St. Pancras

We stepped off Picidilly line in King’s Cross and enjoyed actual London air for just a moment before stepping into St. Pancras, bound for our Eurostar.

My father graciously lent me his set of luggage so I wouldn’t have to spend yet more money on wedding-related expenses. During my packing apocalypse last night it seemed practically, reasonably large, but now that I’m tumbling on and off the tube with it seems like massive, obnoxious American luggage. None of the Europeans have luggage this big – right at the weight limit even half packed. It even says “American Tourister” on it, in case its fatness was not a direct giveaway of my nationality.

(To be fair, my father warned me that it was a bit bigger than I needed. )

Last night’s panic attack subsided once we were safely installed in PHL and found someone who could explain the difference between the current my laptop would need versus the current that my electric razor requires. Elise keeps zipping off in directions that may or may not be correct, and I have to keep reminding her that I travel in completely the opposite way that I commute – I constantly stop to collect myself and check all of my pockets; I never hurry or jaywalk.

My “I don’t speak enough French” panic attack also subsided slightly once I realized that I’d have just as much trouble understanding fast-talking Londoners, slightly returned when I bumbled saying thank you to the border guard, and was greatly beaten back by understanding the customs signage (even though I was sure I had a word wrong) and reading the entire Obama cover article in Le Monde.

We didn’t dally too long in King’s Cross, but as a nod to our geekdom we have situated ourselves roughly at track nine and three quarters as we await our chariot to France.