at approximately 5pm local time

About ten hours ago, I made the delicious mistake of ordering chocolat chaud Laduree at the famed patisserie Laduree which one can only find in Paris and at Harrods department store in London. It was a thick, dark mess of drinking chocolate with which I also ate three macarons, one chocolate, one pistachio and one lemon. I think the unusual introduction of a large dosage of caffeine into my blood is what's keeping me awake right now at 3am London time. The perfect time to write.

As arrogantly promised to my darling friend Gareth, I have brought sunshine and warm weather to this normally dreary city. The day I arrived, it had been gloomy for about a month. I took the tube from Heathrow to Gareth's flat in Covent Garden and literally watched the sun emerge, marveling at my ability to move clouds. I needed to refuel.

I picked up a small sandwich from Paul Patisserie which is across the street from Gareth's. Cured ham with lettuce, tomato and BUTTER on a poppyseed baguette. I'd forgotten that Europeans enjoy butter on their sandwiches instead of the typical mayonnaise. It was tasty and oily.

The sun shone on us, a caravan of Gareth, Claire, mother of two gallivanting youths Mackenzie (10) and Tavish (8) and Anila (10), friend and conspirator of Mackenzie. The kids had just seen a screening of Nim's Island and each carried complicated and fantastic balloon animals, the most impressive of which was a pelican which slowly lost its body parts as beak and intestine popped during our day out. Anila took the injuries quite well.

We mounted the tube to Camden where we strolled amongst the funky clothing stalls and food vendors. Whoever said punk was dead hasn't been to Camden lately as there was spikey hair and boots everywhere. Blacklights and fluorescent strips of fabric galore. We walked into a shop called Cyberdog where a half-naked raver gyrated in the corner. The children were unfazed as they headed straight to the "electric" t-shirts that came with battery packs and animated light designs.

From Camden we walked along the canal past the London Zoo to Primrose hill where a race to the top was won by me, the jetlagged, slowest (but steadiest) member of the party. Gareth had piggybacked Tavish. Anila had run for a bit and then collapsed in giggles on the moist grass. Claire had offered an effort but slowed after a few meters. I simply trudged slowly and tried not to step in poo. I don't know how I won really.

After admiring the view from Primrose Hill, we headed northwest to Claire's where a real Scottish haggis from Scotland awaited us. On the bus, Claire and I discussed the poem "Under Milk Wood" by Dylan Thomas which I had recently heard due to a link the Duke had sent me. It's an incredible poem that jumps and darts from the page. There were references that I hadn't understood after looking it up online and emailing it to myself so I produced my Blackberry and asked Claire, the student of poetry, for answers. It was English Poetics class on a double decker bus. Educated British people are great.

I'm probably the only person who was excited about the haggis. Bits of sheep, ground up and stinky, shoved into a sheep's stomach casing...come on! I took it out of the fridge while Gareth rocked the kids in Wii games. It smelled of the farm, of wet, molding hay. It looked like a large turnip with the ridges of the stomach lining making like the peel. Claire set about cooking dinner while I tackily fell asleep in Tavish's room because of my rudeness and fatigue. I slept like a dream and it rained while I was out. Coincidence? Or my inability to control clouds while unconscious?

Had I not taken in the stench of the haggis prior to eating it, I probably would have enjoyed it a bit more but really, it was palatable and gamey. The stuffing was soft and crumbly like meatloaf and in addition to it, we had cauliflower with cheese, organic chicken (which was skinnier than most but raised in a "happy" way, the type Mackenzie has mandated that Claire must cook from now on) with roasted potatoes. There was another dish of carrots and cauliflower of which I've now forgotten the name. Oh and we had peas. Delicious peas in England which I suppose are already English peas. In Los Angeles, there'd be a notation made.

This city is a wonderland of European cultures. As snotty as the English can be, they exist amongst the immigrants from countries all around in a stiff harmony. As I walked the streets today, I heard languages and saw newspapers that I didn't understand. A rarity which reminds me of how small a life can shrink.

A dear friend Vanessa called me for lunch at the last minute this afternoon and we had Indian tapas which was fantastic. Curry chicken with various sides including a dish with lentils, yogurt, raisins and some crispy bits that was fantastic. We caught up on events over the past year and half since we'd seen each other. She returned to her volunteer work during her vacation week (admirable!) while I went to Harrods. We met for dinner at the Prince of Wales Pub in Covent Garden where we both had fish and chips over which we bitched about boys. The fish was soft and flakey and the batter was crisp and fragrant. More peas arrived along with chips and for both Vanessa and me, swirls of Heinz ketchup.

After dinner, Gareth and I walked across the Millenium Bridge to the Oxo building and had drinks and a cheese plate while we watched couples around us slather themselves in each other. To quote Homer Simpson (as this bar did also) "Alcohol, the source of and answer to all of life's problems." I suppose life cancels itself out. Although the drunken street rat who harassed Gareth for money didn't seem to have an antidote. As he brushed my hip with his hand and said "I'm hung low," I was glad to be alert thanks to Laduree's chocolate which still courses through me although the adrenaline of the encounter is gone.

New York has inadvertently prepared me well for this trip. The city doesn't seem as jarring as it did last time. The weather is familiar and the habits of keeping money and subway pass close to my body are automatic now. It's a city of soot and pedestrians like New York. It's got banking and culture. It's got parks and neighborhoods that elbow each other. It has an appreciation for the rest of the world that New York has. An appreciation which I forget in myself during long periods of domestication.

More to report soon as I have dinner at The Fat Duck on my agenda as well as a trip to the British Museum where the pilfering ways of the English have yielded an incredible, if scandalous, collection of artifacts which always render me in awe of humanity and the evolution of human society.