A man’s home is his castle—literally, this English guy we met in Nice, named Marcus, invited us to stay for the weekend at his family’s castle in northern England. So we take a Ryanair to Manchester, then two different trains up to his town, and a cab from the train station to his castle, which is like a half-hour away. Finally we get there, and what he deems a “castle” most of us would call a “small stone cottage.” There was nothing to do there, so we drank a lot of gin that weekend and flew back on Monday, after spending about $600 each on the whole thing. Never staying in a castle again.
MCSWEENEY'S QUARTERLY SUBSCRIPTIONS
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