"What goes through a sheep's head when it's watching rugby?"...An Anniversary Blog Post

Hi there. Remember me? Or, perhaps a more apt question would be....Remember when I studied abroad? Yeah. That happened. Almost exactly a year ago. And it's a good thing you all know me, because if you'd stumbled upon this blog by chance, you might've spent the last several months thinking I met a tragic end in the middle of my spring break trip to London. 


Like many of life's undertakings, this blog was left unfinished. I flew back to the States before I had a chance to complete the saga, and once I was on the other side of the Atlantic, a retrospective account seemed sort of silly. So for those who'd been hoping for eight or ten more chapter-length summaries of my foreign adventures...no dice. 


What you get instead is a fond look back at some of the most memorable moments I never shared with the cyberuniverse. I mean, if I can still remember them after all this time, you know they made an impression, right? 


Things I'll Never Forget About Study Abroad (or at least, if I do forget, I'll have this blog post to remind me) In No Particular Order


*The Ring of Kerry, when Kelsie tried to close the door of our rental car but couldn't because the wind was too strong. Closeup of her clinging desperately to the door, afraid that letting go too suddenly would cause the wind to rip it off its hinges.


*The Ring of Kerry, Take 2, when we drove out to Portmagee to see Skellig Michael, the beautifully stark island home of the 7th century's least sociable monks, and our feverish Belgian driver (aka Ian) told me, "My cold would beat your cold in a fight and then they would go have a pint together and join to become a supervirus."


*Exploring Killarney National Park on the way back from said road trip, and getting lost on the way back from the waterfall. (I would like to thank my thighs for contributing this anecdote. They still remember how steep those trails were.)


*People-watching at the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris with Katherine Steir and Jane Bonsall 
(after unexpectedly finding Jane in the recently-vacated bunk in our hostel room), sharing farrrrr too many delicious pastries in a 3-way rotation of bites, figuring out how to ask for a napkin in French, discovering Rick Steves's unofficial guide to seduction in the back of my phrase book, watching the nighttime sparklies on the Eiffel Tower, avoiding the mini Eiffel Towers being flung at us in the hopes that we'd catch them and be obliged to pay for them, writing my honors proposal at 3 a.m. in the hostel, failing completely at all attempts to capture the beautiful view of the city from the Sacre Coeur Basilica, getting sunburned within an inch of my life at Versailles, noticing that the gargoyles at the top of Notre Dame actually don't look fierce at all (just either terrified or really excited) and deciding in the Musee D'Orsay that I really like Monet even if liking him is cliched. (Even a Mac student can go with the crowd once in a while, when the crowd knows Monet paintings are gorgeous.)


*The comedy of errors and near-calamities that was our journey to the Beauvais Airport. (Including sitting on Katherine's lap for an hour-and-a-half bus ride. Sorry about that, Charli.)


*A half-kilo of strawberries for 90 cents at the Barcelona market. Enough said.


*The Mediterranean. It actually is that blue. Sort of like Ireland actually is that green.


*Going to the Sagrada Familia (aka the 20th century version of Notre Dame--it was started in the 1920s and miiiiight be completed in my lifetime) with the super-sweet, super-un-sketchy French fellows we met in our Barcelona hostel.


*"Do your mothers know you're out at this hour?"


*The comparative calmness of Madrid. Which didn't make that concert in the Plaza any less entertaining. Spanish and German military bands playing American classics while the people living in the surrounding buildings came out on their porches to watch? Can't beat that. (Unless there's a spy running along the rooftops in the background. Woody Allen, are you in need of ideas for your next city-as-a-character movie? Let's talk.)


*Madrid's art galleries. Especially the Reina Sofia. Not that I'm prejudiced against the Prado for refusing to give us the free student admission even though we were clearly entitled to it...the Reina Sofia was just nicer. And closer to the candy store. 


*That insanely well-priced last meal we had in Madrid. That much food could've sustained me for the entirety of my time in Edinburgh. 


*Waking up before dawn to get tickets to see the Alhambra Palace. And actually seeing the Alhambra Palace. And being completely confused the whole time due to the lack of explanatory signage. ("Ohhh, so those rooms were the baths? Now it makes sense...")


*Almost getting kicked off the bus to Sevilla, and being spared by the world's coolest bus driver, who not only let us stay despite the fact that our tickets were for the wrong day, but also played the Beatles the whole way to Sevilla


* Finding our hostel in Sevilla, at midnight, starting from the wrong bus station (on the opposite side of the city from the one I thought we'd be at), in the middle of a Holy Week procession (which had blocked off all the main streets to make way for literally hundreds of people in white robes and cone hats...but don't worry, it wasn't the KKK, it was just a religious symbol dating back to the Inquisition, totally harmless)


*Getting back to Cork after three and a half weeks of travel and feeling SO HAPPY TO BE THERE. I don't think I've ever been so excited to be anywhere in my life. It was like coming home, but better, because I wasn't in Indiana.


*Picnicking in the park, by the lough, in SUNLIGHT. 


*Walking across town at 9:45 pm, just as the sun was setting, because that's the meaning of daylight savings time in Ireland during the spring.


*A ton of lovely flower displays inexplicably springing up around Cork (inexplicably, that is, until we realized how soon the Queen was coming)...and that lovely banner proclaiming Cork the "City of Welcomes" with a little crown on it belying the apparent generality of the welcoming-ness. 


*Hiding in my apartment when the Queen came, because the security and crowds downtown were absurd. But hearing afterward that Corkians were very hospitable to her. As they are wont to be.


*The Butter Museum. Those of us who are science-and-math oriented came away with some fascinating statistics about how butter has been made over the centuries and how it shaped Cork. Those of us who are more artistically inclined have forgotten all those statistics, but we know they were fascinating, and we still have mental images of the old maps of Cork that were also on display. ("Look! There's where Vibes and Scribes is now! There's where the apartment building is now! There's the bridge, and the other bridge, and the other bridge...")

