Wanderlust

A Change of Scenery

2010-08-11T17:48:00.000-07:00

Greetings, loyal readers!

(Well, I mean, you'd have to pretty damn loyal at this point, wouldn't you? Especially considering that I haven't posted a dribble to this site in almost two years -- although the spambots certainly seem to have been busy. Anyway...)

This is a courtesy message designed to direct traffic towards my latest endeavor on the internet, another blog, which promises to track my fluctuating fortunes as I try to break into the world of comics using only a crowbar, a brush pen, and my own desperate desire for creative expression. In its warm and welcome embrace you may enjoy weekly sketches, updates on my self-published series, Baggywrinkles, and tales from my adventures in the Portland comics scene.

So hie yourselves over to...
THE REINVIGORATED ARTISTIC ADVENTURES OF LUCY BELLWOOD

It'll be worth it -- I promise!

Ever yours,
L

A Brief Re/Nightcap

2008-11-05T00:43:00.000-08:00

So.

The Election of 2008, which we have all participated in, which embodies our future, which has, at last, given us hope at the end of a long, dark ~~tea-time of the soul~~ period in the history of America, is over. It was momentous, unbelievable, touching, and inspiring. If I could pick any part of history to truly be a part of, this would have to be it.

Lucky for me, then, that I got to stand, packed shoulder to shoulder with my fellow students, watching the results come in, until the final tumultuous cry of joy went up and the champagne corks blew and the arms flew round the shoulders.

Yet it wasn't until the crowd celebrating Obama's victory, both in Chicago and Vollum Lecture Hall on Reed College Campus in Portland, Oregon, began the now-infamous chant of "Yes We Can" that I felt tears in my eyes. I broke down. I wept like a baby -- crying, laughing, not being able to tell which was which.

There, at last, after so many years of cynicism and outrage and the inability to be proud of my country and my heritage, I felt as if I belonged. No more the dismissive wave of the hand and the closing remark: "I don't talk about politics. They disgust me." Or the need to leave the room -- or worse, the country -- when the President came on television to discuss the state of the nation. Here was the America I had wished I could come home to from my travels. The America I dreamed would be welcomed and respected by the world. The America I carry in my back pocket as a passport -- the one I no longer want to shred in favor of my other, more Continentally-flavoured option.

This was the America I had almost stopped believing existed, since the moment I became old enough to glean even vaguely what was happening in the governing of our country, it was already too late. In these last eight years I've grown a great deal emotionally, mentally, and physically (though my current goal of 5'7" remains 1/4" distant -- and the gap doesn't seem to be closing), but through all those years I've felt a disconnect between my indentity and my ideals. The world does need change. The world needs inspiration. The world needs action. Action driven by honesty and a desire for solutions. We are no longer in an age of desperate measures. We are capable of working together to create an America which ceases to flail madly and lash out with violence and turmoil when trouble rears its ugly head. We are in good hands. Our own.

With all this in mind, we jubilantly embraced and laughed together in Vollum, before seeking out further revelry. Being a college of a rather liberal and Democratic persuasion, Reed believes that any event of import, certainly this most astonishing and miraculous of elections, may only truly, justly be celebrated by two means: dancing and nudity.

It is therefore hardly surprising that following President-Elect Obama's acceptance speech, we flooded boisterously to the Student Union, with its enormous couch see-saw and glorious vaulted ceiling, shed our garments, and danced as if the stars had floated down to say hello. As if we would never have another opportunity like this. Another night so glorious. And maybe that's true. There were lights and fog and preposterously amazing music and, most importantly of all, a community of people who were absolutely over the moon. Such joy is infectious -- and even now, exhausted, hoarse, blistered, bruised, and rather unprepared for a day of classes tomorrow, I am bursting with great pleasure and hope.

I hope you've all celebrated in your own ways -- quiet or loud -- and I want to say "thank you," because you have all brought this country the leader it needs. And though he embodies the policies we believe in, it is also important to remember that we, the people, elected him. The responsibility of change is in our hands too. Remember kindness. Remember patience. Change doesn't have to build continents from scratch. Most days, it's more than enough to offer a smile and a hug, or a story, or a helping hand. Start small. I promise you the day will come when we move mountains.

Rest well, America of my dreams. Tomorrow is a new, beautiful day.

My Fellow Americans...

2008-11-03T21:21:00.001-08:00

You already know what I'm going to say -- so just get out there and do it already. Those of us who have placed our votes in "early" hands will be living vicariously through you tomorrow.

On a vaguely connected note, if you ever have the chance to see The Capitol Steps perform live, please, please go. They're hilarious.

For the international readership of this publication: We're trying, ladies and gentlemen. Really. Wish us luck.

We may now commence with the holding of the breath.

The Relay

2008-10-17T10:09:00.000-07:00

Roundabout the start of term, there were a great many Orientation Week t-shirts on display bearing the slogan "Reed College: It's not a sprint, it's a marathon."

Now, I'm sure the designers of this shirt had the best intentions, but it came off a little daunting. Yes to the journey, not the destination. Yes to the process, not the result. But a marathon? Are people going to be dumping bottles of water over my head as I emerge from my finals? Is my diet going to consist entirely of salt packets and goop-in-a-tube? Will I be forced to wear poncy neon shorts? I certainly hope not.

However, if we were to run with this metaphor a little longer, replacing marathon with "relay race," we could say that I've just reached my first hand-off point. Trouble being, I've failed to hand anything over. I have, instead, inadvertently set my shorts alight with the torch, then thrown it into the nearby Olympic swimming pool and started to dance the macarena.

Those of you who have taken AP English will doubtless be able to analyze this most righteous of metaphors and discover that I am, in fact, talking about Fall Break. Reed students are given a week at the end of October to cavort and gambol after midterms. This is a wise choice, and it feels like it couldn't have come at a better time. Although I'm settled and happy here, I miss my cats. I miss Ojai. I miss my family and my books and my preposterous mess of a room. And oranges. Oregon has a lot of stuff going for it, but jeez-oh-man they cannot fucking grow oranges. Yeesh.

Anyway. My one and only midterm has come and gone, and now I shoulder my trusty backpack once more and set off in search of the airport. They tell me it's big. I should be able to spot it without too much trouble.

Those of you around at home, stand by. Those of you elsewhere, keep doing whatever it is you're doing that makes you all so lovely/awesome/witty/literary/tall/short/artistic/multilingual/nude. Anyone else: DANCE!

That is all.

Life and Times of a Statiophiliac

2008-10-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

As many of you may already be aware, I have a problem. It's the sort of condition that generally plagues me in public, alarming those in my immediate vicinity, and has, to my knowledge, no known cure. If I'm lucky, it manifests itself in the form of lurking -- perhaps with a bit of cooing, mumbling, and caressing thrown in. If unlucky, it leaves me slavering shamelessly in front of shop windows, begging passers-by for change and screaming about binding glue and ink tone.

I am, in short, a Statiophiliac.

Perhaps you've known these people in your time. An aunt who keeps postage stamps in her hair, an old classmate who spends just a little too much time in the library on Friday nights. These people have needs. These needs have a language. But whatever you call it -- stamping, Decoupage, literary ephemering, print-making, fountain penning, ink dunking, book sniffing -- the cause is the same. All these people are consumed with a burning obsession. A burning, papery obsession. They can do nothing to break away.

It is by this lighthearted discussion that I mean to introduce the topic for today -- namely, my completely willingness to do absolutely anything for journals, pens, stamps, envelopes, paper, and sealing wax. So naturally, when I found out that one of blogs I read, which caters specifically to this kind of audience (Or that subset thereof consisting of people dedicating their lives to the search for a cheaper Moleskine alternative), was staging a competition for which the prize was THREE FREE PICCADILLY NOTEBOOKS, I knew my carefully-constructed defenses were all in vain.

Here, then, is my entry for said contest, which really only needs to consist of a link to the blog in question. However, I thought I might take the opportunity to simultaneously educate you all a little about how the other half lives. Because your ignorance leaves us waking up beside some strange college-ruled, spiral-bound abomination on Monday morning who may not even fall under the prestigious heading of "stationary" -- despite its claims to the contrary after all that Mod Podge sealant the night before.

The site in question, which deals with the endless search for the perfect "Black Notebook" can be found here. And while I'm about it, Notebookism publishes some great reviews along the same lines. For notebooks in the field, check out Write In My Journal and the 1000 Journals Project. And finally, for those who need inspiration of a more postal nature, the Letter Writer's Alliance provides you with convenient links and reviews to the most titilating new postage-based joys the web can provide. Oh! While you're at it, the site's founders run the indomitable 16 Sparrows stationary press. And what's more...

I'm sure you all get the point. Now get out of here. I've got books to fondle.

All Your Tuna Are Belong To Us

2008-09-27T22:53:00.000-07:00

We found a cat. The cat likes us. We like the cat.

If all goes according to plan, she will never go away ever again.

Molly, our fearless leader, found her hanging around the amphitheater and managed to coax her back to the dorm, where we rewarded her with a full pouch of tuna. Short work was made of this offering, and soon she stopped being quite so skittish and decided that she liked us enough to hang around and be petted for a while.

However, since Jasper the Rabbit lives in the common room where this delicious bundle of felinity was sleeping, we needed to remove her, so she's here. In bed. In my bed. There is a cat in my bed. Purring with the force of a two stroke diesel engine. It's pure and utter bliss.

I've left my window open in case she feels the need to leave me, but with the strategic acquisition of more tuna, I may just be able to keep her. Here's hoping.

Things Your Mother Would Probably Approve Of (Tentative Part Three in a Potentially Ongoing and Evolving Series)

2008-09-21T16:19:00.000-07:00

Words which, when pluralized, end in -oxes. Foxes, boxes, equinoxes, etc.

Which brings us nicely to the weather in Portland at the moment, which has shifted sharply from warm and muggy to torrentially deluged. I personally find this a very acceptable way to usher in the delicious months of Autumn (starting tomorrow at 3:40 pm), and have celebrated by brewing a really magnificent cup of tea and settling down in bed to read countless pages of Greek lyric poetry.

My muscles are sufficiently annoyed with me for playing a vicious game of Ultimate Frisbee yesterday, not to mention learning to dance some basic Argentine Tango last night, so I've attained my required standard of exertion (and then some) for the weekend. Now is the time for curling up and studying.

Bless you Reed for successfully matching meteorology with academics.

Wonderbust? Winterrust? Wrongfulgust?

2008-09-16T10:32:00.000-07:00

I really, truly, honestly need to change the title of this blog, or simply close it down and begin anew with a vaguely more coherent set of goals regarding the documentation of my life and academic adventures.

Suggestions, ladies and gentlemen?

Bears: Trounced, Paradise: Attained

2008-08-27T22:49:00.000-07:00

If gorgeous wilderness wasn't enough to get the academic year moving on a high note, Reed itself has pulled out all the stops to insure that we, as new students, are made to feel, not only welcome, but completely infatuated with our new home.

In the space of an afternoon I have been...

...ambushed and spontaneously taught by 40 jugglers, left to spend as much time as I see fit in a cavernous, couch-filled goldmine containing every graphic novel I've wanted to read for the last six years, shoved into the no-man's-land space created between three simultaneous dance parties (all with separate pounding stereos playing different music, mind you) and told to dance, involved in a physics-based discussion about pie warfare with more that ten people at the same time, and passed by a swooping group of what can only be described as Viking marauders -- on bicycles -- wielding LARP-based foam weaponry.

However, the more I hear from returning students, the more I am astonished and thrilled to hear that this is nothing out of the ordinary.

To clarify: this happens all year long.

In short: I am here, and very, very happy about it.

The Lowdown

2008-08-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

I feel as if I haven't had time to draw breath since the moment I hit the Hard running back in July, so here's a brief list (You know I love 'em) of what's been going on in my life of late.

1. Knitting a space invader.
2. Painting a 7'x10' jungle mural for some adorable children.
3. Reading The Iliad (again).
4. Attending a pilates class for the first time in my life, just to see what all the fuss was about.
5. Drawing again after a lengthy creative dry spell.
6. Coming 3rd in a Scrabble Tournament.
7. Packing my life into a series of boxes and, coming soon...

...Moving to Portland.

To avoid this turning into the obligatory "moving away to college, life so full of change and impermanence, woe and calamity, blood and gore, et cetera and et cetera" post, I'll focus on the bright side. Indeed, I haven't even had time to explore the disagreeable portions of it myself, owing to the aforementioned not having time to draw breath situation.

