Knowing His Sheep

Today, I went to Father's office with him. It's in a big complex with lots of tiny little businesses inside, including one that belongs to Red Sox Hall of Famer Rico Petrocelli. His office is next to the church's. And his signed autograph and ball sits in our display case.

(After entering the building and passing by the high school girls working and hanging out at the front desk...)

Father: Did you greet those kids?
Moi: Yeah, I think I said hi.
Father: They all know me. They always say hi.
Moi: And do you know each of them?
Father: Not a single one.

Behind the Arrival

Yesterday morning, I was once again escorted to my transport by small group members that doubled as luggage carriers. This time, however, in place of Fi and Dave, there were Hannah, Alan, and Elle. (And Heather for a little bit, before she ditched us for academics.)















I had to tell them to look sad when they posed with my stuff, to pretend to be sad about sending me off, and it took them quite a few moments to hide their monstrous grins. And there you have it, all of my possessions for the past five months. Two giant suitcases, a laptop bag stuffed to capacity, and a Puma bag on my back that's not pictured.

When I arrived in Eddie in January, I wore the same winter coat that I had worn in Maine and Massachusetts, and settled into the climate quite well. This time around, though, it was quite a different story. At Newark, where my connecting flight was, the ground temperature was 81 Fahrenheit. I had on a t-shirt, sweatshirt, fleece, and rain coat, all of was were fit for the weather earlier that morning in Eddie Bert. I had to pick up all of my luggage in Newark and clear through customs, a big suitcase in each hand, two backpacks on my back, jackets in hand, along with passport, boarding pass, and custom form. It was quite the challenge and somehow in the process, I bruised my elbow. And ended up quite sweaty. I kept sniffing around to figure out which of the passengers in the lounge had the awful BO, and finally concluded that it was me. The only person that still had a fleece in hand, that even considered wearing a sweatshirt in the entire airport.

But before all this, there was my last night. And my long awaited fried pizza (not battered, just deep fried). It tasted surprisingly pleasant. And my only regret is that I had put it off until my last night to consume one, so that I cannot have another one for a long while. I am sure that that's probably best for my heart, but oh how my mouth craves it now. So crunchy and oily and good.















It was originally an onion pizza, so between the tomatoes and onions, it was practically a salad.















The pizza looked a lot prettier before it was wrapped. It was served with ketchup, or "red sauce," drizzled over it. I turned down the brown sauce.

It's Good to be Back

  This morning, sitting in front of my computer, wearing a t-shirt and short skirt (and not freezing for it), my dad came up to me with a cup.
  "Here, I got this for you."
  "What is it?"  I asked, looking into the cup's unfamiliar contents.
  "Poison."
  "Ok."  And I downed it.  Oh, sweet, fresh fruit smoothie poison.  It's good to be home.

  Too bad that I can't find any light switches in my house.  They are all much lower than the switches I've grown accustomed to for the past five months.  There was much batting of walls and groping through the smoothness last night.  And now I have to look at where I swat my hand just to make my room shine. 
  I don't think I realized how short my stay at home was until last night, when I finally landed and started explaining to Dwighters when I'd fly off again.
  "Wednesday?"  He asked.
  "Yeah."
  "As in today is Sunday?  So you have tomorrow and Tuesday?"
  "Yeah.  Hm.  That's kind of short."

  The homecoming was better than I could have asked for.  Well, that's not entirely true.  When I saw my mom at the luggage claim, she told me that my brother "and them" should have been here already.  "And them?"  But I only have one brother.  (One who pretended that he was going to give me a high five because of the present I got him, then pushed my head away when I moved in.)  "Yeah, he's bringing a couple of people from Boston Project with him."  That was the awesome surprise.  Paul and Keith?  My former directors, not to mention favorite role models of Christian humility and servant leadership coming all the way to see me?  Yeah, no, that was too good to be true.  In their stead, I spotted Sarah, Katie Rice, and Dwighters.  Did they have balloons with them?  Flowers?  Poster boards with my name in blinking lights?  No.  Nothing.  Just a harsh shove from my brother, who was leading the troupe.
  But the food in Chinatown, especially the pink mayonnaise (or, as Katie explained, it was "like tartar sauce without the relish," so yeah, mayonnaise...), made up for the company.  Ok, so it wasn't the best food, but at least it complemented the company well.  And it was so good to eat seafood, meat, vegetables, rice, dumplings, and soup again, all in one meal, co-existing on one lazy Susan.  O, I cannot wait to roam the supermarket stalls again and just stare at American excess. 

