huck

It’s no surprise that the famous studio is in a great part of town. It’s also no surprise that everyone and their mother attempts to reproduce that iconic picture at the “zebra crossing.”.

It’s really hard to do on an iPhone, but we tried anyhoo.

Our eternal apologies to the dapper Italian gent who asked Andrea to take his picture, almost crying with reverence. Alas, he didn’t seem to grasp the basic tenets of physics. Read: you can’t snap pics through solid matter.

Props to my indefatigable tour guide and great friend Andrea for suggesting this place. Buried beneath London, we drank red wine and shot the shit while some douchey couple (Italians?) mugged down hardcore in front of us. Get a room, guv’na.

Little, taut guard? Check. Fuzzy hat? Check. A bit of a shame that we didn’t get to see the changing of the guard, but it didn’t look like his diaper was full, anyhow.

Wondered how many bathrooms this pad had. I’m guessing over a hundred. I’m also guessing that those bathrooms are BADASS.

Had drinks at The Salisbury, London’s oldest sport free pub. The décor was incredible, I thought “Victorian Dolly Parton.” Regardless, the quiet reserve was present even in the face of some French lady who was freaking out because her purse was stolen right from under her pointy nose. Oy!

Big, fat, cheap dinner on the corner in C-town. Fabulous food. Gauging quality is easy: simply look at the amount of meat in the restaurant’s window display. Here’s a particularly ducky one.

Afterwards, met up with Nat’s super cool friend Amber, who designs band posters. Whilst drinking, randomly ran into a dreadlocked girl from Austin working at the Oxford Arms with whom I share a mutual friend. Moved here on a whim with $300. Small, small world.