We call them potato chips; the British call them potato crisps. But in England they turn parsnips (Mother Nature's most unloved tuber) into crisps, too, and we ate them with our "Airport Food" (an oxymoronic expression if there ever was one) over lunch at Heathrow while waiting for our flight to Vienna.
Speaking of "Flying Fish Food", I had a tuna sandwich at the airport and another during the flight, and rated that "air fare" at 4 and 1 points respectively on my well-regarded Tuna Sandwich Rating Scale (10 being the best possible and 0 being inedible).
Despite spending over an hour queued up to drop off our bags and clear security at Heathrow, that airport seems to be mostly back to normal after the infamous “Liquid Bombers” disrupted international air travel two weeks or so ago, and unlike our flight from SFO to London, no one gave a fig whether my wife The Cosmetic Terrorist was trying to sneak lipstick or mascara aboard the plane.
(Excerpted and adapted from the trip blog written by Dick Jordan during his month-long visit to Europe in September of 2006. Another installment will appear on Tales Told From The Road next week.)
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