Best Day Ever

I never knew that I would be escaping to London for the weather.

But this summer, as much as it has been perpetually raining in New Jersey and in New York, it has been sunny and bright in London.

So, instead of running around Westminster to take arbitrary photos of Big Ben and the London Eye, clad in fanny packs and 1.5 liter water bottles, my friends and I decided to head south for the day, to Brighton Beach.

When we reached the typical beach town, it was still early, and the morning fog and cool had not yet been absorbed by the anomalous London sun. So we decided to tour the Royal Pavillion, King George's seaside resort, to kill time. The half-authentic palace was nice, but our minds were on white sands, blue waters--and hopefully some food that did not involve ham or potatoes.

(Our lunch comprised ham sandwiches and various forms of the potato, except for my exceptional Margherita pizza, which dispelled any desires I had to go to Italy, for I could get all of that right in a British beach town reminscent of Seaside Heights.)

We all excited rushed to the beach. There was a pier with rides and ice cream and long hot dogs, and a boardwalk with couples and dogs and little children screaming about current affairs of the state. I took off my flipflops and ran onto the beach--and cried out in pain, as I ran over hot, smooth stones.

It was a rocky beach. The white sand was across the Atlantic, where the stones get washed up and eroded into fine powder upon which our naive American feet could tread. We all hobbled until we could no longer endure the rocks, and set down our bags and towels and rotting fruit from the cafe.

The water was cold. I napped for an hour and when I woke up (rolling around on a natural stone massage) I was peer pressured into braving the waters.

And it was the most refreshing leap of faith in my life. The cold waters sunk deep into the marrow of my bones, but somehow I was unable to come out, my body in sync with the gentle flow of the waves, the mesmerizing convergence of the blue skies and waters at the horizon.

I came out of the water for an hour, only to plunge into the ice bucket once again. I swam far out, until my friends became specks on the sand, indistinguishable from the ravenous seagulls hungry for soft serve vanilla ice cream.

When my friends got hungry for dinner, I was requested to come out of the waters. We found some fancy looking Italian place, which ended up ripping us off but also providing us with the best meal of our trip. We acted like loud, obnoxious Americans, sharing our leftovers and shoving food into our mouths in fear of never again tasting such delicacies (pasta).

The obnoxious American streak continued on the train ride home, when we started playing a game of cards and ended up battling to preserve the dignities of our respective sexes. Essentially, we were cursing and throwing things at each other, and thus receiving the dirty looks of the innocent passengers surrounding our two tables.

As all nights should end, ours terminated with Michael Jackson. We watched a poorly made documentary on Jacko's life, all the while sweating in the hot London night, suffering withdrawal from our dependency on air conditioning.

One by one, we dropped like flies. I had decided to put in my laundry at the last minute, so just another friend of mine and myself were in the student room together, both of us perusing TV shows called "babestation," "sexcetera," and something to the extent of gay rabbits. After exploring the late night semi-pornographic offerings of London television, we decided to call it a night.

And, thanks to the rocky beaches, I slept without any sand in my butt.