*Exploring the seaside town of Kinsale...in the rain, naturally...and finding both an ancestral Fitzgerald castle and an old fort. Not the fort we spent 45 minutes trying to walk to, but a fine fort nonetheless.


*My walk from my apartment to the UCC campus. I can still picture practically every step of it, and this is coming from someone who gets lost walking down the block to Kowalski's. 

*The wonderful friends I made there, and all the people I crossed paths with--from Pat the Irishman, my unofficial tour guide, to the infamous and ubiquitous Orange Man, would-be seducer of foreign exchange students. I still think of them all fondly. (Now that I've put an ocean between Orange Man and me.)

Cue sappy music....This doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of all the experiences that didn't make it into this 19-part (now 20-part) mammoth of a blog. I'm sure I've already forgotten a lot of wonderful moments that I wanted, at the time, to write down before they slipped my mind. But if I stop looking at this as an attempt to document evvvvvverything, and look at it instead as an affectionate shout-out to an overall experience that was truly enriching, then this seems like it's just about long enough. 

A belated thanks to everybody who dutifully read (or skimmed) this thing while it was "active"...knowing that you were keeping track of me really meant a lot. And I'll try very hard to keep track of all of you long after I've forgotten the context of this post's title. (Commercial for O2 phone plans. Or was it Meteor?)

So now, officially, and long-overdue, this is Amy the Somewhat Hapless but Always Appreciative World Traveler, signing off.

...Where was I? Oh, yes, London.

Days 4-10: March 29-April 3


The plan: Take the train to London with Emma, meet Katherine and stay with her until we both head to Paris (she by Chunnel train, I by plane). Explore London solo while Katharine finishes a paper but simultaneously solidify plans for the rest of the trip.


The result: Failure on the "solidifying plans" part, but otherwise, success. This train reached its destination only 5 minutes behind schedule (as opposed to 6 hours) and gave us a lovely, comfy tour of the Scottish/English countryside. (Read: naptime.) And if you disregard the fact that I wasn't able to text Katherine at first because I'd forgotten that she'd lost her phone and now had a different number--which required me to go to Emma's cousin's house with her so that I could use my computer to look up Katherine's new number, which in turn required a long and fraught search for Emma's cousin's wireless key, and which culminated in me being able to contact Katherine long enough to arrange the vaguest meeting spot imaginable ("Just call me when you get to Waterloo Station"...which is like saying, "Call me when you get to Virginia")--then, yeah, everything went off without a hitch.


We successfully navigated the Tube and managed to find Katherine despite the mammoth size of the station, which was just a hop/skip/jump away from her housing. From then on it was smooth sailing.


Lies, you say. And yet, I can't think of anything that went wrong while I was in London. I didn't lose anything (this time....Did I neglect to mention that I left my birth certificate in Stansted Airport at the end of my previous visit to this lovely city?); I didn't get lost during three and a half days of trekking all over London alone (because the city is an idiot-proof Mecca of arrowed signage); and I successfully decided what to do, figured out how to do it, and proceeded to do it. (If these seem like unimpressive accomplishments, I refer you to the records of numerous politicians.) 


I won't go into too much detail because it's been brought to my attention that I leave Ireland in less than 48 hours, and I want to have time to churn out a few more posts before I say goodbye to this hemisphere. So suffice it to say that I spent a lot of time walking and Tubing around the city, hitting up the places I missed (or didn't see enough of) last time and just generally enjoying the vibrancy of my surroundings. I've never been to New York City or anything else that comes close to London in scale, so it was really cool (and far less overwhelming than I would've thought) to be in the midst of that. 


It was also tremendously empowering for me to be able to navigate a place like this and feel as if I was getting the most out of it. Before I started this trip I dreaded the prospect of having to travel alone, but once I was fending for myself in London I was able to appreciate the freedom that came with it. I could go wherever my fancy took me, stay someplace as long as I wanted, and indulge my nerdy side to my heart's content, all without worrying that I might be boring or irritating my travel companions with my whims. That said, I did find myself getting lonesome by the end of a long day of exploring, especially when I felt like the only lone visitor in a place that was inundated with tourists; everyone else seemed to be attached to a group of friends or a family. But it was impossible to be depressed when I was geeking out at the British Museum or gawking at Saint Paul's Cathedral or crushing on the costumed, role-playing tour guide at Hampton Court. And seeing so many families actually made me rather happy; I was glad that parents were taking their children to see things like the Tower of London. I kept thinking, "Lucky kids!" 


Of course, I kept thinking that about myself too, in singular form. 

Edinburgh: The Omnibus Edition

Days 2-4: May 27-29


The plan: Enjoy Edinburgh.


The reality: Success.


I am soooo tempted to end right there. But never fear, I will elaborate.


Highlights: 


*Walking along the Royal Mile, the main street(s) of Edinburgh's Old Town. Cobblestoned streets, bookended by a castle at one end and a palace (Holyrood House) at the other end, with a plethora of gorgeous historic buildings and cute shops in between, made for a lovely stroll. (Plus there were free samples at an incredible fudge place where they were making fudge right in the front of the store...SIGH.)


*Climbing Arthur's Seat, the gigantic hill overlooking--well, pretty much everything. Scots like to think of it as a possible location for Camelot, hence the name. I wasn't expecting us to venture up there when we did, so I happened to be wearing my traction-less shoes at the time. That spiced up the 45-minute trek to the top and made the downward journey another example of how good my luck often turns out to be. (In other words, I made it unscathed despite the very steep quasi-paths.) The panoramic view was as amazing as advertised, and I didn't have to pay 9 euro for it (cough, Guinness Factory, cough).


