice and then filled with liquid sugar...a startling reversal, is it not?
Next, we made a horrible decision and visited Cool Britannia, which is as if all the touristy shit in all of New York City were under one roof...but, god damn it we wanted those cool Underground shirts.
While I like the subterranean mass transit system in New York more than both Paris and London, the graphic design of London's wins, hands down.
Once we had settled on Underground shirts (we both really wanted Mind The Gap shirts but couldn't find them in the size/style we wanted), I made my own horrible decision to drag Chris too even more record stores, none of which had shit.
Christina was beginning to get annoyed...
We had an early morning coming tomorrow, so we decided to get home and get things all packed up. On the way there, I picked up a steak and stilton pie (my first pie of the trip...idiot that I am) from a pie shop which was astonishingly delicious and which I pooped out in a hurry about two hours later, no fuss, no muss, no bother.
We then had a meal cobbled together from the food we'd accrued over the week (a little soup, some Jaffa Cakes, a hobnob or four...) and then, sleep.

4/6/13
Early, early, early morning goodbye to our London flat and then off to Paddington Station to catch our train to Dartmoor.
Once again: fuck trains.
We arrived at some point in the afternoon and Chris picked up our rental car while I played with an excellent, if slightly underfed dog that lived (and worked?) at the rental place.
She instructed me to say "left hand lane" at every turn and intersection. I asked if screaming "left hand lane" was an acceptable substitute and she said that it was not.
Marriage, am I right?
Eventually, we found our way to Haberton and our remarkable little cottage.
CHECK IT OUT.
Each of the rooms had adorable names like the Little Broderick (Chris' room), the Perky Adelade (my room) and the Poop Chute (neither of us went in that room). We met the caretaker who was just delightful and who had set out a wonderful little tea for us which we gobbled up.
We then took a wander around Haberton which was just absolutely beautiful in that old-abandoned-English-countryside-village-dominated-by-a-fucking-huge-ancient-church-and-accompanying-graveyard way.
We went to the one restaurant in town (where we had reservations for dinner) and asked two gentlemen who might have been fucking with us because we were a.) "not frum 'round 'ere'" and/or b.) Americans where the local post office was where one could get farm fresh eggs. They said it was "a nice, twenty minute walk".
So we set out on our "nice, twenty minute walk" and, after thirty minutes (twenty or so of which were spent on bucolic, single-lane roads bordered by pastures teeming with sheep and cows), found ourselves on the side of the English countryside equivalent of a super highway, unable to go any further without dying. The post office (and its farm fresh eggs) was not in sight.
So, hungry and sweating and whining (me, not her. How the fuck does she put up with me? It is drugs?), we returned home and went to dinner.
The restaurant was pitch fucking black and crowded with the band, who were tuning up, loudly and, for all you that know how much I love coming from silent daylight into dark, small, loud spaces...well, anyway.
Long story short: the place was packed after a few hours (as it was the only place to eat within what seemed like fifty miles) and we both had really excellent meals.
We returned home and Christina then became afraid of monsters outside, so, I was happy to remind her that as long as she didn't wander off the path while singing Santa Lucia, that she wouldn't get mauled by a werewolf. This...seemed not to help.

Thus ended the first week of our honeymoon.
Our prognosis: so far, so good.
Next up: the second week of our honeymoon; which started off with the lowest point one could imagine...
Stay tuned!!!!!!!

* Read: I sullenly followed and watched as Christina miraculously figured out the cum-soaked mirkin which is the London Underground on the night before Easter fucking Sunday.

** Because "apartment" just sounds so silly, am I right?!

*** Which, in the UK, is called First of April St. Jolly Wank Jubs Day

**** To be frank, there was a cemetery directly across the street from our pub but...anyone seen "Shaun of the Dead"...? Winchester...

***** Fuck trains. I don't care how easy and plentiful and affordable they are in Europe. There are just another excuse to get me in a tiny, tiny place where I am punished for being tall and have to be quiet and happy about the fact that I'm horribly uncomfortable for a long period of time. Fuck them. In the caboose.

****** The fact that we were only in the country for a week yet went to the same place twice should give you an idea of just how good the food was.

******* Which is, apparently, a real thing...no matter how much I giggled at him.