Testing

Check this out.  I can update from my email account.
How bloody brilliant is Blogger?

Say Hello

It's my last night in Edinburgh and time to wave goodbye.

So goodbye, to my young person's railcard, war of the words (trousers, crisps, and chips). Photo-ops with Jamilah, pretentious literary talks with Lauren. The Quotation deli. Heather, Fi, Dave, and Andy- the only four names in Scotland. Weather channel lies. Stormy, breezy skies. Frozen peas. P's & G's. Thresher's @ 7:30. Sunrise by 4am. Chinese grad students, Scottish old ladies, and old people pubs. Window displays. Thrift shops. and Digestives. Being VIP. The all encompassing 'tea.' Prayer breakfasts and 'holy curries.' Tuesday nights and Wednesday naps. (Who am I kidding? Every day but Friday naps.) No lab sciences, no class on Fridays; jam-packed computer labs, and books on reserve. Movies on Rab's bed. Sandwiches in Hannah's flat. Breakfast at Alan's. Meanies at Kamco, the nonchalant at 'Fresh Choice' and emptiness of Tesco. Arthur and Nessie, Pronto and Sebastian. Big Word. Little Chef. Mid-Lothian.

And finally, goodbye Vita-L, goodbye Factor IX.

Hello to home, home-some-time-ago, and ancestral-home. Hot, lonely summers, shopping and bargaining, mosquitoes, simplified Chinese, a new digital recorder, standing out, blending in, and squatters- I'm ready for my close up now.

Pimp My President

I don't like the word pimp. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I don't like pimps. You know who I do like? The customers in my thrift shop. The older the funnier. Like the lady today that decided not to buy the faux-fur vest even after she made sure that it wasn't actual fur. Why did she pass if she liked it? Why did she pass if she didn't want fur and it wasn't fur? Because it still looked too fur-like. She was afraid that other people might think that she was wearing animal fur. Even when she wasn't.

Oh, if you're ever self-conscious about donating your personal possessions and wonder whether people judge you for what you give, worry no more. I can put an end to your suspense. We really do make fun of you. Especially bad music. We will talk if your old collection is not cool enough. Andy will say, "How can it take people so long to realize that their music is crap? Why did you keep this for so long?"

Back to old customers. Today, this adorable, genteel, old man in crutches came in and looked at some jewelry in the display case. He bought three tasteful scarf rings, and was very pleasant the entire time. Afterwards, he looked through the store a bit and came back with, I kid you not, a faux-bling. A big, thick, plastic gold chain dangling a gigantic $ sign, just like this:

This frail, soft-spoke sixty-seventy-some-year-old white Scottish man stood in front of me and I couldn't help but chuckle. He said, "Now the ladies will think I'm rich." Oh, "You had me at bling," I wanted to say to him, "You had me at bling." But then, before he left, he added, "I just hope that no one will think I'm related to President Bush."

Huh? Does George W. have a habit of accessorizing with heavy golden chains that I don't know about? Or is he just referring to the fact that George is money? Because a lot of people are more money than W. I don't know, reader. I seem to be asking you a lot of questions lately, but I'm perplexed and I'm looking for answers. Which is too bad, because there's so few of you. (Ok, maybe just one of you. I don't even think Future-Me will read this.)

The Sky is Falling

 













As I was packing, I found this slip of paper in a pair of pants, "trousers," that I don't often wear. Somebody explain this to me, please. I feel that I am standing at the precipice of a funny anecdote, but I have no idea what these words mean. Somebody out there, remember this, and push me over the edge into hilarity. 

