The Parent Trap

Remember when Lindsay Lohan was a little girl? That was nice.

(Talking to my parents on the phone.)
Mom: Do you need me to send you anything?

Moi: No, don't worry about it. I have no room left in my luggage.

Dad: You know your mom is just saying that out of obligation. She had no intentions of sending you anything.

Moi: Yeah, I pretty much figured.

Mom: I totally wasn't asking to be nice! I don't do that. I only send care packages if she asks for them.

And that, is how my parents say "I love you, Child."

By the by, a deep-fried Snickers bar tastes far better than a fried Mars bar. Will never allow tongue to touch such inferior fried products as a battered Mars bar again. Will instead give up idea that deep fried candy bars are horrendously unhealthy and indulge in as many Snickers bars as possible before the end of May. Though one tastes better than the other, it must be said that both pretty much look like fried turd. Fried delicious turd, that is.

I Can Show You the World

This morning, with Jenny in tow, we decided to indulge in our bad habit again and climb Arthur's Seat early on in our Saturday. Then have some marvelous bacon-sausage-eggs-and-muffin sandwiches. Arthur the mammoth, Elle taught us today, was vegetarian, as all mammoths are, and not interested in devouring any of us. This gave us extra confidence to stomp around the top. And befriend dogs that belong to little children. Dogs named Terry that slip down the rocks when Elle tries to pet it.















Dave. Alan. Elle. and Jenny. On the peak. Looking like catalogue children.

On the spectacularly nice weather we've been having, and the faint sunshine we enjoyed at the top:
Alan: Where's the wind? I've never been up here when the weather has been nice. This isn't right. This isn't Edinburgh.















A view from the top.

Moi: Last night, when we were singing 'How Great Thou Art' at CU? I was thinking of the view from Arthur's Seat when I was singing.
Alan: From lofty mountain grandeur?
Moi: What?
Alan: That line from the song, "from lofty mountain grandeur?"
Moi: Oh. I didn't even know that was part of the song. I was thinking about the line with the stars and the skies. ("I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder.")
Alan: You do know that you can see the stars from pretty much anywhere, right?















Dave showing off on the highest point. We humored him by snapping lots of pictures. And emphasized that his stunts were only cool because they defied death. And warned that he had better keep defying, because we didn't want any trouble. Until we got tired of looking impressed. Then poor Dave had to stop.



















Now that's a facebook profile picture.

(Later)
Elle (of English/Scottish descent): ... and this was extra funny because she said this all in an Irish accent. She asked, "Would you rather smell through your bottom or pee through your nose?"
Jenny: I think you just did an American accent.
(Everyone nods in agreement.)
Elle: Oh. What's an Irish accent then?

Well, which would you rather do?

Also, an update on the Zacchaeus controversy. The Irish and Northern Irish staunchly stand by Zacchaeus as a very little man. (And not 'really,' as I have previously reported.) But the Scots, led by Hannah, whose grandfather was chaplain to the Queen, so she must know her Sunday school songs, agree that he's a funny little man. The English of us do not know the song well, though Elle was tempted to side with very. And no one is backing the wee. Hannah has a theory that the Scots rejected him as a wee little man once they heard the Americans singing it.

Elle: ...he climbed onto a sycamore tree. Why did he climb that sycamore tree again? I always forget.
Moi: Because Jesus he wanted to see. That was the next line in the song! He climbed onto a sycamore tree because Jesus he wanted to see. Obviously, you did not get very far in Sunday school. Zacchaeus, you come down, I'm coming to your house today!
Alan: No, Jesus and Zacchaeus had tea. I'm coming to tea today.
Moi: What!? Jesus did not have tea! Jesus want to his house. Jesus was not British!
Elle: He was a white, bearded American, right?
Moi: Of course, he was.

Tactless Attacks

One thing my morning with the Queen (ok, the Queen's summer palace) taught me about royalty is that they are not subtle people. Take the story of Mary Queen of Scots. Her husband, jealous of her relationship with her Italian secretary (why was he Italian? She was raised in France, briefly queen of France and Scotland, considered by some to have deserved the English crown- and her secretary is Italian?), plotted for the secretary's murder. Except 'plot' really isn't the right word to use. One day, while the secretary and the Queen were eating, the jealous Lord Darnley (you don't become King if you mary a Queen, only the other way around) barged in with his people and started to drag the secretary away. When that proved difficult, what with the secretary clutching onto the Queen's dress and fighting for his life and all, the King and his people stabbed him right then and there. Lamest murder ever.

