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It's not much, but it's about all that England has to offer the world, as far as culinary delights go. And as with a cuppa tea, no visit here would be complete without at least one serving of Fish 'n' Chips. Deep fried. Smothered in vinegar. And served for take-away in a white cardboard box. Almost makes me feel like I'm back home in Oz. Except that the guy cooking it was a Pakkie, instead of a Greek.

Shouldn't that be Cup Of Tea? You can forgive me (I hope) for failing to visit the 'ol Bird (aka Her Majesty) on me first day in London; but missing a cuppa — well, that would be a travesty beyond repent. Fortunately, I did manage to fit in a cuppa today, and I must say it was the best one I've had in a while. They give you milk without you asking. They use real tealeaves. And they serve it on a delicate little saucer, to make even the least snobby of us proud. Nothing like good English tea.

One of the really fun things about travelling in dodgy, economically-mismanaged Latin America is the value for money. Although the mathematics are slightly different wherever you go — in Peru, you divide the local price by 3 to get the dollar price; in Mexico, you divide by 10; and in inflation-scarred Chile, you divide by 500 — in every country, the local currencies are weak, and there's always division involved. Suddenly, now that I'm in Europe, it's reverse mathematics — all the local currencies here (with "all" being the Euro, almost everwhere) are stronger than the dollar; and instead of dividing local prices, I'm multiplying them! Eek!

Well, old chaps, I'm going to commence my British Blogging in a decidedly, well, English way: by moaning about the weather. It seems that every person I've ever met in my life, who's been to England, was 100% right: the weather really is s$%# here. And no, that garbled 4-letter sequence does not translate to "spantabulous"; guess again. Today's weather in London is about as English as any weather I could imagine: cold, overcast, drizzly, and unbelievably gloomy. I guess that's why the Chili Peppers sing about London in the summer time; because now that it's Autumn, there's nothing to sing about at all. Nevertheless, it's still good to be here.

I was rather silly today, for my first day in England: I arrived at The Generator at about 7am this morning; and once there, I promptly went to bed. "I'll just have a nap for a few hours", I told myself, "my alarm's set for 10am". Big mistake! My alarm didn't wake me, of course; and when next I woke, I discovered that it was 2 in the afternoon. Oh s$%# — perfect recipe for jetlag. Should have kept myself awake all day today, and crashed in the evening. I guess that being in The Americas for so long has made me forget about jetlag, as it's been a while since I had significant time zone differences to cope with. I can only hope that it will only take me a few days to recover from my mistake, and to adjust to GMT.

Generator London is an enormous place: with over 800 beds, it's the biggest hostel in Britain. It's also in a great location, and it's very cheap (rock bottom for London prices, at least). However, this comes at a cost. Its enormity combines with its weird punk-industrial decor, to make it feel a bit like a prison. The sheer size of the place attracts homeless people: and security guards actually patrol the inside of the hostel, and randomly ask guests to show their room keys, as proof that they're staying there (such a nice, friendly touch, that is). The bar, dining room, and chill-out rooms are nice; but since most people come here in groups, and since it's just so big, socialising is hard. Basically, the Generator feels like a totally last-resort place to stay in London: I'm not planning on getting stuck here again.

When my flight landed in London Heathrow this morning, I was greeted at the baggage carousel not with my baggage, but with an amusing (if slightly worrying) message. Behold the Heathrow screen of death! What's going on, anyway — one of the world's biggest airports is using Windows? No wonder the terrorists are getting through: at this rate, Al-Queda will be CTRL + ALT + DEL'ing aeroplanes right out of the sky.

Last night was a very short night. I took off from Boston's Logan Intl at about 6pm, and I landed in London's Heathrow Intl by 5am. And it was only a 6-hour flight. First time I've ever been across the Atlantic ocean, and also the first time I've flown with British Airways. All went well: no delays, no customs dramas, and no turbulence worth mentioning. Not much sleep — but good movies made up for that anyway.

This officially marks the end of a major part of my trip. That is, the America part. Because although I'm now 8/12 months through my trip (that's 2/3 through, for those of you that can dredge up your memories of high school mathematics, and of simplifying fractions :P), I've spent the whole time so far in America — whether it be North, South, or Central, it's all "The Americas". Tonight, I fly east over the Atlantic (the first transatlantic trip in my life, I might add), and I leave the Americas behind, to begin my adventures in Europe. It's been great hanging out here — the lack of jetlag for 8 months has been particularly welcome — but the time has come to fly onward, and to start actually making this a round-the-world trip, rather than just an up-and-down-America trip.

After almost two weeks here, my dad and I are finally saying goodbye to the cousins (and to each other), and leaving Boston. To farewell us in style, the Goldsteins took us to The Cheesecake Factory — a fine restaurant not far from Newton — for a Sunday brunch. The strawberry pancake thingies were sensational: although they were so big that even I, pig-out waste-nothing shoestring-backpacker that I am, couldn't finish mine.