I had hoped that simply pressing the "New Post" button might trigger something deep within my currently dazed mind, urging me forward into a new and deliriously eloquent world of blog-writing, but apparently that plan has turned out to be a complete and utter failure.
So, I turn to the familiar realm of anecdote. As soon as I figure out what I'm thinking in the present, I'll try to slot that in as well. But for now, let's pretend it's the Sunday before Christmas, and the Collective Consumer Oragnism is out in force, and it's been a long day of toil and surprisingly good vegan chocolate cheesecake, and come 5 pm when the doors are shut, the employees cavort about the shop floor, singing terrible 80's hits over the paging system or, more practically: "Those of you needing to be coralled, meet me on 1st." To which myriad sheepish cries respond and the thock of uneven footfalls on the silenced escalator increases. It is honestly like a cattle yard some mornings. But enough. That's the past, and what comes next is still the past, but at least marginally closer to the present.
After books had been scooped from their unlikely resting places and returned from whence they came, and the schedule for the following day had been appropriately relabelled with a variety of literary characters and Star Wars robots, I was tempted into a drink with some colleagues before I caught my bus home. The drink(s) in question were highly enjoyable, more on the merit of intelligent conversation than inebriation -- although I'm sure it played some part in the proceedings. The fact of the matter is this: however many lovely people I meet throughout my worldly travels, only a small percentage of them are brainy -- at least to the point of geekdom in which I have been raised and have grown accustomed to.
France, for all it's charms, could only offer apologetic smiles and vague hand gestures compared to the haven of discourse I now find myself in. There, it was mostly stilted exchanges in which I violently accosted passers-by in the Place de la Republique and demanded to know the way to the beach in a very loud voice. Whilst thrilling in it's own way, this cannot, I am afraid, comapre to my current environment -- which actually allows me to make terrible puns about Sylvia Plath's designer range of ovens.
So, at the ripe hour of 7:15, I sallied forth to the bus station in the bitter Cambridge cold, convinced that I could catch something headed for Haverhill by 8 pm at the latest. It is important to note, before I go on, that I recieved a lift into town that morning -- and consequently recall the very moment I decided not to put on extra layers and return to my room for a pair of gloves. So I found myself at the bus stop, 20 minutes past seven, slightly tipsy, and saw that my bus had left ten minutes prior. No trouble. Another 10 minutes, another bus. And yet...Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Land of interminable bus-waiting and inconvenience. The next bus came at 9:10. I was going to have to improvise.
Having had the forethought to charge my mobile -- an action I very rarely accomplish successfully as I'm just so unused to having one -- I rang home. I figured at least speaking to someone in a country where Christmas is synonymous with 86 degrees of sunshine and glee might keep me warm. This proved true only for a limited time. I chatted happily enough to my mother, attempting to avert the numbing cold of the metal seat beneath me by sitting on my uniform -- which is not of the most robust material in the world -- and occasionally smacking the palm of my hand against my thigh in a desperate bid to raise warmer blood to the surface. I imagine I must've appeared quite mad -- though considering my final situation perhaps this might be classified as a rare moment of lucid sanity by comparison.
News of home only kept me safe for 25 minutes or so, after which I started to seriously fear for my health. Suspecting shock and hypothermia were not far away, I left the embrace of the bus "shelter" and backtracked down Christ's Lane to a nondescript vent in an otherwise featureless brick wall. Indeed, the only thing of note relating to the vent itself was that it happened to be issuing forth a certain amount of tepid air. And this is how, in a desperate attemtpt to save my life, I could've been discovered in downtown Cambridge of a Sunday evening -- pressed face-first against a mid-wall grille, discussing citrus on a cell phone and pausing occasionally to utter a violent stream of expletives about my personal body temperature.
Of course, when the bus did finally arrive, the heating was broken. And when I finally disembarked in Horseheath, the mist had frozen across the pavement into a treacherous patina of icy death -- which very nearly sent me ass-over-teakettle when I attempted to start running for the safety of home. Finally, after goosestepping my way quickly (though cautiously) through the centre of the village, I made a final desperate sprint across the gravel of the drive and through the back door to the kitchen. Hardly pausing to fling down my belongings or greet the other members of the household, I began rapidly shedding articles of clothing whist powering up the stairs until I arrived before the shower, devoid of garments, and flung myself into its heavenly mercy with abandon.
And yet, relief was not that easily attained. I am sure you are all familiar with the sensation of pins and needles, but I really and truly hope none of you have had cause to find a name for the sensation of having gone through pins and needles and out the other side. As my hands and feet burned with the fire of a thousand plasticine suns (Forgive my absurd imagery, but that really is the best I can do to describe the sensation) I managaed to execute a delicate tango of temperature adjustment which eventually left me relatively stable. At this point I ran a very hot bath and proceeded to lurk in it for the next 20 minutes, occasionally surfacing for air and feeling rather like one of Squornshellous Zeta's self-satisfied mattresses. I might even have taken pause to globber gently, but I can't be quite sure. To be honest, it's all a bit of a blur after that.
But at least I can assure you that I did survive, and now, back in the land of the Present, which will soon be filled with the presence of presents (Forgive me), I have just about reached the end of my rambling capacity for this evening. Or morning. Take your pick. Which I suppose means I should wish you all a very happy Christmas indeed and bugger off to bed like a sensible human being. For the first time in a long while, I won't be working tomorrow -- and what's more, there will be cake.
Oh, and wink murder. That's good too.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Thanks For The Cheer
This Blog arrives courtesy of: My mother, for reminding me that it exists, and Philip Hansel, for bolstering my ego and persuading me that it might be a good idea to update once in a while.
So: Cambridge says "Hello," as do I.
The wind keeps blowing from across the Atlantic, the sky keeps trying to put on a good display when the sun hits the horizon around 3:45pm, the rest of the time it rains, and the chickens instinctively cruise the yard in separate factions, black and white, and I write more letters than I know what to do with, sometimes I eat crumpets for breakfast, most days it's tea and nothing more, I think about sailing, I jump on the trampoline and get very wet, I get sick, and then get better, I play Scrabble with my Godfather, I remember that somewhere in the world it's still sunny, I think of how quickly the last few years have flown by, I knit, I knit some more, I open the drapes, I close the drapes, I take the bus and read coffeetable tomes on tall ships and oceanic navigation, I dream about trying to moor longboats around luxury yachts with prehistoric alligators who are supposedly no longer hungry for the taste of sailors as my Captain spontaneously combusts for no apparent reason and doesn't seem too concerned.
See, it wasn't too wierd until that last one. I swaer it seemed perfectly logical while I was asleep. My dreams have been vivid and hectic these last few weeks, leaving me strangely satisfied when I wake up, knowing that I've seen my shipmates and my friends and the children I learned my ABC's with in some capacity at least. It staves off the feeling of being cut off. Some days are fabulous because I hear from someone on break in Ojai, someone traveling to the mountains in Australia, someone weathering the winter in France, dealing with potential in-laws in Washington, navigating the 5 down to Los Angeles, waiting for the weather to clear, studying for finals, taking a photo a day, heading off on a New Year retreat...Anything beyond the fire in the grate and the the rain relentlessly flowing down the gutters outside. Anything that reminds me of the family I've built up over the years. They're an amazing crowd of beautiful, lively, intelligent, silly people and I love them all dearly, perhaps I don't tell them enough. Driving me to write and tell them now from 8,000 miles away.
Alysia wins first prize for writing back to me on this leg of the journey. Her postcard and letter arrived today, carefully forwarded from home, full of sunny Australian news, making me dream of Sespe backpacking and Mount Brewer in the snow. But now is the time for some practicality. I begin work on Tuesday at Borders bookstore, earning minimum wage here, which sneakily translates to $10 an hour at home. Thank you, failing economy. With the money I earn I'll be able to finish my trip with cash to spare for a ticket North when the time comes to rejoin my precious sailorly contingent and live it up away from the hard for a change. I get to wear a shiny red Borders shirt and spend eight hours a day in the company of books. Lots of books. I should mention that the particular Borders I am employed at is the largest in Europe. Oh yes. Lots of books for me.
This is probably all the sensical writing I can manage for today. Slacking off on journaling for the sake of letter-writing leads to a surplus of nostalgic rambling, which unfortunately must be emptied before I reach critical mass and go super nova.
Other things, like holly and the distinctive smell of tinsel and London and trains and dresses and just remembering to breathe every day. Taking anew the farmhouse I remember from age 6, sitting in a vortex of bubble bath and giggling, hot water bottles, a little more tar off the Turk's Head each day, playing with calligraphic pens, helping to decorate the village hall in tatty cellophane, stringing ornaments 25 feet up a ladder, flashbacks to countless light hangs in countless spaces, Shakespearean Festival nights and where are they now? All of those power tools, interns, flats, crusted rollers, wads of gaff tape, baseball caps, memorized lines, bad Italian accents, tambourines, innocent crushes. Standing still as the world flows on around me. It gives one a strange sort of perspective.
Haircut here, frostbite there, new top, old pants, replacing shoelaces, knitting handwarmers, new handwriting, same news, remembering to wash my hands, forgetting what sort of cake I had for my eighth birthday, listening to the same music, superimposing different connotations, running home in the five pm darkness, could be any time of night for all anyone can tell, understanding the meaning of perpetual summer, resisting the temptation to run home and jump on the Lady and sail away, to book the next flight to South Africa and regain feeling in my fingers again, knowing I should head to the kitchen and defrost, but deciding just a few more words, just a little more thought, saying goodbye and hello to all these different parts of myself.
This is what the world is all about: Hello and goodbye. Goodbye and hello.
Just keep breathing.
So: Cambridge says "Hello," as do I.
The wind keeps blowing from across the Atlantic, the sky keeps trying to put on a good display when the sun hits the horizon around 3:45pm, the rest of the time it rains, and the chickens instinctively cruise the yard in separate factions, black and white, and I write more letters than I know what to do with, sometimes I eat crumpets for breakfast, most days it's tea and nothing more, I think about sailing, I jump on the trampoline and get very wet, I get sick, and then get better, I play Scrabble with my Godfather, I remember that somewhere in the world it's still sunny, I think of how quickly the last few years have flown by, I knit, I knit some more, I open the drapes, I close the drapes, I take the bus and read coffeetable tomes on tall ships and oceanic navigation, I dream about trying to moor longboats around luxury yachts with prehistoric alligators who are supposedly no longer hungry for the taste of sailors as my Captain spontaneously combusts for no apparent reason and doesn't seem too concerned.
See, it wasn't too wierd until that last one. I swaer it seemed perfectly logical while I was asleep. My dreams have been vivid and hectic these last few weeks, leaving me strangely satisfied when I wake up, knowing that I've seen my shipmates and my friends and the children I learned my ABC's with in some capacity at least. It staves off the feeling of being cut off. Some days are fabulous because I hear from someone on break in Ojai, someone traveling to the mountains in Australia, someone weathering the winter in France, dealing with potential in-laws in Washington, navigating the 5 down to Los Angeles, waiting for the weather to clear, studying for finals, taking a photo a day, heading off on a New Year retreat...Anything beyond the fire in the grate and the the rain relentlessly flowing down the gutters outside. Anything that reminds me of the family I've built up over the years. They're an amazing crowd of beautiful, lively, intelligent, silly people and I love them all dearly, perhaps I don't tell them enough. Driving me to write and tell them now from 8,000 miles away.
Alysia wins first prize for writing back to me on this leg of the journey. Her postcard and letter arrived today, carefully forwarded from home, full of sunny Australian news, making me dream of Sespe backpacking and Mount Brewer in the snow. But now is the time for some practicality. I begin work on Tuesday at Borders bookstore, earning minimum wage here, which sneakily translates to $10 an hour at home. Thank you, failing economy. With the money I earn I'll be able to finish my trip with cash to spare for a ticket North when the time comes to rejoin my precious sailorly contingent and live it up away from the hard for a change. I get to wear a shiny red Borders shirt and spend eight hours a day in the company of books. Lots of books. I should mention that the particular Borders I am employed at is the largest in Europe. Oh yes. Lots of books for me.
This is probably all the sensical writing I can manage for today. Slacking off on journaling for the sake of letter-writing leads to a surplus of nostalgic rambling, which unfortunately must be emptied before I reach critical mass and go super nova.
Other things, like holly and the distinctive smell of tinsel and London and trains and dresses and just remembering to breathe every day. Taking anew the farmhouse I remember from age 6, sitting in a vortex of bubble bath and giggling, hot water bottles, a little more tar off the Turk's Head each day, playing with calligraphic pens, helping to decorate the village hall in tatty cellophane, stringing ornaments 25 feet up a ladder, flashbacks to countless light hangs in countless spaces, Shakespearean Festival nights and where are they now? All of those power tools, interns, flats, crusted rollers, wads of gaff tape, baseball caps, memorized lines, bad Italian accents, tambourines, innocent crushes. Standing still as the world flows on around me. It gives one a strange sort of perspective.
Haircut here, frostbite there, new top, old pants, replacing shoelaces, knitting handwarmers, new handwriting, same news, remembering to wash my hands, forgetting what sort of cake I had for my eighth birthday, listening to the same music, superimposing different connotations, running home in the five pm darkness, could be any time of night for all anyone can tell, understanding the meaning of perpetual summer, resisting the temptation to run home and jump on the Lady and sail away, to book the next flight to South Africa and regain feeling in my fingers again, knowing I should head to the kitchen and defrost, but deciding just a few more words, just a little more thought, saying goodbye and hello to all these different parts of myself.
This is what the world is all about: Hello and goodbye. Goodbye and hello.
Just keep breathing.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Oh Alright...
So, a little clarification -- since my last entry was really a brief cop-out to avoid writing something legitimately blog-like...
I started my newest European adventure in Paris, where I frolicked in literary and linguistic glee for 10 days before boarding a very speedy train for Avignon in the south. For two weeks I have enjoyed excellent company in the tiny hamlet of Villars, wining and dining in delicious Provencale style whilst enjoying a book a day and plucking grapes straight off the vine. We've had reds and golds beyond belief, snow where before there has been none, sunshine that would put the tropics to shame, cold so sharp it gives you a brain freeze, bare branches like twisted limbs in the soil, and enough rain to float Noah and his ark six times over. I came in Autumn and will be leaving in the depths of Winter. I came free and will leave freer. So free that I don't care whether or not "freer" is a word.
This week we took a trip to see one of my mum's best childhood friends in the mountainous region three hours east of Villars. Rain dogged our steps, but it was still a view that took my breath away. A cluster of 3 houses halfway up one half of a sweeping valley. One side a spray of geometric convergence where four vineyards ran down to the edge of a sluggish river on the ravine floor. The opposite mountains frosted in pines and shaggy green foliage, an occasional spire of granite. Fog drifting in and out of the steep peaks, rain curtaining across the empty spaces.
I walked through streets too narrow to be called streets, down Medieval staircases and across Roman bridges straddling the wilderness, scampered up gorges running swollen with the rain, getting soaked to the bone, only to come home to a warm fire and a double loft bed full of charming feline companions. We drove back this morning, pausing to spend a riveting 10 minutes watching lorries on the highway, munching mediocre smoked salmon sandwiches, made it back in time for a torrential downpour. Now huddled in the warm and dry, I half-heartedly pack for my Saturday morning flight.
Back home they're tearing out the inner heartstrings of Theater 150, bringing good wishes over to the new space -- which frankly needs all the energy it can get to dispel those mortuary vibes. I'm filled with a petulant sort of sadness, frustrated that I can't be there for what I know will be a heartbreaking and, ultimately, very beautiful day of hard work. "Why now?" part of me wants to complain. "Why change everything the minute I'm gone?" But that's a silly position to take. I send them love and support and can rest assured that Kim will be saving a piece of the stage for me to cling to until my dying day.
