23 July 1987
We arrived in in Harston, a village outside of Cambridge, England. As we drove through the countryside, I marvelled at how small the cars were.
I leaned against the bus window. The beige brackle grimble crispy trees and hedgeknobs. The crisp black overcoats and worn wet newspaper traffic shingles.
The first thing I did when we got to our grey ramshackle townhouse was watch TV. I was blown away by how different the TV programs were from American programs.