Night With A Vengeance

Scene: Joel, Elle, Alan, and I are walking back from the movies. Alan and Joel, being men, are walking together, slightly ahead of us. Alan turns to Joel and points to a dimly lit alley.

Alan: Now there's a dark alley.
Elle: Why are you looking for dark alley ways?
Alan: For doing secret bloke things.

At this point, Joel uncomfortably backs away from Alan ever so slightly. And we cut to Elle's hysterical laughter. End Scene.


Last night, for reasons I can't quite remember, we embarked on a movie marathon. However, tt wasn't your usual geek original-version marathon, or suspenseful TV series in a night, or girls gathering together to cry at sappy movies all night long marathon. We watched the Die Hard 'trilogy.' No, I'm not proud of it, but we did have some marvelous food accompaniments to wash the violence down. There was the chocolate-dipped fruit, the five-spice crisps, the honey roasted cashews, the potato wedges, the Tangfastics, and by God, the most marvelous lemon bars ever. When we were about three quarters of the way through the second movie (Die Harder), Elle got a call that X-Men III was coming out at midnight. I had never seen someone so excited over a movie. And it saddened me greatly that the giggling and squealing in delight were all directed at a movie like X-Men III, but the girl was actually prancing in delirious anticipation. And so we all followed her. Took a break from John McClane to watch mutants jump around and throw things at each other, including Pyro, an alum I'd be a lot prouder of if he would just get more famous. We should have stopped there. (We should have stopped after the first Die Hard.) But we didn't. Our thirst for bloodshed knew no bounds. We went back to Alan's to finish Die Hard III: Die Hard with a Vengeance, because John McClane wasn't a quitter and neither were we. Sure our eyelids were drooping for much of the last time McClane was chained to a bomb and we weren't sure if he'd make it, and couldn't have cared less by the time he was chasing Jeremy Irons in a helicopter, but we presevered, just like him. By the time the whole affair was over, the stars we had seen on our walk from the cinema were gone. So were the dark alley ways. They were replaced by light. And to that faint glow of dawn crap, but it was actually really bright outside. The birds were chirping and after a night of darkness and sounds of explosion, we stepped into the streets. We were like newborn, cocking our head up to see the light and catch the bird songs, and weary, not quite comprehending the scene was before us. Because when you spend your nights watching four B-level action movies in a row, your mind loses a lot of its knowledge and wit, and your senses get dulled to the point of infancy. At that, is why I can't churn out a coherent entry. Not because I can't write or don't have a story, but because of John McClane.

Word Association

I don't know why, but something about this sign
  reminded me of this guy.

  No idea why.

 

All in good fun, man, all in good fun. 

Sign of the Ages

  Yeah, Geneva is a buzy city. 

Swiss Vandals

Hooligans with humour. 

Attn: PETA

City of Peacetalks, my foot. The fountains of Geneva (most of them with amazingly clean and drinkable water) depict nothing but violence. 

Humor Hurts

Today, Heather and I spent so much time at the Museum of Surgery that we actually had to be kicked out. We had stayed past closing. But the place was just too fascinating. And too hilarious. What also is funny, according to the Museum captions, at least, is people's misfortunes.

Entitled, "Malicious Joy in the Misfortune of Others." "Dentistry, particularly in the days before anesthaesia, lent itself to such malicious amusement." So tasteful, so classy.

Note how well put together the Museum displays are, and how very accurate. The date correction isn't noticeable at all. O, gentle reader, how I wish you could have witnessed the effort put into the collection. There were the irrelevant objects, like top hats, decorative maps, and random coins used to fill display cases; the same pictures used to accompany three different sets of captions; and the random table with a collection of unlabeled busts scattered under it that we couldn't really figure out. And oh yeah, there was also a sudden price hike. Even though the main attraction of the Museum, the Pathology Halls, were closed for the day, we had to pay a full entrance fee, a fee that did not exist until a few weeks ago. What two-roomed Museum with typos charges people? Especially after years of free viewing?