First off, my new address, for those of you in the know -- or you absolute strangers who stumble upon me with a burning desire to send mail to other absolute strangers (and unto you I bestow this link: http://sendsomething.net) -- will be as follows up in the land of the Port:

Lucy Bellwood
Reed College MS#76
3203 SE Woodstock Blvd.
Portland OR 97202-8199

Try as I might to see everyone before leaving the sunny lands of California, I will most certainly fail, so I suggest you start penning postcards now. I'll be incommunicado for my first 4 days up there, owing to Reed's long-standing tradition of sending all incoming students out into the wilderness to do battle with bears prior to the start of term. Those who survive will be granted a place in the class of 2012. I foresee only glowing victory in this arena.

Bottom line: I'm excited, though nothing's really sinking/sunk in yet, and so I remain blissfully delusional and a little unhinged, muddling through unfamiliar territory towards intellectual paradise. I will do my best to keep you all informed.

Two Six!

Over The Wine-Dark Sea

2008-07-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

July 9th, 2008

I am home. My toenails are painted blue like the sea. I feel as if I've never left, and yet know it can't be possible. Were that the case, how did I incur this plethora of new and exciting injuries? Rainbows of bruises, swollen knuckles from dislocated fingers, gentle scrapes, peeling sunburn -- most importantly, the deep ebb and flood of yearning for my home on the water and the salty, wildmad lovers I left therein.

Suddenly I speak a foreign language in a native tongue. People stare at me, perplexed, as I run through complex explanations to supplement jokes about bilge pumps and bulkheads. My idiom is fast becoming obsolete and so I furiously tread water, writing letters and burning promised mix CD's for shipmates. Trying to recall the smell of salt on my skin and wind in my hair.

Normal service to resume shortly.

Land of the Free...

2008-06-27T16:33:00.000-07:00

In Canada. Have failed entirely (apparent, I'm sure) to update in the promised fashion. Am a worm. Please forgive. News to follow? I make no promises these days.

On the other hand: SHIPS! LOTS! MANY! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!

Lost and Found

2008-06-04T23:59:00.000-07:00

EXCITING NEWS OF INJURIES SUSTAINED SOON TO FOLLOW.

STAND BY HANDSOMELY.

Deceptive Truths

2008-05-20T20:02:00.000-07:00

I just listened to a passing mother tell her child "Look sweetie! See how high that mast is? That's how deep the rudder sits in the water."

I'm relieved to report that the child displayed a healthy amount of skepticism at this statement. Firstly, because you should never believe everything you're told -- but more importantly because it's fucking nonsense.

Delight

2008-05-08T23:03:00.000-07:00

I am full of it.

Waxing Lyrical

2008-05-02T14:04:00.000-07:00

There is, shockingly, working wireless on the brig today and therefore, as I have, also shockingly, been given a whole day off, you're all being treated to an update.

The only difficulty at this point is that everything of relevance to my life now relates to tall ship sailing and tall ship sailors -- who, as it has already been pointed out by someone famous and witty (Twain, perhaps?), are the loveliest of persons, but atrociously prone to jargon*. This makes everything I now want to talk about just about unintelligible to practically everyone. So I'll try to do it right and not leave you all thinking me either a) mad or b) one baggy short of a wrinkle.

Sailing aplenty has occurred, as have multitudinous Ed Programs, docksides, and midnight adventures. After joining the vessel in Crescent City, I resettled myself aboard for the long haul (Although I am, for the moment, living in the main hold -- normally reserved for the more transient crew members) and got back into the rhythm of life on the drink. It is, in a word, fulfilling.

Apart from being more fun than a barrel of monkey's fists, it's deeply satisfying in ways I can barely explain. Working tirelessly, keeping the vessel I love in shape for the sake of astounding all the small minds who cross her decks, collapsing into bed after stand-down with my muscles ready to drop from my bones with weariness, feeling the sun I've absorbed into my skin making my pillow glow, eating heartily and singing loudly -- being filled with so much gratitude that it makes me swell with happiness every minute of every day.

These are the ingredients of a perfect life.

After a three day diversion to Eureka to pick up on any school groups we missed due to the aforementioned snafu, we're back in Crescent City -- reunited with the Hawaiian Chieftain (our companion vessel) and taking the extra day before the weekend madness to tackle various maintenance projects. Monday sees us on our way to Coos Bay, OR and beyond up the Columbia river, but in the meantime, we're doing a substantial amount of Battle Sails through Saturday and Sunday. This means exhaustion aplenty, so expect very little from me until next week at least. I figured I should just let you all know that I'm still alive, covered in pine tar, and loving every minute of it.

Fair winds and following seas...

*Although apparently, there is help.

Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics

2008-04-27T17:51:00.000-07:00

For the past two days, I've spent a great of time working public tours aboard the Lady Washington. Following six months on land, I'd forgotten just how many absurd questions we get asked on a daily basis.

Today's doozy came from a young man of about 14. Facing the steps to the ramp by which he had boarded the vessel not 10 minutes prior to the exchange, he gazed at me with eyes full of a infinite, unspeakable woe and asked "But how do I get off?"

Conversely, there are also a fair amount of delightful quotes from the children who come aboard for our educational sails. Some are heartwarming, others simply hilarious -- like this one from last week's group of 3rd grade students. A crew member teaching about the life of an Officer in the 1700's received the following answers when asking "Okay, guys, think about it this way. Who enforces the law today?"

"Uhh..."
"The President!"
"My mom!"
"Our teacher!"
"You guys!"

And, finally:

"The Mafia!"

I'm sure you can figure out which one was correct.

Farewell and Adieu To You, Spanish Ladies

2008-04-23T06:59:00.000-07:00

Well, not precisely.

I mean, I'm fairly sure there are at least two Spanish ladies reading this, but I'm not just saying farewell and adieu to them, obviously. It's more to do with the fact that I'm actually going sailing -- at long bloody last -- and so I thought it would be appropriate to quote something nautical, which makes this a reference to the popular sailor's tune and not, in fact, a literal valediction.

Good. Glad we got that little misunderstanding cleared up. Now for the explaining which is actually necessary and not just a load of blather.

I set forth at an ungodly hour last Thursday morning for Eureka, CA -- fully expecting to meet my beloved Lady Washington at the dock upon my arrival. However, due to some unerring 6th sense, I thought it might be wise to get in touch with a CouchSurfing host prior to leaving -- just in case. This proved wiser than I could possibly imagine, as I was informed via press releases later that afternoon that Lady had been delayed 24 hours due to bad weather. No worries, as I was going to stay with my hosts, Joyce and Darrell, for a night anyway.

Unfortunately, the next day, in spite of assurances from the Office that we'd be seeing t'gallants by 4pm, another press release emerged saying there'd been further bad weather off the South end of the Humboldt Bay bar. Seeing no other option but to sit tight and wait it out, I gratefully accepted the offer of another night in Eureka.

By Saturday morning, Lady had made another attempt at crossing the bar, only to be turned back yet again. In order to stay on schedule, the Office decided to cancel all events and ed programs in Eureka and head straight for Crescent City when the weather cleared. There was no suggested ETA. Fortunately, about this time, I recalled the fact that an old friend was attending university in the area and rang her up. She was more than delighted to whisk me away for the weekend, and so we spent a few days cavorting in Arcata.

Although the time was pleasantly passed, it did offer a terrifying glimpse into collegiate living for the moderately impoverished. And while the impoverishment wasn't really a problem, the cause of it was. All funds acquired in the area seem to be spent directly on either drugs or alcohol, which, I'm sure you can imagine, leads to a gaping hole in place of anything resembling a) intelligent conversation or b) anything else decent or worthwhile. I began to grow restless, resenting the time I could've spent at home in the warmth of Ojai and yearning for the rough and tumble of the sea in equal measure.

Monday afternoon I received an update saying that the brig was finally underway with an estimated ETA of four days. Joyce and Darrell had gone above and beyond the call of duty as hosts, offering me a place to stay for the rest of the week -- as well as a ride up to Crescent City (An hour and half north, for reference) as soon as Lady was docked.

Yesterday, I arrived home and found an update waiting for me with the glorious news that Lady was in a day early, crew exhausted from an epic transit, but all in one piece and waiting for me to join her. After crashing out at 7 last night, I've awoken rested and ready to go. All that remains is to repack my bags and make the drive, and then I can finally start regrowing my callouses and strengthening my limbs and singing my heart out. So I'd best get on with that.

For the next two months, internet acquisition depends entirely upon which port we happen to be in and how many unsuspecting homeowners in the area have left their wireless unprotected. I will, however, do my best to keep this updated.

In the meantime: Enjoy yourselves, you crazy diamonds.

Things Your Mother Will Advise Against With Certainty

2008-04-21T21:41:00.000-07:00

Missing one's boat.

Gale force winds can kiss my ass.

NO TIME! (AUCUNE HEURE!)

2008-04-17T00:51:00.000-07:00

AM ABOUT TO GO SAILING! (JE SUIS UNE NAVIGATRICE!) HAVE LEFT NO TIME FOR BLOGGING! (C'EST UNE CATASTROPHE!) MUST GET OUT OF BED AGAIN AT 4 AM! (NE VOULEZ PAS!) WILL RETURN TO OJAI IN JULY! (JE SUIS PLEIN DE LA FOLIE!)

ALSO! (AUSSI BIEN!) CAPS = URGENCY AND HUMOUR! (ADROIT!) I HAVE HURLED MY ROCK! (MISSILE DE PROJECTILE!) DEAD BIRDS NUMBER TWO! (SQUAUX!) THE DAY, SHE IS MINE! (VIVE PIRATERIE!)

CHUTE EN SOMMEIL MAINTENANT!

Terrifying, But True

2008-04-16T00:59:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gents: I would like to take a moment to announce that I am now officially registered to vote within the state of California and the Greater Glorious Nation of Our United States of Amuricar.

Now, I would advise you all to do the same, perhaps even add the action to my next column of such advice (i.e. unsolicited), but I'm just not that political.

"O rly?" you may say. Ya rly. Srsly, folks. Think of the children.

I mean, for starters, they use words like "rly" and "srsly" which only utilize one (not-even-really-but-sometimes) vowel -- and that just royally buggers the balance when it comes to playing Scrabble*, not to mention placing us relatively close to speaking some terrifying sort of abjad. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that this country is in a terrible shambles (and I do hope you've all picked up on this fact by now, because I'd be really worried if you hadn't and were reading this blather regardless) and something should really be done.

Unfortunately, for the previously mentioned reason, that's basically the extent of my rabble-rousing skills -- at least where elections are concerned. Give me a troop of 10 year olds, a tall ship and a brick of tea and it's a completely different kettle of cuttlefish.

Bottom line: There are plenty of fabulous political blogs to be found out there on the Interwebs. This is simply not one of them. However, that does not alter the fact that I will be voting when the election comes around, because this is really just getting absurd.

Do stay tuned for more characteristically useless information tomorrow, as I prepare to set sail on my beloved brig once more. I solemnly swear on my honour as a sea-faring type person that the next post will feature absolutely nothing which is relevant to current affairs in any way, shape, or form. And that's the Bellwood Guarantee™.

*First off, you'd be wasting two perfectly good 's'es and not even scoring very much to boot. Never use an 's' unless you can score at least 17 points with it. Of course, if one was able to land the 'y' on, say, a triple letter, and that primary 's' on the end of another relatively high-scoring word, I suppose allowances could be made -- but let's not undermine our own argument here.

Things Your Mother May or May Not Advise (Part One in a potentially ongoing series.)

2008-04-15T00:25:00.001-07:00

Typewriters.

For fuck's sake, people, invest.

To Be Used For The Forces of Evil

2008-04-11T20:29:00.000-07:00

I seem to have spent a great portion of the day slaughtering flies, but that's winding down now on account of my being rather adept at it and therefore running low on victims. So, a few exciting developments to be reported on, aside from the deaths of countless buzzing insects:

First and foremost, I have, with great expenditure of effort, deep cleaned my room. This may sound mundane to the common reader, but those familiar with the Bellwood family's astonishing capacity for the creation of Epic Chaos will doubtless be impressed by the fact. Of course, as I'm leaving again in a few short days, all the carefully dusted surfaces will once more acquire a sneeze-inducing patina of filth (Where does it all come from?) that will be purged anew in July. Still, it's nice for now.

I have also acquired a new and much-needed bookshelf -- an empty space which I can (and will) use to justify the purchase of many new and exciting books.