Far-reaching news that has little to do with the present, but is nonetheless bloody exciting: My dates are more or less set for next summer's sailing adventure, and it looks like I'll be offshore for a good two months at least -- possibly three. And what better time to hit the ocean blue? Moving from Spring to Summer, Ed Programs giving way to Battles and Adventure Sails, the Portland Rose Festival, Victoria Tall Ships Festival in Canada, and Tall Ships Tacoma 2008 giving me time to see all my shipmates currently aboard other vessels -- not to mention shore-bound sailors in Washington and Oregon. Perhaps even a few friends from home currently in the Northern climes for collegiate reasons. I'm thrilled to finally be spending more than a few weeks on Lady at one time, and from what I've heard the paid crew already signed up are going to be fantastic. Evil Ryan and Rob will be Master and Mate respectively, Tara, Molly, Elmo, Tommy, and a host of other well-known summer faces (They hire us for our looks, you know) will be setting a high standard of working and playing hard so we can't tell the difference. I can't stand to think of it as four months away, but at the same time I know time's going to fly as I continue traveling.
Next up, a month outside Cambridge with my godmother and her charming brood, working to fund my adventures in New Year. Standing by for lots of rain and miserable weather to be tempered with lovely company and a thoroughly enjoyable Christmas. I'll be stationary for a while here, so I'd say now is the time to send any correspondence to my home address (727 s. La Luna Ave. Ojai, CA 93023) where it can make its way to my open arms. For the latest batch of postcard and letter recipients, the French postal system has just shut down entirely due to workers' strikes, which may lead to the delay or (God Forbid) loss of your airmail goodies. I can only hope they arrive safely, because I enjoy writing to you all -- but more importantly, because stamps are bloody expensive.
Stay jolly. The Christmas Season is nigh!
Lucy
P.S. A Happy Turkey-Munching Day to all readers to whom such a holiday is applicable.
I started my newest European adventure in Paris, where I frolicked in literary and linguistic glee for 10 days before boarding a very speedy train for Avignon in the south. For two weeks I have enjoyed excellent company in the tiny hamlet of Villars, wining and dining in delicious Provencale style whilst enjoying a book a day and plucking grapes straight off the vine. We've had reds and golds beyond belief, snow where before there has been none, sunshine that would put the tropics to shame, cold so sharp it gives you a brain freeze, bare branches like twisted limbs in the soil, and enough rain to float Noah and his ark six times over. I came in Autumn and will be leaving in the depths of Winter. I came free and will leave freer. So free that I don't care whether or not "freer" is a word.
This week we took a trip to see one of my mum's best childhood friends in the mountainous region three hours east of Villars. Rain dogged our steps, but it was still a view that took my breath away. A cluster of 3 houses halfway up one half of a sweeping valley. One side a spray of geometric convergence where four vineyards ran down to the edge of a sluggish river on the ravine floor. The opposite mountains frosted in pines and shaggy green foliage, an occasional spire of granite. Fog drifting in and out of the steep peaks, rain curtaining across the empty spaces.
I walked through streets too narrow to be called streets, down Medieval staircases and across Roman bridges straddling the wilderness, scampered up gorges running swollen with the rain, getting soaked to the bone, only to come home to a warm fire and a double loft bed full of charming feline companions. We drove back this morning, pausing to spend a riveting 10 minutes watching lorries on the highway, munching mediocre smoked salmon sandwiches, made it back in time for a torrential downpour. Now huddled in the warm and dry, I half-heartedly pack for my Saturday morning flight.
Back home they're tearing out the inner heartstrings of Theater 150, bringing good wishes over to the new space -- which frankly needs all the energy it can get to dispel those mortuary vibes. I'm filled with a petulant sort of sadness, frustrated that I can't be there for what I know will be a heartbreaking and, ultimately, very beautiful day of hard work. "Why now?" part of me wants to complain. "Why change everything the minute I'm gone?" But that's a silly position to take. I send them love and support and can rest assured that Kim will be saving a piece of the stage for me to cling to until my dying day.
Far-reaching news that has little to do with the present, but is nonetheless bloody exciting: My dates are more or less set for next summer's sailing adventure, and it looks like I'll be offshore for a good two months at least -- possibly three. And what better time to hit the ocean blue? Moving from Spring to Summer, Ed Programs giving way to Battles and Adventure Sails, the Portland Rose Festival, Victoria Tall Ships Festival in Canada, and Tall Ships Tacoma 2008 giving me time to see all my shipmates currently aboard other vessels -- not to mention shore-bound sailors in Washington and Oregon. Perhaps even a few friends from home currently in the Northern climes for collegiate reasons. I'm thrilled to finally be spending more than a few weeks on Lady at one time, and from what I've heard the paid crew already signed up are going to be fantastic. Evil Ryan and Rob will be Master and Mate respectively, Tara, Molly, Elmo, Tommy, and a host of other well-known summer faces (They hire us for our looks, you know) will be setting a high standard of working and playing hard so we can't tell the difference. I can't stand to think of it as four months away, but at the same time I know time's going to fly as I continue traveling.
Next up, a month outside Cambridge with my godmother and her charming brood, working to fund my adventures in New Year. Standing by for lots of rain and miserable weather to be tempered with lovely company and a thoroughly enjoyable Christmas. I'll be stationary for a while here, so I'd say now is the time to send any correspondence to my home address (727 s. La Luna Ave. Ojai, CA 93023) where it can make its way to my open arms. For the latest batch of postcard and letter recipients, the French postal system has just shut down entirely due to workers' strikes, which may lead to the delay or (God Forbid) loss of your airmail goodies. I can only hope they arrive safely, because I enjoy writing to you all -- but more importantly, because stamps are bloody expensive.
Stay jolly. The Christmas Season is nigh!
Lucy
P.S. A Happy Turkey-Munching Day to all readers to whom such a holiday is applicable.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
A Few Facts
1. Basic human kindness is alive and well.
2. Oscar Wilde's tomb is covered in kisses.
3. George Whitman is a gentle king of an intellectual's kingdom.
4. The French countryside looks just as beautiful viewed moving backwards at excess of 300 kilometers an hour as it does moving forwards in the calm stride of regular living.
5. By the Seine, there is a Mirror of Love.
6. When lending your downstairs neighbors kitchen paraphenalia, expect Thank You Crepes.
7. Fish tastes better when in the comapny of 75 multi-national strangers all becoming friends as quickly as they can.
8. Do not pay attention to writers of articles claiming the art of letter-writing is a dying art. They are lying. Please prove them wrong.
9. When caught in an airport lounge with armrests, achieve horizontal equilibrium by lying FACING the seat backs and placing the armrest in the pit of one's stomach. Caution: may only work for average-sized travelers.
10. Knitting needles are not allowed on flights from Heathrow to Paris.
11. Age is a state of mind.
12. Do not try to pretend you are not on the Metro while writing a letter or a journal. It will not work.
13. In the mountains, every village has a freshwater spring in its center.
14. Sunsets in Villars will ALWAYS be beautiful.
15. Norte Dame is far more impressive when it takes you by surprise.
16. Cat Stevens has the power to evoke an unexpected nostalgia in an unfamiliar landscape.
17. Often, when lost, things unexpected and far more delightful than those sought are found.
18. The French instill in one an alarming desire to write in cursive.
19. The last time it snowed in November in Villars was seven years ago. It snowed this afternoon.
20. The Lady Washington is sailing North next summer. I will be going with her.
21. Someday there will exist a library of journals of ordinary people, donated willingly, for open perusal by the public.
22. It is alright to spend the whole day lying in bed with a good book now and then, even while traveling.
23. It is impolite to sneer at sheep cheese.
24. In this world, there exists an item called a winkle-picker.
25. Friends to whom you can write about nothing are valuable and not to be discarded lightly.
26. Life is very, VERY beauiful.
2. Oscar Wilde's tomb is covered in kisses.
3. George Whitman is a gentle king of an intellectual's kingdom.
4. The French countryside looks just as beautiful viewed moving backwards at excess of 300 kilometers an hour as it does moving forwards in the calm stride of regular living.
5. By the Seine, there is a Mirror of Love.
6. When lending your downstairs neighbors kitchen paraphenalia, expect Thank You Crepes.
7. Fish tastes better when in the comapny of 75 multi-national strangers all becoming friends as quickly as they can.
8. Do not pay attention to writers of articles claiming the art of letter-writing is a dying art. They are lying. Please prove them wrong.
9. When caught in an airport lounge with armrests, achieve horizontal equilibrium by lying FACING the seat backs and placing the armrest in the pit of one's stomach. Caution: may only work for average-sized travelers.
10. Knitting needles are not allowed on flights from Heathrow to Paris.
11. Age is a state of mind.
12. Do not try to pretend you are not on the Metro while writing a letter or a journal. It will not work.
13. In the mountains, every village has a freshwater spring in its center.
14. Sunsets in Villars will ALWAYS be beautiful.
15. Norte Dame is far more impressive when it takes you by surprise.
16. Cat Stevens has the power to evoke an unexpected nostalgia in an unfamiliar landscape.
17. Often, when lost, things unexpected and far more delightful than those sought are found.
18. The French instill in one an alarming desire to write in cursive.
19. The last time it snowed in November in Villars was seven years ago. It snowed this afternoon.
20. The Lady Washington is sailing North next summer. I will be going with her.
21. Someday there will exist a library of journals of ordinary people, donated willingly, for open perusal by the public.
22. It is alright to spend the whole day lying in bed with a good book now and then, even while traveling.
23. It is impolite to sneer at sheep cheese.
24. In this world, there exists an item called a winkle-picker.
25. Friends to whom you can write about nothing are valuable and not to be discarded lightly.
26. Life is very, VERY beauiful.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Wearing Pants and Waving Hats
Oh my lovelies! I am home once more after two weeks on the rolling main. After countless nights in the rain and the wind. After glorious mornings with the sails set and the dolphins rolling along. After songs and smiles and seemingly endless vistas of paradise. I am here. In two days I will be there. And by there I mean Europe once more. Some days it seems utterly exhausting to just be me, but I have a feeling it's worth it in the long run.
My time on the Lady Washington was eventful, adventurous, at times frustrating (Trying to make headway against 50 knot winds and 35 foot swell with the engine going full blast and still going backwards...), and always beyond words in terms of description. However, I will try.
Imagine, if you will, fighting the above currents and elements for 5 days, making imperceptible amounts of progress, already behind schedule from having hole up in backwater Columbia River ports to avoid horrendous gales. Then imagine every element turning in your favor, emerging from an endless night to see the sun rising red from the horizon and feel the wind in your hair finally blowing from the North. Our last three days were the closest I've come to Paradise. We set almost every stitch of canvas and flew down the coast towards San Fransisco under warm sun by day and a glittering waxing moon by night. Whales swam idly beside us, sunfish waved their absurd fins in greeting, and pods of dolphins gamboled about the bowsprit as we, delighted souls, hung off the headrails trying to make contact.
When the wind began gusting up to 50 and 60 knots (Knots to miles per hour is roughly 1.15, for perspective) we furled everything aside from the forecourse (Our largest sail) and were still easily making 9 knots. (For more perspective, the Lady's fasted recorded speed under sail was 12.8 knots) This speed fluctuated between 8 and 12 (!) as we surfed gracefully down massive swells that turned the rudder well into a leviathan's blow hole and caused everyone on deck to giggle and shriek with delight like schoolgirls. This continued until we glided under the Golden Gate Bridge at 1am on Friday morning. I found myself aloft on the forecourse retrieving the splat'ln as we passed under the Bay Bridge, something I will never forget, and then we were pulling into Pier 40 to the waiting arms of our Hawaiian Chieftain compatriots. Happy reunions, horror stories, healthy doses of showering -- things were good in the world.
And as much as I would love to go into specifics (For there are many) time is short and even as I write the hours are counting down until I drive back to LA and brave the airport rush for an 11:30pm flight that will put me back in London. My passport arrived in the nick of time yesterday and I haven't let go of it since. At last I have achieved dual citizenship and all that it entails. I can live and work in the European Union. I can travel freely. And best of all, I no longer have to wait in that damnable non-EU Passport line at the immigration desk.
So next stop: London, but only for a night. My final destination is the City of Lights! Paris! France! Romance! Adventure! Baguettes! I have an apartment in the city center for a whole week, will be attending language classes in the mornings and exploring the city in the afternoons, then taking a train to Provence for two more weeks of beautiful French countryside. And although I miss the brig terribly and would love to stay here in the California sunshine, adventure calls and I must answer.
My invitation for postcards still stands, do leave an address if you'd like to receive some. And if you get really motivated -- write me back! I LOVE getting mail. Anything that goes to my normal address will somehow get forwarded to me in the near future.
I think that's really it for now, so enjoy yourselves marvelously and succulently while I'm gone and thank you for sticking with me so far. There will be many more adventures in the near future, I'm sure.
Huge hugs for everyone!
Lucy
My time on the Lady Washington was eventful, adventurous, at times frustrating (Trying to make headway against 50 knot winds and 35 foot swell with the engine going full blast and still going backwards...), and always beyond words in terms of description. However, I will try.
Imagine, if you will, fighting the above currents and elements for 5 days, making imperceptible amounts of progress, already behind schedule from having hole up in backwater Columbia River ports to avoid horrendous gales. Then imagine every element turning in your favor, emerging from an endless night to see the sun rising red from the horizon and feel the wind in your hair finally blowing from the North. Our last three days were the closest I've come to Paradise. We set almost every stitch of canvas and flew down the coast towards San Fransisco under warm sun by day and a glittering waxing moon by night. Whales swam idly beside us, sunfish waved their absurd fins in greeting, and pods of dolphins gamboled about the bowsprit as we, delighted souls, hung off the headrails trying to make contact.
When the wind began gusting up to 50 and 60 knots (Knots to miles per hour is roughly 1.15, for perspective) we furled everything aside from the forecourse (Our largest sail) and were still easily making 9 knots. (For more perspective, the Lady's fasted recorded speed under sail was 12.8 knots) This speed fluctuated between 8 and 12 (!) as we surfed gracefully down massive swells that turned the rudder well into a leviathan's blow hole and caused everyone on deck to giggle and shriek with delight like schoolgirls. This continued until we glided under the Golden Gate Bridge at 1am on Friday morning. I found myself aloft on the forecourse retrieving the splat'ln as we passed under the Bay Bridge, something I will never forget, and then we were pulling into Pier 40 to the waiting arms of our Hawaiian Chieftain compatriots. Happy reunions, horror stories, healthy doses of showering -- things were good in the world.
And as much as I would love to go into specifics (For there are many) time is short and even as I write the hours are counting down until I drive back to LA and brave the airport rush for an 11:30pm flight that will put me back in London. My passport arrived in the nick of time yesterday and I haven't let go of it since. At last I have achieved dual citizenship and all that it entails. I can live and work in the European Union. I can travel freely. And best of all, I no longer have to wait in that damnable non-EU Passport line at the immigration desk.
So next stop: London, but only for a night. My final destination is the City of Lights! Paris! France! Romance! Adventure! Baguettes! I have an apartment in the city center for a whole week, will be attending language classes in the mornings and exploring the city in the afternoons, then taking a train to Provence for two more weeks of beautiful French countryside. And although I miss the brig terribly and would love to stay here in the California sunshine, adventure calls and I must answer.