This important man was the first to use an umbrella in Eddie Bert. That crazy trendsetter. Now everyone in town has one.

Moi: So what did they do before he came along? They just got wet?
Heather: They wore top hats.
Why, of course.

A large portion of the collection dealt with military injuries. There were bones with musket balls still lodged inside everywhere. In one instance, Lord Uxbridge, who designed his own prosthesis, the first to have a bendable knee, was said to have exclaimed, upon being struck with a bullet at the battle of Waterloo, "My God, Sir, I have lost my leg." To which the Duke of Wellington replied, "My God, Sir, so you have." My God, I love British propriety.

Speaking of museums, a little more compare and contrast between Scotty and Switzer. Each capital has a city museum that has a model of the city.

This was Scotty's:


And these were Switzer's.


Honestly, some countries get all the artistic citizens.

The Great Divide

This is the story-


of Scotty,

and Switzer.

Some countries are blessed with artistic civil servants. Some aren't as lucky.

Forever My Love

Moi: Most Revered Mother, what bounties from the land of the Switzer shall I bring back to thee? Thou dost not like chocolates or cheese.

Mother: Chocolates and cheese are so tiring. Why not some jewelry? Bring me back a diamond ring.

Moi: Will do, Giver of Life.

(Later)

Mother: You know, that thing about the diamond ring? I was just joking. You don't have to bring me back a diamond ring.

Thank you, Mother. I wish you would have told me that before I took out the loans and lost the three fingers.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Evelyn is a boy?

Evelyn is a boy. And I am not very well read. It's like that time when I thought Seamus Heaney was pronounced 'see-mus hee-ney' and a girl. And discovered that to my dismay, the bulk of my AP English class knew that that wasn't the case. Then, many moons later, for that brief year when I subscribed to The New Yorker, I would see his poems grace those pages. Sometimes I'd read the poems. Most often, I didn't. But seeing them made me think that I had somehow become smarter, more sophisticated, or at least better at pretending, than my younger days.

Then I discovered that Evelyn was a boy. And did boy-ish things like fight in battles. And realized that I had to swallow my words about favorite female authors because Evelyn wasn't one of them. Well, I still like my Alice, Lorrie, and Flannery, and I'm pretty sure they're still girls. But Evelyn isn't. Why can't everyone just stick to culturally imposed gender norms when naming your children? We must follow the example of Scotland, where every girl I meet is either Heather or Fiona, and every boy a Dave or Andy.

Oh, yes, this means that I'm back from Geneva. I can't post pictures yet, or even begin to talk about the trip, because I am very hungry and still away from my computer in Eddie Bert. Presently recuperating in home away from home away from home, will see you soon as I'm caught up on food, sleep, and yes, perhaps some Eurovision.

I See

I never tire of the 'I See London' references and puns. They're almost as good as the bun ones. Anyway, forgot that when I was saying my goodbyes-for-a-moment that I'd be in London today, land of free internet, where time and opportunities for updating abound. (By 'land of free internet,' I mean Claire's wonderful flat.) Arrived safely and sort of on time because while there were two delays, the train was also magically ahead of schedule so everything evened out.
The first delay was incredibly awkward because, as aforementioned, Fi and Dave came to send me off and act as my personal luggage valets. I think it's safe to say that they're my favorite light blonde and ginger kids in Eddie. Things worked fine and well until I actually got on the train. And the train didn't move. And we gestured at each other for awhile and smiled. Then pretended to look away at other interesting things. Then kept making really weird small talk through the glass. Yet still, the train wouldn't leave. Finally, we just resorted to playing charades. It's extra challenging when you really can't talk. The people on the train thought I was a bit crazy though, spitting out "two words, second word, world, no, earth, globe, what? Oh, China! Understanding China!" and tapping against the window, like a monkey in a zoo. I'm not sure if that analogy worked, but whatever.

