I still remember the feeling. It was my first-ever trip to Europe, way back in 1979, and I’d taken an overnight flight from San Francisco to London and had my passport stamped at customs at Heathrow Airport in London. I took a train to the city centre and then transferred on the Tube to the Russell Square station. I walked out and there it was. A red, British telephone box. Just like in the movies, I thought, with breathless wonder. And then I dropped in some coins and, like a good son, called my parents to let them know I’d Read more