My invitation for postcards still stands, do leave an address if you'd like to receive some. And if you get really motivated -- write me back! I LOVE getting mail. Anything that goes to my normal address will somehow get forwarded to me in the near future.
I think that's really it for now, so enjoy yourselves marvelously and succulently while I'm gone and thank you for sticking with me so far. There will be many more adventures in the near future, I'm sure.
Huge hugs for everyone!
Lucy
Saturday, October 6, 2007
In Case of Emergency Smash Glass
I realize my blogastination may have left some of you with the impression that I may be slowly decomposing in a ditch somewhere in the English countryside, I rush to assure you that this is not the case. I am, in fact, alive and well and once again in front of my own keyboard in my lovely home in Ojai.
"But what can this mean?" Some of you may exclaim in shock and horror. Certainly not that I have given up the chase. This is merely a brief interlude in my global crusade, a pit stop in the name of bureaucracy for the sake of the greater good. For reasons I don't understand, I must apply for my English citizenship not in England, but in America. Wonders never cease. Luckily, since my parents feel responsible for not discovering this fact sooner, they have given me a round trip ticket back to America so we can clear this mess up and I can travel freely through my countries of choice and work to fund my existence through the Christmas season.
Secrecy may be cast to the winds now that I am here, and the news goes public that on Monday I fly to Washington for some seriously awesome Lady Washington brig time journeying from Aberdeen all the way down to San Fransisco. We have eight days, come rain and rough weather, to make it there. I'm terrified beyond all reason, but at the same time I can't wait to see my seagoing family again and meet all the new folks who have come aboard for the journey south. Then I'm home for a week to collect my thoughts and belongings before I dunk back into the adventure in Paris, France.
This whole business couldn't have come at a better time. Sun deprivation and travel fatigue were getting me down and I found the charms of the UK lost on my senses as I thought of sunny days in Ventura County and the various comforts of home. Since my adventures in Ireland, I met up with my mother in London and spent two weeks caring for my grandmother who is, to put it gently, mad as a loon, but lovely despite her lack of memory and other cognitive reasoning drives. I took up knitting like a fiend, but can only produce scarves...because they're very very easy. I started stretching daily again, saw my lovely godmother and got to spend a far too brief night in her amazing farmhouse, had some lovely steak pie, saw my mother's childhood fiance, and finally flew back to my father's waiting arms at LAX.
Perhaps all that leaving, if just for this long, has taught me is that I do truly belong here in Southern California. The sunny coast on the drive home, the smell of my house, the comfort foods of home (O, thank you Trader Joe's!) arrayed in the fridge, everything as it should be. My belongings, far more extensive than I remember them having lived in such a minimalist style for the last two months, strewn across my orange room. Lying on the doormat in the sun. Sleeping in. Not worrying that someone else is waiting to use the computer. Not obsessing about how much my meals are costing or where I'm going to spend the night. This is truly bliss.
A part of me never wants to leave again, but there are still things to see and places to explore out there in the big wide world, so the trip will continue. But for now, some well-earned rest, the love of friends and family, and some good old fashioned sailing on the rolling main.
Oh bliss.
"But what can this mean?" Some of you may exclaim in shock and horror. Certainly not that I have given up the chase. This is merely a brief interlude in my global crusade, a pit stop in the name of bureaucracy for the sake of the greater good. For reasons I don't understand, I must apply for my English citizenship not in England, but in America. Wonders never cease. Luckily, since my parents feel responsible for not discovering this fact sooner, they have given me a round trip ticket back to America so we can clear this mess up and I can travel freely through my countries of choice and work to fund my existence through the Christmas season.
Secrecy may be cast to the winds now that I am here, and the news goes public that on Monday I fly to Washington for some seriously awesome Lady Washington brig time journeying from Aberdeen all the way down to San Fransisco. We have eight days, come rain and rough weather, to make it there. I'm terrified beyond all reason, but at the same time I can't wait to see my seagoing family again and meet all the new folks who have come aboard for the journey south. Then I'm home for a week to collect my thoughts and belongings before I dunk back into the adventure in Paris, France.
This whole business couldn't have come at a better time. Sun deprivation and travel fatigue were getting me down and I found the charms of the UK lost on my senses as I thought of sunny days in Ventura County and the various comforts of home. Since my adventures in Ireland, I met up with my mother in London and spent two weeks caring for my grandmother who is, to put it gently, mad as a loon, but lovely despite her lack of memory and other cognitive reasoning drives. I took up knitting like a fiend, but can only produce scarves...because they're very very easy. I started stretching daily again, saw my lovely godmother and got to spend a far too brief night in her amazing farmhouse, had some lovely steak pie, saw my mother's childhood fiance, and finally flew back to my father's waiting arms at LAX.
Perhaps all that leaving, if just for this long, has taught me is that I do truly belong here in Southern California. The sunny coast on the drive home, the smell of my house, the comfort foods of home (O, thank you Trader Joe's!) arrayed in the fridge, everything as it should be. My belongings, far more extensive than I remember them having lived in such a minimalist style for the last two months, strewn across my orange room. Lying on the doormat in the sun. Sleeping in. Not worrying that someone else is waiting to use the computer. Not obsessing about how much my meals are costing or where I'm going to spend the night. This is truly bliss.
A part of me never wants to leave again, but there are still things to see and places to explore out there in the big wide world, so the trip will continue. But for now, some well-earned rest, the love of friends and family, and some good old fashioned sailing on the rolling main.
Oh bliss.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Luck O' The Un-Irish
So there I was: 10 miles from my goal, in the oncoming front of a storm, paying far more than I should for a night in the country, and quickly realizing that traveling on a Sunday in the south of Ireland for whatever reason is not a good idea. But that's all far in the future, so allow me to fill you in.
My trip to Ireland was, in retrospect, successful...but it was the kind of success that one can only recognize once the goal in question has been achieved. The summit summited. The dragon slain. But whilst one is breaking limbs on the ascent or getting hairs scorched off by fiery eructations during the battle, things can seem quite grim-- and so they were. I began the trip on a excellent note by rising with plenty of time to spare on Wednesday morning, eating a hearty breakfast, and being driven the short distance to the Glasgow Airport. This is where things begin to go wrong.
There are two airports in Glasgow. And when I say "in Glasgow," I mean that one is in Glasgow and the other is 45 minutes out of the city in the middle of the countryside. Of course, upon arriving exactly one hour before departure at Glasgow Airport, I discovered that, while my timing was correct, I was in the wrong location. So back in the chariot and onto the highroad to Prestwick, upon which we were, of course, enjoying the back end of a line of traffic which had accumulated behind a tractor moving at imperceptible speeds farther up the road. Almost an hour later, 20 minutes before the plane was due to fly, we gasped and staggered into the terminal, only to be very politely told that check-in had closed long before and we were, to put it in colloquial terminology, screwed.
Luckily (Can we call it that?) I could pay £50 to get myself onto the next available flight at 6:50 pm (It was 9 am at this point in time) and so get to Dublin on the same day as I had originally planned. Hooray? Question mark?
I resigned myself to a classy day in the terminal and bade my farewells to Peter MacDonald, my lovely host, who was off to speak in the Scottish Parliament and so had to make himself presentable. Cor blimey. Kicking myself for making such an idiotic and costly mistake, I sat down morosely and had some highly unsatisfactory porridge before heading upstairs to the lounge and falling into fitful slumber. The day passed slowly, but eventually I was back at the check-in desk (First in line -- not taking any chances) displaying my passport and taking out extra clothes to wear so my bag would fit the weight limit.
The flight was incredibly brief for such a long build-up, and soon enough I was walking through the familiar halls of Dublin International Airport. I felt positive. I had directions. I was going to the hostel. I knew what bus to take. All was well in the world. This proceeded in a positive fashion until I got within about 5 minutes of the hostel itself. My directions were to head South from Heuston Station. My decision, since the large compass I had expected to find sunk into the concrete was not forthcoming, was to head North instead. Mistakenly believing that I was heading for a warm bed and a pleasant home, I set of boldly across the river.
I progressed, growing less bold with each passing half mile, for another 45 minutes. Under normal circumstances, this would hardly phase me, but with 50 pounds of assorted junk strapped to my shoulders (Why did I pack so much RUBBISH!?) it quickly became a kind of purgatory (Why did I decide to wear my FLIP FLOPS!?) which I barely struggled through without breaking down and hailing a taxi (Why are there so many TAXI RANKS in Dublin!?) while descending to a level of pain and despair so great that I ended up hurling a torrent of caustic expletives at every vehicle that passed me with such smug ease on the highway.
After completing my giant loop of folly, I was back at the station. I collapsed on a bench and gathered my thoughts, then set out in the other direction. Soon enough I was passing the giant, brick Guinness storehouses and factory buildings which, since I was in search of the Brewery Hostel, was a good sign. At last...at long last...I spotted a sign which held the words I had so long been searching for. I staggered through the doors and fell into a corner, giving my check -in details from my prone position to a rather surprised-looking French guy with dreadlocks behind the counter. It was 9 pm. I was finally safe.
My room was on the very top floor (10 flights of stairs -- Thank you Murphy and your damnable legal procedures) but, once reached, very nice. This was good news because in my state, had it been cold and depressing and inhospitable, I probably would've broken down in tears. Waiting for the computer in the lobby to free up, I recorded the day in my journal amidst a gaggle of conversations between Americans, French, Germans, Swiss, Spaniards, Australians, and Irish. At last I checked my email and was about to go to bed when I was pulled into the orbit of a group who were planning on watching Transformers that night. I felt that my stamina was restored to a point where this might be possible, and so I joined them, slept for a couple hours on the couch, and then, at 1 am when the film was finally ready to be watched, I woke up. I approved of it on the whole. It was well-done and surprisingly amusing and pretty to look at in a robots turning into cars kind of way -- so bravo there. I then dragged my carcass upstairs and fell into bed, ready for slumber.
The next day I explored downtown Dublin -- a fantastic, bustling place full of nooky side streets and unusual shops and lovely churches and lots of pubs. Tall, brick rows of flats and broad cobbled boulevards. Bliss. I wandered and wandered and finally headed home around 4 pm and toppled into bed. I napped until 8:30 pm! It was FANTASTIC! I dreamt of reunions in airports with long-lost friends and coming home to the arms of my family. At 9 the hostel threw a BBQ for all the guests, frying up loads of sausages and onions and other tasty gubbins to consume with buns and ketchup. Hooray for free dinners! I chatted with a lot of people before excusing myself and toddling up to bed around 2 am, preparing for my journey the next day.
Cappoquin! That land of legend and bread which I had been charged with locating. That unattainable Shangri La of countryside cottages which would be within my grasp soon enough. I could find it on a map and estimate its distance from the nearest hostel and would GET THERE! Such naively simple thinking compared to what lay ahead.
I had booked myself into a hostel in the seaside town of Tramore, just outside Waterford. A 3 hour bus ride from Dublin got me to Waterford proper, while a 45 minute local bus put me in Tramore. The hostel was awesome, I got to check my email at the local library, and then I was sleeping, waking, packing, walking, and calling the Barron Bakery, convinced that I would find answers. Solutions. Ways to get around the canceled bus service to my destination of choice.
Esther, my contact from Laignee's family, wasn't able to help me with bus service info, but pointed me towards Dungarvan, the closest largish town where I could probably find a hostel and then make my way to Cappoquin, 10 miles from the center. This sounded like a good plan so I booked myself a return ticket and bussed it another 3 hours to Dungarvan, arriving around midday. The tourist info office was closed for lunch so I decided to meander about for a while. The tide which normally fills the river outlet into the ocean seemed to have some more pressing arrangements and had abandoned the various sailboats dotted about the harbor. They sat upright despite the lack of water to support them, stabilized by the five feet of mud into which their keels were sunk. Deeper pockets of water kept small rowboats afloat, while seabirds bickered and skipped around in the exposed rocks. It was relaxing, small, calm. Come 2 I headed back to the office and inquired about the Dungarvan Hostel.
This is where things started to go wrong.
"Oh, the hostel closed a couple months ago."
"No there isn't a bus to Cappoquin."
"Of course not, it'll be Sunday."
"You could go back to Tramore."
"The cheapest Bed and Breakfast here will be €45."
"It looks like the hostel in Tramore is booked for the weekend."
"I would suggest staying here."
"No there aren't any hostels in Waterford."
I was running out of options. I hadn't anticipated any of this, and so I did the only thing I could think of.
"Alright, that will be €90 for two nights. If you head back to the N25 to Waterford and just walk a little ways, it's right past the gas station. Thanks very much. Bye bye!"
Ninety euro. Good God. I could stay two weeks at the hostel for that kind of cash! I could eat 25 hearty meals in fancy restaurants! I could buy a very expensive hat! Still, it was somewhere to sleep, and better than my briefly entertained fantasy of purchasing a tarp and roughing it in the local park. And I got breakfast. And an en suite bathroom. And a room to myself. Was it worth it? Maybe.
The directions I had received from the tourist office were excellent aside from their accuracy. Sure, I passed the gas station about half a mile down the highway, but after that the deceptively short distance on the map to the B&B lengthened into a couple miles of barren highway which, since they contained no landmarks, the designers of my map hadn't seen fit to include. More trekking, more swearing under my breath at passing vehicles, more pain in the shoulders. I guess what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? After Ireland, I'd like to introduce myself as Clark Kent.
So I checked in and spent Saturday afternoon preparing. Buying food. Resting. Bracing myself to walk the 10 miles to Cappoquin the next morning, disc of photographs clutched firmly to my breast. The owner of the B&B offered to ask around and see if any of her friends were driving to Cappoquin, but it being Sunday, nobody was. And so that glimmer of hope was snuffed. 9 am the following morning, breakfast in belly, I prepared to hit the road. Then the rain came. It wasn't too bad when I set out, but I was subjected to intermittent downpours as I walked along the mostly-deserted highway. My rain jacket was more than damp by the time I had reached the turn-off to Cappoquin from the main highway.
The N72 to Cappoquin is not really a highway. It's a lovely country lane. A lovely small country lane. And on a Sunday, although there was a smattering of traffic on the main road, this tiny backwater was deserted. So I walked, and walked, and walked...and only passed one road sign telling me that I still had 19km to go. After about an hour I heard an engine in the distance. Human contact! A chance for salvation! I worked up my courage and thrust my thumb out as the vehicle rounded the corner and -- Good Lord! -- stopped! The couple inside were consulting a map. The woman turned and handed it to me. "If you can show us where you're going we can probably get you there," she smiled.
The two of them had come from England on holiday, never having been to see the Emerald Isle next door, and were going to Killarney for the last couple nights of their stay. Cappoquin is directly en route to Killarney and they were more than happy to drop me there on the way. We chatted easily as the rental car ate up the miles with enviable ease until the signpost loomed and the streets narrowed and we were there. A simple 15 minute drive which cut ages of my estimated travel time. Thanking them profusely, I waved the car off the curb and set off in search of the Bakery, which turned out to be right around the corner. (Cappoquin is not a large place by any means.)
So a call to Esther was placed, and she very kindly invited me 'round even though they were preparing to dash off to Mass at 11:30. She and her husband Joe live in the old Cappoquin station, a beautiful airy house with a large garden and bees! (In hives. Not just...you know...around) I passed her the disc, marking my successful completion of the mission, then chatted while she made beds for the upcoming family event - 50 relatives in one place! My goodness. Joe went and showed me around the bakery, which was amazing. The heat still wavering off the giant stone ovens, shelves of tins ready to receive dough for baking the following morning at 2 am -- this was a place of traditional skill and wholesome, bready goodness. I loved it. And Laignee, you should get over there and become a baker. I really recommend the whole experience. And by gosh it's been in your family since the 1880's! Get with the trend!
