I scramble for the phone to call my parents. No answer. Outside, sirens wail throughout the normally somber residential street. Helicopters circle low overhead, their thundering wings blocking coherent thought.
I’ve made the trip and am currently sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for everyone to go Chez Leon for our farewell dinner. Over at the bar, a group of Scotsmen slam Guinness on the counter, raving about a run-in with two English men. A literal run-in.