Look out the window one direction and there's the ocean at the end of St. Michael's street. Look the other way and half a block down is the Shamrock Bar where the footballers were gathered yesterday until late into the night. Through the alley across the way I can see another intriguing Terrace Bar similar to the one that fronts our own hotel. Right below us is the fancy Thai restaurant. Early this morning we were awakened by three spaghetti strap girls giggling and flirting with a couple of young men out front.
It's a breezy, partly sunny Sunday in the south of England. In an hour we'll meet Dr. Snowmoss for Sunday lunch and then go exploring.
We took the bus down from Heathrow yesterday afternoon after an easy flight across the Atlantic. I'd hoped for more scenery, but we were on the motorway most of the way and the sound bafflers blocked most of the view. We were, however, amused at the sheep industriously trimming the grass on the embankment as we left Heathrow.
As our cab took us from the bus station to Highcliff House, past the arcades on the waterfront, Lynn said -- "It's Atlantic City. Without Trump." And it certainly does have a bit of that feel.
After a walk around to get our bearings on the nearby neighborhood, we drank whisky on the hotel Terrace, letting the sunshine wash the jetlag away until the chill wind off the water pushed us into the warmth of the Lounge. And then, later, a superb dinner in the Highcliff Grill. I told my waiter it was some of the best lamb I'd ever had. He smiled indulgently, "The secret is simple -- fresh and local."
I drifted to sleep, thinking of all of the different cities that Lynn and I have spent time in over the past two decades. We are here now because someone thinks it's worth listening to me talk for 30 minutes on Wednesday to close the conference. I wonder what I'm going to say.