Since there were few other options for socializing, Esther invited me to attend Mass with them, an offer I accepted as I hadn't been to Mass in southern Ireland before. Hell, I don't think I've actually ever been to Mass anywhere. Except perhaps once at midnight on Christmas in Norfolk...Anyway. We were treated to a marvelous sermon by the preacher, who eternally placed himself in my memory for likening Mass to a football match and praying as the spiritual equivalent of shouting at the ref. He also calmly explained that he'd been getting complaints that Mass was boring, and responded to them by saying that he generally found people who found things boring to be quite boring themselves.
So, despite being the Pagan child that I am, I have found a soft spot in my heart for the small congregation of Cappoquin and it's unusual views on religious practice. We're all essentially saying the same thing, talking about basic human goodness and love. Mr. Vonnegut's following passage got it right in my book, and should be recited by schoolchildren in place of the Declaration of Independence.
“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”
As the rain returned we were walking out of the church, and Joe very kindly offered to drive me back to Dungarvan so I wouldn't have to hitch in the bad weather. We chatted about global issues and theatrical traditions, then shook hands and made promises to keep in touch.
I walked back into the B&B with a spring in my step and a glint in my eye. I had completed my quest. Slain the dragon. Summited the mountain. Fought the nemesis. Destroyed the Cube. Melted the Ring.
The next morning I was jumping from bus to bus to tram to lightrail to bus to foot to hostel. Boogied down with a variety of folks from different countries, happy to be back in communal living, happy to be able to make my own food and listen to other folks snoring at night. This is the life I like to lead. In the pitch black the next morning I packed with my cellphone between my teeth for illumination, burst through the freezing Dublin air to the bus station, averted panic when I found out the airport shuttle wouldn't start running until after my flight went, dashed to the other airport shuttle stop via lightrail, made it to the airport convinced I would repeat my Glasgow snafu and miss my flight, arrived seconds before they closed the desk, checked in, walked to the plane, and sank into blissful contemplation of the pleasures waiting for me at the other end of the line.
Those pleasures included: my mum, a letter from a lovely friend, a picnic to enjoy in London, tea with marvelous companions, vehicular transport, and a stay with amazing friends from Ojai.
I'm in London now in a flat which feels like the best combination of London and California, with my mother, who I got to curl up with on a big air mattress under a down comforter last night for the best sleep I've had in weeks. Things are looking good. I worked hard to get here, and now I can take a break and get my systems back in order. It's only going to get more fantastic as the new month rolls around.
Thought you all deserved to know. I promise I'll write more frequently over the coming weeks and beyond, but for now I'm taking a bath and eating soup and generally luxuriating in the fact that I am as close to home as I've been for a long time and I finally feel like I've arrived somewhere I belong.
Thank goodness.
My trip to Ireland was, in retrospect, successful...but it was the kind of success that one can only recognize once the goal in question has been achieved. The summit summited. The dragon slain. But whilst one is breaking limbs on the ascent or getting hairs scorched off by fiery eructations during the battle, things can seem quite grim-- and so they were. I began the trip on a excellent note by rising with plenty of time to spare on Wednesday morning, eating a hearty breakfast, and being driven the short distance to the Glasgow Airport. This is where things begin to go wrong.
There are two airports in Glasgow. And when I say "in Glasgow," I mean that one is in Glasgow and the other is 45 minutes out of the city in the middle of the countryside. Of course, upon arriving exactly one hour before departure at Glasgow Airport, I discovered that, while my timing was correct, I was in the wrong location. So back in the chariot and onto the highroad to Prestwick, upon which we were, of course, enjoying the back end of a line of traffic which had accumulated behind a tractor moving at imperceptible speeds farther up the road. Almost an hour later, 20 minutes before the plane was due to fly, we gasped and staggered into the terminal, only to be very politely told that check-in had closed long before and we were, to put it in colloquial terminology, screwed.
Luckily (Can we call it that?) I could pay £50 to get myself onto the next available flight at 6:50 pm (It was 9 am at this point in time) and so get to Dublin on the same day as I had originally planned. Hooray? Question mark?
I resigned myself to a classy day in the terminal and bade my farewells to Peter MacDonald, my lovely host, who was off to speak in the Scottish Parliament and so had to make himself presentable. Cor blimey. Kicking myself for making such an idiotic and costly mistake, I sat down morosely and had some highly unsatisfactory porridge before heading upstairs to the lounge and falling into fitful slumber. The day passed slowly, but eventually I was back at the check-in desk (First in line -- not taking any chances) displaying my passport and taking out extra clothes to wear so my bag would fit the weight limit.
The flight was incredibly brief for such a long build-up, and soon enough I was walking through the familiar halls of Dublin International Airport. I felt positive. I had directions. I was going to the hostel. I knew what bus to take. All was well in the world. This proceeded in a positive fashion until I got within about 5 minutes of the hostel itself. My directions were to head South from Heuston Station. My decision, since the large compass I had expected to find sunk into the concrete was not forthcoming, was to head North instead. Mistakenly believing that I was heading for a warm bed and a pleasant home, I set of boldly across the river.
I progressed, growing less bold with each passing half mile, for another 45 minutes. Under normal circumstances, this would hardly phase me, but with 50 pounds of assorted junk strapped to my shoulders (Why did I pack so much RUBBISH!?) it quickly became a kind of purgatory (Why did I decide to wear my FLIP FLOPS!?) which I barely struggled through without breaking down and hailing a taxi (Why are there so many TAXI RANKS in Dublin!?) while descending to a level of pain and despair so great that I ended up hurling a torrent of caustic expletives at every vehicle that passed me with such smug ease on the highway.
After completing my giant loop of folly, I was back at the station. I collapsed on a bench and gathered my thoughts, then set out in the other direction. Soon enough I was passing the giant, brick Guinness storehouses and factory buildings which, since I was in search of the Brewery Hostel, was a good sign. At last...at long last...I spotted a sign which held the words I had so long been searching for. I staggered through the doors and fell into a corner, giving my check -in details from my prone position to a rather surprised-looking French guy with dreadlocks behind the counter. It was 9 pm. I was finally safe.
My room was on the very top floor (10 flights of stairs -- Thank you Murphy and your damnable legal procedures) but, once reached, very nice. This was good news because in my state, had it been cold and depressing and inhospitable, I probably would've broken down in tears. Waiting for the computer in the lobby to free up, I recorded the day in my journal amidst a gaggle of conversations between Americans, French, Germans, Swiss, Spaniards, Australians, and Irish. At last I checked my email and was about to go to bed when I was pulled into the orbit of a group who were planning on watching Transformers that night. I felt that my stamina was restored to a point where this might be possible, and so I joined them, slept for a couple hours on the couch, and then, at 1 am when the film was finally ready to be watched, I woke up. I approved of it on the whole. It was well-done and surprisingly amusing and pretty to look at in a robots turning into cars kind of way -- so bravo there. I then dragged my carcass upstairs and fell into bed, ready for slumber.
The next day I explored downtown Dublin -- a fantastic, bustling place full of nooky side streets and unusual shops and lovely churches and lots of pubs. Tall, brick rows of flats and broad cobbled boulevards. Bliss. I wandered and wandered and finally headed home around 4 pm and toppled into bed. I napped until 8:30 pm! It was FANTASTIC! I dreamt of reunions in airports with long-lost friends and coming home to the arms of my family. At 9 the hostel threw a BBQ for all the guests, frying up loads of sausages and onions and other tasty gubbins to consume with buns and ketchup. Hooray for free dinners! I chatted with a lot of people before excusing myself and toddling up to bed around 2 am, preparing for my journey the next day.
Cappoquin! That land of legend and bread which I had been charged with locating. That unattainable Shangri La of countryside cottages which would be within my grasp soon enough. I could find it on a map and estimate its distance from the nearest hostel and would GET THERE! Such naively simple thinking compared to what lay ahead.
I had booked myself into a hostel in the seaside town of Tramore, just outside Waterford. A 3 hour bus ride from Dublin got me to Waterford proper, while a 45 minute local bus put me in Tramore. The hostel was awesome, I got to check my email at the local library, and then I was sleeping, waking, packing, walking, and calling the Barron Bakery, convinced that I would find answers. Solutions. Ways to get around the canceled bus service to my destination of choice.
Esther, my contact from Laignee's family, wasn't able to help me with bus service info, but pointed me towards Dungarvan, the closest largish town where I could probably find a hostel and then make my way to Cappoquin, 10 miles from the center. This sounded like a good plan so I booked myself a return ticket and bussed it another 3 hours to Dungarvan, arriving around midday. The tourist info office was closed for lunch so I decided to meander about for a while. The tide which normally fills the river outlet into the ocean seemed to have some more pressing arrangements and had abandoned the various sailboats dotted about the harbor. They sat upright despite the lack of water to support them, stabilized by the five feet of mud into which their keels were sunk. Deeper pockets of water kept small rowboats afloat, while seabirds bickered and skipped around in the exposed rocks. It was relaxing, small, calm. Come 2 I headed back to the office and inquired about the Dungarvan Hostel.
This is where things started to go wrong.
"Oh, the hostel closed a couple months ago."
"No there isn't a bus to Cappoquin."
"Of course not, it'll be Sunday."
"You could go back to Tramore."
"The cheapest Bed and Breakfast here will be €45."
"It looks like the hostel in Tramore is booked for the weekend."
"I would suggest staying here."
"No there aren't any hostels in Waterford."
I was running out of options. I hadn't anticipated any of this, and so I did the only thing I could think of.
"Alright, that will be €90 for two nights. If you head back to the N25 to Waterford and just walk a little ways, it's right past the gas station. Thanks very much. Bye bye!"
Ninety euro. Good God. I could stay two weeks at the hostel for that kind of cash! I could eat 25 hearty meals in fancy restaurants! I could buy a very expensive hat! Still, it was somewhere to sleep, and better than my briefly entertained fantasy of purchasing a tarp and roughing it in the local park. And I got breakfast. And an en suite bathroom. And a room to myself. Was it worth it? Maybe.
The directions I had received from the tourist office were excellent aside from their accuracy. Sure, I passed the gas station about half a mile down the highway, but after that the deceptively short distance on the map to the B&B lengthened into a couple miles of barren highway which, since they contained no landmarks, the designers of my map hadn't seen fit to include. More trekking, more swearing under my breath at passing vehicles, more pain in the shoulders. I guess what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? After Ireland, I'd like to introduce myself as Clark Kent.
So I checked in and spent Saturday afternoon preparing. Buying food. Resting. Bracing myself to walk the 10 miles to Cappoquin the next morning, disc of photographs clutched firmly to my breast. The owner of the B&B offered to ask around and see if any of her friends were driving to Cappoquin, but it being Sunday, nobody was. And so that glimmer of hope was snuffed. 9 am the following morning, breakfast in belly, I prepared to hit the road. Then the rain came. It wasn't too bad when I set out, but I was subjected to intermittent downpours as I walked along the mostly-deserted highway. My rain jacket was more than damp by the time I had reached the turn-off to Cappoquin from the main highway.
The N72 to Cappoquin is not really a highway. It's a lovely country lane. A lovely small country lane. And on a Sunday, although there was a smattering of traffic on the main road, this tiny backwater was deserted. So I walked, and walked, and walked...and only passed one road sign telling me that I still had 19km to go. After about an hour I heard an engine in the distance. Human contact! A chance for salvation! I worked up my courage and thrust my thumb out as the vehicle rounded the corner and -- Good Lord! -- stopped! The couple inside were consulting a map. The woman turned and handed it to me. "If you can show us where you're going we can probably get you there," she smiled.
The two of them had come from England on holiday, never having been to see the Emerald Isle next door, and were going to Killarney for the last couple nights of their stay. Cappoquin is directly en route to Killarney and they were more than happy to drop me there on the way. We chatted easily as the rental car ate up the miles with enviable ease until the signpost loomed and the streets narrowed and we were there. A simple 15 minute drive which cut ages of my estimated travel time. Thanking them profusely, I waved the car off the curb and set off in search of the Bakery, which turned out to be right around the corner. (Cappoquin is not a large place by any means.)
So a call to Esther was placed, and she very kindly invited me 'round even though they were preparing to dash off to Mass at 11:30. She and her husband Joe live in the old Cappoquin station, a beautiful airy house with a large garden and bees! (In hives. Not just...you know...around) I passed her the disc, marking my successful completion of the mission, then chatted while she made beds for the upcoming family event - 50 relatives in one place! My goodness. Joe went and showed me around the bakery, which was amazing. The heat still wavering off the giant stone ovens, shelves of tins ready to receive dough for baking the following morning at 2 am -- this was a place of traditional skill and wholesome, bready goodness. I loved it. And Laignee, you should get over there and become a baker. I really recommend the whole experience. And by gosh it's been in your family since the 1880's! Get with the trend!
Since there were few other options for socializing, Esther invited me to attend Mass with them, an offer I accepted as I hadn't been to Mass in southern Ireland before. Hell, I don't think I've actually ever been to Mass anywhere. Except perhaps once at midnight on Christmas in Norfolk...Anyway. We were treated to a marvelous sermon by the preacher, who eternally placed himself in my memory for likening Mass to a football match and praying as the spiritual equivalent of shouting at the ref. He also calmly explained that he'd been getting complaints that Mass was boring, and responded to them by saying that he generally found people who found things boring to be quite boring themselves.
So, despite being the Pagan child that I am, I have found a soft spot in my heart for the small congregation of Cappoquin and it's unusual views on religious practice. We're all essentially saying the same thing, talking about basic human goodness and love. Mr. Vonnegut's following passage got it right in my book, and should be recited by schoolchildren in place of the Declaration of Independence.
“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”
As the rain returned we were walking out of the church, and Joe very kindly offered to drive me back to Dungarvan so I wouldn't have to hitch in the bad weather. We chatted about global issues and theatrical traditions, then shook hands and made promises to keep in touch.
I walked back into the B&B with a spring in my step and a glint in my eye. I had completed my quest. Slain the dragon. Summited the mountain. Fought the nemesis. Destroyed the Cube. Melted the Ring.
The next morning I was jumping from bus to bus to tram to lightrail to bus to foot to hostel. Boogied down with a variety of folks from different countries, happy to be back in communal living, happy to be able to make my own food and listen to other folks snoring at night. This is the life I like to lead. In the pitch black the next morning I packed with my cellphone between my teeth for illumination, burst through the freezing Dublin air to the bus station, averted panic when I found out the airport shuttle wouldn't start running until after my flight went, dashed to the other airport shuttle stop via lightrail, made it to the airport convinced I would repeat my Glasgow snafu and miss my flight, arrived seconds before they closed the desk, checked in, walked to the plane, and sank into blissful contemplation of the pleasures waiting for me at the other end of the line.
Those pleasures included: my mum, a letter from a lovely friend, a picnic to enjoy in London, tea with marvelous companions, vehicular transport, and a stay with amazing friends from Ojai.
I'm in London now in a flat which feels like the best combination of London and California, with my mother, who I got to curl up with on a big air mattress under a down comforter last night for the best sleep I've had in weeks. Things are looking good. I worked hard to get here, and now I can take a break and get my systems back in order. It's only going to get more fantastic as the new month rolls around.
Thought you all deserved to know. I promise I'll write more frequently over the coming weeks and beyond, but for now I'm taking a bath and eating soup and generally luxuriating in the fact that I am as close to home as I've been for a long time and I finally feel like I've arrived somewhere I belong.
Thank goodness.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Long We Tossed On The Rolling Main
Friends, Romans, Countrymen...