Oh, that Fi sure is good at charades. And that Dave sure is good at... pretending to run. Another thing these kids are awesome at is the art of potlucking. Now I remember in high school once, when I had the whack idea that we'd have a potluck, and it was complicated because I didn't invite everyone, just the people I wanted in my house, and there were many lies spun to protect people's feelings, and after all the trouble, Squeaky brought tortilla chips. And I yelled at her for it (gently, of course). Not because I didn't like chips, but because of the obvious lack of effort and more importantly, I was hoping she'd bring her mother's chocolate chip scones. Last night, we had a potluck and these kids take their cooking seriously. We had chickpea bread, cheese pastries, pasta salad (stolen from Dan, the poor, hungry boy), chicken wings, mac and cheese, beef casserole, custard, Hungarian mushroom soup (recipe provided by Dining Services, though I forgot to add salt and everyone was too polite to comment. The soup tasted a lot better today when it was properly seasoned, I swear), banana bread, apple crumble, bread pudding, and brownies (a rarity in this Kingdom). And there were only seven of us. It was phenomenal. We didn't even have room for the ice cream Kaz brought. I can't believe I just typed the words "we didn't even have room for ice cream," but it's true. I am just as astonished as you are and fully ashamed of myself. But you should have seen the leftovers we had.

You should also have seen Hannah's handwriting. No one could quite decipher what she was writing for most of the night, which was too bad, because we played games that involved the writing of short words and sentences (the task proved very difficult for Heather), and Hannah hit people that couldn't read her handwriting. Everytime I drew a slip of paper out of the hat, I would fear getting hers, because it was sure to earn me a hard smack on the arm.

The category was favorite pudding (dessert), I drew out a piece of paper...

Moi: Le... mal... cheesecake? Le val? Le mal? OW! Hannah, did you write this?
Hannah: It's lemon cheesecake.

Dave, on Fi's brownies: Oh, Alan, so this is what brownies are supposed to look like. Ours didn't look like that!

Tick Tock

I am taking another short holiday. This time to Switzerland, the land of clocks, chocolate, and bank accounts. Because I still can. And when I go back to the States I will realize I have absolutely no money left and will not be able to take a vacation again for at least fourteen years.

That means another short break from here, but an even longer break from some good kids from Eddie Bert because they'll be gone before I get back.

I know, I just posted this picture two days ago, but whatever, you try finding a picture of the two of them together. (Ignore the sweet looking one in the background, we're not saying goodbye to her yet.) They're good kids. And could possibly be the best Bible-study-leading-break-and-hip-hop- dancing-new-in-Bristol duo on this side of the Atlantic. On the other side of the Atlantic? They don't stand a chance. I would write more, but I have a train to catch and these two are carrying my bags and whatever else I tell them to. How awesome is that?

When Life Gives You Crap

  This is Jamilah right outside of Rosslyn Chapel, where a lot of the Da Vinci Code action takes place. Words fail me. I think the picture speaks for its own awesomeness. 

They're Not Listening Still

Artists, or 'artistes', are often misunderstood people. Take Hannah, for example, O sweet Hannah. So few of us understand her temperament, and even fewer of us understand her art.

It is only right, therefore, that I give this genius a chance and display some of her finest works in this blog for a public preview before they become priceless works in a few decades. Here are a series of works called Studies of Animals, spurred by my comment that a dog-shaped sandwich cutter pretty much looks like like any other four-legged animal. Hannah drew the series to refute the claim.

The first in the series, this portrait captures the ferret, the 'bobby dog,' and the 'friendly dog.'

The 'bobby dog' refers to Greyfriars Bobby, the legendary Skye terrier of Edinburgh that faithfully waited for its master even after his death and was awarded a key to the city, blah, blah, blah... When I saw the master at work on this piece (Hannah, not the dog's master), I commented "hey, that looks like that Bobby dog, Greyfriars Bobby," which she interpreted as "the bobby dog." And the friendly dog? Well, that's just on a level beyond my comprehension of the fine arts.