Secondly, I've devoted a shocking amount of time to cleaning outside my personal domain in The Shire* proper, as we have a real live human who is not a member of the family coming to stay. My very own, first-time-ever, fresh-outta-the-box Couchsurfing guest! Emmanuelle will be joining us for two nights starting today from France, so we figured now was as good a time as any to dispose of all those spare corpses and voodoo-related chickenfeather effigies lying around. Good choice.

There's more, always more, but it's 3:30 in the fucking morning, which is hardly a decent hour for a decent being to be awake at. Some of you may wish to argue that I'm hardly decent, and would probably be entirely correct in your convictions, but that doesn't change the fact that I am very, very sleepy indeed. Exciting recommendations will follow tomorrow, as well as whatever else I had in mind when I set out to update but somehow forgot to include.

It's just nice to show some floor again. Even if it sure as hell ain't gonna last.

*If you insist, Ms. Bennett.

Tintinnabulation In The Charivari, Among Other Things

2008-04-08T18:12:00.001-07:00

Seriously. It's an enormous problem.

But, putting that aside for the moment, let's have a brief chat. I appear to be facing a crisis, Dear Readers, and therefore turn to your infinitely wise selves for advice.

Being somewhat sedentary once more, I am out of exciting travel-related stories to plug easily into this template as and when they happen to me. My only remaining option, should I wish to stay the course with regards to my general style thus far, lies dangerously within the "Band Camp" category of anecdotal relation. (If one replaces "Band Camp" with "Europe," naturally.) It would also, I imagine, be quite sickeningly nostalgic.

So! Progress! Change! Dramatic Social Restructuralization! And the invention of words to disguise the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing WHATSOEVER!

The question I put to you all is this, and do answer with a little bit of forethought, as your choices may shape the very nature of Reality itself -- at least where this blog is concerned:

What now?

I find myself torn between a few options. They are as follows.

1. Rambling about my life and the things I've been doing. Most likely in a sporadic and varied fashion, on account of that being the way my life normally unfolds. This option will probably be moderately interesting to some and incredibly dull to countless others.*

2. Launching into a new and more organized era of literary, cinematic, and theatrical criticism regarding things I'm reading and watching. Not, of course, mutually exclusive with any other options.

3. Foregoing any sort of coherent reviewing process and, instead, simply recommending things I enjoy with little regard for form or content. This option may include a certain amount of pompous bollocks, as it would probably end in me sounding like someone's mother explaining for the umpteenth time why I know best and that of course you should take the brown sweater because it looks better with those trousers and besides, darling, it's cold out there...

Etcetera.

3(a). Starting an exhaustive log of things I discover in my bellybutton.

4. Err...

5. That's it.

Somehow, I thought there were more.

So what say you, my fine feathered friends? Feel free to suggest things which differ wildly from the suggestions provided if their manner of suggestiness doesn't meet with your approval. I live to serve.

Also, I realize that this may be entirely pointless, as I'll be aboard a tall ship in 10 days and therefore unlikely to write very often. It will also doubtless provide me with enough anecdotes to power a small doomsday device, and therefore effectively solve my problem for me. Mostly I'm just curious to see a) Who actually reads this thing and b) How you react to the terrifyingly thorny circlet of responsibility.

May the best suggestor win.

*A relative term if one keeps in mind the fact that my total readership has only been known to number more than 6 on rare occasions. And at least 3 of those 6 are blood relatives.

Going, going...

2008-04-05T00:46:00.000-07:00

Gone for the next four days down in Claremont. Terrifying locale, excellent company. I should be back in the land of the living Tuesday afternoon.

In the meantime, if any of you are looking for some quality entertainment this weekend, amble in the general direction of Theatre 150 for their current production of "Fuddy Meers." You won't be disappointed.

Ohgodwhy?

2008-04-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

I am slain by crippling agonies of the stomach.

Lucky chillins at HVS, you'll have the pleasure of my company for lunch this afternoon. Kindly prepare yourselves for hugs and harsh judgments.

(I have no idea what's become of my verbosity from days of yore, but bear with me. I'm sure there will be something worth rambling about soon.)

Preferences

2008-03-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

At last, some logic.

Joy and Glory

2008-03-26T18:07:00.001-07:00

My new MacBook arrived today. Please pause for ecstatic dance. Normal service to resume shortly. With Widgets.

Aaarrghh! or: How I Learned to Stop Bleeding and Love the Coagulant Properties of Albino Seasonings

2008-03-24T21:18:00.000-07:00

[Disclaimer: This post contains information which could just save your life someday.]

Whilst slicing enthusiastically into a watermelon for dessert this evening, I managed to open a gaping wound across the pad of my left thumb. This led to a violent stream of colourful piratical expletives and, indeed, blood. I stopped leaping around when I realized I was giving the kitchen a new spatter paint job and decided to do something more constructive, like plunging the offending gash into a pile of white pepper which my mother had thoughtfully dumped onto the kitchen counter.

White pepper is an oft-ignored cure for most of the problems related to lacerations of the flesh. It creates an artificial scab almost instantaneously and disinfects the wound to boot. This is something people always seem surprised to learn -- perhaps because the standard associations one has with pepper aren't exactly in the "soothing cure-all" vein -- but it has proved invaluable on numerous occasions.

On further reflection, a part of me wonders if this wasn't (at least partially) intentional, simply because I've been searching high and low for an excuse to utilize some recently acquired bandagery-based delights. Not that I'll be making a habit of it, because it does hurt (a lot) and it's seriously putting a damper on my latest knitting project, but honestly, who wouldn't be excited to bust out piratical band-aids at a time like this?

That's what I thought.

Heritage (Of The Inescapable Sort)

2008-03-24T09:59:00.006-07:00

I should hardly be surprised that, coming as I do from a brood of mess-making clutter-based life forms, my first attempts at serious culinary experiment should end in this. The resulting dish, however, was quite tasty. Low-carb Moussaka, catering to the requirements of having a diabetic in the house, constructed with the aid of lunacy and knives. Plus bushels of cheese, cream, eggs, onions, garlic, mincemeat, aubergine, and seasoned tomato sauce. Opa!

There is a great deal that could be said about coming home after so many months, but it's difficult to know where to begin. Ojai is, in many ways, exactly the same as it was before I left. Then again, it's also somewhat like a David Lynch film. Certain small things, otherwise unimportant, have shifted ever so slightly. This is somehow far more disturbing than coming home to find that the place has been overrun by triffids and set on fire. New shop front here, demolished block of houses there, a few fixtures of the social landscape permanently altered -- it feels less and more like home than it did before, which is a change I don't really want to investigate too closely in case it turns me inside out and backwards at the same time like some sort of Escherwoman.

Bottom line, it feels good to be here. I'm just a little more finely stretched than I was before.

Lets more light in anyway.

The Essentials

2008-03-18T21:37:00.003-07:00

I suppose a more accurate addendum to my previous post would've been "And then I drop off the face of the Earth for half a month," but it's a bit late for that now. The only purpose that this post serves is to reveal a rather crucial and surreal piece of information:

I am home.

Jet lag prevents me from going into much more detail than that, but those, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, are the facts.

(So help me God.)

Mammary Update

2008-02-29T14:56:00.002-08:00

"Do you hear that, Sarah? The little bugger says he's got breasts!"

Unfortunately, simply saying that I've got the goods doesn't seem to do it. Ah well. Back to the drawing board.

Or rather...not. Why? Here's why. Tomorrow, kiddies, I go Cambridge. I go to Cambridge for ten whole days. There will be fortresses. There will be glee. There may even be morris dancing -- but that's only if I'm feeling particularly, splendidly ambitious.

Gender Issues

2008-02-27T12:54:00.007-08:00

Life, my crafty old nemesis, seems to keep moving forward and bringing more and more Blog-worthy things into my sphere of awareness. This is great, because it's nice to actually have something to write about when one sits down to write, but also profoundly not great because it means that if I let too many days go by, I find myself simply unable to catch up to all the wonders that have transpired before the here and now. In the last batch of days we've had Florence, food, absurdist Russian spectacle theatre, romance, reunions, and raving relatives. However, I'm going to have to leave the great majority of these topics scattered around the globe in various letters, because this particular blog is going to be about my mad Grandmother and the specifics of female anatomy. Tantalized and titillated? Read on...

I arrived back in England on the 20th (a much anticipated date) and managed to locate my mother on an evening train bound for King's Lynn the following day. After much happy leaping and giggling, we managed to settle down enough to exchange stories of all that had transpired in the five months since we'd last clapped eyes on each other. The end of the WGA strike came as particularly welcome news, as it means I'll actually have a house to come home to instead of a refrigerator box with bookshelves. And the Oscars got to happen. Which I suppose is good for those people who won Oscars. Well done there.

We've ended up together in Sedgeford, a very small town in the wilds of Norfolk inhabited by various relatives of mine. The only one who's actually related to me by blood, my grandmother Wendy, has Alzheimer's and is quite mad. I may have touched upon this is a previous post. She is, however, a delightful woman who is still quite shockingly silly and incredibly rude. (See: Unafraid to gesture as to just where I could stick the carrot I was trying to feed her this evening over dinner.) Unfortunately, she has very little short-term memory, and therefore tends to forget who I am a great deal. I was alright with this on previous visits, but as I've cut off all my hair in recent weeks, she keeps mistaking me for a member of the opposite sex.

Granted, I have become used to this since I first cut my hair short six years ago, but under normal circumstances a single correction is all you need to make the offending person blush scarlet and apologise profusely. Not so here. Regardless of how many times I patiently explain that I am, in fact, a girl. Named Lucy.

"Yes, that's right. Lucy Bellwood. Your granddaughter. Yes. Daughter. No, really I am. And that's my mother, who's your daughter. No, I just said. I'm a girl. Yes. Why? Because I like having it this short. No, we're visiting from America and we -- FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!"

Etcetera.

It's essentially like re-living the same five minutes over and over again for all eternity. Or at least all of ten days. I try to maintain my sanity by doing the crossword every morning and knitting with concentrated ferocity -- two activities which, in and of themselves, already seem to suggest a distinct lack of normal. Maybe I'm not doing so well after all...

Anyway, the moment in particular that I'd like to draw your attention to took place over breakfast the other morning. Sunshine was slanting through the French windows, turning the kitchen pleasant and warm. My mother was sipping a suspiciously green healthy smoothie and Wendy, sat opposite me, was spitting bits of tomato skin about the place with reckless abandon. In the course of her circular conversations, she had been asking "And who's that lovely young man over there?" quite frequently. At first, I had answered patiently that I was, in fact, her granddaughter, and hoped that she would get the idea, but no luck. I moved on to just saying "GIRL" very pointedly every time she used the wrong personal pronoun, but still to no avail.

The sheer hopelessness of it all started to get to me. I was also stuck on a particularly obscure crossword clue. And I hadn't eaten. I also hadn't slept much the night before. Basically, I'm just trying to find an excuse for what happened next, but there isn't really a good one to be had. The fact of the matter is that after I'd shouted "I'm a GIRL!" for about the 13th time, she looked at me in a befuddled manner and asked "But why are you a girl?" In retrospect, I have been able to correctly identify this as The Last Straw, mainly because, in response, I proceeded to tear open my kimono and bellow "BECAUSE I HAVE THESE!"

Many things happened in quick succession at that point. My mother spat smoothie across half the table, I realized that I had, effectively, just flashed my oldest surviving relative (at the breakfast table no less), and my grandmother looked quite taken aback for a few moments before bursting into peals of laughter. After expelling the remainder of her smoothie (Thankfully into the glass from whence it came) my mother did the same. And I, breasters akimbo and feeling slightly silly, couldn't help but join in.

This may now go down in history as the defining moment of what it means to be a member of the long and noble line of Christie women. In short: We're all raving lunatics, Alzheimer's or no. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

For those of you who take a scientific interest in this sort of thing, I am happy to report that my drastic exhibitionism did actually result in a lack of gender confusion for all of the next five minutes. Still, one has to start somewhere.

Brevity

2008-02-18T07:27:00.007-08:00

I seem to have shorn off a great deal of my hair. Again. More accurately, an Italian-Iranian magician with a penchant for foreign languages and sushi seems to have shorn it off for me. This probably explains why I'm still in posession of both my ears.

Unfortunately, it wasn't even particularly warm when there was hair to spare, so now things are positively frigid. Hats are required. To meet this demand, I have taken up my mighty needles once more and am knitting. This, in turn, brings the grand total of "Things Which Cause Passers-By to Stare Rudely at Me" up to 3, if one counts lack of hair and eccentric taste in pants as the first two.

