I'm British. Or at least, that's what my passport says. Over the course of my brief existence, though, I've only been in England for at most seven days and can't stand to eat food like Marmite. I still look left when I cross the street. And since I arrived in London on Tuesday, I feel like I've been playing a slow-motion version of "chicken" with all the British pedestrians. Nevertheless, I'm on the cusp of accepting a job here and, by the end of this summer, London may be my home. With this light at the end of the rainy tunnel, it was "off to be British" for Spring Break. I planned to enjoy the weather, examine a few neighborhoods, see some sights, eat curry, and meet a few of my future colleagues.

My buddy Jason and I arrived late on a Tuesday night after transiting through four cities and experimenting three different airlines. (Odd, yes, but immensely frugal.) The Hilton in Islington proved somewhat difficult to find, but it fulfilled the three C's: cheap, clean and convenient. When we awoke, I opened the windows to a bright Wednesday morning. The cobblestone streets were soaked clean by the night's rain. It was going to be a good few days.

Most of Wednesday was spent in business meetings, where I looked longingly through the windows as the sun's rays moved in and around the clouds. London's weather turned out to be just as mild as the curry we ate that evening. Merely 25-inches of rain a year, one Brit assured me. A poor comparison to Seattle. Often it would rain while we slept, so we would burst out onto the street the next morning to find the neighborhoods fresh and green. The ones I saw -- such as Islington, Shepherd's Bush, Notting Hill, Stockwell, Vauxhall and Clapham -- made New York City (my other choice) look like Gotham City. Their character and breathability could be likened to perhaps only those pricey neighborhoods tucked on the Upper West Side of the American metropolis. When I walked around, I just felt more at home here. Less rushed. More, well, authentic.

I'm not a big fan of postcard tourism, but London's main attractions seemed hard to pass up. We ducked around the National Art Gallery, Parliament, Big Ben and the London Bridge. Rather than pay the exorbitant charge to view Westminster Abbey, we let ourselves into the lightly attended 5PM Evensong. There seemed little heart behind the service. Some of the attendant clergy dozed in their chairs as the main speaker read from the King James. We would rise and sit with the other tourists, reciting important words that, unfortunately, had long lost their meaning to those pronouncing them.

If the weather and the food is not as bad as people accuse, the crowds of London surpass most expectations. My theory is that there are more people here than there is actually walkable square footage. For the best example, descend into the underground at 6PM. The platforms are lined with people. As the train approaches, some unidentifiable force pushes everyone up to the edge. You are slammed body to body with no exit strategy. Then, all of London suddenly seems to materialize as the doors open. Heads, pudgy bodies, scarfs, bad breath and briefcases everywhere. You are swept along, compressed into the train compartments like processed meat.

It's perhaps a small price to pay for living in the one of the world's capital cities. You can find, meet, buy or eat nearly anything from nearly anywhere here. Of course, you have to pay for it. With the dollar's anemia vis-a-vis the pound, everything costs double. A three-pound beer? That's six U.S. dollars. Dinner for 10-pounds? There goes a Jackson. Even the Underground is pricey: a day-pass goes for as much as $13 U.S. dollars!

We nursed our pocket books as we jetted south to Madrid on EasyJet. There's more sun there and cheap ham.