*Visiting Edinburgh Castle, where, among other things, the Scottish crown jewels are on display in an exhibit that turns them into the plot of several James Bond movies with a historical flavor. Unlike the stolen Stone of Scone (aka the STONE OF DESTINY--big rock that the English stole and used as a prop for their coronation ceremonies), the jewels (aka HONOURS OF SCOTLAND) have managed to stay out of English hands since this set was first used in 1543 (for the coronation of Mary, Queen of Scots). They've been buried in a church to escape the clutches of Oliver Cromwell (on one of his many let's-destroy-something-valuable-now sprees), smuggled out of a castle under siege, and locked up in a forgotten chest in Edinburgh Castle for a hundred years, until our hero, Sir Walter Scott, undertook a "detailed search" of the castle (which was actually more of a "Hey, can we get the key to that room there? Thanks. Oh, look, the crown jewels. You're welcome.")....In any case, Scotty gets the credit for rediscovering them, and the British monarchy gets a grudging thank-you for finally sending back the STONE OF DESTINY in 1996, and everybody's happy. (Except perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, who, by the way, gave birth to James I/VI in Edinburgh Castle in a room that is now rather tastelessly carpeted.) The castle was full of other gems (pardon the pun), from the war memorial to the giant cannon (one of the oldest in the world, with a range of almost two miles; also known--I'm not making this up--as a supergun) to the great hall (original hammberbeam roof; Maren, get excited) to Saint Margaret's Chapel (oldest building in Edinburgh, built for its sainted namesake by her son David I; again, Maren, back me up here). And everything is nicely subtitled with historical background info, which generally includes liberal use of the word DEATH in capitals.


*Stumbling upon various burial grounds. We are strange and possibly unhinged people, in that we find graveyards really interesting. Alas, we didn't think to look for the grave of the original Tom Riddles (senior and junior) while we were poking around the Greyfriars Cemetery, but we did stop by the nearby Elephant House for some J.K. Rowling homage. (That's the cafe where she drafted HP, which now advertises itself as the home of writers, sells T-shirts, provides computer access for the next generation of aspiring out-of-nowhere authors, and still serves coffee and tasty pastries on the side.)


*Checking out Calton Hill: another amazing view, complemented by various monuments (but none of Walter Scott, for once). 


*Exploring the Museum of Scotland. Here at last the mystery of Sir Walter Scott's popularity was revealed to us. But I'm going to keep it to myself. ;)


Poking around some adorable bookshops. Each one was approximately the size of a dorm room, with a tiny narrow walkway--two if it was really spacious--and books crammed into every available space, including the ledge above the door frame. I've never see bookshops like that in the states; it's so hard for any business that tiny to stay afloat, especially if it caters to literate people. These places were like something out of a book themselves: cramped, quiet, asymmetrical, with that wonderful booky smell and the feeling that there really was no telling what treasures you might come across on the shelves. Emma got a really old book that struck her fancy for just 2 pounds. I didn't have room in my backpack (which already held my computer and as many clothes as possible) to buy anything bulky, but as usual, I enjoyed looking at the books more than I would've enjoyed actually buying one. Bookstores are my happy place, and these felt especially happy.


*Listening to traditional Scottish music in two very different, but (almost) equally entertaining pubs. The Royal Oak edged out the Whiski Bar (which, despite its name, was actually quite classy) on the strength of its atmosphere. It was tiny, homey, and full of regulars who knew each other well enough to riff on each other effectively. When we walked in we were greeted by the sight of four old guys singing barbershop quartet-style songs in perfect harmony. Shortly thereafter, the main act arrived: one fat man with a guitar and one skinny, ponytail-sporting, bored-looking young man with a violin (yes, violin, not fiddle; he didn't have the enthusiasm required for fiddling).  "It's a little louder in here than it normally is," Fat Guy noted while he was tuning up. "I'm not gonna say anything about that. Except maybe shut your faces." He proceeded to attempt to sing with a sore throat and a less-than-flawless sense of pitch, while the ginger-haired bartender obliged his request for coffee. ("Hey, give me some alcohol in that!") The bartender seemed to know everyone there, including Hughie, an older fellow who reminded me (rather sadly) of the quietly sodden alternate-universe version of Mr. Gower in It's a Wonderful Life. Anyway, the dynamic duo actually played several Irish songs, and Fat Guy even attempted a "wee Galway accent" at one point that was a big hit with his audience. The bartender even chimed in at one point during a chorus, effecting a Cork accent (which, for non-Irishers, is different from a Galway accent or a Dublin accent or a Northern Irish accent). It was like a little taste of home. Later we moved on to the Whiski bar and got to sit at the last available table, right next to the musicians, who asked us if we had any requests when we sat down. I said we'd let them know if we thought of anything, but of course their selection was already excellent and didn't need any help from us. The especially nice thing about a pub like the second one is that people of all ages go there--probably more of the older crowd, but I still saw a few 20-somethings in the mix, and the whole gamut from 30 to 60+. That's one aspect of pubs that I've come to appreciate. Some are better suited for certain age demographics but there's never a point where you're too old to go out and have a nice time (and only 18 years when you're too young).


*Discovering that Victoria Street, the winding, sloping street near our hostel which I claimed as my favorite, had a second level. It was essentially a two-story street, with another sidewalk and row of shops on top of the first, overlooking the first layer. Coolest. Thing. Ever. 


*Having a really nice time with Emma in a lovely city. Next stop: London!

Six cities, one passport, 80 blogposts: Go.

Day 1: May 26


Our story begins in Edinburgh, where all good stories (or at least seven of them*) do. 


The plan: Fly from Cork to Edinburgh solo, meet up with the lovely Emma Gershun-Half, and spend a few days tooling around this gorgeous old Scottish city, of which I'd heard only good things (which all turned out to be true).