I'm back in Glasgow! We left Stornoway by ferry at the ungodly hour of 6am this morning and drove and drove and drove through the centre of Scotland to return here, to home, and the chance to repack before I board a plane tomorrow morning for the Emerald Isle.
A few things I'll miss from my time in Stornoway:
1. The sheep!
They're everywhere! Mincing across the road as if they have no idea you're bearing down on them at 50 an hour. Better yet, not even bothering to get up from their afternoon siesta across the double yellow line. Lewis sheep look different from the normal countryside variety. They've got character. And My day will be that much greyer without them.
2. Sailing.
Stornoway is an ocean town. The island has so many seafaring connections it's unbelieveable. There are some seriously beautiful tall ships who come and set anchor here for a few months every year, the fishermen come home each day with the sea lions in their wake and the birds diving overhead, and the locals make amazing yard decor from old buoys and fishing net. A few days ago I had the pleasure of getting to temporarily play skipper aboard a 26' sailboat in the Minch. Several hours of pure bliss skimming before a stiff breeze up the craggy coast towards Harris.
3. The Sunsets.
That's all that needs to be said about them.
So I leave Lewis behind for my next stop, Dublin! Now, at last, after the madness of the Fringe Festival, I can settle down to being a budget traveler and spending as little as possible. But just when I thought it was safe to not go broke, I discover that the city of my destination has decided to host its own Fringe Festival in September.
Bastards!
I'm going to have a hell of a time restraining myself from seeing every show I can lay my grubby little mits on. Luckily I'm not staying long becaue of Laignee!
For Laignee's sake (You'd better still be keeping up with the blog, young lady. It was your idea in the first place.) I am roughing it by bus to the Southern countryside in search of a small bakery bearing her last name. Of course the national bus route to the place has just been cancelled, so I am on a quest to avoid walking the 50kn from Waterford on my own little tootsies by any means necessary. We'll see how that goes.
And then there's the matter of my European Union passport. I haven't been boring you all with the details of my family's trials and tribulations vis a vis the labyrinthine beurocracy inherent in any governmental department responsible for citizenship, because I wouldn't want to inflict that sort of torture on anyone voluntarily. However, the fight has been going on for about three years on and off, and now, when it matters most of all, we're at an impasse.
So some drastic steps have been taken, and some exciting plans have been laid. Like any surprise tactical maneuver, this one has daring advances to places nobody expects, long-lost reuinons with souls given up for lost, secretive documents which must be delivered safely to certain parties, and plenty of time doing battle with the Forces of Nature.
You are all in the dark for now for the sake of your own safety. Information will be dispensed on a need to know basis. 
Remember: The codeword is "Badgers." We meet tonight at the sign of the Flummoxed Haggis!
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Illness and General Debauchery
Time flies when you're staying on a remote island in the Northern Hemisphere with a man who's almost blown up a whiskey distillery on more than one occasion.
Time spent thus far on the Isle of Lewis has been fantastic. The landscape is so ancient and full of tradition and history. Everything is beautiful. We've drove from coast to coast looking at everything worth looking at...which is everything. Standing stones far more extensive, impressive, and accessible than Stonehenge (Thank you, low tourist traffic!), blackhouse villages infused with the delicious scent of burning peat, bow-legged sheep grumpily vacating the narrow roads, white sand beaches pounded by wild, aquamarine surf and hemmed in with 
astonishing rock formations, and eccentric cottages populated by kittens and leatherworking milkmen drinking tea from champagne flutes.
Heading home, I couldn't resist the temptation to explore a small side trail which ran downhill into the underbrush on my right. Careful not to slip in the black mud and cake myself in earth, I proceeded down, down, down until I emerged into the most beautiful glade imagineable. Ancient trees with low, curving branches completely covered in green moss formed a canopy overhead. My inner imp took over and soon I was 20 feet up in the largest tree, cradled by the padded branches. These were trees that were meant to be climbed. You could feel it in them. Each handhold was perfectly placed, each low-slung branch just wide enough to lounge on in comfort, the trunk steadfast and strong. I've been branded a tree-hugger in my time, but many trees aren't that comfortable to embrace. Not so these. They were soft and warm and loving. 
Luckily there was nobody passing because I looked a right mess. Mud-spattered, wild-eyed, clinging to my bag and my jacket. I stumbled along the road until I reached the Island, a lump of turf nestled out in the harbor, connected only by a thin strip of land. The ocean felt like Heaven itself. I washed my feet as best I could, rinsed my face, and collapsed on the grass.
Or at least, I think that's how the saying goes.
Time spent thus far on the Isle of Lewis has been fantastic. The landscape is so ancient and full of tradition and history. Everything is beautiful. We've drove from coast to coast looking at everything worth looking at...which is everything. Standing stones far more extensive, impressive, and accessible than Stonehenge (Thank you, low tourist traffic!), blackhouse villages infused with the delicious scent of burning peat, bow-legged sheep grumpily vacating the narrow roads, white sand beaches pounded by wild, aquamarine surf and hemmed in with 
astonishing rock formations, and eccentric cottages populated by kittens and leatherworking milkmen drinking tea from champagne flutes.There is a sense of belonging here. These people were raised on the island. Their anscestors have lived here for centuries. It is a world of old ways. Of craftsmen and farmers. People surviving by common sense and a unique relationship with the land they live on. It makes me realize how transient everything is in America. How scattered and young and chaotic. I've never felt as at home there as I feel I could given time to live here. It's bleak and wild and beautiful. The people are kind. Life is simple.
Apart from driving and exploring, I've had time to relax and read (It Ends With Magic by Spike Milligan, John Masefield's poetry, My Family And Other Animals by Gerald Durrel, and Contact Zero by David Wolstencroft) as well as wander aimlessly through the countryside.
Such a day was yesterday, when I set out for the castle around 12pm. The castle sits on a hilltop beside the harbor, rising out of a forest of birch and willow. The grounds go on for miles and are full of trails and adventuresome places. I wandered through many of them before ending up on a long track which ran straight into the distance. Shoes cast aside in favor of the deliciously springy turf and oozing mud, I must've walked for two miles or so before reaching a fork which would lead me back to the town centre.
Heading home, I couldn't resist the temptation to explore a small side trail which ran downhill into the underbrush on my right. Careful not to slip in the black mud and cake myself in earth, I proceeded down, down, down until I emerged into the most beautiful glade imagineable. Ancient trees with low, curving branches completely covered in green moss formed a canopy overhead. My inner imp took over and soon I was 20 feet up in the largest tree, cradled by the padded branches. These were trees that were meant to be climbed. You could feel it in them. Each handhold was perfectly placed, each low-slung branch just wide enough to lounge on in comfort, the trunk steadfast and strong. I've been branded a tree-hugger in my time, but many trees aren't that comfortable to embrace. Not so these. They were soft and warm and loving. 
I gamboled for at least half an hour, delighted by my find, when the wind dropped.
For many, this would be a relief. The wind here is like a person all its own. A constant presence. A character. It buffets you from all directions wherever you are. A lack of breeze would be a relief, no?
Wrong.
When the wind dies a far more sinister presence is able to take it's place: The Midges.
Scottish Midges are very small, very sociable, and very toothy. They swarm one's head and any other exposed body parts, nipping like the Dickens, buzzing into nostrils and ears and eyes. They're enough to drive even then strongest man mad. And when the wind is gone, they arrive.
When I inadvertently stuck my head into a swarm of them I almost fell out of the tree. Swatting desperately at my face, I managed to climb down and get my immediate airspace relatively clear, but they were on the move. I had to act quickly. Hoping to find sanctuary by continuing downhill, I grabbed by backpack and set off further down the path.
This proved a grave error. The track, if it could be called that, was shin-deep in black mud, threatening to smack me down on my backside at every step. It wound steeply through dense foliage and was bordered by a stagnant trickle of water. Of course this was a perfect midge breeding ground. I barged through swarm after swarm, one hand keeping me balanced, the other defending my breathing passages, until finally, finally, I exploded out of the underbrush and onto the main road.
Luckily there was nobody passing because I looked a right mess. Mud-spattered, wild-eyed, clinging to my bag and my jacket. I stumbled along the road until I reached the Island, a lump of turf nestled out in the harbor, connected only by a thin strip of land. The ocean felt like Heaven itself. I washed my feet as best I could, rinsed my face, and collapsed on the grass. Once I had regained my strength I struck out for home. On the way back I sampled a few of the blackberries hanging in ripe indigo clusters by the side of the trail. This is an important point. Make note of it.
When I finally got home I was so tired I just collapsed into bed and slept until 7pm. The rest of the evening passed without event until about 9. I was curled happily on the couch watching Rome on uktvHistory, when my stomach started to hurt. After about half an hour I decided the best thing would be to sleep it off since it wouldn't get better, so I went back to bed.
Let's skip ahead to 2am. Stomach still in agony, I was coming to terms with the fact that something I'd eaten -- I blame the blackberries -- wasn't agreeing with my system. I couldn't sleep. I was miserable. Finally, I managed to throw up and get whatever it was out of my stomach. Thank God. I fell asleep soon after and woke up this morning feeling vastly improved, if still rather delicate.
So the moral of this story is:
Well, I think you can figure that one out for yourselves.
Until next time...
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A Stirring Somewhere Deep
There is no way to express with words alone the beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It is rare that I come across something which I feel cannot be brought to life through language, but in this case I'll have to ask you to bear with my impressions, knowing that they will not gain true meaning until you find yourself in the same position I've been in.
The landscape is not just a vista, it's a feeling. A startling tapestry of emotion and vision and scent and sound. A pounding, soaring desolation and majesty. Crags brutally carved into distinction by unstoppable glaciers, brooding in huddled solidarity, bases sweeping seamlessly into sloped valleys. They flow into one another: Alive with a carpet of purple heather and bristling, low bracken. Burbling streams, an occasional bird, nothing more.
The sky seems insubstantial, fleeting. A mess of constantly evolving wisps of fog clinging to the tops of the peaks, floating into hidden valleys and gorges. The wind whines through the landscape. It feels a thousand miles from nowhere. Nothing but the endless flow of peak and plateau. Shelves of sheer rock jutting at sharp angles to the sky, stacked upon one another like haphazard books fallen from a great height. Buttressing the final summit.
The highway seems to go on forever. A smooth expanse of dips and curves. A strangely precise creation in the midst of such wilderness. A sweeping field of gorse and heather, then a drop into dense pine forest, sequoias, mouldering rock walls exploding with moss and fern, then a curve flings us into a wide plain, the mirrored, pristine surface of a loch, calmly reflecting the green hills surrounding it, a waterfall high in the cliffs, tumbling down like an avalanche, cutting deep into the rock. Here and there an ancient barn imploding under the weight of centuries, small clusters of whitewashed homes, churchyards with tombstones tumbling like dominoes. Occasionally a flock of sheep, almost mistaken for clouds, high up, complacent, browsing in the green, stepping nimbly across the rocks.
A part of me cannot believe that I am here. Now. Experiencing this. The unbelieveable beauty of it all. Glencoe sweeping out of the fog, rising to dizzying heights, wrapping me in all its bloody history, its remote magic. It does something to your soul. Tugs at it. Dares you to scale its peaks and ramble through its valleys. To brave its scaled spine with nothing but your flesh and your bones and your blood for company. To tumble, at the end of the day, down the impossibly smooth plane of its foothills into a brook. To return home soaked and giddy.
Or to simply stand and weep at the desolation of the place, the aloneness that presses your nose into the glass dividing you from yourself. Making you ache for the chance to smash your way in, or out, depending on how you look at it. This is the sort of place that could drag you through madness and back, still leave you wishing to return. To understand. If there is a place where magic can still exist in the world, it is here.
Reaching the coast. Stormwalls holding back the steely, unstamed North Sea. The Minch. The passage of legend which I sing about with ease while sailing the Pacific. Mingulay settled in the waves to the south. The air is full of misty rain and the smell of fish. Smoke spirals lazily from a few chimneys. In neat rows the cars trundle into the underbelly of the ferry. The stench of fish strengthens, flourescent lights flick into life along the ceiling of the beast. Up two flights of stairs to the passenger deck. It's outfitted like a hotel. A sleazy casino. Still another flight of stairs and I'm on the open deck. Rain falls in horizontal sheets, the wind buffetts me across to the railings. Everyone else is inside.
I gaze out at the water, the looming coast. In front of me the giant wake of the vessel smooths itself into the fabric of the sea. A cluster of islands to starboard, nothing but fog blending the ocean with the sky to port. The islands look like a fleet of ships bursting out from the deep, prows jagged against the white sky. Wild. Treacherous. Waves whipped to foam along the shore, wind flattening the patched grass into the rock. I long to camp along on their shores. To weather storms in their craggy embrace.
The roll and toss of the waves is welcome and familiar beneath my feet. It feels like home. The ferry judders through the choppy waters, beating against the wind and the current. Lumbering, enormous. I can feel my ears going numb as I sift through the past few days.Watching the end of Festival fireworks from a dark window on the second floor, the nestled lights of Edinburgh twinkling, Barber's Adagio for Strings crackling from the radio, enough to break my heart. Catching the bus away from Edinburgh, the thrill of being on the move again. Meeting Peter MacDonald at the the station in Glasgow. Staying the night with his Aunt, Joy. A bathroom with a felt floor. The tang of whiskey rising from a glass at my bedside ("A wee dram," Joy had insisted, "To help ye sleep."). Fumbling with the toggle on my necklace. My little string of family camp memories. M. C. Escher ceiling tiles sloping this way and that in geometirc impossibility. Taking off my watch before tumbling into sleep.
It has struck me as appropriate that we do this as humans. Disconnecting ourselves from time just before we misplace several hours of it. Each night we unquestioningly relinquish our precious minutes to sleep, not stopping to wonder where they've gone when we wake in the morning. Death is simply the rediscovery of all these moments lost in slumber.
Fog has descended on the ferry, drawing out the mournful cry of the horn every five minutes. We are blanketed. Blind. The motion of the boat works its spell on me and soon I'm curled into myself on the bench, thinking of the people around the globe following my progress -- in Australia, South Africa, England, California, Washington, Illinois, New York, London, Edinburgh. Old friends, family, shipmates, relatives, strangers, teachers. I'm being tracked by more eyes than I expected. It's comforting. A safety net. A web of validation.
I stay there until nightfall, dreaming of mermaids on barren islands and the whistle of the wind through Glencoe.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
A Change of Pace
Recently, I've found myself in a slump due to the end of the Festival and my own accumulated sleep deprivation. Stagnation has set in and I'm ready to be on the move again on a new adventure. Luckily, the Universe is looking out for my spirit and saw fit to send some help. My best friend in the whole world, the Fantastic Riley Burch (pictured at right in all her glory), just returned from her summer of adventures as a white water rafting guide in the Grand Canyon. We've picked up email correspondence after a hiatus of several months which is a pretty wordy business. The average installment from either of us measures about 10 pages as we try to discuss all that has transpired since we last spoke.
In short: Riley is my inspiration. She and I can talk about anything together. We're the world's best couple of nomadic-spirited, adventuresome, succulent, vibrant young women I know. Getting back in touch with Rye puts me back in touch with my sense of myself as a temple, a goddess, someone worth knowing. Even as I'm surrounded by strangers in a new country, she reminds me to hold my head high and smile because I am me, doing my own thing, enjoying life. It's been great to hear about her adventures on the river and to tell her about my experiences sailing on the Lady. Nobody else in her life quite appreciates the awesomeness of piloting a raft through Lava Falls and no one else in mine quite understands what a thrill it is for me to finally watch the sunset from a yard 80 feet up off the rolling deck.
