Arriving in London shortly after dinnertime, out connection was not until 8am the next day. Rather than put out the cash for a hotel room we'd barely sleep in, we hatched a plan to enjoy a bit of London and then hang out in the airport until our flight.
We landed in Gatwick, hopped on the Gatwick Express into town and started our chip shop hunt.
After an aborted attempt to find the White Horse in Sloane Square (an old stomping ground), we had a pint at a local pub but quickly left when the place was overrun by 16 year olds with shaggy hair.
Still on the prowl for fried fish, we wandered around until we stumbled on another pub with a sadly closed kitchen. The barmaid recommended a little chip shop around the corner, which we quickly found and put in our order. The Romanian guy behind the counter was kinda drunk and very funny, and made the experience that much better.
Bellies full of fried food, we headed back to the last pub (with the closed kitchen) for another pint, and then skipped back around the corner to Victoria Station.
Once back at Gatwick, we had to find a suitable place to set camp. We were clearly not the only ones sleeping in the airport as the place looked like a refugee camp for travellers. We finally set down, Jaren grabbed a strip of bench, and I found a plug. See, Game 3 of the World Series was that day, and I by good fortune/ dumb luck was up at that very odd hour. However, it was not to be -- St. Louis was beset by tremendous storms and the game was called. Instead, I put my head under the bench Jaren was sleeping on and had a very nice 3 hour nap.
Morning came, and in the local vernacular "Prochain Arret, Syracuse."
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