In continuing her series, Hannah moved on to another animal that looked a lot like her previous creatures, the wolf, whose one distinction was its massive mouth and gnarling teeth. Then, to show her range, Hannah added 'Cat,' a drawing unlike her previous creatures. Note the depiction of the cat from a different angle than previous works. This experimentation is much akin to that of the Cubists, like Picasso, who defied convention and drew objects from many different angles. When it was pointed out that the cat may have only looked different because it was a completely different profile and suggestions were made that Hannah couldn't draw a cat 'the right way,' the artist grew enraged and churned out the next and final two drawings.

"Mouse" and "Porcupine," once again showing Hannah's wealth of talents and range for animal depiction. They look nothing like her original canine portraits.

Brava, Hannah, Brava.

(On the subject of Andy Constable)
Moi: Who of the many Andy's in CU is he?
Dave: The Constable one.

In other news, I went to my first opera yesterday. And saw a three-year-old boy fart. What did you do?

Burn, Mother Figure, Burn

Do not question my title, I insist that is how the song goes. Ah, so appropriate for Mother's Day.

Have you all shared with your mums today how much you love her? (Brits: You are exempt because you people, once again, refuse to play along with the rest of the world.)

On Thursday, it was mentioned earlier, there were all sorts of different burns, from the delightful penetration of those pesky UV rays, to the spiciness of our red lentil curry (it was made by hot people, how could it not be hot?), and then my favorite of burns, the cold, icy burn of insults. Let us turn our attention to the latter two.

Thursday was our small group's turn to cook and hand out free food outside of the main library, an experience I thoroughly enjoyed. I definitely demanded that Vita-L and gang to come visit us, raising their hopes for a free meal only to show them empty pots of the great dinner they missed. Because I am an awesome friend like that. In my defense, I did give them cinnamon buns as compensation. My buns were oh so sweet.

During the cooking process, many tears were shed as the smell of onions drifted through the kitchen. Well, Andy might have been shedding tears because Hannah, the godly divinity student and mature small group leader, was beating him senseless. "Pacifist my foot!" Dave kept shouting, as we witnessed the caning of Andy. Yet oddly enough, no one jumped to his defense. I have a feeling we'll all regret that when he finishes his medic degree and we all fall sick. A word of advice: never feed Hannah raisins you've found on the ground. Another word of advice: never accept raisins from Andy.

Those hard at work on the curry.

The onlookers cheering them on (except for Heather, who was just popping her head in).

The absolute slackers that didn't bother staying in the kitchen.
(Although it must be said that they were excellent choppers of garlic and onions.)

Stirring large pots of food in a cramped kitchen, then quickly exiting "so I wouldn't be in the way," to sit on comfy couches to chat with some of my favorite Eddie Bert people, then popping back once in awhile to pat a few backs, hand out "keep up the good works" and again returning to sit and talk with the other small group bums- moments like that make it hard to leave this city. But Hannah and Alan made it easy to leave when they started threatening (and semi following through the threats) that they'd tie me up and lock me down so I wouldn't be able to leave. Hannah, already high from the violent rampage earlier in the afternoon, had a hard time understanding that locking my arm right then, two weeks before departure, was a bit too early. But she said she didn't believe in procrastination. Oh, but I will miss bouncing over random mattresses on the sidewalk. They make me so happy.

Kaz: You're probably going to blog this, aren't you? Then you're going to blog me asking you this. I'm so paranoid that you'll blog whatever I say to you.

Well, then, don't tempt me...

Later that night, we all cramped into couches to watch the chick flick How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. It was all that we could do to stop Dave and Alan from forcing Princess Diaries 2: The Royal Engagement on us. They're quite keen on the Genovian queen.

A disturbing picture of the very hostile Fi and Dave. Kaz looked cute and friendly, but unfortunately, the lighting made her too dark to see.

A smiling Emma's head, and Alan here doing what Alan does best: working with computers and electronics.

The Roof Is On Fire

Thursday was a day of many burns. There were burns of all different sorts- from the sun's radioactive rays piercing the fair skinned, to the red-hot lentil curry we served as a small group, to the sparks of insults that ignited as we lovingly gathered to prepare for the food and fellowship together.