Essentially: I'm still above ground and sucking air. I'll wax lyrical for your collective edification and amusement shortly. Promise.

Happy Shouts with a Moderate Side of Pesto

2008-02-11T08:24:00.008-08:00

A great deal has transpired, and therefore there is a great deal to be said. However, there is little time to say it in, and so we'll have to be content with whatever drifts to the surface of my psyche at present.

Today, walking past the Duomo to sup on polenta and crema cotta, I met my old friend Monsieur A -- a gentleman who's consistently been making me smile since I first met him in Paris at the age of 10. Our relationship has been fleeting and mysterious, but I am exceedingly glad that he's a part of my life. If you see him on your various travels, make sure to let me know. He promises postcards, but is notoriously unreliable.

Italy (among other things at present) has stolen my heart. I've met a continuous stream of magical, lovely people and can't stop myself from smiling all the time at the beauty of my surroundings. Between the food, the architecture, the language, and the sunshine, I am in a state of constant bliss. A great deal of time is devoted to not spending great wadges of cash on stationary -- which was assisted (until now) by the total lack of cash on my personage. My wallet was not recovered, so living was precarious for my week in Roma. Fortunately, my replacement bank card has arrived and so (for better or worse) I may now access my funding once more. So far I haven't blown the remainder of my savings on leather journals and sealing wax, but it's a close thing.

Highlights from Roma included attending a Carnivale Libre in Poggio Mirteto (A small mountain town northeast of the city), being treated to "The Never-Ending Dinner" with my charming Couchsurfing hostess, Nathalie, writing the final words on the last page of my journal, watching cats ruling over ruins in the Area Sacra Argentina, sleeping in the sun, and tasting the world's most blissful gelato under a crescent moon. To pause for a moment on this last item: My two scoops of heaven were "Cream, lavender, and chamomile" atop "Rosehips with Orange Blossoms." I can assure you it was every bit as blissful as it sounds. Other gastronomic delights included ice cold limoncello, mirto, and moscato rosé, amaretto, pasta pappardelle with shrimp and fresh tomatoes, grilled spigola with potatoes, and porchetta sandwiches. Oh goodness. I seem to be salivating again.

Stumbling upon the Pantheon is enough to set one reeling with delight, but if that isn't enough there are a thousand twisting alleyways to explore -- each one full of eccentric balconies, cascading ferns, tumbledown restaurants, and secret stores full of unimaginable delights. It's a paradise. For perspective, the view over the city from the Monumento a Giuseppe Garibaldi is beyond belief, and the mountains and valleys in the surrounding countryside are full of picturesque late afternoon light, green fields, and shimmering olive groves.

I arrived here in Firenze last night, quite tired and deliriously happy, to be met by my current hosts Holly and Cassiope. Obviously, people who envelop you with hugs the moment you step off your train are good company. I have not been disappointed. Not only with them, but with every Couchsurfer encountered in this country. It's the most affirming experience I can imagine -- especially because the whole concept seems impossible when held against the chaotic state of the world at present. In spite of everything, it works. As simple as that. Upheld by legions of generous, friendly people who will go out of their way to point you in the right direction or take you in when you have nowhere to go. Even if you already have somewhere to go, they'll do their best to lure you away to their couches instead. It's so magical that I forget it's not even costing me anything. Because even if it was, I'd pay.

The door of my current abode opens into the bustling centre of the San Lorenzo market, and the flat is shared by nine people, plus a variety of guests. Between Couchsurfers, significant others, friends, and relatives, the place is packed and full of laughter all the time. Nothing can go wrong in such a utopia. I have a feeling this city will be good for my spirit.

Also in the "Good for My Spirit" department: Anticipation. I've found that (yet another) great thing about this journey has been the discovery that I really and truly love having things to look forward to. Flights, reunions, new horizons, excursions, homecomings -- If I can line up enough wonderful future occurrences, my world will never be without exuberance and joy. They can range from enjoying a piece of fresh fruit every morning, to crossing multiple countries for the sake of fleeting bliss. At present, between exploring Italy, being reunited with my Cambridge compatriots, seeing my family, returning to Ojai in the spring, and sallying forth on the tall ship sailing summer adventure of a lifetime, I seem to have done quite well. (This will most likely be counted as one of those "Lasting Gap-Year Impressions" in months and years to come…)

This evening we're engaging in Scrabbly madness at the Irish Pub where Holly works (after delicious vegan dining -- we picked out fresh vegetables from the market this morning), and tomorrow will bring new and unusual adventures. I'm contemplating taking to the hills for a few nights before I return to Roma, and so have been in touch with various hosts living in marvelous Tuscan countryside oases.

It all remains to be seen, but whatever happens: Life is beyond beautiful. I forget sometimes, but right now it's never been more obvious.

Last Words

2008-02-04T03:25:00.000-08:00

Clocking in at just past 12:30 am every night, the garbage collectors of Salamanca hit the streets. The first evening of my stay I could've sworn there was a minor earthquake ricocheting down Calle de Don Bosco, but since then it's become a familiar fixture. Tonight, curled in bed, scribbling by candlelight and the ruddy orange glow from the streetlights, getting dripped on by the various drying garments which form a canopy overhead, I can see the windows trying to leap out of their metal frames. The juddering of the engine in the street below is dislodging droplets of condensation which run races through the variety of joyous words I've written in the steam.

Mostly, I'm packed and ready to go. As always, it has come as a surprise that I have so little with me here. After I throw out the various odd bits of paper and pack away the sealing wax and the stamps and the traveling umbrella, there's really not much left. My shoulders are fairly grateful for this fact, as tomorrow marks the return to impermanence once more. I'm catching a train very early in the morning and will be settled (if one can call it that) for my first night in Rome by 9 pm. However, as the journey is on its last legs and money isn't bursting from the seams of my backpack, I'm couchsurfing once more -- and it seems I couldn't have picked a better country to do it in.

Something in the Italian spirit really seems to spark to the Couchsurfing Project. This probably doesn't come as a surprise to most, as Italians are known for being exceedingly friendly and vivacious -- therefore marking them as obvious candidates for welcoming nomadic strangers into their homes simply for the sake of enjoying their company and showing off their beautiful city. It does mean that I'll be moving about a fair bit, but it's cheap and, more importantly, allows one to see Rome through the eyes of all its lovers and madmen. I'm preparing myself for many nights full of sparkly things and the sound of bells and the taste of pasta and wine -- and I don't doubt that the world will deliver.

Salamanca is wet and chilly, trying to decompress after a weekend of festivities. The flat has been colonized by various siblings and friends these last three days -- each night bringing new and more bizarre costumes for the assembled company prior to heading for the nightlife of downtown around 3 am. Feeling the need for a little peace and quiet before my departure, I've stayed in. However, excitement tracked me down nonetheless. Friday evening, arriving home, I was met by Paula and Julio in the midst of some sort of argument. After being convinced that I wouldn't have to get involved/decapitated, I went to put purchases away. Unfortunately, it seemed that my bulb was out, as the switch on the wall did nothing to illuminate my room.

Sensibly, I made sure the switch was off before I dragged a chair over to take a look at the situation, but apparently that wasn't enough to stop the vicious shower of sparks which exploded from the bottom of my Chinese lampshade when I attempted to remove it from the bulb. I immediately (Reflexes of a cat) uttered a violent stream of expletives and fell backwards off the chair and onto the bed, smelling more than a little of singed hair. After making sure nothing had caught fire, I realized that the entire apartment had been plunged into darkness. Many tipsy giggles from the living room, Paula threatening people with a crank-action flashlight, and Julio tripping over things in the hallway trying to find the breaker panel. Once power was restored to the rest of apartment, we gathered to assess the situation.

Gingerly, in case of further unexpected pyrotechnic displays, we managed to unscrew the bulb and investigate the wiring. We didn't have to investigate very closely. Both copper wires had been blown apart by the force of the current, although it probably didn't take much, as they were both frayed and corroded beyond all reason. We left it hanging there, melted bits of wiring hanging from the ceramic, and decided that we'd handle it in the morning. Luckily, Ann was able to lend me her desk lamp, and I'd bought some tea lights a few weeks earlier, which explains, more or less, the situation at the beginning of this installment. The dripping clothing has more to do with the terrible knowledge that I'm probably not going to have access to a washing machine for the next two weeks, and therefore decided to launder everything -- Merino be damned.

In the department of difficult things, I've lost my wallet. This is inconvenient, but not the end of the world. The only real challenge will be figuring out how I can manufacture more Pope cards. In the meantime, much cancelling of bits of plastic and applying for new student ID's, as well as a bit of nostalgia, as I'd been carrying the thing for at least seven years. Perhaps it will yet emerge from some unlikely hiding place in my room, but I'm not hopeful. I am, however, alive. This puts things in a nice sort of perspective.

Basically, this has all been the fabled Last Hurrah before I descend once more into crypticism (Not a real word, you say? It hasn't stopped me before.) and anonymity. I will, of course, do my best to update frequently in the coming two weeks, but I doubt it's going to come close to the products of unlimited computing time here in Spain. If all else fails, there will certainly be (more) postcards and letters on the way to all quarters, along with a great deal of love. Rest assured, I will be enjoying myself prodigiously.

So, until next time, ciao bellezze.

On The Subject of Mullets

2008-02-02T08:41:00.000-08:00

A brief word now, if I may, on mullets. They are alarming. They are here. They are there. They are everywhere. One may laugh, looking back through the family photo album or the comedic 70's teen flick -- but when you're confronted by a Ziggy Stardust knock-off in jeans and a coat first thing upon leaving the safety of your home in the morning, something very basic in the "instincts" department starts screaming. Granted, I was warned before I came, so I shouldn't make too much of a fuss, but still -- it's a mullet.

And yet, something has to be said for a culture in which 12 year old boys can get away with the sporting of such a hairstyle. If pre-pubescent males can learn to accept -- and even, dare I say it, revere -- this sort of thing in Spain, then I have hope that man's inhumanity to man may be curable after all.

Essential Bulletins

2008-01-31T05:16:00.000-08:00

It would be wise to take note that pineapple is now running a close second to mango on the "Types Of Fruit Which, When Eaten With My Bare Hands For Breakfast, Never Fail To Make Me Giddy" leaderboard.

Please adjust accordingly.

Wee Things

2008-01-30T05:33:00.000-08:00

Well, that's it. I'm out of the woods. Exams finished, classes as good as done, sun shining, next flight looming. Life resuming. Actually, it took less than the actual exam to shake me out of my state of stress. Heading home to study yesterday, I found myself wading hip-deep through a sea of children who had just been released from the primary school across the street. I was preoccupied with trying to remember just when the temporal correlation of verbs in the infinitive combined with "que" should be applied to the subjunctive versus the indicative -- obviously -- so it took me a couple minutes to get the message, but when it came through at last I started smiling a lot.

Still existing in the worry-free world of prepubescence, these children had no concept of homework or finals or waking up, dazed and dulled, after falling asleep on one's textbook the night before. They weren't in the least bit worried about bruised knees or getting underfoot or smiling the wrong way. They knew kung fu and ballroom dancing, practiced with wild abandon, held hands, shrieked, raced, swarmed, clung to their parents, and whispered secrets to each other with hands cupped around mouths -- just the way it's meant to be done. Halfway up the street I ground to a halt, unable to walk further, though the tide of enthusiam kept flowing around me.

At that age, I was getting up three hours before school started simply because there weren't enough hours in the day for all the imagined worlds I wanted to inhabit. I think I had homework -- I must've at some point -- but I posessed the ability to switch distinctly between work time and play time. School finished at 3:15, I worked until 4:15, y ya está. Terminado. Rest of the day free for hiking to swimming holes or making playdough or playing ocelots. (Don't get me started on ocelots.) Naming potato bugs also took up a large portion of the weekly schedule. And digging mudholes. And building fortresses. It's been way too long since I've built a fortress.

That being said, I also remember sitting under the oak trees at age 10, munching peant butter-filled pretzels and wondering who I'd be when I was big and grown-up like the kids in the high school across the field. I have dreams about sitting next to that grubby, blonde, tomboy girl with her bare feet and big imagination, telling her "In the future, you sail a tall ship. Basically, it's like the termite-riddled playstructure from 1st grade, except it's 35 meters long and the cannons work."

