# 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.