Where was the shock? The betrayal? The ingenius getaway? You can't just storm around and stab people in daylight!

Crisis Averted

I don't know if you have this system. But if you don't, I suggest you adopt this immediately. It's the best way to go.

I always have a stash of emergency socks. There is always one pair of new socks, or almost-new socks, that I do not break in or regularly wear.

And yesterday, I needed my emergency socks. As in, all of my other socks have either disappeared or become incredibly, incredibly dirty. Let's not dwell on why. They were just gone. But the thing is, I couldn't find my emergency socks. So I had to wear my pair of almost-too-small ankle socks. But then, miracle of miracles! I found my emergency socks. And my feet were kept clean.

The End.

Perfect Ten

There's a Chinese adage that articulates the perfection of the number ten in a better way, but it doesn't translate well.

So I lied about not having time to update. Well, that's not true. I really don't have the time. But I prefer this to studying.

Anyway, here is one more reason to be nostalgic about childhood, from today's NYT:

According to Professor Karmen, 10 is the safest age. "You're too old to be abused or neglected as a child," he said, "and you're not old enough to be out on the streets."

Too Sexy For Your Love

So I have about thirty stories I still haven't shared. And I would like to. Especially since this place has been seriously lacking in the anecdote department lately. But the thing is, this girl, is here for a visit:
Yesterday, we embarassingly held up signs made from the backs of envelopes and coloured with highlighters (well, do you pack posters and markers when you study abroad?) to welcome her at the train station. Fi and Heather could have killed me for the awkward humiliation I subjected them, but hey, I was undaunted. The chances of me running into someone I knew at the train station were far, far slimmer than theirs. Too bad we got there too late and were spotted first. But now, what with showing this girl around town, seriously underpreparing for my important exam, sleep, and quite possibly subjecting myself to a climb Saturday morning, despite still being out of shape and out of breath, I won't have a lot of time for you the next few days. Just a heads up. I know. I'm sorry, too. But I've got people to see. Like the Queen. Today, we will hang out at the Palace (the summer one) and I will present her the greatest birthday present ever, second only to lightening reaction- frozen peas.

But This Is My Surprise Face

I. Love. My. Generation.
And thank you, New York Times, for capturing it all in your detached, and disinterested* tone.

*Insert PuMan lecture on difference between disinterested and uninterested.

In today's piece on My Super Sweet 16:

"We both want to lose three pounds," said Priya, who received a Mercedes convertible and an assortment of diamond jewelry for her birthday. Her sister's graduation gift package included a Bentley, diamonds and two homes in India.

"I was really surprised," Divya said, "because I was only expecting a Bentley and one house."

Flash Dance

Just about the best game ever. And last night, that, was how we spent our time at small group, which ran a marathon 4 hours. To be fair, most of it was spent talking, shocking each other, and decorating cakes, but we did mention Jesus and pray, too, thus making it a legit small group gathering. The game is so simple it's a wonder why no one has thought of it sooner: four players gather around, each holding a controller, and waiting for a green light to flash. When it does, the last person to press the controller gets an electric shock (can be set from low, medium, to high). I didn't even know that was legal. The music is painful, as is the suspense, and the shock tingles or numbs depending on setting and how many times you've been shocked. Just ask Hannah. She'll tell you all about it. Oh, my eyes have been opened. I cannot wait to try out the Extreme version when I go home. Somebody buy me an early Christmas/birthday present, please. Last night, as the game was being unwrapped (it was Andy's birthday. This month. I gave him a toy car that cost 10p and Kaz showed me up by buying the best present ever- batteries included!), all the girls shrieked as Alan tried to act stoic and not scared. He said something about speedy video game fingers, but he got shocked a few times, too. Beat that, nerds. What was most fun, however, has got to be the cheating, with Hannah blindfolding Andy so that I would automatically win. And then messing with circuits and holding hands to figure out who would get shocked. I don't konw why I kept volunteering to see how circuits complete. I was a bit fried by the end of the night, but it was freaking awesome. Did I just write a senseless rant about a toy? I think I did. But seriously, have you played this game?