I know she doesn't believe me. Just like she doesn't believe me when I tell her that she'll spend seven months falling in love with huge swaths of the world with nothing more than a bag and a book to her name. I'm a little jealous, because she gets to ride her bicycle home and play frisbee with her father and spend the night covered in glitter, asleep on the matress she's dragged onto the lawn, but on the other hand, I haven't got it so bad myself these days.

It's just good to remember that the simple things are still going strong. If you'd like, spend the next two minutes thinking about really big sunflowers and being read to before falling alseep. Then we can have something in common -- if only for a little while.

General Blather (Produced in conjunction with Colonel Procrastination and the 42nd Badger Infantry Division)

2008-01-29T13:48:00.000-08:00

Well, I think I can safely say that I've reached critical mass with regards to all things grammatical and Españical. I've spent the majority of the day studying for tomorrow's exam, with a brief nap for recreational purposes, and am now ready to shift gears and spew forth a great quantity of things that I've been meaning to write about for the last week or so. This includes a conspicuous absence of sinus-related news.

Time, compulsive entity that she is, seems to have decided that even though Salamanca is great, there's got to be something far better "just over there." I can't see whatever it is, but that might be due to the dust storm kicked up by her rapidly shrinking figure as it disappears into the distance. Routine is carrying me along at terrifying speeds towards the 1st of February, marking my 6th month since this whole shin-dig kicked off. Half a year has passed and the Caledonian backpacker's hostel seems miles and moments away. I'm starting to feel a little frantic. I'm fairly sure it's a good sort of frantic, but it's unnerving all the same.

All through today we've had various international students coming to peer cautiously into my room, making me realize that it will be vacant as of this time next week. All too soon I must leave the land of the convenient washing machine and the language that I can now, surprisingly, understand almost all of -- but the exchange is acceptable. Certainly dangerous, as I've been informed that Florence is the stationary capitol of the world, but worth it. After all, why did I get a job if not to squander my paycheck on vast quantities of envelopes and sealing wax and writing paper and leather-bound instruments of journalry?

And speaking of envelopes and writing paper: I am happy to report that I can now bite my thumb triumphantly at anyone who claims letter writing to be a lost art. Today marks the 6th consecutive day I've received something by post. Last Tuesday, an epic installment of 13 pages (+ copious amounts of assorted photographs, newspaper clippings, and unusual tidbits) from my father. Wednesday, my beloved flip flops -- much open-toe-related rejoycing. Thursday, a holographic postcard from my best friend. Friday, a full letter from said friend. Saturday, a postcard from Ojai. (Skip Sunday. It has no significance in my life as a) I'm not particularly religious and, more importantly, b) there is no post) Finally, today, which brought a delicious four-page missive from Australia. There are even hypothetical letters and postcards which I know are working their way over here at this very moment from around the globe, so chances are good there will be something tomorrow as well. Apart from severely freaking out/impressing my flatmates, the whole experience is highly satisfying. Congratulations to all are in order.

Unfortunately, as I've been limited by studying and other things, stamp-buying hasn't happened. However, tomorrow, post-exam, in the heady and delirious world of academic freedom, I'll be able to get away from my books, hand over some money, receive some small bits of paper, judiciously apply some saliva, and have all 18 postcards shoved into the nearest mailbox before you can say "rapscallions and ruffians!" So stand by for that.

There is, of course, much more to be said, but it will have to wait because I'm being kicked off the computer by Angela who, understandably, would like to get some sleep and therefore needs me out of her room. So mañana, chicos, we'll carry on the tirade.

Common Sense

2008-01-27T06:59:00.000-08:00

(Is apparently something I don't have.)

Case in point: After a decidedly unusual and rather robust evening -- which will most likely be documented in full at a later date -- I found myself in need of washing the compounded odor of several hundred strangers-worth of cigarette smoke out of my personal belongings. So into the wash went everything I'd been wearing, and out it came an hour or so later. Like y'do.

Generally, with me and washing clothes, there is little allowance for delicate fabrics, especially because, in my current mode of existence, washing machines are sometimes few and far between and I simply cannot go spending an extra hour getting my silk socks (Damnit, they'll just have to be wrinkly) pressed at the dry cleaners. However, I was given -- nay! Sent a really gorgeous scarf for Christmas by my parents. Of course, I hadn't bothered to check and see that it was 100% Merino handwoven in India -- I just thought it was colourful and lovely and that it would look nice with my outfit.

I'm sure you can guess what happened next. Among my sundry, hardy cottons I found something rather like a shrunken, sunset-coloured hairball, which -- once I'd actually realized that it had once been my scarf -- I covered in bitter tears of frustration and disappointment.

Which, of course, only made it shrink more.

Basically, I've come to the stark conclusion that I've grown into a label-ignoring, washing procedure ignorant troglodyte -- and am now, only logically, reaping the idiocy I have sown.

Truly, Madly...

2008-01-24T23:51:00.000-08:00

Trawling Google News this morning, I discovered the following tantalizingly abbreviated headline:

Viking's Pizza School Reveals Recipe for How to Make Pizza Like ...

"So, that's one large rape and pillage with extra cheese then, Mr. the Red?"

Unfortunately my joy was short-lived, as it seems to have something to do with the Swiss, and relatively little to do with Vikings.

Second Fig

2008-01-22T23:46:00.000-08:00

At the end of the day, it's hard to write about life here because it lacks the drama of movement. The movements are, on the grand scale of things, inconsequential. I walk 10 minutes to school in the morning, up and down three flights of stairs to get to various classes -- I may even spend some time waiting in lines if I have to buy groceries or stamps. And yet somehow, this feels more eventful than a week of flights and train tickets and waiting on platforms and catching buses. It's a different kind of eventful -- the kind that doesn't translate well to the digital page -- but all the same, I feel compelled to try and pass some of it on.

Fig. 1 -- Groceries. I haven't been able to use that term since...well, basically since I started traveling. It's just one of the many delights of being stationary for more than a week. Doubly delightful because it makes dining in style dirt cheap. While a decent dinner would cost around €11 in a restaurant here, I can probably find something in the market for €2 which, suitably accompanied by some vegetables and delicious beverage, is just as nice. This is also excellent training for later life, given my chosen career path.

Apart from economy, it's just nice to have a cupboard and a fridge and a saucepan to call my own. Apartment life, in general, suits me just fine after a long line of sofas and mattresses on floors and siblings' bedrooms. My flatmates, Paula, Julio, Angela, and Ann (Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, and German), are all studying various subjects at the University -- chemical engineering, communication, psychology, medicine, etc. There's a well-rounded flock of origami cranes spinning lazily from the living room ceiling and all the walls bustle with paintings (mostly Paula's) and photos of general miscellany. When not engaged in studying/cooking/cleaning, operatic narration of household tasks (In Spanish) is a common theme, as is dressing up and dancing to flamenco music. It seems only logical, then, that we would've all enjoyed watching something like Top Secret! (dubbed over in Spanish) -- which would be a correct assumption to make, because we did. We also seem to eat a lot of Haribo.

The freezing weather (Not nearly as cold as Cambridge, but pretty nippy) has given way to unexpected tracts of sunshine and blue skies. The lack of low-hanging cloud cover does make it much colder when the sun isn't around, but on the whole it's worth it. There's an open gallery here in Edificio San Boal which runs around the central courtyard on the second floor, and just as I get out of class the sun has reached the ideal point for flooding the western front with light. With the chipped archways and sandstone balustrades, deserted courtyard and empty fountain below, looming oak boughs and birdsong, it's the perfect place to relax (And write postcards -- 13 and counting) for an hour or two before tackling grammatical conundrums or translating Renaissance poetry.

Today was rough in terms of the sheer quantity of information absorbed and my general comprehension of it. I wish I had more time to master all the subjects we're covering, but that's not what this year is about. I have to leave something for when I come back. Generally, the key to making this trip successful seems to have been to move on before things have a chance to go stale. Even if it takes a few days (Or a week, in this case) to adjust and realize that the merits of the new location are equal to (or greater than) those of the last, in the end I'm left with a stream of delicious experiences and impressions.

As of now, that gasoline rainbow-covered road stretches quite far into the future. After I brave my final exams next week, I'm flying to Rome. It's looking like I'll be spending just under a week there before I take a train to Florence (possibly with a night in Siena along the way) for whatever time I have left. My only obligation is to be back in the vicinity of Ciampino Airport on the 19th, because the next day I'm fulfilling my mad personal desires and going back to England.

From there I have a month of time for cavorting about in all the quarters I wasn't able to fully enjoy during my last stint -- mostly due to working and the general insanity of Christmas. This includes, but is not limited to, the West Country, friends and relations, Wales, Cambridge, and my mother(!) who will actually be in the country sometime in late February.

So that's all of that. I'll close with something suitably dangerous, like this. If you haven't had the chance to browse the web-based section of the ever-classic McSweeney's publishing collective, please take the opportunity to do so now. (The lists division comes highly recommended for instant gratification purposes.) I only ask that you don't attempt to blame me if you suffer laughter-related injuries.

Dictated but not read.

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends...

2008-01-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

The nomad's gleeful grin is once more affixed to my countenance. This is the result of many factors, mostly to do with being young and mad and free and very much alive -- but more practically: I just spent three hours sitting in the sun.

Californian readers will find this statement amusing, because in California that's really all there is to do. And even if one attempts to do something else, it normally leads to sitting in the sun while doing whatever the other thing happens to be. In fact, we've all gotten so sick of sitting around in the sun that we've commissioned our elected representative to lobby for the development of the Personal Climate System (Hereafter referred to as P.C.S.) -- a device which will allow members of the public to carry their own miserable 2-foot-square patch of British weather at all times. The P.C.S. will lead to an increase in Seasonal Affective Disorder and, logically, pessimism among the Southern Californian populace, leading, in turn, to a mass exodus from Los Angeles as people realize that "Yes, it actually is that horrible."

About time, too.

I think what I'm trying to get at is this: the ground-breaking nature of my statement hinges on living somewhere where they actually have seasons. Like, say, Europe. Luckily, that's where I happen to be, and so for me, it's a rather exciting position to be in. It has less to do with the amount of pigment in my skin and more to do with the feeling of glowing from the inside out and exuding a faint aroma of synthesis as my body turns ultraviolet into Vitamin D. Tasty.

So, news.

Or rather, a lack thereof. Truthfully, updating with frequency means I have to actually write about things that don't have to do with moving from Point A to Point B by amusing and circuitous means. This is hard for me.

Luckily, the other thing frequent internet access allows for is procrastination.

That's right. That's my trump card. And I'm playing it with gusto.

Beyond The Grasp of Reason

2008-01-17T08:09:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me this morning that it might be a good idea to update a little more frequently during my time in Salamanca, if only because I'm in the technologically advantageous position of having free, speedy internet for as long as I need it every afternoon. Actually, I've (more or less) been in this position for the last couple of months, and yet it seems that my initial blogging vitality of last August (A staggering 11 posts) has gotten lost somewhere along the way.

This is fair for neither me nor you, because it leads to vast tracts of senseless rambling about whatever happens to be closest to the surface of my mental soup at the time. The normal upshot is that I get a headache from spending too much time in front of the monitor, and you have to sift through deranged jabbering about prehistoric alligators -- which most likely gives you a headache as well. Entonces, I'll try to make this a little less painful in the coming weeks for all parties involved. So, to recap, or precap, as the case may be...

Things that have transpired since I last attempted to hack out something coherent in the Annals of Me:

1. Expectoration.
A veritable Everest of tissues and a lot of enthusiastic hemming and hawking. A large theme (logically) following the situation outlined in my last installemnt, which has been lovingly referred to as "The Snot Post" by members of my immediate family. It should be noted that, although I established this blog to assure them I have not been eaten by sloths or other slow-moving predators whilst on my many and varied travels, I understand that you may not all want to hear about the gory details of my health and safety. In short: I solemnly promise to stop writing about my sinuses (Or any other bodily functions) after this. Really.

2. Multilingualism.
15 days of eating, breathing, hearing, and speaking Spanish have finally taken their toll -- in a good way. Although I'm still frustratingly incapable of speaking eloquently, I'm at least speaking frequently. This is a Good Thing. Yesterday, with much mangling of syntax, I managed to completely lose track of time talking to one of my housemates, Paula, for at least 5 hours. I find that I've become accustomed to the sound of the Spanish lisp, and have far less trouble understanding people than I did when I first arrived. We discussed family members and travel and global citizenry and the varied glories of the "raving mad, but exceedingly happy" lifestyle of which we are both devotees. Wanting to practice her conversational English, she asked me to tell her about San Fransisco. I obliged as much as I could, given that most of what I know about it has to do with the aquatic side of things, in English -- which made it rather difficult.

