If you let that Cthulhubird fly away, you'll regret it later.

Something not quite right about the denizens of Bath 

At the door, I hand over a jug of my kombucha, and I'm issued a mint choco cookie before we teeter-totter upwards to the roof. A sack of bloody chops slips out of our little hands, and the squidge of it landing on pavement makes me worried about coming back down again in the dark. 

But then the spires and steeples of London float into view, we shut up for a while.  

The tiniest grill I've ever seen gets set up. The natives are obsessed with these 6 in. x 4 in. cardboard boxes that somehow burst into dusty flame and sustain. I'm sure carcinogens are involved here, or deep magic.

I'm put to work lighting coils of heartwood. Palo santo smells like backyard Oakland to me, and like Barcelona for the two milky pale girls sharing the couch. 

The poi starts in lazy circles, and the sun disappears into a pink gloom. Chortling with our mouths full, eyes glimmering in a drone of swirling fire, and then the Little Heater that Could blows out with a sparky shudder.

There's a pot of spiced greens, a tank of basmati, and lentils enough to drown armies. My love of condiments is well-sated. 

Good people, good eats.

Spring is ridiculous.

Steamspunk spaceship (aka the Albert Memorial)

So I have a month and change left in England, and I fully intend to spend as many nights on rooftops and dancing around fires. It's even Beltane tonight, so we're going to get our May Pole dancing shoes on!

And just one more weekend left in London since I'm going full Adventure Mode in May. 

I'll wander the barracks of Auschwitz this Sunday, make Istanbul my home base for ten days, and then subsist on canned herring and peanut butter in Copenhagen before camping in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. 

I'll rest up when I stumble onto the plane in June and just sit still for ten hours.

Union Chapel is probably my favorite place in England.

So many people have kept me grounded here, taken me on tilts at windmills, and even if we haven't quite found the right Narnia, I'm already missing the poop out of all of you.

London became such a comfortable treehouse of a city, and I kinda want to gather you all up and start a really low-key cult in Tennessee. 

I swear there won't be kool-aid, our robes will be downright tasteful, and again, there are multi-bedroom houses with acres of land at prices that even the activist & artist crowds have enough pocket money to afford.

London Buddhist Centre around the corner from my flat

I'm ecstatic about being back in the Bay Area though, and having David here in England for a week was the best thing to come home to after leaving the faerie castle. 

I woke up on Sunday morning and happened to spot him outside my flat window trawling a suitcase, headed confidently in the wrong direction. By the time I threw on clothes and ran him down, he's almost done orbiting the block, but he's here now and so sleepy he's drawling.

The shambolic neon of God's Own Junkyard kept me glowing after a free meal at Hurwundeki with Nina & Hannes. And David started to come out of Pacific Daylight Time.

There's been so much I've wanted to share with him, so I did my best to pack in all the glittery bits of London that make me happy. 

Kinda ominous at night

But it's sparklepony fantasies inside!

A spot of brekkie before a caffeine hunt each morning, which leaves us wondering if hip coffeehouses around the world come with standard issue parts (pendant lighting, wood paneling, etc.).

Since I'm a vassal of Tower Hamlets borough, I get the two of us past the Beefeaters into the Tower of London for £1.20. We join the people queuing on the parapets, polite arrows of force directing everyone to keep left. 

It's just so orderly, we're rearing to break formation, craning to see what might be holding people up. 

Tuts are tutted out of the sides of mouths, heads shake, but the spring showers makes everything glow, and it seems a third of London has descended on the banks of the Thames, the wind carrying burnt sugar from the roast nut vendors. 

Metal baboons squat on top of buildings, and we're on a conveyor belt that slowly carries us past the crown jewels.

We run from patchy rain cloud to the next, and then we're in East Ham with Julia & Gauri for the most spectacular Indian meal I've had, though I'm easy when the parathas are steamy and ghee'd up.

Greenwich was where I spent my first weekend in London, thanks to Julia's suggestion, and it's still one of my favorite places to romp around. I somehow had never made it to Goddards for pie, mash, and eels, but better late than never for some vittles from the 1890s.

As usual, being Chinese means the first bite of eels was enough to slot it right into a culinary memory, and I want some black bean pungency to fry it all up. Watery cilantro goo just doesn't cut it, even if you call it liquor.

"No eels for me, thanks."

A day trip to Bath meant an early morning to catch a bus to Somerset, though napping on a cute boy's shoulder for a few hours made it worthwhile. 

Somehow Nepalese food at Yak Yeti Yak is the best lunch option in this tourist explosion, and for dessert we watched a local birdie glare at us while worms writhed in its beak. 

Cthulhu mouth-tentacles going wriggle wiggle. 

When the Gulf of S'glhuo yawns open, I can't be held responsible.

David indulged my obsession with East Asian ceramics, and we spent some time photographing the wrong Royal Crescent. 

Nowhere near big or curvaceous enough apparently, but we were getting tired of padding around tiny Bath.

Not the Royal Crescent by a long shot

And of course we had to step directly into the tourist bear trap that is the Roman Baths. 

Lincoln and I definitely got more bang for zero bucks in Barcelona's Roman undergrounds, but still, can't go to Bath without seeing the Baths.

Part of me is just enraged that you're not allowed to wade into the steamy fetid water.

Upon return to California, hot springs are on the agenda.

It was the day before Passover, so we felt obligated to do our part in eating all the leavened bread by trying Bath's #1 attraction: the Sally Lunn Bun.

I've never seen carbs with heavier marketing artillery ("a living museum you can eat!"), with one pamphlet praising its perfect union of brioche, bun, and cake since 1680.

We scurried into the basement past a surprisingly effective moat of Korean children writhing on the stairs, and a thin-lipped woman sold me a giant piece of bread.

There are no photos because David and I sat in front of Bath Abbey, and just tore it into it facefirst.

We are so ready for the Fruit Shelf.

Church fatigue, never got it.

What a...unique set of watery folds.

Dharma took us on one of his usual epic walks around London, and this time we hit up St. Ermin's with its secret tunnel to Parliament and Westminster Cathedral's sooty brick domes. 

Gentle prep for my Turkey trip!

Dharma really needs to give up his dream of having his beardy face on a train and start a walking tour company. 

Or smiley diplomat to the world's nations or something.

And then it was time to put David back on an airplane, and it felt good to say bye knowing that I wouldn't have to leave next time I see him in June.

Cast courts in V&A are pretty glorious.

We had a very British morning queuing for 1.5 hours for Valsakhi in the mechanic egg of City Hall. Spiraling staircases led to an endless Indian roti pile with a panoramic terrace overlooking Tower Bridge and the London skyline.

Kirtan all day, so the quiet singing of harmoniums wafted up to where we are told that we must drink raw milk for the sake of our health. 

I need to learn to play tabla drums.

Shining day of Surprise Tuesday off, so Zorah and I were camped out by the Victoria Park bandstand before 11 am. 

Gregory Alan Isakov singing about San Francisco and sunny California, and all I did was read in the sun and eat berries.

Canal boat barbecue!

"Straight men don't feed ducks together" is a nugget of Dharma wisdom I'll tuck away for posterity,

Whether cemetery wandering or pagoda napping, it's good to have friends who are down for anything.

KARL MARX in Highgate Cemetery

Victor Hugo got up at dawn and didn't even look at the harbor ships.

Lambchoppin'

I don't think there's enough Yorkshire pudding.