The reality: Amazingly, despite my nervousness about traveling by myself, I made it to Edinburgh without a hitch. (I was actually quite alarmed at the complete lack of anything resembling a customs experience. Because I was flying within the EU, nobody cared. For all they knew I could've left my passport on the plane. Which, fortunately, I hadn't.) Emma was not so lucky; her train got stuck in York due to mechanical issues, so she didn't arrive until 10:30 pm. While I was waiting for her, I occupied myself thus:


--Strolled/sat in the Prince's Street Gardens and another adjacent park, which had a great view of Edinburgh Castle (though honestly, most places in the city have a great view of Edinburgh Castle. It's on top of a cliff that's fairly centrally located, so it's hard to miss). Watched children playing soccer/football/games with no discernible rules. Saw a man sitting on a bench with his dog--as in the dog was sitting up there next to him, and he had his arm around it: cutest couple award, hands-down. Saw the monument of Sir Walter Scott, the first of what turned out to be manymanymany indications of the special place he holds in his countrymen's hearts. The man is essentially a Scottish superhero, for reasons that may or may not become clear later. Left my purse on a bench for three minutes (officially the stupidest thing I did during the whole trip, and it happened within half an hour of getting to Edinburgh), realized my mistake, dashed back, and found it still there, with nothing missing. Decided that anything else that might go wrong, short of gruesome death, would be a fair exchange for this abundance of good karma. 


--Stopped by the train station long enough to be overwhelmed by its size, echoey announcers, and convoluted state of under-construction-ness. Saw that Emma's train was delayed, texted her for confirmation, and snagged a free map, the salvation of all under-prepared tourists.


--Ducked into the (free) art gallery for a visual history lesson in the form of portraits, landscapes, and even a family tree to rival Sirius Black's.*


--Found the hostel, which was right off of the Grassmarket, originally an actual market, and now just a nice square with, you guessed it, a great view of the castle. On the way there (cough, when I was wandering around in search of it, cough), discovered what would become my favorite street in Edinburgh, a winding, sloped avenue of beautiful buildings day-jobbing as shops and restaurants.


--Got pounds (Scottish pounds, by the way, look a bit different than English pounds; they feature their own cast of obscurely famous people) and then used them to buy groceries at Sainsbury's, the UK's favorite supermarket.


Eventually, Emma's train showed up, six hours behind schedule. I met her at the station, brought her back to the hostel, and made sure she got a late dinner before we called it a night. I was amazed at how quiet Edinburgh was even on a Saturday night, in an area that was pretty well-stocked with pubs. (Also, the women's outfits didn't even come close to the specimens I've seen in Ireland.) It felt very peaceful and safe and quietly welcoming. Emma declared, "I like this city," mere minutes after she stepped off the train, and I agreed with her wholeheartedly. 


*Harry Potter references will abound throughout Edinburgh posts. Just go with it.


**So that was day one. More to come, but for now, mischief managed.

Coming Back from Belfast: Part 3 of 3

Our last day in Belfast was actually only about three hours long, because we had to catch a morning bus to Dublin. So Natalie took us to the botanic gardens and to one of those cheesy and ubiquitous souvenir shops (which was blaring "Galway Girl"...see Part 1) before seeing us off at the bus station.


During the bus ride, I sat next to a girl in her mid-twenties who was doing a few months of traveling in Europe while she sorted out her quarter-life crisis. We talked for the latter half of the trip to Dublin; I got the feeling that it had been awhile since she was able to have a face-to-face conversation with anyone. While I admired her gutsiness for traveling alone, I was also glad not to be in her position. Sharing my experiences with other people is one of my favorite parts about traveling. I would've been so lonely and frustrated if I were roaming around by myself.


The other memorable part of this trip was when the bus was stopped so that the garda could do a passport check. Claudia hadn't brought her passport with her (and in fairness, no one checked us when we were coming in), so there was a moment of deer-in-the-headlights glances as we all wondered if she'd get kicked off the bus. "I will leave you here," Jessie declared. "I'm going home." Fortunately, her student ID card was sufficient proof that she wasn't a renegade vigilante, and the bus continued on its journey. (By the way, the bus had cameras monitoring its back and sides, which I haven't seen anywhere else and can only attribute to a security precaution. I'm sure they were helpful when someone had to get out and throw up.)


A few hours later we were in Dublin, wandering around in search of the spot where we could pick up our connecting bus. Turned out there was no need to rush, because so many people were waiting for that bus that it filled up (after Jessie and Kelsie got on, but while Claudia, Emilie, and I were still in line) and they had to send another one. "Ten minutes," the driver of Bus #1 promised us. He even gave Emilie the phone number of Bus #2's driver, Brendan, so she could call him if he didn't show. ("I have Brendan's phone number now!" she gloated.) Twenty minutes later--after Jessie had fulfilled her earlier promise to leave others behind in her eagerness to get home--Brendan rolled in and we (the original Dublin Three, as I noted) were on our way to Cork.


I'm sure I slept at some point during the next four hours, but what I remember is looking out the window and marveling at almost everything I saw. It was that rare and precious Irish phenomenon, a sunny day. Ireland is hard to surpass, beauty-wise, on a sunny day. I thought about that, and I thought about trying to answer that constantly recurring question of "Why Ireland?" Everyone asked me that before I left (except my relatives who assumed I was going because of my Irish ancestry) and people here still ask it. (People in England ask it a lot, in a way that makes me feel a little standoffish. Sour grapes much?) To be honest I don't think I had a good reason for coming. But I can think of lots of reasons that I'm glad I came. (If my introspective ramblings are of minimal interest, you can pretend this post ends here.)


Initially I felt a little guilty about my choice--an English-speaking first-world country with a border separating it from even the ghost of violence--as if I were taking the easy way out, while other Macalester students were going to war-torn or poverty-stricken regions where different languages and different customs could make for real culture shock. But for someone who, before coming here, had never used an ATM or booked her own flight or boiled rice for herself, this was as much a leap out of the comfort zone as going to the Antarctic. (No one ever thinks to study abroad in the Antarctic, do they? It's criminally underrepresented in those information packets you're supposed to pick up during sophomore year before you've even declared your major....) I'll freely admit that I'm about as sheltered and lacking in self-sufficiently as a middle-class white girl can be (i.e., very). And I didn't go abroad with the illusion that the experience would completely change my life or transform who I am or suddenly crystallize where I fit in the larger world. This isn't Eat, Pray, Love. ("Self-acceptance, check. Spiritual enlightenment, check. Hot Brazilian, check..." Do not get me started.) What I did hope for was a chance to see things I never could've just imagined, and to touch things I hadn't even known about. And on a selfish level, I did want to prove to myself that I could thrive in a different environment--that it was possible to pick myself up and set myself down in a new place without vaporizing. (Yes, just like beaming technology from Star Trek. Someone needs to get on that, by the way. Why stop at cell phones?) So, ta-da, I haven't vaporized (though much of my parents' money has), and I've also developed an appreciation for the history and landscape and people of Ireland...and other places too, but now I'm getting ahead of myself.


