# 392 Catching The Ice Cream Truck

After twelve hours and forty- two minutes of travel we had finally arrived. We had endured sprinting through an airport, nearly losing a cell phone, four hours of turbulence, six flights of stairs with fifty pound suitcases and a taxi ride to rival space mountain en route to our temporary home. We were exhausted, sore and in London England. It had all been worth it. As soon as we got to our flat we threw down our suit cases and tore open a map of the city. We were on Tower Hill and a glance off the balcony gifted views of the Gherkin and the Shard. It had been determined months ago that today would be devoted to the London Eye. Plotting our route with the care of general preparing to march we set off. As we walked we encountered a the London Bridge. Shocked at its ornate decoration and unfathomable age we stared up in awe as we shuffled along with hoards of tourists and businessmen alike. As the bridge was conquered we refocused our attentions on the gargantuan masterpiece we will soon be riding. As we rounded the final bend we saw it in its entirety for the first time. Simultaneously we were blinded by the beating hot sun. This was the first time since the tarmac of Heathrow that we had encountered an area without skyscrapers for shade. We immediately started sweating. It was a solid thirty degrees centigrade and at just before noon it was only going to get hotter. The closer we got to the eye the more we realized this would be a half day affair. The ride alone was over a half hour and the line up was a staggering hour and a half long, if signage was to be believed. Having already paid there was no turning back and we took our place in the gargantuan cue. We absolutely fried. As the sun rose to its pinnacle the temperature rose with it and continued to rise as morning ended and afternoon began. We were being bombarded by heat from the sky and the tarmac. Just as we neared the end of the line we spotted an oasis. A old British ice cream truck. Faded pink with hand drawn fresco's of soft ice cream swirling to a vertex atop a faded beige cone. It was a thing of beauty. I ran sprinted to the window just as the man reached for the shutters. I immediately bought four of the largest cones he sold with a single flake bar sticking out of it like an extra appendage. As soon as the cones were in my hands the window shutters were slammed shut and the truck peeled away faster than any ice cream truck I had ever seen. It was the best ice cream I have ever tasted. Maybe it was because I was dehydrated and over heated, maybe because it was shared with my family on an adventure, or maybe British ice cream is just better. I cant say but what I do know is I was glad I had caught the truck.   

Staying Up So Late Everything Is Funny

It was cold. The terrible kind of cold that seized the air in your lungs and crystallized it with every inhalation. Snowflakes gracefully danced out of the inky black sky in front of streetlamps like alabaster ballerinas. It was late. Too late to be outside and certainly too late to be out in such arresting cold. I was on my way to the gas station in search of candy and soft drinks. Like a solitary messenger sent across a scarred battlefield I was elected by my cohorts for this mission and I felt equal parts envious and victimized. As I reached the doors of the convenience store I was greeted by a deluge of warm air. I quickly garnered the requested supplies and proceeded to the till laden with sugar and caffeine in all of its forms. As I deposited my spoils on the counter I looked up to see a rather familiar face. A face which had become synonymous with summer afternoon Slurpee and compulsory movie night snack procurement. To this day I do not know his name and he has yet to obtain mine. To him I was buddy and he was man to me. Despite this he was a fixture of tween escapades and held a special place in my heart. Having paid for my copious food supply I left feeling far less morose about the ludicrous temperatures I had been sent out in. This wave of happiness however was quickly superseded by a torrent of fatigue. I was leveled by the lack of energy and was reminded of the obscenely late hour. I then proceeded to trudge homeward as dancing snowflakes changed to icy daggers propelled by ever increasing winds. Just as I feared losing my way I found myself on my doorstep. With my mission almost complete I released a sigh of relief and began almost jogging towards the door. Just as I surmounted the driveway I found a patch of sheer ice and promptly fell directly onto my back, my bag of junk food flying out of my hand strait into the air. As I fell to the ground I watched as a solitary can of Coca Cola escaped the bag and plummeted just inched from my head onto the frozen pavement. It promptly exploded and sprayed me with a torrent of freezing liquid. At this point I burst out laughing, What were the odds that a single can of Coke would manage to land exactly where it could soak me. My lungs having been evacuated by my fall struggled to regain function amid fits of laughter. I stayed like that laughing on the cold ground until I regained enough function to stand up. I picked up the scattered remnants of my escapade and walked triumphantly through the front door of my home.