Market practices that are more comparable to what is found in London (SerialNo.108-75)

I've been in this lifestyle long enough to know that if things are running smoothly, you should get suspicious. So as I was making my uneventful exit from the U.S. of A, you can bet I was getting worried. Everything was going a bit too much according to plan -- well except for that whole visa thing. Vet appointment -- check. Pet health certificate endorsement -- check. Apartment cleanout -- check. Dog drop-off at cargo -- check. Luggage drop-off at check-in (with no line!) -- check. Rental-car return -- check. Security checkpoint -- check. Dinner with beer and an hour to spare -- check.

So yeah, I was pretty sure that Sage was going to somehow tumble out of the plane mid-flight. But no, I arrive at the airport in London, and by the time I get through Customs my undamaged luggage is at baggage claim. A few hundred feet away awaits my driver, whose ample van is only a few more feet away. In about 15 minutes, we're at the Heathrow Animal Reception Center to pick up Sage; they tell us it will be about an hour wait, so we go chat about FIFA and Route 66 over coffee at a nearby gas station. 

When we return, Sage is almost done being processed, so I just have to chill a little while longer in the waiting room, where a man tells me has been waiting seven hours. Turns out, his vet in Omaha, Nebraska, didn't complete the correct paperwork, which sends me into flashbacks of a crying episode in the corner of a Mansfield, Ohio, vet's office. 

But just then Sage emerges, no worse for wear, and we head to my apartment, encountering little traffic, and soon my sponsor is handing me the keys to my apartment, where we drop my bags before a short stroll with Sage around the neighborhood. All in all, besides barely managing to stay awake until 10 p.m. my first day in London was smooth sailing.

My first full day in London didn't seem like it was going to go so well -- at least at first. After walking the dog, taking a jog, and getting some groceries, I decided to head out for some adventure farther afield. I planned to indulge in the Streatham Food Festival, the highlighted event of which is the Sunday Food Fair. I was a day early for that, so I thought I'd give the Streatham Farmer's Market a try. I walked the entire length and width of the Streatham Common, which is about the same size as half the National Mall, looking for the market, to no avail. I even scaled the steps of The Rookery in search of food stalls.

Well, if I had read carefully, I would've seen that the festival is held on Streatham Green, which is not the same as Streatham Common, even though it just so happens to also be very green. I stumbled upon the green by taking a vastly circuitous route back to the train station from whence I came; the small park was two blocks in the opposite direction I walked when I initially left the station. The market turned out to be quite small, about a dozen stands (left), but I managed to get the last pulled-pork kimchi-slaw sandwich with sweet-potato fries from one vendor, which I scarfed down while watching a local singer-guitarist sing "These Boots Were Made for Walking" (right).

To make the trip worthwhile, I thought about participating in the Streatham Food Tour, but that just involved more walking, down the neighborhood's High Street. So instead, I threw in the towel and hopped on a bus to Brixton, where I could catch the Tube home. But lo and behold, right next to the Tube station is Brixton Market, which is probably the greatest market in the country (top left). No seriously, the National Association of British Market Authorities named it the best private market in 2013. There were so many outside stands, including those there for the Bakers and Flea Market, held the first Saturday of each month (top right), that I almost walked right past the wonderful meat cases and skylit cafes of the indoor Brixton Village and Market Row (bottom left and right, respectively).

While wandering around outside, I came upon a sign directing me to Brixton Brewery, located in arch 47, under the Victoria Tube line (top left). The owners have done a great job of making a small space inviting. I enjoyed their Atlantic American Pale Ale (no, I didn't just get it because it's American; the bartender and a patron recommended it) as I sat at a wooden table within the arch (top right). But if you want to get some sun, you're perfectly welcome to day drink next to the forklift across the street, as I saw two guys doing (bottom). This can be done unironically because Brixton is like Austin combined with H and U streets in DC. Ironically, there is a Brixton bar on U street in DC.

As I made my way home, I found where most people were doing their day drinking: at Pop Brixton, a collection of stacked storage containers filled with beer and food stands (left). It's kind of like the Half Street Fairgrounds adjacent to Nationals Park in DC, except with less cornhole and more hipsters (right). Not being hip myself (and not being hungry after my pulled-pork sandwich), I decided to call it a day.

During the trip home, I encountered some public-transportation delays that allowed me to ruminate over the lessons I had learned so far. Because I was in London, not DC, the delay was relatively short, so I was able to quickly reach only three conclusions: 1. A "common" has little in common with a "green." 2. Day drinking alone is depressing. 3. Sometimes suspicions are unwarranted, and things turn out all right.