Can't have that, can we?


Yup, another cliff-hanger. You're used to that by now.

More Blarney from Belfast (Part 2 of 3)

I know the hot topic right now is my spring break country-hopping, but before I get to that I have to do justice to my Belfast trip. So sit tight while I think back to the distant past and remember that Friday night with Natalie in the city of her dreams.

We spent that evening just hanging out with Natalie, who shared what she knew about the conflict (her specialty) and the experience of living in "Norn." As always she had a lot of great insights. One that really stuck with me was that, apparently, a lot of Northern Irish nationalists have quieted down considerably since the economic crisis took root in Ireland, because if Northern Ireland were to join the Republic now, they wouldn't get the same economic benefits that the UK is able to give them, and they'd be dragged into Ireland's recession. I found it really ironic that people would back away from lifetimes of violence, intolerance, and bitterness not because of the horror of it but because of monetary concerns. In a way that idea seemed almost as sad as the fact of the violence itself.

But moving on to a more cheerful subject--namely, the legendary Giant's Causeway--I now bring you to Saturday, our bus tour day. There's nothing like spending a total of six hours staring out a window at the Irish landscape, with occasional chances to jump out and snap a few pictures of a ruined castle.

Really, though, the scenery was lovely, as it always is on this island. In the higher altitudes, there was even snow on the ground, which is about as common here as palm trees are in Minnesota. Anyway, Giant's Causeway, the fourth-greatest natural wonder of the UK, is several hours away from Belfast so we had to go all-out with the fancy coach bus, and the driver providing quirky commentary and bad jokes, and the periodic stops for sideshow pieces like the Bushmills Whiskey Distillery. We were given 25 minutes at said distillery, not enough time to actually take the tour, but enough to buy something at the gift shop and sample the product, which the driver turned us loose to do, with the warning that he would leave without us if we were late. So this experience ended up breaking down thus:

5 minutes: taking pictures of the outside

5 minutes: waiting in line for the bathroom

5 minutes: getting our whiskey (a first for me)

5 minutes: posing for photo-ops with our whiskey

And then, just as we were having our first sips, Emilie checked her watch....

Emilie: Guys, we have five minutes left!

Me: Oh no.

Jessie: Chug it! Chug it!

Me: I can’t!

(They all chug; I take a swig; it burns.)

Me: Oh my God.

(Claudia and Kelsie finish. I take another swig)

Me: Jesus Christ.

Claudia: You can do it!

Me: I’m doing it, I’m doing it, I have no choice!

(Jessie and Emilie finish. I take a longer swig.)

Me: Aghhhh!

(I finish. We run to the bus.)

With that milestone behind me, it was on to the main event. Giant's Causeway is one of those things that's really hard to describe. The best I could come up with was "a unique and awesome rock formation along the coast, formed by volcanic activity about a zillion years ago"...and that's not the least bit enlightening. Pictures may not be much better, but I'll throw a few out there just to cover all my bases.

The rocks are cylindrical...

...most of the time...

And there are tons of them.

The Causeway is the land-based equivalent of a constellation, in that it inspired the imaginative, or drugged-up, people of olden times to say to each other, "Hey, man, doesn't that group over there look like a [insert something it doesn't look like at all]?" and then create back-stories to go with the perceived shapes. According to popular legend, the Causeway was the handiwork of the mythical giant Finn McCool (a character who's gone through as many permutations as the spelling of his name; Fionn McCumhaill is to Finn McCool as Saint Nicholas is to Santa Claus). Hence, many of the more oddly-shaped rock clusters are named after things connected to Finn, like his boot (see above picture) and his grandmother. (Yes: his grandmother. Long story.)


Anyway, we had two hours to wander around, get our feet soaked through our shoes, and marvel at Finn's achievement. Not being one of those people who yearns to see the Grand Canyon before I die, I never thought I'd be as wowed by natural beauty as I have been on this island, but I honestly could've stayed there all day. Alas, we had to move on, because there was one more stop to make before we headed home. 


Earlier, I'd grudgingly and grumblingly given in to peer pressure and purchased and overpriced ticket for what turned out to be the most memorable aspect of the day: the chance to cross...wait for it...a rope bridge. And I know you're thinking, as I was thinking, "Dude. Seriously? A rope bridge?" To which I can only respond: "Dude. Yes. Seriously." Because it was actually really cool. This particular rope bridge stretches across a 60-foot-long, 70-foot-deep chasm from the mainland to a dinky little island where fishermen used to set their nets for salmon; every day they'd cross the bridge to go collect their catch. Now tourists get to cross it to admire the breathtaking view. The actual act of crossing the bridge took about eight seconds, but it was worth it to get to see this.

So that was actually a highlight. Just goes to show: never judge a rope bridge by its price.


And then it was time to head back. By the way, our bus driver/guide spent most of the time making sly comments about KFC and his alleged mistresses, but early on he also slipped in a token earnest remark. Addressing the fact that, a few days previously, several policemen had been shot in (I think; it's been awhile now) Derry, he noted that these acts of violence are as repugnant to 99.9% of his fellow citizens as they are to us, and that "the sooner these people [i.e., terrorists of any persuasion] get off our backs, the better." He also said that we should feel safe and welcome, which was something we heard repeatedly that weekend, and something we did feel. (The KFC jokes helped.)


