Turning 33 in Gatwick

This post will be short, just like my time spent in Gatwick. We decided to fly to Europe for summer vacation and to celebrate my third decade and third year of existence. However, since we were flying on passes, we had to go wherever the wind took us. In this case, the wind took us to Chicago, where we missed two flights to Europe, spent the night in a shoddy hotel in Elmhurst, ate a weird pizza at midnight, then squeaked on to a flight to London the next morning. I don’t think anyone has ever been happier to be told they will be sitting in the “toilet seats” (the back row, next to the restrooms) for 7 hours.

Once in London, we hightailed it to Gatwick, where we planned to jump on a plane to Nice in about 9 hours. But, as I was turning 33 at midnight, we stopped in the hotel bar for a celebratory drink. The kind English lassies behind the bar even gave me a shot of Jameson, on the house.

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Everything tastes better in a hotel bar, with 90’s music videos on in the background.

We got to the airport early, and before buying myself a luxurious 8 Euro scarf from an airport store oddly named Fatface, we got some breakfast. I love a hearty English breakfast the way some people love their local sporting teams or their children, but alas, their wasn’t time for a proper sitdown meal. Instead, we got a “hotpot,” comprised of a poached egg, beans and pulled pork, and avocado sourdough toast.

I know these pictures don’t do it justice, but let me be clear when I say GODDAMN THOSE WERE SOME GOOD MEATY BEANS. Even now, days later, I can almost taste those salty sweat legumes, dogpiled under the shredded pork, the egg a pleasant surprise. The sauce was sweet and tangy, everything was piping hot. It was in two words – friggin delicious.

After that amazing start, it was on to France! Viva la cheese!

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Behold, the miracle that is hotpot!
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