Reason being, it had been 5 days since a word of the language had passed my lips, which could be considered a feat by some considering the staggering amounts of American students here who insist on speaking it. All the time. Which rather defeats the purpose of coming here to learn another language, no?

They also seem to have brought with them -- in the same way tarantulas may be found in imported bunches of bananas -- their love of beer pong. I don't think I need to say anything else.

However, on the whole, my classmates have been a charming and intelligent bunch. A slew of South Koreans, one Greek, two Brazillians, a three-woman New Zeland contingent, a smattering of Brits, the rare Canadian, two Italians, and one of whatever it is I've turned into. I've given up trying to figure it out. The other night a few of us went out for dinner, and I arrived back home filled with pleasant surprise at the realization that we had spent an enjoyable evening entirely in another language. The human brain is an astonishing thing.

3. Mail.
I got a letter! Well, a card. But still! Thrilling! I have also requested to be reunited with my beloved sandals which are, I hope, headed my way via the nefarious passageways of the international postal system this very moment. My feet are singing joyous hymns of praise in their little cotton socks.

4. Chopping.
I cut off my Turk's Head yesterday. For those readers who are not of the tall ship sailing variety, and therefore find this sentence alarming, allow me to explain. A Turk's Head (Also frequently referred to as Nantucket Sailor's Bracelets on that other coast) is a decorative knot of myriad uses, commonly worn by tall ship sailors wherever tall ship sailors can attach them -- which is mostly everywhere. Instead of being tied on, their are built around a cylindrical base, in this case a wrist/ankle/waist etc, and left there. It is often possible to tell the saltiness of any given sailor by the shade of his or her Turk's Head, as the tar of the seine twine tends to wear away over time. Therefore, if the fellow next to you with the blackened left wrist starts casting off lifts for no apparent reason, do not follow suit.

This particular Turk's Head had been on my wrist since late June. As with anything one wears for such an extended period of time, it had simply become a part of me in much the same way that tall ship sailing became a part of me -- stealthily, but firmly. Unfortunately, for some reason, it started to turn my skin an odd colour which was not the normal colour of tar being transferred to skin. As there's no handy clasp, (It seems impossible for one to distance oneself from the siren song of the sea so easily...) I was forced to take a knife to it. If there had been any other option I would've gladly pursued it, but it was not to be. I feel strangely incomplete now, but thoughtfully brought a nip of twine in case of just such an emergency and so, as soon as I'm dermatalogically stable, I'll have a new one.

5. The Booking High.
This last point is arguably the most important, simply because it contains the very essence of what I love (And occasionally hate) about my life at present. Traveling alone allows one the ultimate freedom of deciding all the who's, what's, when's, and where's without necessarily needing to explain the why's. Generally a simple "Because I can" is sufficient. This always leaves me feeling a little giddy when I decide to actually cement the next step of the journey (most recently, I booked myself a flight to Rome, so my thoughts are already skimming ahead to the future of February 5th, when I will move on once more), and leads to much twiddling of fingers and tapping of toes and cavorting and grinning and other signs of ill-contained glee and excitement.

I'll elaborate on this theme when I next find time to write because:

a) We're straying dangerously close to prehistoric alligator territory.

b) This is more than long enough already.

c) Rome is just the tip of the iceberg.

Instruments of the Apocalypse

2008-01-11T04:35:00.000-08:00

Alarmingly enough, it seems that the pressure in my sinuses (In mucosa per square nostril) is now actually great enough to prevent my synapses from firing. Case in point: I sat down to start this installment over an hour ago and have yet to succeed in getting more than three coherent words out. Still, in the interests of science, I must persevere. So: This week! What a week it has been! What glorious heights and despicable depths! What grandeur! What deplorable horrendousness! In short: A wondrous world of contradiction awaits.

Basically: I stayed in a hostel, I met some people, I found my missing enthusiasm, I got very sick, I took a test, I started classes, I ate food, I didn't eat food (more common), I wrote a letter, I found an apartment, I walked a lot, I dropped a class, I was exposed to many birds, I went to sleep.

And now, in stereo! (Technically impossible due to the fact my nose is currently full of this fellow and his associates, and Graham Chapman is not my brother) So, perhaps more accurately, con detalles.

The Salamanca Youth Hostel was, in and of itself, utterly soulless. Apart from being terrifyingly clean (I'll give it that much), the place lacked any useful attributes. No kitchen, no internet, no nothing. Luckily, I met some lovely people there, and had my failing faith bolstered by the fact that they were, by and large, in the same situation as I; New students in search of accommodation or mad nomads in search of whatever it is us mad nomads are searching for. I enjoy the company of both. Really, the most important aspect of it all was the location. The centre of Salamanca is hemmed in by a ring road which roughly follows the Medieval city limits. All that is good and holy lies therein. By such reckoning, my first 5 days in the city were actually spent outside the city and thus my initial impressions were somewhat warped. The Hostel, however, lies within this magical boundary, and is therefore a worthwhile place to be. Driven mad by lack of food and a raging sore throat, I ventured forth on my first night in search of nourishment. Although I ultimately found what I sought, more important things were encountered beforehand.

The state of disillusioned pressimism into which I had sunk at the command of illness, exhaustion, and hunger was no match for the sheer beauty and antiquity of the city's most ancient sector. Between domed chapels, towering University buildings, landscaped squares, and cathedrals bristling with spires, I wandered in a daze, overcome by the unnatural glow of Salamancan sandstone -- a mix of mellow gold and ripening peaches -- and the ever-present chattering cries of the swallows who make their homes behind the ears of saintly statuary. Unforunately, and I promise this is the only cynical pause I will make in an otherwise rapturous series of impressions, the massed quanity of avian life residing in the intricately carved façades leads (logically) to an overpowering presence of guano. The smell is breathtakingly robust and worth a postcard home all on its own.

Anyway, la ciudad. El centro. Streets thronging with people, lights twinkling, smells wafting, architecture impressing, &c. I finally got myself a sandwich after revelling in my rediscovered traveler's glee for an hour or so. At last, things were back to the way they should to be -- and I was feeling keen. With my sensibilities thus restored, I returned to the hostel and slept and awoke and traipsed off to the University for my placement test. Mostly harmless, although the oral portion of the exam proved difficult because I had relatively little voice left, and ended up squeaking a lot. Not so great for my dignity, but the man seemed to understand well enough. Perhaps he knows something of canaries and their mysterious ways -- See: Guano.

I could go into everything else in detail, but our friend the leitmotif is at it again and I may have to ingest something shortly to avoid passing out. Therefore: commencing Reader's Digest Mode once more. Started classes (3), mostly enjoyable (2), sole difficulty of having to defy certain norms in order to arrive on time (1). Explanation: Two of my classes take place in Edificio de San Boal, in the Northern section of the city. The rest of the University buildings are in the Southern portion. One needs 15 minutes to get from one building to the other -- and that's walking quickly -- and yet someone thought it would be possible to give me the following schedule: 9am - 11am Grammática (San Boal), 11:05 - 12:05 Historia de España (Universidad), 12:10 - 1:10 Literatura de España y Latinoamericana (San Boal). I tried to make this work. It doesn't.

Combined with the fact that the history class was far beyond my level of linguistic comprehension, I decided to switch to something more sensible. In the meantime, I also found myself a room with a host of other students. Although the place is outside the ring of enchantment, I boasts some fabulous flatmates and a whole load of character. It's also quiet, which is an adjective rarely used to describe the centre after dark. I moved my things in yesterday and fully unpacked my backpack for the first time in ages. Cooking, drinking of tea (Oh sweet, sweet bliss), homework, letters, showering, sleep. Muy bueno.

Even on the health front, perverse progress has been made. Generally, when moving through the cycle of the common cold -- although I firmly believe that this is something far more sinister -- I find that the relocation of the symptoms to my sinuses is generally the beginning of the end. And while my cough still sounds remarkably like Death's own ebony maracas, I can now swallow without wanting to gargle vast quantities of novocaine and my temperature seems to have descended to an acceptable level. Considering how enthused I've been in spite of my ill health these past few days, I can only deduce that once I am cured I will be unstoppable.

The order of the day this weekend is rest and relaxation, combined with trying to bolster my vocabulary and cooking tasty things and writing letters. Hopefully, by Monday, I will be hale and hearty once more, ready for more cranium-swelling mornings in the Land of Multilingualism. In case anyone feels the urge, I will be reachable at the following address until February 1st -- or rather, until however long before that date it takes to send me something. (I understand my readership is of a somewhat more global nature these days, so you'll have to work that one out for yourselves.) Lucy Bellwood, Calle de Don Bosco, 13, 3º A, 37004, Salamanca, España.

There. That's it. I'm done.

On Beds and Other Maladies

2008-01-06T10:17:00.000-08:00

This blog has been languishing in draft form for the last several days simply because I can't figure out what voice-set I'm going to use to write it in. Allow me to explain: When I write, I do so in a particular tone. Unfortunately, as I am a porous mass of brain tissue, I tend to absorb the tones of other writers currently within my sphere of reference. When presented with a wide variety of styles, my brain tends to go a little haywire, leaving me unable to figure out which gear is which in my liguistic nodes and thus: Garbage ensues.

I was really trying to avoid that. Just to give a little attempted explanation, I've been reading: The Autobiography of Charles Darwin (Regency/Victorian tone, lots of snuff, juicy details about the sex lives of orchids), The Road to Samarcand by Patrick O'Brian (1950's linguistic stereotypes, a noticeable lack of political correctness, "Gee," "Swell," yetis), and this (Zombies, vitriol). Literature aside, the battle for my brain has also been joined by the Forces of Cultureshock. Its diabolical horde attacks in two prongs: American (My current hosts -- East Coast, no less) and Spanish (The country I am physically in). I hadn't realized just how deeply I'd nestled myself into my British identity until I was brought face to face with my countrymen once more. The phrase "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" comes to mind. Between trying to remember my original accent and bringing everything down a few notches in the vocabulary department, I've fairly exhausted myself.

It's not that I don't miss California, because I do. It's lovely. (And apparently full of water. Sorry guys.) It's just that there are some things about America that I'd like to forget exist, like the fact that within it are people who still use this "word" with impunity. (Among other things) My spelling skills are rapidly undergoing schizophrenic breakdown after trying to remember which side of the Atlantic prefers "re" to "er," and something deep in my soul started to sob when I realized there was nothing in the kitchen cabinet resembling proper tea. I'd like to go home now, please. And by home, I mean the one where they like books and distrust Budweiser -- as opposed to the other way 'round.

And furthermore (!) since I've been stationary for more than 48 hours, my body has decided, as it so often does, that now would be a good time to succumb to all the foul germs I've been exposed to in my pilgrimage from up North. I am, very graduallly and with great stealth, misplacing my voice -- something which surprises me every time I go to say something and find that I sound one notch closer to Louis Armstrong. Still, considering the sheer gross tonnage of Vitamin (The one word whose pronunciation remains stable no matter where I am. Cheers, mum.) C and Echinacia I've consumed, something's got to give. Whether it's the virus or -- well...we'll leave that for a later post. Suffice to say it remains to be seen, but I'm sure you'll all be the first to know about it.

Frankly, this has all been a load of blather. I should say something of substance. I'm in Spain -- Salamanca to be precise, although I think I already established that in my last update. I'm trying desperately to find some sort of permanent accommodation for the next month. As of this afternoon, I'll be moving into a hostel downtown for the next four nights, hoping to locate some other international travelers interested in establishing a nomadic utopia in the Plaza Mayor. We'll see how that goes. Apart from gulping down throat rememdy tea, I'm also bracing myself for tomorrow morning, when I'll be taking my placement exam at the University. As of now, it isn't the language classes I fear, but the two electives I signed up for -- mainly because they'll be taught, I believe, entirely in Spanish. This is terrifying. I'm not sure what I was thinking. Between History of Spain and Spanish and Latin American Literature, I may be reduced to a whimpering pile of preterite and pluperfect conjugations before the week is out, but as I only have an hour of each every day, I may survive.

Held against the gleaming lifestyle of the past month, things here were looking fairly grim to begin with, but I'm trying to have patience and give this whole experience a chance. At some point I know I'll be able to get back to my blissed-out, romanticised traveler's mind-set and regail you all with stories of how fabulous my itinerant lifestyle is, but there have to be some bad times to hold up to the good, yes? Yes.