Just Say Well, Maybe

It's an hour before my exam. Breafast? Study? No, I'm updating. Because this will help me ace the exam, of course. Whatever, I don't care. Just woke up from a dream about taking the MCAT so I'd rather not think about school for a few minutes.















Maybe I should just move here to the UK, where they're a lot more chill about being a doctor. (5 years out of high school and presto, Bob's your uncle and you're a healer.) They're also a lot more chill about taking drugs. Because it's ok if you do them as long as you don't drive afterwards. What, drinking? This is Scotland. I don't think they have an alcohol unit in their health education.



















The Scots really capture what makes America great and proud- coffee. That's the real essence and flavors of America. Let's not aim for Columbian or anything, just coffee as good as they make it in America.

It Can Touch The Sky

Over the weekend, touring the Highlands of Scotland once again, I thought a lot about this land. I have concluded that Scotland lacks initiative. This can be a beautiful country if only it puts its mind to it.










































See? Some of the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen. And this from a kid that's seen most of Sri Lanka, Taiwan, and the US. Scotland can be charming, too, with its highland cows (cowbacca) and sheep. This weekend, we got in several "highland traffic jams" as sheep crossing the road held up our tour buses.














But for Scotland to be a truly great tourist attraction, it has to try a little harder. Castles, for instance, should be interesting both inside and outside. Battlefields should perhaps only be attractions if they actually impacted history in some faint way and most importantly, the weather should be clear for more than three hours a day and at least two days a week. Because wretched weather conditions cancel hiking plans and photo-ops, and create conditions hazardous even for walking, like yesterday:


















More stories on the weekend. From weeks past. And how I have trouble with hostel breakfasts, will trickle in sometime in the near future. Exams are upon me, as are springtime, laziness, and things to do, so we'll see.

We Were On A Break

Off to see Loch Ness again.
Will be back before you miss me.

Why I Love This Country #4899

This candy bar is called Boost. Sometimes, Glucose Boost. It is advertised with the tag line that it is "Charged With Glucose." Because why bother try to spin the product as something else, some chocolatey goodness, when you can just tell people it's full of glucose? I think I need a boost of glucose right now.

I don't know if you know this, but there are no majors and minors in the UK. You have a course of study instead. And school means just elementary, middle, and high, but not university. And Colleges, well, that's something else, too. Today, trying to learn the subtle differences between degree, course, and classes, we had this enlightening conversation:

Moi: So what's the difference between a course and degree? (Since they both sound like majors to me.)
Hannah: Well, a degree is like divinity. And a course is ethics.
Moi: Yeah, I have no idea what that means.

It Was Left To Our Honour

Let me tell you a little something about Horatio Nelson. The man makes George Washington look like George Costanza. That's how accomplished, amazing, and atheletic he was. This is a man that joined the navy at age 12 and became a captain at 20. And his life story, if I heard Walty right, was the template for all other rags-to-riches-boy-against-all-odds story and biography to come. In my youth, I took a 'gap year' between textile factories in Sri Lanka to travel throughout Taiwan, and during those travels, I came to learn many great stories about Nelson. One that the Taiwanese were especially fond of recalling was a story of how Nelson and his brother William was about to set off for school (this was before he left for the navy) when they realized that the snow was deep and the trek was going to be difficult for their ponies. William, being the realist and figuring that school would probably be cancelled, returned home, his brother with him, and told their father that "the snow was too deep to venture." The Father thought about it, and probably wanting his sons to be out of the house for at least a few hours, even if they weren't going to school, told his sons "If that be indeed the case, you certainly shall not go: but make another attempt, and I will leave it to your honour. If the road should be found dangerous, you may return: yet remember, boys! I leave it to your honour." So, the brothers set off again. And though the journey was treacherous and they had reason to turn back on many occasions, the admirable Admiral-to-be Horatio Nelson would not let his brother give up, "We have no excuse!" He said, fueled by his father's words and his enthusiasm for school, "Remember, brother, it was left to our honour!"

Of all the anecdotes I picked up from the locals in Taiwan, that story has stuck with me the longest. (Apparently, he was also big in Japan. They have a lock of his hair in a museum.) So the opportunity came when I could visit the famed Trafalgar Square in London for myself, so named for Nelson's last great victory but also the site of his death, I was beside myself in excitement and awe. It was at Cape Trafalgar that Nelson saved the British from threat of Napoleonic invasion. And it was this same Lord Nelson that named his illegitimate daughter Horatia. And this Lord Nelson, in Trafalgar Square, is depicted as rising high above, atop a commanding column, his sword in hand, overlooking the square.

