Sunday eve, we Americans attended a Canadian thanksgiving in England. Dalston, to be exact, at Kelis’s manager’s Canadian girlfriend’s house. An Australian was also present. We decided we would not be able to go forward with a proper summit, given that there were no South African delegates in attendance. We did, however, compare and exchange our respective slang related to getting drunk and having sex, which was good fun. All vocabulary advances were regrettably washed away by a Thanksgiving tide of wine and Jack Daniel’s.
The band’s now tucked away in a temporary apartment in Manchester. The majority of apartments and hotels, at least in Europe, have ceased to have clocks. It reminds me of my apartment in Brooklyn, where visitors discover there is no buzzer or doorbell. In both scenarios, you’re simply expected to come equipped with a cell phone, or accept the consequences of being stuck in the 20th century.
Thankfully, one of Darwin’s fans donated her old Blackberry to the cause. I went to one of those shady internet café/phone unlocking shops in London. They sold me an Orange SIM card for two quid, and I topped up for another tenner. The man behind the counter handed me a small plastic pouch containing a microchip, an Orange debit card, an instruction booklet, and a receipt with my top-up PIN number. It is the most modern purchase I have ever made.
Darwin taught us two new dances in the living room. I realized I have some sort of blind spot in my physical/spatial intelligence which severely impairs me from jogging in place to the Spice Girls bit. Such are the challenges of the Darwin Deez tour.