So until I find myself once more before a montior with a few handy hours to spare, adieu. And to the sterling folk who wrote me cards for Christmas: You will most certainly not be first against the wall when the Revolution comes.

As a pancake, my friends. A giant, oaken pancake.

2008-01-03T12:44:00.000-08:00

I'm very tired.

The above is probably what you would call the subject line of this email. The theme of this epic verse. The thesis statement of this essay. The capital of this country.

Very, very tired.

As an organized human being, which I am, allow me to lay out the factors which have contributed to my current state in a familiar format.

a) Work. While not tiring in and of itself, working at Borders drove me to return to my natural "morning person" state. Regardless of the previous day's activities, this meant that I regained the ability to arise without fail at 7am every morning. Good for work, bad when combined with:

b) Debauchery. See: The Slug and Lettuce, 12 hour overtime shifts, sociopathic coworkers, obscure literature (and where to find it), very plain kebabs, taxis, the King of the Moon (See also: pupation), Wii Sports, Cornwall, badgers (stoats and weasels included), things beginning with K, large bottles of champagne, and a small, nondescript residence on York Street. Culminating in:

c) Travel. The need to move back and forth between places very frequently. Over to London, down to Cornwall, up to Cambridge, home to Horseheath, back to Cambridge, into King's Cross, up to West Hampstead -- pause for three hours of sleep -- down to Victoria, out to Gatwick, up to 30,000 feet, into Madrid, underground on the Metro, up to the train station, onto the train, Westward Ho, pancake, pancake, pancake -- and some sleep -- off train, into Salamanca, up stairs, through door, onto sofa, and cut.

Basically, if you compress throse three factors in a period of the last four days, with a bridge somewhere in the middle consisting of completely unexpected, surreal bliss -- you have my current mental state. In a word: shattered. Not that I haven't had a grand old time doing it all, but between enjoying Christmas, finishing work, cavorting into the New Year, packing, eating, driving, rarely sleeping, and leaving -- I'm all out of hydrogen fuel cells. Or is it bubble gum? Who can say...

As a matter of fact, it seems wise for me to leave the land of descriptive narrative for the time being and get some rest before I embark on my apartment search tomorrow, but to recap (In case any of this actually made sense...or rather didn't, which is far more likely):

I'm alive. Barely.

Eat Your Heart Out, Hans Christian Andersen

2007-12-24T15:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Thanks For The Cheer

2007-12-08T04:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Oh Alright...

2007-11-22T08:09:00.000-08:00

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.

A Few Facts

2007-11-15T13:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Wearing Pants and Waving Hats

2007-10-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

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

In Case of Emergency Smash Glass

2007-10-06T19:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Luck O' The Un-Irish

2007-09-19T04:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Long We Tossed On The Rolling Main

2007-09-11T11:20:00.000-07:00

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!

Illness and General Debauchery

2007-09-08T02:53:00.000-07:00

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.

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...

A Stirring Somewhere Deep

2007-09-05T04:14:00.000-07:00

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.

A Change of Pace

2007-09-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

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!

Obscenely Early in The Morning?

2007-08-30T18:44:00.001-07:00

"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.

Deep In The Night

2007-08-29T16:37:00.000-07:00

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.

All Things Must End

2007-08-28T07:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Thank God For Laundry Detergent

2007-08-24T16:23:00.000-07:00

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

Blue Skies

2007-08-23T01:09:00.000-07:00

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

This Is Not A Test

2007-08-20T11:34:00.000-07:00

This is a short post.

In this short post I would like to express the following:

I have acquired a hat.

It is probably the greatest hat of all time.

That's right.

Since the beginning of creation.

And since I have no camera, you must all wait with baited breath to behold its might and glory.

There is other news, but it has been eclipsed by the hat.

The hat has you.

That is all.

Bohemian Living

2007-08-19T03:48:00.000-07:00

Sunday Sunday Sunday.

Mick, my current Couchsurfing host, is improvising on the piano across the hall, and the two hitchhikers from Nottingham who arrived from Scandanavia (!) last night have gone out for groceries. Mark, my next stop, says he ("inadvertently") has 7 people staying with him tonight, so it looks like I'll be here for a little while longer. Song of The Goat performs at 2:30 today, for which I cannot wait. But yesterday...oh yesterday. I saw the most amazing show so far. A new piece written by Mark Quarterly, an undergrad at Durham University, called Odyssey. It has nothing to do with Homer aside from an educated joke explaining the names of the two main characters, Neoptolemus and Pyrrhus -- two names for the same classical charater: The Son of Achilles. They are twins.

I got to the show completely by chance through a new friend made at the Forest Cafe. And now we must pause in this anecdote.

A word on the Forest: It's a beautiful old building that has been completely adapted into a sort of modern/bohemian version of an 18th Century conversation-filled Salon. All the people who work there are volunteers who spend their time making delicious food while all over the room people curled on couches and in armchairs talk about anything and everything. Musicians play for free on the stage and people who wander in and out perform poetry on a whim. Upstiars there's a converted church which acts as a theatre venue. Free shows go on all day. Readings, experimental theatre, musicals, concerts -- anything. It is a haven. I could stay there all day.

So that's that. Anyway, yesterday morning I wandered in and found myself swept upstairs for a free show merely titled "The Thing." A group of us were ushered into this room full of chairs. Each chair had a hat on it. There were people dressed as traditional mimes standing in the corners of the room. There were signs that said things like "Games" "Costumes" "Guns Etc." There was a giant cardboard Tom Cruise. There was a script.

One of our number who was, inexplicably, already dressed in a tricorn and period clothing and carrying a birdcage, got up and read from the script. We were the play. It was all up to us, a group who had never met before, to create something from nothing. The mimes were actors who couldn't think for themselves but would do anything we asked. The next hour and half was absurd and silly and serious and amazing amounts of fun. We ended up putting one of the hats on trial after engaging in battle with an army of zombie lions who had attmpted to follow us onto our ark and had to be killed by Amelia Earhart who was carrying a silver spike. The trial ended in conviction for the hat (A black bowler) and we all parted ways.

After the show I met the creators, an American couple from LA. We talked Southern California talk for a while. My accent got muddled. It was their first performance and they felt it had gone really well. She was a director and he an actor. They were both doing degrees in the UK and were interested in my script, so I told them I'd email over a copy. There's a spot open at the Forest for a reading. We could do it. It could work. That's the way things are here. "You've written a play? What's it about? Oh yeah? Well I'm an award-winning actor and my fiancee here who's part Australian part Werewolf is a director. We have access to a space in London. And there's Jeff! Yeah, Hi Jeff. This is Franchesca. She's written a play. You want to fund it? That's great! Alright, auditions next week? Fantastic. And Sam? I know you're making sandwiches today...yeah...would you write us a press release? Cheers." And so on.

Anyway, I caught the second half of The Lime Tree Bower by Conner MacPherson around 6 which I hadn't been able to stay for a few days previously. Slept through the first half because I'd only got about 4 hours sleep the night before, then watched the second bit. It was very good. Chatted with the actors afterwards, then headed across the street with James, one of the volunteers from the Forest who does tech and sells cookies, who had invited me to see Odyssey at Bedlam Theatre. Bedlam is the converted Gothic church which serves as the theatre space of Edinburgh University. Go figure. It's fantastic. About 90 seats. Small enough to be intimate but large enough and well-equipped enough to be really professional.

The show completely blew me away. If you ever get the chance to see anything done by this company - do so. Offensive Shadows. They are fantastic. The dialogue was fast-paced and perfectly delivered. Sharp, witty, unpretentious, multi-layered. The actors were all ridiculously talented. The piece was full of physical interludes. Harsh, jagged dances mirroring the ongoing story, the relationships, the backdrop. The set was minimal and the lights were perfect. Nothing over the top, just enough the create beautiful, separate environments and moments. The whole show was urgent, immediate, in-your-face kind of stuff. I loved it. There was nothing I could say afterwards aside from "That was f-ing amazing."

Unfortunately they had a fast changeover for the next show so I was unable to stay and talk to the actors. The lead was also the writer, which I didn't know at the time. It was the sort of piece that really stays with you long after you've left the place. It haunted my thoughts for the rest of the night. It made me think. Theatre rarely does that, even though that's ideally what it should always do. They expressed their desire as a company to brush aside the mess of mediocre theatre that plagues so many stages today and they have done so admirably. I couldn't thank James enough for persuading me to go.

Getting home was a pain in the arse as it had been pissing down with rain all day and nightfall hadn't brought any respite. I finally made it back to Mick's flat soaked to the bone and was exceedingly grateful to change into something dry. Sleep came quickly and I dreamed of inexplicable things.

Today will be full of (hopefully) less rain and more beautiful theatrical experiences. I'm off to catch a bus to the Assembly at Aurora Nova for Lacrimosa, Song of the Goat's new piece, then swing dancing tonight with wild abandon from 7 to midnight. Another adventure.

Eat your porridge. It's made with love.

Lucy

I'm Stopping This Silly Titular Pattern

2007-08-17T03:05:00.000-07:00

This is turning out to be far more frequently updated than I thought it would. My apologies to all of you who thought this would be a suspenseful manner of following my escapades.

My callouses are beginning to flake into small pieces. This is always a sad time for a tall ship sailor away from home a) because it promises untold pain for about 48 hours when one returns to the sea and must regrow them and b) because it's also like severing a connection with home. I was struck with awful home sickness last night -- not for on-land home, but for brig home. I thought of family camp and sailing into the sunset and sleeping on deck in the sun during transit and I grew sad. Apparently there are some tall ships in Southern England, so I'm hoping to get my fix once I'm over there, though it's not the same as enjoying the company of the lovely folks aboard the Lady. So if any of you happen to end up here, know that I miss you and wish you were in Edinburgh with me.

Yesterday got started on a stressful note as I slept through my checkout time at the hostel and, after hastily stuffing all my earthly possessions haphazardly into my bag, was unable to find Violet Dalton's offices.

Violet, to clarify, is the first of many folks from The Couchsurfing Project who I'll be staying with. For all you travelers out there I highly recommend this site. It offers you the chance to really connect with local people and learn about the city you're in through their eyes. It's a cultural exchange as well as a free place to stay. Log on to http://couchsurfing.com/ to find out more.

Luckily I searched Charlotte Square as well as Charlotte Street and found her at the National Trust Offices. She was very kind and allowed me to put my bag into her car for the day. We made an arrangement to meet up at 7:30 and then parted ways.

Since I'd had such a haphazard start to my day I made it as far as the Half-Price Hut and Ticket Tent, via Boots for a cheap meal, before collapsing on the grass and trying to organize my day. After about an hour I felt ready to face the afternoon. I bought a ticket to see Two Left Hands, a sketch comedy show done by a friend of a friend and her friend, then headed over a few blocks to check out some of the stand-up being delivered through the Free Fringe.

The Free Fringe is a movement to bring comedy to the Fringe Fest without high ticket prices, or any ticket prices at all for that matter. I highly commend all the comedians I saw at the Mercat Bar. They were courageous and amusing and obviously just doing it for the love of the thing. I stayed for a show and a half, convinced all the comedians that I was a reviewer simply because my journal and pen were on the table, then had to run like mad for the Rocket to see Two Left Hands.

My journey was not a successful one. I made it to the Rocket already late before realizing that the show was actually at the Pleasance Courtyard, which turned out to be a few blocks away. Then from the Courtyard I found out that the real venue was another block away at the Pleasance Baby Grand. So off I went, now 15 minutes late. The show was being held in a storage container, of all places, and the ticket-taker said they weren't too fond of late-comers, but that he could sneak me in during a break in the sketches. Luckily right as we reached the door a sketch ended, and I was hurled into a small, dark space full of people. Claustrophobia aside, the show was marvellous. I introduced myself to Leila afterwards and, although we both had to dash away to other obligations, agreed to meet for a drink or something in the future.

I then toddled back to the Rocket for AINE...(tigone), a production of Antigone set during the troubles in Ireland. The Cafe downstairs, Angel's, was packed with American teenagers. Apparently all from Southern California and all talking senselessly with sentences full of "like's" and "whatever's," they were like a flock of very loud, obnoxious birds. I tried to exude English vibes as I tucked myself into a corner and devoured a blueberry muffin.

The show, I'm sorry to say, was awful. The reason for the American teenagers downstairs became apparent when I found out that the show was, in fact, being done by an American Teenager Theater Group. Would you imagine that? And what's more, they were from Los Angeles. And they were all doing terrible Irish accents.