I can still remember when these adventures were mere fantasties that we discussed at snack time on the Pavillion deck at Oak Grove, muching on Saltines and peanut butter-filled pretzels. We've both come a long way since then and it's inspiring to see that those dreams have become a reality. We are living our dreams. Every second. Because we believe in them. So this post is a thank you to Riley for galvanizing me to get excited about my freedom, because that's what I've suddenly become the owner of. A whole lot of freedom.
I've got a fair amount of money saved up, not too much, but just enough. I have all my posessions in one easy-to-handle bag, I can book flights to basically anywhere on the continent, I can stop in other states on my way home to see old friends, I can decide to take a solo backpacking trip into the Himalayas if I want to. These next six months are entierly mine. I think I still need time to get used to this idea. To fully grasp how much fun this is really going to be. But today Riley got me started really thinking about it. And that's all it takes.
One of Riley's and my favorite authors is Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy, otherwise known as SARK. Her books and general philosophy always make me smile and get creative with my joy or my sadness. Simply reading one of her posters completely changes my frame of mind. She makes me want to dance in the woods and picnic in the back garden. I realize that if there's an author I should take the trouble to carry with me, it's her. I need the emotional, creative, spiritual pick-me-up her writing provides. To remind me of how much fun is out there waiting to be had. So I'll be off to the shops tomorrow to hunt down a copy of Succulent Wild Woman and to photograph the site of my Great-Grandfather's stationary shop in George Street. My anscestors walked in this city years before I came here and now I'm the next link in the chain. My children will come to Europe one day and they can follow the steps of my journey through my journals, seeing the cities and countries as I saw them. This is what heritage is all about.
I've been getting in touch with other sailors as they leave the tall ships for the summer, so I've been feeling really connected to them as well. Lots of new friends around the country to visit and flourish with. We are a wild bunch of siblings. A few new views of longboating during family camp which I thought might be illuminating:
And the lovely summer crew -- Who are all hired for their good looks:
I'm really excited to return to the Lady when I get back to America, especially since Tall Ships Tacoma will be rocking it in 2008! And I'll definitely be around. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Hopefully this time my life won't get in the way of a good long stint on the Lady. At least two or three months to enjoy Tall Ships, two family camps, and plenty of sailing. Perhaps I'll even apply for Steward for a bit if I can wrangle it. Who knows. Getting paid for what you love is a grand goal to have. And even grander to attain.
I think I'll actually turn in before 3am tonight, which is probably a good idea. Tomorrow I'm on my way out of the city and into the far-flung north for some stunning scenery and a change of pace. I wish you all inspiring, delicious days and nights. Please please please relish everything. Including your bad moods and your boredom. They are just as important as any gleeful excitment.
Huge hugs and creative vibes,
Lucy
P.S. THE HAT!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Obscenely Early in The Morning?
"It seems like a logical progression of titles to me."
Unfortunately, dear readers, that was as far as I got in the wee hours this morning (See: About 4am) before I decided that my eyes felt like they were going to combust due to being so tired and dried out and I thought it would probably be better to go to bed. So go to bed I did! And I got up at 12pm this morning.
TWELVE PEE-EM!
I'm really digging this whole sleeping in thing.
Anyway, I went absolutely mad with my camera yesterday, but unfortunately there are some disagreements between Blogger's software and Safari's web browsing techniques. Upshot of all that being that I can't embed any of them here. This makes me weep. However, I can link you good people to an already-assembled album over heah: http://hs.facebook.com/album.php?aid=249&l=3a66c&id=1068660002
So go forth and enjoy.
I'm off to explore some exciting countryside.
Unfortunately, dear readers, that was as far as I got in the wee hours this morning (See: About 4am) before I decided that my eyes felt like they were going to combust due to being so tired and dried out and I thought it would probably be better to go to bed. So go to bed I did! And I got up at 12pm this morning.
TWELVE PEE-EM!
I'm really digging this whole sleeping in thing.
Anyway, I went absolutely mad with my camera yesterday, but unfortunately there are some disagreements between Blogger's software and Safari's web browsing techniques. Upshot of all that being that I can't embed any of them here. This makes me weep. However, I can link you good people to an already-assembled album over heah: http://hs.facebook.com/album.php?aid=249&l=3a66c&id=1068660002
So go forth and enjoy.
I'm off to explore some exciting countryside.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Deep In The Night
It's been a wierd day. I spent a lot of it reading Yes Man in Waterstone's, looking up periodically to see how the clientele of the cafe had been replaced with newer folk. The pleasant weather left with the Fringe and now all is grey and rainy. The streets are comparatively deserted. I came out of Waterstone's and walked the short distance down Princes Street to Henderson's for a late lunch. I'd brought the Free Hugs sign. I cracked it open.
And then something strange happened.
People avoided my gaze. They walked around me. Nobody smiled. They stode past staring at the pavement. The only people who opened their arms or acknowledged my existence at all were a couple of clipboard-holding volunteers from CARE who were out trying to recruit people for their organization. I guess they know what it's like, being ignored by pedestrians all day because you're carrying a dangerous-looking piece of office equipment.
Could the difference really be that great between Old and New Town? It appeared to be so. This couldn't just be put down to the end of the Festival. The occasional person who accidentally caught my eye invariably got a big smile from me and, in same cases, I could see them wanting to smile back, mouth twisted in a small, stifled expression of amusement or approval or longing, but none of them seemed able to open up. I was a stranger. I was dangerous. "Those hugs could be an excuse to take my wallet," they think, "Or squirt acid in my face or cover me in anthrax or turn me into a newt!"
And so where I'd been welcomed with open arms on the High Street, I was shut out and ignored on the other side of the Mound -- not half a mile away. Walking down Queen Street I got a few honks and some waves from people in cars, perhaps emboldened by their metal encasings, but that was it. I ended up catching a bus home around 6 and sitting morosely on the sofa writing letters. That cheered me up a bit, but the whole day had a really surreal tone to it.
Now I've been plopped down in a cosy armchair scanning the internet for remnants of my life in Ojai. Everyone I know has scattered themselves on the four winds to college. Everyone has left. Myself included -- but I wrote no farewell messages, had no goodbye parties, exchanged no class schedules. I left for different countries, not different educational systems. By the time I pack my room away for that journey all my friends and classmates will be world-weary Sophomores. My Freshman compatriots will be a full year younger than I, and considering how much diffilculty I already have enjoying the company of the majority of my contemporaries, this doesn't bode well.
Will I survive the return to academia? Especially in a world as intense as Reed's? Freedom has engulfed me here. I am educating myself in life, in survival and adventure, not Classics and essay-writing. Even after I'm home I'll be back on tall ships for the summer, and that only means more love of freedom and life on the open sea to miss when I return to the reality of the hard with a distinct thud.
Kicking my head back against the sagging couch cushions, ear bus replaying songs from my early days. Songs I last heard out of scratchy record players and on cassette tapes. While watching a kid who had taught himself to swordfight with a broom write poetry. While eating pomegranites and slices of cold watermelon with gusto on the stairs. While watching my backyard burn. Faces of friends from the first grade run past my mind's eye. Sun-drenched sailing ship playgrounds. Leprechauns. Teachers. The swoop of my first costume on the hot blacktop. Waterfights during summer school. Dead pets. People I passed in the street today. Stewards at aquariums. Fish at aquariums. Sailors. Walking at midnight across the Saddle in barefeet. Sunsets. The view from Arthur's Seat. The smell of waking up in the Sierras on a morning full of snow. Mud baths in the Ojai summer. Old pajamas. Silk pillowcases. Christmas in my living room. Being proposed to on the edge of an icy mountain lake. Playing soccer with an orange in the rain on a street now devoid of the people I knew living on it. Best friends turned into strangers on foreign continents. My first show in the Zalk Theater. Immediate soul to soul connections struggling across the misunderstanding of great distance.
Where does all this go? I feel like I have this terrible responsibility to remember everything sometimes. I'll sit for an hour just thinking about all my memories. And even as I grasp the ones I've got, new ones swim up. Completely forgotten things. Memories that used to be standards. Favorites. Which I have forgotten for what? A week? A month? A year? And I'm only 18. Jesus.
Tomorrow I've got a quest, a purpose. Things will be better with a night's sleep. And, truth be told, I enjoy the time to think. Even if it's during late-night internet binges induced by too much tea before bed. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really.
At least I'm not a moon tickler.
And for the explanation behind that enigmatic last remark I suggest you all go out and a) Hug a stranger, then b) Read Yes Man. Because it's bloody good.
And then something strange happened.
People avoided my gaze. They walked around me. Nobody smiled. They stode past staring at the pavement. The only people who opened their arms or acknowledged my existence at all were a couple of clipboard-holding volunteers from CARE who were out trying to recruit people for their organization. I guess they know what it's like, being ignored by pedestrians all day because you're carrying a dangerous-looking piece of office equipment.
Could the difference really be that great between Old and New Town? It appeared to be so. This couldn't just be put down to the end of the Festival. The occasional person who accidentally caught my eye invariably got a big smile from me and, in same cases, I could see them wanting to smile back, mouth twisted in a small, stifled expression of amusement or approval or longing, but none of them seemed able to open up. I was a stranger. I was dangerous. "Those hugs could be an excuse to take my wallet," they think, "Or squirt acid in my face or cover me in anthrax or turn me into a newt!"
And so where I'd been welcomed with open arms on the High Street, I was shut out and ignored on the other side of the Mound -- not half a mile away. Walking down Queen Street I got a few honks and some waves from people in cars, perhaps emboldened by their metal encasings, but that was it. I ended up catching a bus home around 6 and sitting morosely on the sofa writing letters. That cheered me up a bit, but the whole day had a really surreal tone to it.
Now I've been plopped down in a cosy armchair scanning the internet for remnants of my life in Ojai. Everyone I know has scattered themselves on the four winds to college. Everyone has left. Myself included -- but I wrote no farewell messages, had no goodbye parties, exchanged no class schedules. I left for different countries, not different educational systems. By the time I pack my room away for that journey all my friends and classmates will be world-weary Sophomores. My Freshman compatriots will be a full year younger than I, and considering how much diffilculty I already have enjoying the company of the majority of my contemporaries, this doesn't bode well.
Will I survive the return to academia? Especially in a world as intense as Reed's? Freedom has engulfed me here. I am educating myself in life, in survival and adventure, not Classics and essay-writing. Even after I'm home I'll be back on tall ships for the summer, and that only means more love of freedom and life on the open sea to miss when I return to the reality of the hard with a distinct thud.
Kicking my head back against the sagging couch cushions, ear bus replaying songs from my early days. Songs I last heard out of scratchy record players and on cassette tapes. While watching a kid who had taught himself to swordfight with a broom write poetry. While eating pomegranites and slices of cold watermelon with gusto on the stairs. While watching my backyard burn. Faces of friends from the first grade run past my mind's eye. Sun-drenched sailing ship playgrounds. Leprechauns. Teachers. The swoop of my first costume on the hot blacktop. Waterfights during summer school. Dead pets. People I passed in the street today. Stewards at aquariums. Fish at aquariums. Sailors. Walking at midnight across the Saddle in barefeet. Sunsets. The view from Arthur's Seat. The smell of waking up in the Sierras on a morning full of snow. Mud baths in the Ojai summer. Old pajamas. Silk pillowcases. Christmas in my living room. Being proposed to on the edge of an icy mountain lake. Playing soccer with an orange in the rain on a street now devoid of the people I knew living on it. Best friends turned into strangers on foreign continents. My first show in the Zalk Theater. Immediate soul to soul connections struggling across the misunderstanding of great distance.
Where does all this go? I feel like I have this terrible responsibility to remember everything sometimes. I'll sit for an hour just thinking about all my memories. And even as I grasp the ones I've got, new ones swim up. Completely forgotten things. Memories that used to be standards. Favorites. Which I have forgotten for what? A week? A month? A year? And I'm only 18. Jesus.
Tomorrow I've got a quest, a purpose. Things will be better with a night's sleep. And, truth be told, I enjoy the time to think. Even if it's during late-night internet binges induced by too much tea before bed. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really.
At least I'm not a moon tickler.
And for the explanation behind that enigmatic last remark I suggest you all go out and a) Hug a stranger, then b) Read Yes Man. Because it's bloody good.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
All Things Must End
Today is Tuesday, the 28th of August. It's raining. So ends the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.
Since some time has elapsed since my last update, I should catch you up on the highlights of recent activity. Meeting up with Josh Cornwell for tasty caramel chocolate shortbread and caffine, seeing Play On Words -- an excellent production reminiscent of Tom Stoppard -- in a toasty, cramped theatre on a cold night, climbing Arthur's Seat the hard way to be met with intense wind and spectacular views in every direction, seeing Johnson and Boswell: Late But Live at the Traverse, walking along the beach near St. Andrews, watching the sun set over rollling Scottish countryside, devouring ice cream sundaes, meeting 30 odd other couchsurfers for an evening of film and fun in the back room of the Brass Monkey, partying down at the Forest to full throated, slightly drunk singer songwriter women jamming away on guitars, and finally, yesterday.
Yesterday was the last day of the Fringe. Monday. Bank Holiday. It was also Free Hugs day for a handful of couchsurfers who I entierly failed to meet up with. However, that didn't stop me. At 2:15 I was on my way solo to the Royal Mile, sign in hand ready for action. It took courage to open that huge white expanse of posterboard with FREE HUGS written on it in bold black pen, because I knew people would start looking at me. I would become a focal point in the crowd. Still, I grew bold and snapped it open high above my head. I started to walk up the High Street. The results were instantaneous.
I was hugged by young people, old people, tourists, locals, people in cars, toothless old men, busking ukelele players, Fringe Festival Stewards (en masse -- they tackled me from behind), people from India, Spain, France, Itlay, China, America, England, and Ireland, married couples, silly people, women dressed as bondage pigs (?!), other free huggers, students from the University, people waiting in lines, people in wheelchairs, Japanese women holding babies, holiday-making pipe players from Canada, sisters, schoolkids, the entire clientel of an old person's bar which looked really sketchy until I was dragged in by a 70 year old woman with white hair and persuaded to give hugs to everyone therein who turned out to be perfectly sweet if slightly drunk, flyer distributors, businessmen, venue staff, people on the other side of panes of glass, magazine salesmen, people willing to run through traffic for a free hug, beggars, women with megaphones, travellers, transients, hippies, acrobats, people on drugs, children with smiles, people with lovely souls.
I was also given, for free, in return: a shot of whiskey, a kiss, a ticket to a show at the Pleasance Dome, a chance to teach someone Blue Moon on their brand new ukelele, and a ride in a bicycle taxi all the way from The Royal Mile to the Rocket Venues. Not to mention oodles of joy and happiness.
I was picked up and swung around until I couldn't see straight, hugged by the same person three times, tackled by groups of people, blessed by Christians, waved at by people in buses, winked at by traffic wardens, and applauded by passers-by. I've experienced the feeling of wanting to just smile at everyone I pass on the sidewalk before, but sometimes this can be difficult. Not so when one is holding a Free Hugs sign. Practically everyone I passed read the sign and broke into grins and smiles and laughs and giggles. Many of these people didn't approach me for a hug, but did say things like "That's fantastic, amazing, wonderful, excellent, tops, the best, brilliant, etc." to their family and friends. Old women grinned at me, parents read the sign to their children, couples stopped and pointed, everyone had a reaction. Even if I wasn't hugging people, they were feeling happier because they'd seen the sign and laughed.