This is Fi, out on The Meadows, during the one day of the year that Eddie Bert was warm. Hours later she would regret that she turned her back to the sun, but for now, she is re-considering that favorite question of ours: wee through the nose or smell through the bum? She's imagining how she'd do the latter.

Joel, on the other hand, prefers the weeing. (Actually, he was trying to look "thoughtful," but Thoughtful Joel and Peeing Through the Nose Joel look pretty similar. This man takes his acting lessons from Joey Tribbiani.)

Elle, disgusted by her companions, walks off in a dramatic huff with balloons trailing behind her. Plus, she also left because I am convinced that Fi and her could never be photographed together. It was miracle enough that I saw them in the same room together this week. And even though, I had a sneaking suspicion that one of them was a body double.

Um, I Can't. I'm Washing My Hair Tonight

This is getting old, but we had another fire alarm this morning, at a refreshingly early time of 8:35am. It's the weekend, which makes 8:35 seem extra early and painful. So we're standing there, grumbling, cold, slightly confused, and all the while trying to avoid the giant puddle by the southern pole, since we're pretty sure that the pole doesn't just leak by itself but that someone else did against the pole, when Cat shares this delightful story of fire alarms past. Oh, how I wish I was there for the embarassment.

So one evening, fire alarm rings, everyone gets out, slightly annoyed, and it was revealed that Flat 4 had caused the alarm. That's us, Flat 4. The Flatmates try to look inconspicuous while staring and gesturing at each other, trying to figure out who the culprit was. Finally, Flatmate Mags breaks. "I think it was my hair straightener?" Fire Department comes. The Flatmates shamefully appear before them. Flatmate Mags, embarassed, explains something about hair straightener and patch and being right under the detector when she was using it, and Fire Department Folks nod in comprehension. "But you have such nice hair!" was their reply.

Oh. By the way, it was Kaz's flat again. Geez, people, if your showers keep causing alarms, why not just stop taking showers altogether? If your left arm causes you to sin...

Brand New Day

Have no fear, the long wait is over. You can finally put that thought down, 2006 diaries now available at a Pound Saver near you.

Emancipation of Miscellany

Somebody explain this billboard to me.

Why don't the people of Eddie Bert love their dogs? Everyone in the parks and on the trails seems to have a dog but so few seem happy about it. If I had a quarter (I charge higher rates) for every time I saw a person walk with a dog and a resentful look, I would first have to explain to the Brits the concept of a quarter ("A quarter is another way of denoting a fourth, and a fourth of a pound is 25 p, so yes, if you would hand over that 20-pence and that 5-pence, that would be loverly. No, I don't give change, I'm sorry. But yes, you may use a credit card, though there's a surcharge for totals under five pounds."), but then I would have a trajillion pounds.















Is it just me, or is this an odd choice for a diner name?

Who would have thought that 'predestination' and 'Jerusalem' were so easy to guess in Bible Charades? That Andy kid is a charades phenom, and Fi a close second.

How does my right palm keep getting bruised? What am I deliberately smacking into that would cause this bruise? This is the third time that this has happened. I thought it was the way I whacked the knife when I chop garlic, but that's not it. Maybe I sleep walk every night, and in those walks, I repeated jam my right palm against the wall. Anyone have ideas how else this is possible?

Have you seen my socks? Where have they gone? They're not on my feet or in my drawers (not those drawers, genius, the kind that stores stuff!). At the rate I'm losing them, to holes in the ankles or black holes in space, I will be going home with newspapers stuffed in my sneakers.















Whose brilliant idea was it to feed the pigeons? I was walking by when I noticed this flock of birds just chopping away violently. At first, I thought they were hacking down dandelions with their beaks. Upon closer inspection, they were greedily devouring pieces of white bread someone had thrown at them, frantically pecking like mad.

Here's a math riddle for you. I've got a five-pound bag of flour and about 750ml. of soy sauce- what can I do with them in the next three weeks to be rid of them in the most rewarding way possible?