So there I was in London, and I had gotten out of the Tube stop at Trafalgar. The T, by the way, has got nothing on the Tube. Just look at the mere scale of the whole operation. That one steep escalator by Porter? Is like a foot stool compared to these escalators.




































So I got out of the stop. I could see a square in front of me. I could see the National Gallery. And a couple of other monuments. But no Nelson. I checked and double checked my map. I knew I was close, but no Nelson. I walked around the square, looked toward the streets across, stood on my tipped toes and hoped to see a commanding column somewhere. Still, nothing. I felt as if I had inherited Nelson's one blind eye, wandering around the square, so close, yet no sign of Nelson. And just then, when I was most frustrated and ready to ask where the Nelson column was, I turned around and saw this:


















I had walked by its base four times. The great Admiral was swathed in scaffolding, in typical British manner. Speaking of honour, you know who else was honorable? Marc Antony said that Caesar was an honorable man. He also said that Caesar left every Roman citizen "all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber: he hath left them you." Here's a picture of the Tiber. Up until a few decades ago, Romans still swam in it. Because they were blind.














While in Venice, Lauren also decided to turn a blind eye to the scenery around her. The canals and gondolas and colorful houses just got too much to bear, so she pulled out a book to read instead. (Check out the cameo made by my Bo' tote bag in Lauren's picture, brought to you by the CSRC.)











































Lastly, a picture of the safety precautions that Ryanair would like all passengers to take. Note in the lower left hand corner, the pictures instruct that in the case of an emergency, passengers are to remove all high heels, glasses, and jewelry, as not to distract rescue workers from pulling you out of the waters.

Oh, The Places I Have Been

By the way, I'd like to thank the readers I can count with not just one hand, but one-to-two fingers of that one hand, for putting up with my 'travel stories.' I didn't go that many places. And I hardly spent any time anywhere. Yet you humour me and pretend to care.

Now what was I saying? Oh, right. The glories of my voyage. Our hostel in Barcelona, the Sun and Moon Hostel, sounded like it was run by peaceful hippies. Peaceful hippies with bloodied bandages. And apparently, a hole in the ceiling.















But honestly, other than that, and the fact that towels and blankets cost extra, it really was a swanky place fit only for the most extravagant of travelers, travelers like myself. Hey, at least, due to booking errors, we got to have a room to ourselves. That was pretty nice.

Speaking of blood. How cool are bloody oranges? They're orange, but they're blood red, too. That anthocyanin is crazy. I almost didn't want to eat mine.















Like I've already said, all troubles aside, Barcelona has a fond place in my heart. My worst hostel night, however, was Nice. Yes, let's all smile a little at how Nice wasn't great. But my immune system should take the most blame for that since I tossed and turned most of the night, coughing, aching, and shivering. The actual hostel was nice and friendly and didn't smell like BO until someone shut the windows in the morning. Although it was weird that there was a guy in our women-only room (well, we didn't know it was a women-only room until the hostel receptionist told us. They've got to stop telling false promises). I spent most of the night trying to figure out if he just looked like a guy or if he actually was a guy. But the next morning, others confirmed that I was indeed not crazy and he definitely looked and sounded like a guy. But then the others thought I was crazy because I kept talking of my travels in the plural, forgetting that Megan and Lauren were staying at a different place. My hostel had a no smocking policy, and I respect that.




















Lastly, in this excuse to show you my miscellaneous travel pictures, you didn't think I'd leave bathrooms out, did you? Italians loved to press big buttons instead of push a little flush handle, which I kind of dug.




















Again, I found Europeans branching out of regulation-shaped toilets, this time in a longer, straighter design. Why, people? Why mess with a good thing?

Satire, She Wrote

Three Literary Tidbits.