It all felt amazing. Every hug I got left me grinning from ear to ear, laughing, smiling, happy. It was addictive. I hugged non-stop from 2:15 to 6pm. Striding around downtown until I had to sit down and take a break. I felt wonderful. Just having the sign at my side got me pulled into groups of people who asked for my life story, why I was doing it, where I came from, whether or not I wanted to join them for dinner, etc. What a day.
I saw Andrew Maxwell, an Irish comedian, perform his stand up routine at the Pleasance Courtyard, which was brilliant. It was great to see some really good comedy and laugh until it became physically painful and I was struggling to draw breath. I moved on to a late-night tea house under George IV Bridge called Chai, which was full of lovely eastern lamps and low-set tables. I had some delicious Turkish Delight and then moved on to The Vault, where I was treated to Sh*tty Deal Puppet Theatre Company's Complete History of Oppressed People Everywhere! The most bizarrely hilarious show thus far seen on the Fringe. The company was amazing and the puppets were absurd and it was all a great end to the evening and, indeed, the Festival.
On the way home, even at 11:30 at night on the almost deserted sidewalks of Princes Street, I got six more hugs before boarding a bus for morningside and staggering home to bed. I must've hugged over 100 people. Seen three shows. Eaten tasty food. And finished off the Festival in style.
So today I'm recovering, as is the rest of the city I'm sure. I almost don't want to stay here and watch the Half-Price Hut and the venue markers disappear, the giant upsidedown purple cow deflate, and the crowds thin to normal proportions. Edinburgh remains lovely, but it does seem that the gloomy weather is reflecting the mood of the city as things return to normal after such a fantastic three weeks of madness and creation. And of course, my camera came. The very day the proceedings came to an end. So now I can take boring pictures of trees and cows and other things. Isn't that the way it goes?
You should go hug some strangers now. Really. I reccommend it.
Since some time has elapsed since my last update, I should catch you up on the highlights of recent activity. Meeting up with Josh Cornwell for tasty caramel chocolate shortbread and caffine, seeing Play On Words -- an excellent production reminiscent of Tom Stoppard -- in a toasty, cramped theatre on a cold night, climbing Arthur's Seat the hard way to be met with intense wind and spectacular views in every direction, seeing Johnson and Boswell: Late But Live at the Traverse, walking along the beach near St. Andrews, watching the sun set over rollling Scottish countryside, devouring ice cream sundaes, meeting 30 odd other couchsurfers for an evening of film and fun in the back room of the Brass Monkey, partying down at the Forest to full throated, slightly drunk singer songwriter women jamming away on guitars, and finally, yesterday.
Yesterday was the last day of the Fringe. Monday. Bank Holiday. It was also Free Hugs day for a handful of couchsurfers who I entierly failed to meet up with. However, that didn't stop me. At 2:15 I was on my way solo to the Royal Mile, sign in hand ready for action. It took courage to open that huge white expanse of posterboard with FREE HUGS written on it in bold black pen, because I knew people would start looking at me. I would become a focal point in the crowd. Still, I grew bold and snapped it open high above my head. I started to walk up the High Street. The results were instantaneous.
I was hugged by young people, old people, tourists, locals, people in cars, toothless old men, busking ukelele players, Fringe Festival Stewards (en masse -- they tackled me from behind), people from India, Spain, France, Itlay, China, America, England, and Ireland, married couples, silly people, women dressed as bondage pigs (?!), other free huggers, students from the University, people waiting in lines, people in wheelchairs, Japanese women holding babies, holiday-making pipe players from Canada, sisters, schoolkids, the entire clientel of an old person's bar which looked really sketchy until I was dragged in by a 70 year old woman with white hair and persuaded to give hugs to everyone therein who turned out to be perfectly sweet if slightly drunk, flyer distributors, businessmen, venue staff, people on the other side of panes of glass, magazine salesmen, people willing to run through traffic for a free hug, beggars, women with megaphones, travellers, transients, hippies, acrobats, people on drugs, children with smiles, people with lovely souls.
I was also given, for free, in return: a shot of whiskey, a kiss, a ticket to a show at the Pleasance Dome, a chance to teach someone Blue Moon on their brand new ukelele, and a ride in a bicycle taxi all the way from The Royal Mile to the Rocket Venues. Not to mention oodles of joy and happiness.
I was picked up and swung around until I couldn't see straight, hugged by the same person three times, tackled by groups of people, blessed by Christians, waved at by people in buses, winked at by traffic wardens, and applauded by passers-by. I've experienced the feeling of wanting to just smile at everyone I pass on the sidewalk before, but sometimes this can be difficult. Not so when one is holding a Free Hugs sign. Practically everyone I passed read the sign and broke into grins and smiles and laughs and giggles. Many of these people didn't approach me for a hug, but did say things like "That's fantastic, amazing, wonderful, excellent, tops, the best, brilliant, etc." to their family and friends. Old women grinned at me, parents read the sign to their children, couples stopped and pointed, everyone had a reaction. Even if I wasn't hugging people, they were feeling happier because they'd seen the sign and laughed.
It all felt amazing. Every hug I got left me grinning from ear to ear, laughing, smiling, happy. It was addictive. I hugged non-stop from 2:15 to 6pm. Striding around downtown until I had to sit down and take a break. I felt wonderful. Just having the sign at my side got me pulled into groups of people who asked for my life story, why I was doing it, where I came from, whether or not I wanted to join them for dinner, etc. What a day.
I saw Andrew Maxwell, an Irish comedian, perform his stand up routine at the Pleasance Courtyard, which was brilliant. It was great to see some really good comedy and laugh until it became physically painful and I was struggling to draw breath. I moved on to a late-night tea house under George IV Bridge called Chai, which was full of lovely eastern lamps and low-set tables. I had some delicious Turkish Delight and then moved on to The Vault, where I was treated to Sh*tty Deal Puppet Theatre Company's Complete History of Oppressed People Everywhere! The most bizarrely hilarious show thus far seen on the Fringe. The company was amazing and the puppets were absurd and it was all a great end to the evening and, indeed, the Festival.
On the way home, even at 11:30 at night on the almost deserted sidewalks of Princes Street, I got six more hugs before boarding a bus for morningside and staggering home to bed. I must've hugged over 100 people. Seen three shows. Eaten tasty food. And finished off the Festival in style.
So today I'm recovering, as is the rest of the city I'm sure. I almost don't want to stay here and watch the Half-Price Hut and the venue markers disappear, the giant upsidedown purple cow deflate, and the crowds thin to normal proportions. Edinburgh remains lovely, but it does seem that the gloomy weather is reflecting the mood of the city as things return to normal after such a fantastic three weeks of madness and creation. And of course, my camera came. The very day the proceedings came to an end. So now I can take boring pictures of trees and cows and other things. Isn't that the way it goes?
You should go hug some strangers now. Really. I reccommend it.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thank God For Laundry Detergent
I washed my clothes today and my goodness do they smell nice.
Our dinner last night was fabulous. Company from all throughout the UK, as well as Spain, Hungary, America, and Canada. Fajitas were tasty, Polish plum cake doubly so. And Ivani's beautiful voice serenaded us all late into the the evening. I slept deeply and arose this morning to wash clothing (ooh yeah) and relax. Lots of a journal writing and watching the sun dart in and out of the clouds.
Eduard left us and Kate went off to do some errands. I ended up leaving the flat around 3pm after saying my thank you's and goodbye's to Kate to meet Josh Cornwell and his girlfriend on Princes Street. I found Josh leaning out the top of Scott Monument, but I was damned if I was going to climb that many flights of stairs with a full backpack, so I called him and told him to come down. We went for coffee and I introduced Josh to the wonders of chocolate, caramel, and shortbread. Yum.
Then onto a bus and over to Fountainbridge to meet Ben. Ladies and Gentlemen: I now have my own room. For a whole weekend. It's got a bed and a clothes drying rack and a dresser and EVERYTHING. I'm so excited.
Lots of couchsurfing action this weekend with a meet Sunday evening at the Brass Monkey for a free film festival, then Monday at 2pm we're bringing free hugs to St. Andrew's Square. Look out UK, here we come! For anyone not familiar with the Free Hugs Movement, do take the time to google it (As it's late and I can't be arsed to link the webpage) and join in on the fun. I'll let you all know how it goes.
Tonight Ben and I caught Play On Words, a fantastic show in the tradition of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead written by a three man theatre company who have all been friends for years. I met one of their number at the Fringe Box Office and was exceedingly pleased to see what talented young men they are. The show was fantastic. Clever, moving, witty, unusual. Everything I enjoy in theatre. I wanted to stay and chat with them at the bar, but Ben and I headed home instead, stopping at The Last Drop (A pub which used to be the site of all the hangings in Edinburgh - har har very funny) and a (much quieter) pub near his house for a few drinks. All in all a very successful day.
Tomorrow will be a slow start and so, as that great 18th century jounralist would say, to bed.
Sleep tight,
Lucy
Our dinner last night was fabulous. Company from all throughout the UK, as well as Spain, Hungary, America, and Canada. Fajitas were tasty, Polish plum cake doubly so. And Ivani's beautiful voice serenaded us all late into the the evening. I slept deeply and arose this morning to wash clothing (ooh yeah) and relax. Lots of a journal writing and watching the sun dart in and out of the clouds.
Eduard left us and Kate went off to do some errands. I ended up leaving the flat around 3pm after saying my thank you's and goodbye's to Kate to meet Josh Cornwell and his girlfriend on Princes Street. I found Josh leaning out the top of Scott Monument, but I was damned if I was going to climb that many flights of stairs with a full backpack, so I called him and told him to come down. We went for coffee and I introduced Josh to the wonders of chocolate, caramel, and shortbread. Yum.
Then onto a bus and over to Fountainbridge to meet Ben. Ladies and Gentlemen: I now have my own room. For a whole weekend. It's got a bed and a clothes drying rack and a dresser and EVERYTHING. I'm so excited.
Lots of couchsurfing action this weekend with a meet Sunday evening at the Brass Monkey for a free film festival, then Monday at 2pm we're bringing free hugs to St. Andrew's Square. Look out UK, here we come! For anyone not familiar with the Free Hugs Movement, do take the time to google it (As it's late and I can't be arsed to link the webpage) and join in on the fun. I'll let you all know how it goes.
Tonight Ben and I caught Play On Words, a fantastic show in the tradition of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead written by a three man theatre company who have all been friends for years. I met one of their number at the Fringe Box Office and was exceedingly pleased to see what talented young men they are. The show was fantastic. Clever, moving, witty, unusual. Everything I enjoy in theatre. I wanted to stay and chat with them at the bar, but Ben and I headed home instead, stopping at The Last Drop (A pub which used to be the site of all the hangings in Edinburgh - har har very funny) and a (much quieter) pub near his house for a few drinks. All in all a very successful day.
Tomorrow will be a slow start and so, as that great 18th century jounralist would say, to bed.
Sleep tight,
Lucy
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Blue Skies
So there's been a bit of lull in my updates of late, although the acquisition of my amazing hat may be to blame. (Incidentally, for those who are interested, my new camera lands in the UK tomorrow, so photos should appear in fairly short order.) At any rate, I believe I owe you all an explanation of where I've been and what's been going on.
To work from the back to the front, which is not necessarily the only way for one to do things, but does work as well as any other way: Sunday, when we last spoke. I set off for my appointment with Song of The Goat with plenty of time to spare. So much in fact that, arriving at 2:15 I thought, "Oh, I shall adjourn next door and purchase mineself an sand witch." And did. Infuriatingly, I hadn't checked my ticket stub and, so convinced was I that the show was at 2:30, it surprised me greatly to find that in the time it had taken me to walk next door and pick up my sandwich the audience had queued, been admitted, and sat down. By my return at 2:25 the doors were firmly shut on a show which began, I learned, at 2:TWENTY. In a morose funk, I finished my sandwich (Which tasted of misery and defeat) before walking away from the venue.
I maundered around Queen Street Gardens, my mood not improved by the fact that they are private and therefore unenjoyable by common slobs such as myself. Eventually I headed back up to George Street and ran into Tom, a comedian I'd seen performing at the Free Fringe a few days ago. We chatted for a bit and then I moved on to a smoothie bar.
Rejuvenated by mangoes I got myself to St. John's and walked down into the cemetary. Here, at least, was somewhere that would be relatively quiet. The combination of canopied trees and spreading lichens tinged everything emerald green. Headstones haphazardly tilted, weathered away by years of silence. I walked through several courtyards before reaching a fairly secluded one with a wall of monuments. One of them had a bench built into its front. I settled down to write, but ended up asleep. That twenty minute nap was more relaxing than any full night's sleep I've ever had. The sounds of the city barely penetrated the grove of trees around me and nobody else came through the monuments to disturb my rest. I awoke feeling quiet and happy, and walked back to Fountainbridge.
The day had turned cold, wind picking up as I made a wrong turn and had to backtrack past shady bars and dirty take-out places to reach the cinema complex opposite Mick's. Of course, by the time I got there, exaughsted and cold, nobody was in. I phoned Mick and he agreed to return and open the flat. I sat at a cafe across the road and waited. There was some sort of hullaballoo going on with the film festival, which I later learned was the UK premier of Knocked Up. There was a red carpet photo op thing of sorts so I can only imagine there were (shock horror) "famous people" not 50 feet away. It didn't matter. I wouldn't have moved for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at that point -- unless of course they had keys to the flat -- so I stayed where I was and watched the throng of people from a distance. Finally Mick arrived and I returned to the warm, smokey interior of the flat.
The temptation to remain at home was almost too great. The idea of staggering out into god-knows-where to find the swing dance event was not an exciting one and I felt like having a nap. Eventually, after some computer time and a few calls home, I worked up the strength to leave and, shielded from the elements by many layers, I set off for The Merlin. Now, my map only covers the centre of Edinburgh and so far this has not posed much of a problem. However, The Merlin was mere centimeters from where the edge of the map fell, and therefore after a certain point I was relying on trust that my directions were sound. Just as nagging fear of failure was beginning to set in I found myself in front of a two story building with signs to a swing meet upstairs. Thank God. It was about 9:45 when I entered the room, full of lights and dancers and a projector showing clips of old movies. Ben was in the far corner along with a few faces I recognized from the Jive Aces concert.
The evening was nice. Lots of dancing with a variety of people, many of them students at the University. Eventually, around 11:15, Ben and François (One of the dancers -- a delightful woman who's from France but has lived in Scotland for 10 years, giving her a Scots/French accent; Something that must be heard to be believed) and myself hopped in Ben's car and returned to Fountainbridge. Astonishingly, François was in number 5, just across the lane from me (#2) and Ben lived a few blocks down the road. We said our goodnights and I happily staggered upstairs.
The next morning was an early start since Mick had new surfers arriving and we needed to be out by 9am. I was packed and ready fairly quickly, happy to be on the move again. My clothes were beginning to stink of stale cigarette smoke -- not a pleasant thing. The hitchhikers and I traveled a short way together before parting ways at the Lothian Road junction. I headed off for my next couch but ended up writing letters for two hours in a Cafe Nero. Eventually I arrived at Mark's place around 12 after finding my amazing hat and promising the artist I would return with cash before the day was out. Mark and I ended up chatting for about three hours about nothing in particular, then I unpacked and ran back to secure the headgear of my dreams.
Mark's flat is a magical place tucked into rows of beautiful old apartment buildings, all spacious and high-ceilinged. I was sharing sleeping quarters with: 1 man from Georgia (ala Russia, not the deep South) 2 girls from Turkey, 3 more girls from Belgium, and Mark himself -- who grew up in South Africa and moved to the UK at age 15. His kitchen is packed with an arsenal of pans, cookbooks, unique spatulas, and exciting ingredients. We all enjoyed dinner together and then dispersed around the flat for socializing and reading before bed. I reassessed my letter-writing of the day and came up with the following conclusion.
