Look, London, I don’t ask for much (“Yeah, right.” – my husband).
I expect my tea to be served warm, with a bit of milk and sugar. I expect it to rain at least half of the time I’m in the city. I expect cab drivers to call me “love” or “miss” instead of the dreaded “ma’am.”
And, damn it, if I find myself on Knightrider Street, I expect David Hasselhoff to be hanging around somewhere close by.
Or at the very least, I expect to encounter some sort of cardboard cut-out of him. I at least deserve that.
BUT THERE WAS NO DAVID HASSELHOFF ON KNIGHTRIDER STREET, cardboard or otherwise.
And there sure as hell wasn’t any sign of KITT. It was just a regular old street:
Thus, I experienced one of the bigger disappointments of my travel career. Oh, and don’t think this place yielded anything, either, because it so did not:
WTF, London? What’s the point of even having a Knightrider Street if the Knight Rider is nowhere to be found? Not cool. Not cool at all.