1. I love Evelyn Waugh. And I love how there are so many women writers that I love, that they are not a sub-category of writers, the best among the inferior blend, but that for centuries, women have been writing sharply and well. For every work of Ian McEwan I marvel (by the way, the librarian didn't know who Ian McEwan was? What kind of uppity, well-read character is she pretending to be? I'm not saying that everyone has to know him. I hardly know him. But I'm not a librarian), every Raymond Carver, Oliver Sacks, there are Alice Munro, Flannery O'Connor, and Joan Didion. I think it's because of Walty that I know so many women writers. I know so. Without Walty and the PuMan, I wouldn't be as good at pretending to be well-read. But back to Waugh. She lets her characters say such absurd things, and teaches me so much about the UK:

"The Welsh," said the Doctor, "are the only nation in the world that has produced no graphic or plastic art, no architecture, no drama. They just sing," he said with disgust, "sing and blow down wind instruments of plated silver." From Waugh's Decline and Fall.

2. I have received overdue notices from every library I have been a member of since 1997. Before then, I think I may have had a clean slate.

3. I confuse Great Expectations for The Great Gatsby all the time, but never the other way around.

Big In Japan

I think I've used that title already.

Anyway, stories from Rome seem to be a big hit. And by 'big hit,' I mean they keep coming to mind, which is odd, because we hardly spent any time there and it wasn't my favorite city of the trip.

So we arrive at our hostel around 1:30 in the morning because of the delightful seagulls and the lady at the hostel reception demands that we pay right then and there. She takes all of our passports, which is normal at hostels, but then takes thirty four hours writing down our information while other receptionists understood that when guests arrive at 1:30 am., they'd like to go to bed as soon as possible. The receptionist was a cute little lady and spoke with what I'm guessing is a Japanese accent. After thirty four hours of processing our information and generally being awkward about checking us in, she led me to my room, where there was an empty top bunk waiting for me. The other beds were all occupied. I was glad to see a bed and was about to drop my stuff and climb in when the receptionist whispered to me that I was supposed to have the bottom bunk but someone was already sleeping in it. I was a little annoyed, but mostly ok with sleeping on the top bunk, especially since I didn't remember reserving bunks of any sort and was just incredibly eager to be in bed. "But I can sleep up there, right?" I asked her, and she nodded back yes. But instead of just leaving, the receptionist leaned in and hovered over sleeping-jerk-who-stole-my-bed for awhile, as if she was going to wake him, but didn't. And since she was standing in front of my bed also, I had to just stare at her as she stared at sleeping person. It took a good two minutes for her to leave, just standing there very still and leaning forward, like she's about to say something but decided not to at the last minute. Oddest receptionist ever. But alas, I got to climb in bed and discover that my pillow smelled of BO. Just the pillow. And very strongly, too. A very poor night's sleep indeed, but eating everyone's croissants the next day perked me right up.

Until He Dearly Departacus

Re-living my travels from the last couple of of weeks is a lot more fun than studying for my final exam. So that's what I'm going to do now. Today, let's go to Rome again, even though we were just there with a story about how I ate everyone's breakfast. I didn't actually get to see much of Rome. We were there for less than 24 hours. I didn't even have time to buy a Pope postcard, which was really what I was looking forward to most. We also missed the Pope by about fifteen minutes. But it was ok since we got to see his digs, his band, his guards, and what we decided was his pizza place. (It's just across the street from him, though I'm sure they'd deliver.) While in the Vatican, we also discussed what the Pope would give up for Lent and decided that chocolate was probably a safe bet.


Megan and Lauren fighting for lunch outside of the Colosseum. It was only appropriate that they do this. Just too bad not enough blood was shed.


Rome is ridiculous. Ancient, important, gigantic structures are just everywhere. Everywhere. So many things happened there. Julius Caesar? He was stabbed there. Russell Crowe? He fought there. The Colosseum? Just there. And it really was that big. Solid. Massive. Looking at impressive buildings like this makes me glad that I was not born a Roman slave.


Looking back, I like how I took a picture of the Pantheon from the least impressive angle possible. But I think you all know by now that photographing isn't my strong suit. (Neither is writing. Or math. Or sciences...) In my defense, we were in a rush. And I was getting yelled at for climbing up high and making Lauren nervous to take the picture. And lines from Julius Caesar kept running through my head during my time in Rome, distracting me, especially since I couldn't remember much of it.


St. Peter's Basilica and the immese throngs of people lined up all around and within it.


The Romans like their Fonzie. He was all over the place.


