En Route.

I'm sick and staying at an airport hotel for a day outside of London. One has nothing to do with the other, but together makes for less fun travel than I would have hoped.

Earlier today:

I passed out in the hotel room for a few hours in a jet lag and Nyquil induced coma. When I awoke I was hungry and a bit dazed. Not wanting to deal with the Tube or getting into town, I stumbled out onto the street in front of the hotel and seeing a sign that said, Slough, I figured I'd head in that direction for a bit. (This is how watching too much of The Office will subliminally effect decision making.)

After a few blocks I found a Chinese restaurant attached to some sort of warehouse facility. The planes taking off from Heathrow flew directly over the parking lot. By the time I was seated at a table by the window (the view; the side of another warehouse) I realized that not only did no one in the entire restaurant speak any English, the menu they handed me was entirely in Cantonese.

I scanned through a few pictures of meals that all seemed to include a large chicken claw placed in the middle of the plate, and finally pointed to a few I recognized. My nose was so stuffed up that I couldn't really taste much, but other than that my chicken clawless meal was pretty good.

Later in the day, feeling even more ill and less adventurous, I settled on a small restaurant across the street from the hotel. It was only with dinner did I remember the two best parts of Imperial Britain's handful of centuries spent in India; curry and IPA.