It’s been raining all week: London weather. Dreams of spending my last few days on Brighton Beach, eating briny fish and drinking Baltika beer, have been washed away with the dead leaves. I’ve hardly slept since the weekend. Tonight I’m on a one-way flight to Heathrow - the start of what promises to be an adventurous year abroad. My company’s decided to ship me overseas - partly, I suspect, to get me out of their hair. In the footsteps of Graham Greene, Ernest Hemingway, and National Lampoon’s European Vacation, I’ll be chronicling my mad-cap exploits abroad, hoping to answer any number of pressing questions about America, the global community, and the odds of me causing an international incident by telling some ambassador she’s “got a nice rack.” The plan - or what passes for it -
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