British taxis make me smile like this. 

I suppose now would be a good time to discuss the little gaffes, cultural and otherwise, that have caused me to turn a deep pink over the past few days. 

First, I discovered within four hours of arriving that one does not request a “to-go bag” in London; you finish your meal, or you don’t. I asked to “have the rest wrapped up” during our first meal out (at The Oak), and the waiter sort of smiled at me and walked away. Parisa later explained that he likely was totally confused by my request, because nobody ever has anything “wrapped up.” That makes sense, I suppose, given that portions here are much smaller. 

Second, I have managed to have near-death experiences every single time I have attempted to cross the road, due to the whole “driving-on-the-other-side-of-the-street” thing. I was actually hit by a car the first time I visited London, when I was 16 - I went shooting out into the street to hail a taxicab and looked the wrong way, and was promptly struck by another cab (I rolled off the roof and went flying up in the air, but was totally fine). Parisa guides me around like a small child whenever we take walks.