Jessie Cornwell remarked that the Stanford Shakespeare Society was going to get slaughtered doing their show on the Fringe because they're in the UK. This is a similar phenomenon. Don't do your amateur Greek play at the Festival of Epidaros. Don't take your badly-trained student actors to muddle incomprehensibly through what is probably a very good and interesting adaptation in awful accents to people who actually know how they're supposed to sound. Needless to say, the UK portion of the audience reacted quite differently from the American section. After the show a gaggle of Scots girls exploded onto the sidewalk beside me and burst into fits of laughter, unable to believe the quality of the acting and dialects.

And that's the thing. It's not just about doing the right accent -- though, in my book, if you can't do the accent right you shouldn't be doing it at all and chances are even if you're doing a good job acting nobody will notice because of how you sound -- it's about doing the right acting. These kids had a long way to go on that front, though good on them for coming all the way out here to do it. Albeit badly. Anyway, I was disappointed, but not all shows can be fantastic. That's just the way things go.

Violet and I returned to her flat via Arthur's Seat, which is moments away from Princes Street, but looks as if it's in the middle of wild countryside. The peak is 823 feet tall and sits within Holyrood Park. It was formed by a now-extinct volcano and then eroded by a passing glacier. I'm planning to hike up it before I leave the city. You can also drive up the side of it, which we did. As we rounded the cliffs the sun was lancing through the clouds on its way towards the horizon, striking all the rocks with a beautiful orange glow. It was stunning.

Violet's flat overlooks the river as it runs into the North Sea, currently at low tide exposing rocky shores and several tide pools. It's full of beautiful colors and nooky rooms and a cat, which is a nice change. She's been hosting counchsurfers non-stop for ages, and I commend her for it. We had a lovely dinner and sat about until about 12, then went to bed. I opted to sleep in and take this bus this morning, which was a good idea. I didn't properly wake until about 11. Fantastic.

My plans for the day include meeting Josh Cornwell, who's also staying in Edinburgh for the Festival, and Ben, one of the swing dancers I met at the Jive Aces concert. He's given me a few swing events to check out this Sunday, so it should be a grand day full of dancing for me.

And now, I'm feeling peckish. So it's into the shower and off to the cafe for a morning meal and then onto the bus and into the city for fun and games.

Hope everything is well with all you lovely people out there.

Lucy

Welcome To The Madness That Is The Fringe

2007-08-15T16:29:00.000-07:00

This morning I was awoken at the ungodly hour of 4am by the rumblings of my inner jet lag demon. Since breakfast at the hostel isn't served until 8am, what was I to do? I recalled the Fringe schedule booklet I'd picked up the night before and so, with my trusty map in hand and many different colored pens, I sat down to pick some shows to see for the day. Now, my understanding had been that the hefty pamphlet in my hand contained shows for the next week or so. My goodness was I ever wrong. Upon flipping through the pages, I realized that all 315 of them were full of shows playing ON WEDNESDAY. It completely boggled my mind. So I went through and circled everything that looked interesting, then went back and had to ruthlessly cull so I wouldn't be sitting in three separate venues at once. I grabbed tickets from the Fringe tent and set out on my adventure.

First: A production of Christopher Durang's Laughing Wild. I had rushed and rushed around the Royal Mile trying to find the venue and was terribly late, only to discover that it was an 11:15am, rather than 11am show. (This becomes a trend as time wears on, wait and see) The show itself was performed, to my surprise, by a Discordian theater company.

For those of you not familiar with this text, kindly look it up. And ask me to hand you a Pope Card next time we meet. The show itself was underwhelming, funny in parts, but a bit off. I dicovered that this was because the actor/company team (a man and a woman) were not quite clear on the subject of reality. Still, they had a good message, and for that I give them good wishes.

Next: A dash to The Underbelly (An awesome venue under a bridge) for The Leeds Tealights Comedy Revue. An undeservedly under-attended sketch show from five young men which was bloody fantastic. I hope their audiences grow over the course of the show. Highlights: Roxanne being performed by actors holding a) Rocks b) Sand c) A Red Lightbulb -- with electricity! and d) A Sword and Shield (See: Knight aka Night). Perhaps you needed to be there.

A bit of a repite for lunch. Had the most delicious sausage and mash at the Castle Tower Pub. Just the right thing for a hungry theatre-goer.

Then! One of many highlights of today: Bouncy Castle MacBeth (From the company who brought you Bouncy Castle Hamlet!) This was quite possibly the most innovative and completely bizarre production of the Bard I have ever seen. I don't really need to explain more, as the title says it all. But I should add that the inflatable Birnam Wood (Made of Palm Trees -- classy) was fabulous, as were the inflatable cactus, inflatable swords, and, in the most extreme case, inflateable Banquo! From the moment they inflated the entire contraption at curtain to its dramatic collapse at the end, I was laughing. It was too absurd.

While there, I spoke with a whole load of folks in shirts reading "The Matrix: The Pantomime!" I'd passed them earlier in the High Street and had immediately written down the show as a must-see. For those of you reading this who are unfamiliar with the Pantomime (It's a British thing) it's a tradition over here involving a variety of fairy tales which are all adapted to more or less the same story line, a Dame Bloke in a dress. Excuse me, many dresses. Many outrageous dresses.)(See:, and a lot of audience participation (See: Shouting). So the next time someone shouts "Hello Boys and Girls!" at you at deafening volume, be prepared for a good time.

I had just enough time to catch the Panto before the swing concert I was already booked for. So off to the Fringe Office to buy a ticket. I got in line at 6:15, the show was at 7. By 7:55 I had finally made it through the line and was racing towards the Underbelly, listed on my handy, and now very well-loved (See: Mostly destroyed) map. I skidded in only to realize that the venue was on top of the bridge, whilst I was below it. So UP THE STAIRS! I charged up six flights and emerged onto the bridge. After a few false starts in the wrong direction -- it was now a few minutes after 7 -- I fianlly got to the right place. It was 10 after. I was sure it was too late. However, this time, the show was not at 7:30 instead of 7, but had been held up by some glitch, and I thankfully joined the full que of people waiting to get in. The show was pretty fantastic. Corny, full of bad puns, a few songs, silly costumes, and some really horrible American accents. References were well-placed and sometimes agonizingly set up. One of my favorites: (As Morpheus, Trinity, Cypher, and Neo sit down to eat soup for no apparent reason) Neo: Yeah, this is quite good. But why are we all eating it with forks? Morpheus: Because there are no spoons, Neo.

Imagine awful jokes like that for an hour. Oh yes, it was grand. And I sincerely mean that.

Luckily I had grabbed some sort of baconey cheese thing in pastry before going in, because I had to rush back to the hostel, shower, clean up, and run to clubWEST to see The Jive Aces, Britain's top Swing band. And the rush was worth it in every way possible. The only alarming element of the evening was that the band attributed their seemingly endless supply of energy (Which was impressive) to L. Ron Hubbard. I'd never heard of Scientology Swing before, but they were damn good. So I'm willing to overlook that discrepancy. I met some amazing dancers (Apparently there's an active swing scene in Edinburgh) and one of them -- who lived in Santa Barbara for six months, small world -- gave me his email so I could hear about any other upcoming events. We danced from 9:30 to midnight and had a total blast. If it wasn't their last night I'd definitely go again. It felt great to be back on the dance floor.

So here I am, exaughsted and happy, definitely not going to be suffering from jet lag tomorrow morning, and ready to move onto my next adventure -- meeting Violet Dalton, my host for the next two nights! I'm dropping bags with her tomorrow morning and will be on my own for the day before meeting her again at 6 when she gets off work. Very excited. (Have become Welsh.) Well, not really. My accent's getting all Scottish though, so that's fun. So yeh! Writing postcards like a fiend, but haven't had any time for stamps. Rectify that soon enough so most of you can expect post. Tomorrow is another day full of shows to see and places to explore.

Till the next carrier pidgeon brings me more 20p bits,
Lucy

Welcome To The Wet Hair That Is My First Day in Edinburgh

2007-08-14T10:53:00.001-07:00

My nine hour flight from LAX to Dublin went smoothly on an aircraft that was sadly devoid of personal TV screens, but very full of foldable headrests, which are probably the greatest air travel comfort invention since the reclining chair. I watched Shrek 3, which was noteable only for its use of the Lady Washington as a model for the ship featured and Nick Williams as a model for the Captain. I must admit the blocks were very familiar. Unfortunately I only got about a half hour of something resembling sleep during my truncated nighttime. It was unnerving to see the sun go down at 8am and rise again at midnight, but that's what you get for traveling clockwise around the globe.

Once in Ireland, my European journey began with the following passport control officer saying "Welcome to Ireland! And how long will you be staying with us, Lucy?" I responded, truthfully, only a matter of hours as I had a plane to catch to Scotland. "Well, be like that then" he retorted with a smile. I am so unused to airport workers who actually behave like real people it caught me quite off-guard. I proceeded to my gate and fell fast asleep on the bench for an hour -- a much-needed rest. The flight to Edinburgh was over almost as soon as we'd taken off. Ireland was beautiful from the air. So flat it looked as if someone had painted it straight onto the glassy surface of the ocean. The surrounding islands brooding like sleeping behemoths shrouded in fog. I'm looking forward to coming back with time to really explore.

Once in Edinburgh I found my way to the Caledonian Backpacker's Hostel -- an amazing building full of murals and interesting people. I'm sharing a room with at least 24 other folks for the next two nights, then beginning my couchsurfing odyssey. Went out into the city and retrieved tickets for the shows I'm going to see, so full reports on those as they come in.

Nostalgia has relinquished its grip on my spirit and all I can think of is the adventure ahead. All that matters is being here, now, in the midst of a bustling city full of theatre, art, music, and comedy. However, my time on the machine grows short as I am out of twenty p bits to feed it with. So until next time, when I'll be even more deeply emeshed in the culture of the fringe, remember that even if your cereal gets soggy you can still eat it with a spoon.

I have no idea what that means either.

Cheers!
Lucy

Welcome to the chaos that is my backpack.

2007-08-12T17:41:00.000-07:00

Well, here we are.

At the behest of a close friend I've started this blog in an effort to keep all and sundry aware of my doings over the next six months. I've had precious little time between tall ship sailing, packing, and organizing to see all the people I'd like to see in Ojai and the surrounding countryside prior to leaving, but perhaps this will make partial amends. For anyone who wishes to receive postcards and other exciting foreign paraphernalia, feel free to leave a mailing address. It will be included in the next outpouring. I'm currently up to my eyeballs in Things To Do Before I Leave, a daunting noun to say the least.

To bring those unaware of my plans up to speed: I have recently returned from two weeks aboard the beautiful tall ship Lady Washington, love of my life that she is, sailing through the San Juan Islands with a band of beautiful compatriots -- sailors and guests alike -- and am now back home preparing for the following madness. I will be flying out of LAX tomorrow morning and landing in Edinburgh, Scotland on Tuesday the 14th -- smack dab in the midst of the Edinburgh Festival and Fringe Festival. I'll be there for the remainder of the month enjoying theatre, dance, prose, poetry, art, film, and general debauchery, then moving into northern Scotland, down to Ireland, over to London (briefly), then scooting out to Berlin. From there my plans get hazy, but they involve Greece, Italy, France, and Luxembourg (!) in quick order. There may also be a detour to Israel in October, but that remains to be seen at this point. By December I'll be fairly stationary in England and will remain there until January, when I head to the University of Salamanca in Spain for a 10 week course in Spanish Language. I suppose, after that's all done, I'll come home.

Possibly.

Internet may be scarce at times and fees may be exorbitant, but I will try my hardest to update this as frequently as possible with the latest on my adventures. They promise to be quite something. Photos will also make their way here once my camera has arrived in a few weeks.

I am also accepting quests, as they make the traveling much more exciting. These can range from getting a photo of a monument or building you've always wished to see, to delivering cookies to an estranged loved one or long-lost relative. No task is too absurd. It gives me something (fairly) constructive to do with my time.

So that, I suppose, is that. Any contact from home will appreciated and enjoyed, either through comments here, emails, boxes of candy, letters, small animals, etc etc etc. The most reliable way for things to reach me by mail will be to send them to my house, where my parents will be the most well-informed about where I can collect mail from next. Just address the envelope to me at 727 s. La Luna ave. Ojai, CA 93023 and all should be well.

And now the cavernous mouth of my backpack opens wide like the very jaws of Beelzebub, enticing me to pour my belongings into its maw and begin the process of taking everything I own into the world on my shoulders. See also: Packing.

Until next time,
Lucy