Before I wrap up this post, one more never-to-be-forgotten incident still needs to be recorded. When we finally got back to Belfast that night, our first thought was that we desperately needed to use the bathroom. So we ducked into a Burger King. I was the last to relieve myself, and while I was gone I left the plastic bag I'd been carrying around with me in Claudia's trusted hands. This bag contained, along other things, the muddy but precious rocks Kelsie and I had picked up at Giant's Causeway as souvenirs. When I came back, we left Burger King in search of real place to eat dinner, and about halfway down the block I remembered...


Me: Oh, I can take my bag back now.
Claudia: It's fine, I just put it in mine. And I threw away the trash. (By this she meant the bag-within-a-bag containing a few apple cores, banana peels, and...)
Me: You didn't throw away our rocks, did you?!
Claudia: What rocks?
Me: Our rocks from the Causeway! They were in that same little bag!
Claudia: All I saw was trash!
Me: Ahhh! Claudia!
Claudia: You didn't tell me there were rocks in there!
Me: Because I didn't think you were going to throw it away! Kelsie, our rocks are gone!
Kelsie: God damn it!!!
Claudia: How was I supposed to know!?
Kelsie: Wait, did you throw it away just now? At Burger King? Because that's right back there...
Me: All right, let's go back for them. You guys go ahead...


But Claudia insisted on coming along too, and she kindly fished the little bag with our rocks out of the Burger King rubbish bin (as they would call it here), although not without some understandable grumbling. Thus, we were reunited with our rocks and could proceed to dinner with light hearts. And on that uplifting note, I'll pause for now. To be continued, as always....

What Rick Steves Doesn't Know: An Ode to Cork

Preface: At least 2/5 of my family are in love with Rick Steves. The consequences of this can range from the disturbing (those pictures are still plastered to the walls on my sister's side of the bedroom, I believe) to the shockingly convenient (want to navigate the London's National Gallery without buying a floor plan? Just flip to the appropriate page of his guidebook). But Rick Steves has absolutely no appreciation for Cork. He doesn't even mention the city in his Ireland guidebook, except to brutally bash the Blarney Stone and opine that the Jameson distillery nearby is better than the one in Dublin. Well, he's missing out. Nor is he the only one; when we visited Dublin, people seemed to think we must get really bored in Cork as there was obviously nothing to do here. False. And lest you followers of mine (hmm, makes me feel uncomfortably like a cult leader) think that my only interesting experiences are happening elsewhere, I thought I should sandwich a Cork-centric post between my epic foreign adventures.


It's true that a typical day for me doesn't involve anything incredibly exciting. I go to class, run errands, and spend time with friends, which often just involves making/eating food, watching movies, and hanging out, just like at home. But I've also been to plays (the aforementioned Lady Windermere and a combo performance of three Samuel Beckett one-acts, which lived up to Beckett's reputation for being next to incomprehensible), seen bands (the wittily vulgar and eccentric RubberBandits, who performed for a very enthusiastic crowd at UCC, and the alt rock group Fight Like Apes, who brought down the house--for free--at one of our favorite pubs), gotten a taste of the local pub culture, attempted archery, experienced Saint Patrick's Day, and just generally soaked up my distinctive surroundings. 


Last night some friends and I went to a pub to listen to a trad session (traditional Irish music); the trio of ordinary-looking guys, whose ages ranged from thirties-ish to sixties-ish, plays at that place every Sunday evening, and it was clear from their rapport with the patrons that they've established a fan base. I really like this kind of pub atmosphere--warm, relaxed, and calm without being dull. The livelier places, which draw a younger and wilder crowd, are certainly fun for a night out, but it's really nice to be able to just sit and listen to music and people-watch. We probably went a little overboard on the people-watching; the group sitting in front of us doubtless would've been mortified to know that we were extrapolating their pasts, futures, and personalities based on the interactions we were witnessing. (Blue-Shirt was a sleaze and a fake who thought he was way cooler than he actually was; Guitar-Playing-Boy was painfully awkward but adorable, and fully deserving of our sympathy as it became more and more obvious that the girl he was serenading during the intermission was going to soul-crushingly reject him...Siren-Girl was too much under Blue-Shirt's thumb to behave decently to her earnest suitor, because Blue-Shirt was obviously sitting back and watching Guitar-Boy's implosion with amusement, and rubbing salt in the wound by suavely chatting up Pink-Dress-Girl just to prove he could, and Siren-Girl cared more about what he and Pink-Dress-Girl thought of her than about the heartache of Guitar-Playing-Boy...etc.) Anyway, the music was wonderful. There's something about traditional Irish music that always makes me feel as if it's taking you on a journey--sometimes a happy journey, sometimes a sad journey. Either way, it moves you. It's not music that would ever lull you to sleep, even when it's quiet and slow and mournful. It always engages you fully and makes you want to follow it wherever it's going. 


So that was a nice night. Nothing dramatic happened (except at the neighboring table, and even that owed most of its drama to our imaginations). Blue-Shirt did decide to talk to us on the way out, though we'd all conceived such a strong, possibly unfounded, dislike for him that we were practically oozing go-away vibes. So we didn't even come away with any good flirting stories, as sometimes happens (not to me, alas) on more eventful nights. Even so, it was a night I'll remember--one that could never be duplicated in the States.


Ditto with Saint Patrick's Day. I'm sure Dublin was a madhouse last Thursday, but Cork achieved just the right level of mayhem, without being overwhelming. The parade (which our Cork friends assured us would bore us to death) actually really impressed me, as much for its diversity (so many ethnic groups that I never would've expected to find here--Hungarians? Congolese? Bagpipers?) as for its creativity (a giant chicken float? Dancing eggs? Aliens of various shapes and sizes? All the extras from the opening scene of The Lion King?)...and although the streets were crowded, we managed to stop off at our favorite pub for green pints and to make a few memorable purchases from street vendors (a leprechaun beer-belly for Jessie...don't ask) without being trampled by hordes of drunken Irish people or, worse, tourists. We spent the rest of the day making and consuming food (and beverages), watching The Wind That Shakes the Barley (Maren, you did forewarn me; I was prepared), and celebrating Ian's birthday. (He turned 27--yes, that's not a typo, 27--that day. Did you know it was possible to buy packages of letter candles that spell "You're Old"? Handy.) Again, nothing outrageous--which will doubtless disappoint a few people who expected me to suddenly turn a corner into epic territory on this day...but it was still a great experience. It was especially nice to see how Cork's citizens approached the festivities. Paddy's Day (as most of them call it) isn't nearly as big a deal in Ireland as it is in, say, Chicago. It's a bank holiday, a day off of work and school, a chance to sleep in, an excuse to wear silly green hats (which we saw in abundance), a treat for little kids who like parades (and we saw tons of them, as spectators and participants, all exponentially cuter than any American child I've ever seen), and an occasion to  meet up with friends for a pint a few hours earlier than usual. It's not the leprechaun apocalypse, and I appreciate that.