Fuzzy picture because we were in a hurried cab ride to the airport and the cabbie was not in a good mood. (Are we allowed to call cab drivers cabbies?) But this, folks, is Via Appia, or Appian Way. When the cab driver first told us this the night before, when he was in a much better mood, my eyes lit up and I exclaimed, "Spartacus!?" while Lauren and Megan just nodded and feigned interest. It felt odd yet exhilirating that I was in a car that was driving on the oldest and most famous of ancient Roman roads, built in 312 BC., and a road once lined with 6000 crosses.

Raised In Arizona

Was in Barcelona for one day during my travels. Just one day. But that didn't stop me from practicing my Spanish. Well, I didn't actually have Spanish to practice as I had never taken a day of Spanish before. I knew my food. Paella, queso, carne, etc., but couldn't even say paella right. I knew vaya con dios, adios, and vamos, which makes for a nice rhyme but not much else. That, however, did not stop trip companions Megan and Lauren from appointing me as designated Spanish speaker. What resulted was a lot of "Por favor, habla inglés?" (Though Lauren always said, "I don't get why you can't just ask them if they speak English in English, if they don't then they will obviously not answer in English." I like at least making an effort.) "Cuánto?" And my favorite, "Donde está la policia?" I really had to ask that because Megan was pickpocketed. (Though she accidentally told her parents she was mugged, causing much distress to the already anxious parents.) Too bad none of the people I got directions from habla'ed any inglés but we still made it there ok. That's the problem with asking things in Spanish, it gives off the wrong impression. Namely, the impression that I speak Spanish. But hey, I made it back to Eddie Bert, didn't I?

I enjoyed the city very much, but it's hard to pick a favorite reason why. Could have been the farmer's market. The crazy Gaudi architecture. Getting ripped off for dinner, however well cooked those four bites of food we had. Delicious tiramisu at a pastry shop where once again, my Spanish skills fell short. Watching the horrendous Harrison Ford/Anne Heche disaster Six Days, Seven Nights on Spanish TV. Or maybe coming down the stairs of our room the next morning to find bloody bandages on the steps. Oh, who am I kidding? It's the bloody bandages.















Gaudi's wavy museum. We didn't go in, but I imagine it was pretty cool on the inside. Gaudi is pretty crazy and brilliant.















La Broqueria, the big market where fresh produce abounded; and Lauren. Oh, fresh produce.















We stopped by the city library because we were in need of a restroom that wasn't flooded and libraries are known for their free, clean, and quiet bathrooms. Anyway, it was about 3pm in the afternoon and the library wasn't open, so I had to use an equally-clean-and-free library cafe bathroom. When I came out, there was a line of people waiting for the library to open. Folks lining up in the middle of the afternoon to use the library, now that's something you don't see every day.

Tarts and Vicars

But not like that.

Today at church, being Easter Sunday, we had communion! And today the church answered my favorite question of the white-grape-or-cranberry dilemma by providing congregants with a choice between wine (nice wine, better than the usual communion wine we have) and Oceanspray cranberry juice. Schveet.

Celebrating Jesus' very different death, the Lord's Supper was done differently today in that we went up to the table in rows and served each other the wine and broke the bread (which, by the by, were whole wheat rolls- say what? Why doesn't anyone do matzoh anymore?). The lady that served me served a very generous portion of the good wine. About one third of a normal wine glass, I'd say. And it took a few good swigs to finish. Having skipped breakfast, the bread and more-than-expected wine were the first foods I had today and I feared a little flush coming on, especially since I had to down it so fast because other people were waiting to partake of the elements. The redness would have been awfully hard to explain and I wasn't about to interrupt my row's communion experience just to tell everyone that I wasn't drunk, but just lacking aldehyde dehydrogenase. Luckily, it was just a faint little blush and no one really noticed. Oh, how hilarious and uncomfortable that could have been.

Speaking of nice wines, I should really learn a little about them. I don't much like wine, have a very unsophisticated taste, and actually prefer beers to them. But it'd be handy, and absolutely help with the snobbery, if I knew just a little about them. Take the day at Borough's Market for example. Among the many awesome samples to enjoy there was what we thought was wine. I, not being refined, chose the sweet while Fi went with medium. Then we both got shocks as we drank and discovered our little samples were stronger than normal wine. Fi drank hers slowly, so was not as overwhelmed with surprise as I was, because I am not smart and take huge swigs of things I don't know. Turns out we were drinking sherry. Sherry, if you are like me, or Fi, or Claire, and are unsure of what it is, is a fortified aged wine that can range from dry, medium, to sweet, that is slightly higher in alcohol content than normal wine (14-20% versus 5-13%). It's by no means excessively strong and can taste very nice, served for an aperitif or after dinner, but of course, that's only if you know you're drinking sherry, and not if you're gulping down what you expect to be cheap and mild wine.

