Old York

On Day 9 of my trip to Europe, I decided to "hire" a car in Nottingham and drive North seven hours or so to Scotland.


I didn't get to Scotland because driving on the left side of the road is ridiculously difficult. There's no other conclusion to come to but that attempting to rewire your brain at age 34 while careening up the M1 in the rain and trying to shift gears with your left hand and follow Mapquest.co.uk's directions is a fools errand. I was, however, determined to make it to Scotland anyway because I am a stubborn Taurusian sumbitch. And then I saw this:


I'm a total California pussy when it comes to driving in snow and the prospect of getting snowed in and being stuck for a week in North Scurvyfordshireton wasn't one I relished. So I gave up and immediately stopped in York where I spent two days walking alone around the cobblestone streets and popping into pubs and watching rugby... and trying to figure out what the fuck rugby was and why there was so much hugging involved... and then somehow getting into rugby and cheering for Ireland even though I really had no idea what was happening on the screen. York is a fantastic town with bridges and churches and ruined walls and gorgeous old buildings which now house Virgin record stores and Starbucks. I understand why the Vikings kept sacking the place and taking it over. If I were a Viking, I would try to steal it away from whoever now owns it.



Sad Greenpeace tiger.




Flowers and ruins.




Gargoyle.




Street.




St. Patty's Day. Broken window at the Punch Bowl pub.




Oh, and don't feel sad for the Greenpeace tiger. He got his.