I also appreciate that Cork isn't heavily frequented by tourists. Apparently Rick Steves has scared them all away--steering them to Dublin, where performers and vendors attract crowds of wide-eyed visitors on every major street, and where you'll see hotels and restaurants with names like "Blarney" simply because the owners know that'll ring a bell with foreigners, even though Blarney is four hours away in freaking CORK. Which is not to say that Dublin isn't a lovely city, because it is. But Cork is just as lovely and is free of much of that hype. Here, a street performer causes no more of a stir than a roving dog (of which there are plenty). On my way from my flat to the supermarket, for instance, I regularly pass at least three people playing instruments or singing (or at least attempting to do so). Some days there's a middle-aged guy with a pseudo-operatic voice. Some days there's a woman with a banjo singing folksy stuff. Some days there's a cute guy with an accordion. My favorite is the guy who'll sometimes be on the bridge with a tin whistle, playing wistful old ballads that I remember from my toddlerhood. Passersby occasionally drop change into their hats, but there's nothing ostentatious about these people. 


Nor, by the way, is there anything ostentatious about those who choose to just sit cross-legged with the hat in front of them or a Styrofoam cup in their hands. I usually see them on bridges, less frequently along the side of the street (where they're more likely to be shooed away by the garda, as I saw happen once). Sometimes one will say, "Got any spare change, love?" or something to that effect, but more often they just sit. It's a subtle but powerful contrast to my memories of Chicago, where panhandlers are apt to shake their cups of coins or hold signs explaining their predicament or just generally be more aggressive about getting your attention. Here they make themselves very small--as if they'd really rather not be noticed. 


Now might be a good time to note that Ireland is in the middle of a massive recession. I don't get too many daily reminders of that, aside from those unobtrusive presences and the occasional political flyer taped to a traffic post. One day, though, I happened to be in Tesco when an employee brought a whole cart of food over to the "reduced to clear" shelves. While she was sticking new price tags on each item, a crowd quickly gathered around her, waiting for a chance to peruse the marked-down offerings. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the crowd kept growing, and a couple of other employees drifted over to keep an eye on things and--I assume--make sure the waiting customers didn't get out of hand. They didn't; most of them were older people, standing motionless and grim-faced. When the girl finally finished relabeling the items and setting them out on the shelves, the onlookers silently swarmed in. By the time I drifted over a minute or so later, only a handful of items were left. Everyone had been quiet and orderly, but there was no mistaking that they meant business. While I'd been idly thinking, "Oh, hey, it'd be nice to get some cheap deals," they were thinking, "What can I afford to buy for dinner tonight?" 


That's something I wouldn't have witnessed if I'd just been visiting Cork for a day or two. And there are so many other moments--some sobering like that one, but most just interesting--that add to my overall sense of what this place is like. Of course I don't presume to say that I'm having a more "authentic" experience in Cork than I would if I were in Dublin or Galway. I hate the word "authentic"--and yes, Mom, Rick Steves occasionally uses it too--because really, how does one measure what's "authentic"? I can't claim I'm having an "authentic" Irish experience because the fact is that I'm not Irish and am only here for a few months...but have I even had an "authentic" Indiana experience? I was born there and lived there for 18 years but I never had any close encounters with a cornstalk. I never watched the Indy 500. I never voted Republican. Sooo...am I an authentic Hoosier? It's a moot question. I'm me, and I see the world around me through my own eyes, and my experiences are mine. My experiences in Cork have been meaningful and memorable for me (even though I haven't documented each and every one of them). Cork itself is fun and beautiful and special, and I'm glad I came here. I honestly think that, given a chance to make the decision again, I wouldn't choose to study abroad anywhere else.


That said, I do plan to resume my Belfast recap shortly, because Belfast was fantastic and fully deserving of two more blog-chapters. (They really are more like chapters than posts, aren't they? Dear me.) 

"An old long walk of a day-i-ay-i-ay": Belfast, Part One of Three

First, a note on the title: One of the many great things I discovered in Belfast this past weekend was the song "Galway Girl," which is apparently wildly popular in Northern Ireland. As someone who prides herself on having known Irish drinking songs from the cradle, I was dismayed to come across one I'd never heard...till I realized it was actually an American country song from, like, 2000. Still insanely catchy, though. I am, in fact, listening to it as I type.


Moving on. So yeah, I went to Belfast. This involved about seven hours of bus travel, beginning around seven on Thursday evening when we boarded the "magical blue bus" (as Jessie called it) from Cork to Dublin. We'd all brought snacks with us, some of which were more favorably received than others. My aging bananas were dismissed as "sketchy," and few of us were brave enough to try Kelsie's salt-and-vinegar flavored rice cakes, aka "death cakes," purchased in error and regarded with great skepticism ever since. 


We got to Dublin circa midnight and had to switch buses. As we "waddled" through the cold, I couldn't help grinning at the familiar sights--the statue of Daniel O'Connor on his namesake street, the train overpass, the River Liffey..."Good memories here," remarked Emilie. "Yeah!" I beamed. "Isn't that cool? We have memories here!" 