Get Shorty

My favorite Sunday School song of all time would have to be the Zacchaeus song. Yesterday, straining to see over the crowds at Princes Street Gardens for a view of the Easter play, I mentioned this to Alan. I started the first few words of the song,

Zacchaeus was a

and he continued,

really little man, and a really little man was he-

Whoa. Hold a minute, I told him. A really little man? We always called him a wee little man.

And Alan replied, wee little man? But he's a really little man. That's right. All those kids in VBS and other church camps in the States are out-Scottishing the Northern Irish, and maybe all of the UK (I'm not sure yet,will have to ask around).

The play, a joint effort of many Eddie Bert churches, started at 2:30 PM. Thanks to the genius of the British railway systems, my train was delayed and I couldn't get to the park until an hour after the play had started. Not wanting to show up only to see the last few minutes, I asked Alan for the play's progress as I was leaving the train.

Moi: Has Jesus risen yet?
Alan: No, he's not even arrested yet.
Moi: Not arrested?! What have they been doing for the past hour? It's the Easter story for God's sake.

Apparently, they were going over stories like Zacchaeus.

Zacchaeus was a wee little man
and a wee little man was he
He climbed onto a sycamore tree
because Jesus he wanted to see.

PS. I'd like to take this opportunity to give a special shout out to Jenny's dad and his awesome middle name.

Sum of All Fears

Megan: (On why she's not doing anything crazy in France, Italy, or Spain) I have an unnatural fear of being deported for doing something wrong.

Moi: You have a fear of being deported? As someone that holds an American passport? I don't think you understand, I have a natural fear of being deported. I don't even know if I can make it to Spain.

I See London

Spent the past few days in London and though I barely made a dent through the city's scores of sights to see, I really enjoyed myself. The beautiful weather yesterday, and the wonderful Borough Market and all the free cheese, jam, and sausage samples put me on a high and made me forget everything I disliked about London. I love that Polyanna and her principle. We're pals. Yesterday, walked by the bridge where Liam Nielsen had an important talk with his son in Love Actually. Then walked around and tried to climb over a fence in Notting Hill. Then last night, rented Wimbledon (am now a Blockbuster member in the States, Scotland, and a temporary one in England) and proudly pointed out all the landmarks I had been to- because being in London isn't about the vibrancy of the city, or its rich history, or the wealth of museums to wander through, it's about walking through the same blocks that chick flicks were set in.















The London Eye. It wasn't actually running that day, so I couldn't go on. Plus, I couldn't actually afford the ticket if I wanted to eat (well) in London. Still, I'd like to pretend that I had wanted to go on, but was disappointed to find the Eye not running. Wouldn't it be cool if Boston had a giant skeeball machine? Just a thought.


















Mini-football tournaments going on in Trafalgar Square the other day, sponsored by Nike. Check out the jerseys.


I told you it was big.

I Got Back

I am back once again.
Just like last week, I was 'back,' in the UK, so today I am back in Eddie Bert. And in two months I will be back in the States. Then back to Taiwan. Then way, way back to ancestral homes before being back in Westford, then finally, back to the Bo'. Why can't I ever go forward in life?

Turns out, my bad, London was more fun than expected and consequently, did not update about it at all. Sorry for having a life. (Ok, I admit it, by 'life,' I mean that I know three people in London and got to spend quality time with all three of them. Still, I don't see you bouncing around London living a much better life of glamour.)

And now I'm back, and I'd like to tell you about my time in Rome. Travel buddies Lauren and I ate everyone's breakfast at the hostel. How were we to know that there was a limited supply of cereal and croissants and that once we finished them off, the hostel wouldn't set out more? We really only had two apiece. Maybe a little more. Then the bags were gone. And there weren't any more croissants. And that's my Roman story of the day. You may now go about your business.