There is something incredibly sexy about letters. This may seem like an odd statement, but it's true. A sealed envelope containing, not just a cursory thank you note, but a real whopper of a letter (10 pages -- at least.) is so satisfying, so thrilling. Full of longing and news and love and imagery. The paper crinkled at the back where moisture has adhered one side of the envelope to the other. Stamped, carefully addressed. Whenever
I send letters I wonder about the people who will handle them. Will someone working in a sorting room reach down and pick up my envelope? Examine it and long to read what's inside? And how will the person I'm writing to react? Joy, fear, exhilaration, sadness...What runs through someone's mind in the moments they spend opening a letter from far away? In an ideal world, it makes the day of whoever I'm writing to. They make time to enjoy the full experience of recieving a letter. They turn the envelope over and over in their hands, savoring the thin, tissue-like feel of the airmail paper, examining the stamps, reveling in the time and effort expended to deliver such a missive. They read the words carefully before falling asleep, and again over breakfast in the morning. They keep the letter in a safe place, where it can be accessed easily, and retain it as a special secret only they are aware of. A treat to be enjoyed in rare moments of indulgence and solitude.
Tuesday was a quiet day. I awoke to a sky that seemed dark enough for 5pm, even though it was only 11, and began my day slowly. I had plans to go to the Gallery of Modern Art on behalf of a friend, but ended up dawdling so much on my way there (In a fantastic shop called Stamper's Grove that sells an amazing assortment of papery goodness and exciting inks) that by the time I arrived they were close to closing and all the curators who would know the answers to my query had gone home early. I decided to come back later in the week and meandered around the gardens for a while.
I opted not to take the free bus back to The Mound and walked home via the Water of Leith walkway. This small river meanders through Dean Village and a number of other beautiful spots as it makes its way down to the seaside and empties into the ocean at Leith. The path running alongside it is about 18 miles long, but the stretch from the Gallery of Modern art back into town in one of the most beautiful. I can feel my body relaxing into this habit of long walks, my legs now springing forward into each new step, muscles stretching and tensing. It's fantastic. I never felt the least bit tired the whole way home.
I stopped for groceries at the Co-Op and finally arrived home around 6:30. I had checked this with Mark in the morning and was under the impression that he would be home. He wasn't. Nobody answered the buzzer at the front door. Just as I was about to give up, a gentleman in a suit arrived with keys. He let me in, as he was headed for his own flat one floor below Mark's, but I was then no closer to gaining access to the flat itself. I sat at the top floor and decided to do some writing to kill the time. Then another miracle! Mark's neighbor shows up, back from an afternoon out, and we get to chatting and I explain why all these mysterious foreign people have been disappearing into Mark's flat (He was relieved to find out it wasn't human trafficking or anything) and tell him about my journey. Nick is from Belfast via a few other places like Australia and Detroit, now living in Edinburgh, he a fabulous guy. Very friendly and intelligent. We end up having drinks in his flat until about 8, when Mark returns and Nick has to leave for a dinner. Another new friend!
Wednesday morning dawns bright and beautiful. The overcast skies of the day before have vanished and the sun is everywhere. I set off to meet our dear friends Diana and Oliver at the Hub of the Official Edinburgh International Festival. I'm an hour or so early, but so are they. Hugs all around and a wonderful lunch before attending a talk given by two veterans of the Festival, Magnus Linklater and Sheila Colvin. I spent the pre-talk minutes obsessing over the fountain pen of the man sitting in front of me. I should've asked him if I could try it. I was introduced to an astounding number of people, all quite well-known in the society circles of Edinburgh. Diana knows everybody. It's rather remarkable. We had time for a cup of tea afterwards and caught each other up on everything that has transpired since we met last summer in London. A photo outside with a large painted cow and we were off with promises of contact the following day.
I stopped in at the Forest in hopes of seeing James, but he was nowhere to be found. Dustin and Deirdre were preparing to leave after the show of the evening. I said goodbye to them both and returned to Mark's apartment. Running late, I grab everything, thank Mark, and set off on foot for Leith. 20 minutes later I arrive via an unusual route at #2 Wellington Place. Kate, my new host, is fantastic. Young and smiling, she shares a flat with Gabor, from Hungary, and a whole host of other international folks. Her other couchsurfer, Edward (Or possibly Edoard? Spelling?) is from Spain, with an adorable Catalan lisp. The accent is quite amazing. We all set out for 80 Queen Street about 9, where there was apparently a free jazz concert.
The venue was great and the music fabulous. We all packed into a booth and enjoyed good drinks (Very tasty Rosé wine for me -- I honestly don't know why everyone spends so much time bashing Rosé for being unfashionable. It's rubbish.) and each other's company until the bar closed at 12:15. Half-way through we were joined by the Edward's sister and her boyfriend. The whole table was a mess of languages and accents. Gabor tried to teach us some Hungarian, but it was no use. I'm excited to have some people to practice Spanish with, just as they are excited to have someone who can help them learn English. Kate and I became a teaching duo. It was quite successful until she started to make up words. Then it just got silly.
I spent the night on a futon in the lounge -- very comfy -- and am now trying to get everything in order to have another crack at seeing Song of The Goat. We're also having a dinner party tonight so preparations are in order. This has been a truly mammoth update and I apologize profusely to those of you who have stuck it out till the end. Or perhaps I should commend you and hand out medals. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.
Showering and laundry for me now, so adieu, adios, Viszontlátásra (Hungarian -- woo!), and other measurements as well.
Lucy
To work from the back to the front, which is not necessarily the only way for one to do things, but does work as well as any other way: Sunday, when we last spoke. I set off for my appointment with Song of The Goat with plenty of time to spare. So much in fact that, arriving at 2:15 I thought, "Oh, I shall adjourn next door and purchase mineself an sand witch." And did. Infuriatingly, I hadn't checked my ticket stub and, so convinced was I that the show was at 2:30, it surprised me greatly to find that in the time it had taken me to walk next door and pick up my sandwich the audience had queued, been admitted, and sat down. By my return at 2:25 the doors were firmly shut on a show which began, I learned, at 2:TWENTY. In a morose funk, I finished my sandwich (Which tasted of misery and defeat) before walking away from the venue.
I maundered around Queen Street Gardens, my mood not improved by the fact that they are private and therefore unenjoyable by common slobs such as myself. Eventually I headed back up to George Street and ran into Tom, a comedian I'd seen performing at the Free Fringe a few days ago. We chatted for a bit and then I moved on to a smoothie bar.
Rejuvenated by mangoes I got myself to St. John's and walked down into the cemetary. Here, at least, was somewhere that would be relatively quiet. The combination of canopied trees and spreading lichens tinged everything emerald green. Headstones haphazardly tilted, weathered away by years of silence. I walked through several courtyards before reaching a fairly secluded one with a wall of monuments. One of them had a bench built into its front. I settled down to write, but ended up asleep. That twenty minute nap was more relaxing than any full night's sleep I've ever had. The sounds of the city barely penetrated the grove of trees around me and nobody else came through the monuments to disturb my rest. I awoke feeling quiet and happy, and walked back to Fountainbridge.The day had turned cold, wind picking up as I made a wrong turn and had to backtrack past shady bars and dirty take-out places to reach the cinema complex opposite Mick's. Of course, by the time I got there, exaughsted and cold, nobody was in. I phoned Mick and he agreed to return and open the flat. I sat at a cafe across the road and waited. There was some sort of hullaballoo going on with the film festival, which I later learned was the UK premier of Knocked Up. There was a red carpet photo op thing of sorts so I can only imagine there were (shock horror) "famous people" not 50 feet away. It didn't matter. I wouldn't have moved for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at that point -- unless of course they had keys to the flat -- so I stayed where I was and watched the throng of people from a distance. Finally Mick arrived and I returned to the warm, smokey interior of the flat.
The temptation to remain at home was almost too great. The idea of staggering out into god-knows-where to find the swing dance event was not an exciting one and I felt like having a nap. Eventually, after some computer time and a few calls home, I worked up the strength to leave and, shielded from the elements by many layers, I set off for The Merlin. Now, my map only covers the centre of Edinburgh and so far this has not posed much of a problem. However, The Merlin was mere centimeters from where the edge of the map fell, and therefore after a certain point I was relying on trust that my directions were sound. Just as nagging fear of failure was beginning to set in I found myself in front of a two story building with signs to a swing meet upstairs. Thank God. It was about 9:45 when I entered the room, full of lights and dancers and a projector showing clips of old movies. Ben was in the far corner along with a few faces I recognized from the Jive Aces concert.
The evening was nice. Lots of dancing with a variety of people, many of them students at the University. Eventually, around 11:15, Ben and François (One of the dancers -- a delightful woman who's from France but has lived in Scotland for 10 years, giving her a Scots/French accent; Something that must be heard to be believed) and myself hopped in Ben's car and returned to Fountainbridge. Astonishingly, François was in number 5, just across the lane from me (#2) and Ben lived a few blocks down the road. We said our goodnights and I happily staggered upstairs.
The next morning was an early start since Mick had new surfers arriving and we needed to be out by 9am. I was packed and ready fairly quickly, happy to be on the move again. My clothes were beginning to stink of stale cigarette smoke -- not a pleasant thing. The hitchhikers and I traveled a short way together before parting ways at the Lothian Road junction. I headed off for my next couch but ended up writing letters for two hours in a Cafe Nero. Eventually I arrived at Mark's place around 12 after finding my amazing hat and promising the artist I would return with cash before the day was out. Mark and I ended up chatting for about three hours about nothing in particular, then I unpacked and ran back to secure the headgear of my dreams.
Mark's flat is a magical place tucked into rows of beautiful old apartment buildings, all spacious and high-ceilinged. I was sharing sleeping quarters with: 1 man from Georgia (ala Russia, not the deep South) 2 girls from Turkey, 3 more girls from Belgium, and Mark himself -- who grew up in South Africa and moved to the UK at age 15. His kitchen is packed with an arsenal of pans, cookbooks, unique spatulas, and exciting ingredients. We all enjoyed dinner together and then dispersed around the flat for socializing and reading before bed. I reassessed my letter-writing of the day and came up with the following conclusion.
There is something incredibly sexy about letters. This may seem like an odd statement, but it's true. A sealed envelope containing, not just a cursory thank you note, but a real whopper of a letter (10 pages -- at least.) is so satisfying, so thrilling. Full of longing and news and love and imagery. The paper crinkled at the back where moisture has adhered one side of the envelope to the other. Stamped, carefully addressed. Whenever
I send letters I wonder about the people who will handle them. Will someone working in a sorting room reach down and pick up my envelope? Examine it and long to read what's inside? And how will the person I'm writing to react? Joy, fear, exhilaration, sadness...What runs through someone's mind in the moments they spend opening a letter from far away? In an ideal world, it makes the day of whoever I'm writing to. They make time to enjoy the full experience of recieving a letter. They turn the envelope over and over in their hands, savoring the thin, tissue-like feel of the airmail paper, examining the stamps, reveling in the time and effort expended to deliver such a missive. They read the words carefully before falling asleep, and again over breakfast in the morning. They keep the letter in a safe place, where it can be accessed easily, and retain it as a special secret only they are aware of. A treat to be enjoyed in rare moments of indulgence and solitude.Tuesday was a quiet day. I awoke to a sky that seemed dark enough for 5pm, even though it was only 11, and began my day slowly. I had plans to go to the Gallery of Modern Art on behalf of a friend, but ended up dawdling so much on my way there (In a fantastic shop called Stamper's Grove that sells an amazing assortment of papery goodness and exciting inks) that by the time I arrived they were close to closing and all the curators who would know the answers to my query had gone home early. I decided to come back later in the week and meandered around the gardens for a while.
I opted not to take the free bus back to The Mound and walked home via the Water of Leith walkway. This small river meanders through Dean Village and a number of other beautiful spots as it makes its way down to the seaside and empties into the ocean at Leith. The path running alongside it is about 18 miles long, but the stretch from the Gallery of Modern art back into town in one of the most beautiful. I can feel my body relaxing into this habit of long walks, my legs now springing forward into each new step, muscles stretching and tensing. It's fantastic. I never felt the least bit tired the whole way home.I stopped for groceries at the Co-Op and finally arrived home around 6:30. I had checked this with Mark in the morning and was under the impression that he would be home. He wasn't. Nobody answered the buzzer at the front door. Just as I was about to give up, a gentleman in a suit arrived with keys. He let me in, as he was headed for his own flat one floor below Mark's, but I was then no closer to gaining access to the flat itself. I sat at the top floor and decided to do some writing to kill the time. Then another miracle! Mark's neighbor shows up, back from an afternoon out, and we get to chatting and I explain why all these mysterious foreign people have been disappearing into Mark's flat (He was relieved to find out it wasn't human trafficking or anything) and tell him about my journey. Nick is from Belfast via a few other places like Australia and Detroit, now living in Edinburgh, he a fabulous guy. Very friendly and intelligent. We end up having drinks in his flat until about 8, when Mark returns and Nick has to leave for a dinner. Another new friend!
Wednesday morning dawns bright and beautiful. The overcast skies of the day before have vanished and the sun is everywhere. I set off to meet our dear friends Diana and Oliver at the Hub of the Official Edinburgh International Festival. I'm an hour or so early, but so are they. Hugs all around and a wonderful lunch before attending a talk given by two veterans of the Festival, Magnus Linklater and Sheila Colvin. I spent the pre-talk minutes obsessing over the fountain pen of the man sitting in front of me. I should've asked him if I could try it. I was introduced to an astounding number of people, all quite well-known in the society circles of Edinburgh. Diana knows everybody. It's rather remarkable. We had time for a cup of tea afterwards and caught each other up on everything that has transpired since we met last summer in London. A photo outside with a large painted cow and we were off with promises of contact the following day.
I stopped in at the Forest in hopes of seeing James, but he was nowhere to be found. Dustin and Deirdre were preparing to leave after the show of the evening. I said goodbye to them both and returned to Mark's apartment. Running late, I grab everything, thank Mark, and set off on foot for Leith. 20 minutes later I arrive via an unusual route at #2 Wellington Place. Kate, my new host, is fantastic. Young and smiling, she shares a flat with Gabor, from Hungary, and a whole host of other international folks. Her other couchsurfer, Edward (Or possibly Edoard? Spelling?) is from Spain, with an adorable Catalan lisp. The accent is quite amazing. We all set out for 80 Queen Street about 9, where there was apparently a free jazz concert.
The venue was great and the music fabulous. We all packed into a booth and enjoyed good drinks (Very tasty Rosé wine for me -- I honestly don't know why everyone spends so much time bashing Rosé for being unfashionable. It's rubbish.) and each other's company until the bar closed at 12:15. Half-way through we were joined by the Edward's sister and her boyfriend. The whole table was a mess of languages and accents. Gabor tried to teach us some Hungarian, but it was no use. I'm excited to have some people to practice Spanish with, just as they are excited to have someone who can help them learn English. Kate and I became a teaching duo. It was quite successful until she started to make up words. Then it just got silly.I spent the night on a futon in the lounge -- very comfy -- and am now trying to get everything in order to have another crack at seeing Song of The Goat. We're also having a dinner party tonight so preparations are in order. This has been a truly mammoth update and I apologize profusely to those of you who have stuck it out till the end. Or perhaps I should commend you and hand out medals. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.
Showering and laundry for me now, so adieu, adios, Viszontlátásra (Hungarian -- woo!), and other measurements as well.
Lucy
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