Who is the topless boy outside of my window? What's he flailing around? Something ribbony. Nobody else with him feels compelled to be topless. People are enjoying the flat courtyards a little too much during these sunny days and everyone seems to think that they're the only folks that use it. And now, if I want to open my curtains, I look like I'm stalking, even though all I want is some sun in my room without all the prancing ribbons. It was so nice when it was just the rooster and me sharing this space.



















I like the ancient chapel tower next to the EuroMix. This, is Eddie Bert.

It's The Only Place I Want To Be

Another walk in the woods. And again, don't look too closely or you just might spot a rotting body.

Headed off for the Chinese Consulate General again yesterday to obtain my traveling permit. Previously, I had been to the Italian and German consulate generals in Eddie Bert, and while the reception I got at the two places were drastically different, their setups were pretty similar. The German one, especially, felt like a cozy sitting room, with a table, some chairs, and even a fake fire place. The Chinese one was a drastic difference. No sign of wood or carpet, but sterile white walls, tiling, and faux marble counters to stand against to fill out forms. The lights were bright and unforgiving. And instead of everyone waiting and sitting around, taking turns to go up to the window, folks just queued up behind the window. All very institutionalized, very what you'd exactly expect from the Chinese Consulate General.


Neither of these roads lead to the Chinese Consulate General.

Everything went swimmingly until the Visa Office Man handed me an application. It was in simplified Chinese. (For the uncultured, there are two types of written Chinese: simplified and traditional, simplified is a simpler version of traditional characters, used mainly in China. The more complex, traditional characters are used in Taiwan.) Now, I don't read Chinese well. But I especially don't read simplified well, what with never having learned it and all. (Thank you 4th-Year-Chinese-Professor who used a simplified-only textbook and instead of teaching me, just insisted that simplified was easy to pick up, "It's the simpler way, after all.")


This picture does not fit into the context of the story at all.

I started on my form, albeit a bit startled, and kept thinking, "So he just assumes that I can read this? He just thinks I'm Chinese or something?" Then I considered the evidence before him. I looked Chinese. We were at the Chinese Consulate. I understood the Chinese he spoke. And I replied in Chinese. Maybe it was right for him to assume that I'd read it as well. And quite shameful that I don't read better. I guess they don't ask, "Do you happen to be illiterate in your native language?" to everyone who comes along. But after a few minutes of orienting myself (I hadn't see Chinese characters in months, except for those two trips to Chinatown in London), I was able to complete the form in Chinglish. When I turned the application in, I had to sheepishly explain that I wasn't sure if I filled it in correctly. The admission was humiliating, yes, but it did soften up the Visa Office Man and he took out a pen, made some marks as if correcting my application, and became very nice to me. I think he pitied me for possessing such poor language skills. But I was just confused by the application. They asked the weirdest questions. Instead of "How long do you plan on visiting?" They asked for my parents' names and addresses. Instead of "Proof of means of support," they asked for the province I was born in. How will these things help you?! And I didn't know if I counted as someone with a foreign passport and nationality- it's a different color, yes, and says different words on it, but China doesn't see the difference, so... no? All I know is, Visa Office Man accepted my papers and told me to pick up on Tuesday (despite telling everyone else to pick up their stuff on Friday).


Neither does this picture fit into the story.

After all the traveling permit hassle, I walked through the sketchy Water of Leith pathway again and made my way to the Dean Gallery and Museum of Modern Art, getting my sophisticated culture fix for the day. So what if I spent most of the time in the cafe and gift shop, they were cafes and gift shops that only one with an appreciation for fine arts, like myself, could appreciate. It also takes one with such a palate for art to appreciate the free bus service that brought me back to city centre. It was on this walk, on such a lovely day, and then again at lunch, with perfect al fresco weather, that I realized once again how much I like Eddie Bert. (Yeah, my brain is just going to choose to forget the crappy weather that we- that's mind and body- have endured up until last week, and all the messes I've gone through, and pretend that life has been nothing but peaches and roses since arrival.)


Who can resist a face like this?

In other news, fire alarms have become part of the daily routine now, averaging 1.5* per day the past week.

*Average not based on actual data, but just what I think the mean should be.