Rock Your Body

Have finally returned to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, though not fully back in Bert yet. That will come later in the week, so no pictures until then. The next few days will be a busy mesh of pumping out essays, applying for finaid, and trying to see London and Carol. In between, I will find time to gasp for breath and procrastinate, so entries should be trickling in. Oh, by the way, this entry is brought to you with help from Miss Claire and her wondrous internet. Hooray Claire's internet!

First today, some comments on London:

Wow. That's a lot of people.
Wow. Big Ben is pretty big.
Wow. Did I just spend ten dollars on subway tickets?

At least the subway ("Tube") here is a reliable method of transportation. Can't really say the same for the airport shuttle system.

Moi: Can I board now?
Ticket Man #1: Yeah, sure.
(I try to board and give Ticket Man #2 my ticket.)
Ticket Man #2: No, you can't get on this bus. Your ticket is for the next one, you have to wait.
(Mind you, this is the guy that just sold me the ticket 10 minutes ago, when I asked if I could get a ticket to the next available coach, which he told me, would leave in 10 minutes.)
Moi: What time's my ticket for then? When's the next coach?
TM #2: I don't know.
Moi: This is ridiculous.
TM #2: (Considers the comment for a second) Wait, did I sell you the ticket a few minutes ago?
Moi: Yeah.
TM #2: Uh...you can get on.

Yeah, I still don't get that one either. But the incompetent ticket men have nothing on Ryanair, an entire company of inaptitude. A few minutes into settling into my seat onboard the flight to Rome, the captain comes on the speaker. Apparently, as the plane was arriving into the airport, it hit a flock of seagulls and may have damaged the left wing. First of all, what kind of sturdy aircraft gets hurt by seagulls? Birds are made of feathers! Anyway, the problem could have been quickly alleviated by a brief inspection had the airport had engineers there. That's right. There were no engineers to be found either on our plane or anywhere in the airport in Venice. That's what happens when you buy cheap tickets. You don't have people around to insure your safety. But it was ok, the captain assured us, he was contacting Ryanair headquarters in Dublin for further instruction. Finally, after about a 90-minute wait, an engineer was found. He just dropped from the sky. Well, actually, he was borrowed from an unfortunate flight from Brussels en route to Rome that was diverted to land in Venice to check out the wing. That's right, two entire planes full of people were delayed so one man could pull dead birds out of the poorly-constructed left wing. During the whole ordeal, I was honestly giddy with glee because I knew I had a great story on my hand, one of a bird, a plane, and a special man.

To A Computer Near You

This is zhqt hqppens zhen I try to type nor,qlly on q French keyboqrd: You cqnùt ,qke sentences:

(This is what happens when I try to type normally on a French keyboard. You can't make sentences.) For instance, why are the parenthesis not next to each other?

Am in France right now, hence the difficult keyboard. If all goes well, will be in Barcelona tomorrow, back to England and regular internet access by Tuesday- and lots and lots more updates and ridiculous stories. Just a warning, there are seagulls involved.

Roman Holiday

Yesterday, endured a 6-hour train journey, three of those spent standing up, right in front of the handicapped toilet. Thank you last-minute cheap ticket, re-servicing of Scottish trains, and suicidal man for making the journey memorable. There was a woman who had brought her toddler son into the toilet with her, then her son pushed the door open button and the handicapped bathroom door slowly and painfully swivelled open, exposing her derrier to a few unfortunate passengers, and her sheepishly apologizing, pants around her ankles, to the few that saw. "Thanks, Max, my ass is hanging for the train to see," she said half to us and half to her son as the door slowly and painfully shut again, all of us trying to avoid her gaze and hide our smiles. There was some scolding and shouting after the door shut again, followed by wailing by the toddler Max. "I guess that's why you have children," she said later, exiting the stall, "so they can embarass you." Awesomus Maximus.

Why was I standing in fron to of the toilet? There were no seats anywhere. For about an hour and a half, it was actually so crowded that I was wedged between two suitcases, so that when people tried to move through to the diner car, since all refreshment trolleys were suspended due to the crowding, I couldn't actually shift my body anywhere, but told people to just shove through and step over me.

And that, was the beginning of my 'Easter holidays.' (Sounds so much more refined than 'spring break.') I may or may not be updating for the next week. Hopefully, I can get into countries ok and visas don't stop me. We'll see. I'm sure there will be disastrous stories somewhere, waiting for me to set them in motion.