The bus to Belfast, which prudently bore no trace of a "Bus Eireann" logo ("Eire" being a somewhat charged word to put on a bus bound for Northern Ireland), dropped us off at our destination around 2:30 a.m. Our plan had been to walk to the hostel, which was only about ten minutes away, but this seemed less appealing now that we were here, exhausted and shivering violently (having forgotten how much farther north Belfast is and consequently how much colder it would be). The minute we stepped off the bus we were accosted by a cabbie offering us a taxi, and although each of us had turned him down independently as we disembarked, we decided about thirty seconds later to take him up on it. This time, Claudia had the address written down and I actually had it memorized, but the driver had no idea where it was and had to radio for directions. After a couple of U-turns, he delivered us to the right spot (and proceeded to upbraid the Australian staffer for the lack of a sign on the hostel door), giving us an entertainingly colorful first taste of the Northern Irish accent. (Side note: our Irish friends swoon over Northern Irish accents the way we Americans love all accents from these isles.)


In the morning (i.e., six hours later), we started off our visit with a Black Taxi tour. Background: During the "Troubles," buses were being bombed left and right, so the IRA (Irish Republican Army = militant Catholic nationalists in favor of breaking off from Britain to join the rest of Ireland) set up a taxi service as an alternate, safer means of transportation. Later on, this taxi service morphed into a tourism service that now takes visitors to various parts of the city, mainly the "contested" areas (neighborhoods that are still predominantly either Catholic/nationalist or Protestant/unionist...sectarian neighborhoods, if you will). Our driver, Walter, had been driving Black Taxis since 1984. When we told him we were studying in Cork, he did a spot-on imitation of the Cork accent, which made the difference between that accent and his own accent much more apparent to me. 


Walter drove us around for almost two hours, starting off with an innocent photo-op stop at Queen's University, a lovely campus just down the block from our hostel. Then we moved into more serious territory, literally and figuratively. A few minutes after leaving Queen's, we pulled over in front of a mural that informed us, "You are now entering Loyalist Sandy Row, Heartland of South Belfast." Just in case we weren't sure what that meant, the statement was accompanied by an image of a masked gunman--a member of the UFF (Ulster Freedom Fighters = militant Protestant/unionist group). Welcome to Northern Ireland. Though Walter was happy to take pictures of us every time we stopped, I didn't feel comfortable posing for a smiley photo in front of this or any of the other murals. And there were a LOT of other murals. 


Much of Belfast is divided into Catholic and Protestant sections, separated by the infamous "Peace Wall" and by various gates that are open during the day and closed each night. In both areas, the residents' backgrounds and loyalties are represented by murals painted on the sides of buildings. In a Catholic neighborhood, we saw long wall full of images paying homage to other separatist movements throughout the world. (Northern Irish nationalists tend to identify with pretty much any other "resistance" movement they can think of. They're big fans of Che Guevara, Palestinians, Basques, and so on.) In a Protestant neighborhood, we saw an almost suburban layout of houses that sported elaborate paintings of Oliver Cromwell--complete with Cromwellian quotes about the need to "crush" the Catholic Church--and the Red Hand of Ulster, a symbol used by both sides and rooted in Irish mythology. (One version of its origin goes like this: The ancient kingdom of Ulster--which roughly corresponds to present-day Northern Ireland--had no heir to the throne, so a boat race took place to determine the next ruler, based on a prophecy that whoever's hand first touched Ulster soil would become king. The guy who was losing decided to chop of his own hand and throw it onto the rocks, thus fulfilling the prophecy and winning the kingdom. Good story, tell it at parties.) In both areas, murals paid tribute to people who had sacrificed for their beliefs, whether it was women who had smuggled guns through the city in baby prams, hunger strikers who had died in prison, or victims of street violence. Some of the murals are chilling; others--like the one that proclaimed "Every child has the right to..." (insert images of playing, learning, growing up)--are touching in their appeal for a positive future. 


The struggles in Northern Ireland were/are incredibly complicated, and I'm only just beginning to get a sense of them myself, but I think the most important thing to bear in mind is that both sides have enacted and suffered from terrible violence. We stopped briefly at a Catholic memorial for fallen IRA members--some of whom were only kids in their early teens who'd joined the youth arm of the organization--and it included a mini-wall listing the names and ages of civilians who'd died when they got caught in the crossfire. When Emilie asked me, "What is 'civilian'?" I was almost too choked up to answer. 


The culmination of the tour was the "Peace Wall," which includes one section where visitors can write their own messages. The wall has been in place since the outbreak of the Troubles in 1969, but in recent years they're muralistic (not a real word) content has been overhauled to reflect more, well, peacelike sentiments. A quote from Bill Clinton--who brokered the 1998 Good Friday Agreement that helped bring an end to the Troubles--was featured prominently in very expensive 3D metal lettering. People are encouraged to write uplifting messages on this part of the wall; Walter gave us each a marker so that we could write something. I spent about ten minutes holding my marker and looking at what other people had written--their names and the dates of their visits, along with platitudes about the merits of peace or song lyrics to the same effect...and then the occasional random comment, like, "Belfast is sexy! Lovin' the accent!" The others managed to think of good things to write, but I kept drawing a blank. I just stood there holding my marker and feeling small. But that in itself was probably valuable.


Walter dropped us off in the city center, where we got a good look at the Europa Hotel (still going strong despite being the world's most-bombed hotel) and the elegant Crown Liquor Saloon (built in 1849 and still at the height of fashion) before catching a free tour of City Hall. Observation: Irish city halls, much like Irish post offices, are actually quite beautiful buildings, rather than the drab, functional structures I'm used to encountering in the states. Belfast's city hall was breathtaking. There was a wedding going on there when we arrived, and we couldn't help thinking that getting married at city hall would be a much classier affair here than it is at home. Highlights of our tour--aside from the gorgeous architecture--included Queen Victoria's original 1888 charter upgrading Belfast from a town to a city; a statue of the last Earl of Belfast (Kelsie: "He was hot!!") whose early death prompted his mother to deal with her grief proactively by commissioning several memorials for him; a Titanic-themed chess set on display (with each piece in the shape of a person who'd been involved with the ship--Captain Smith as the king, little children in life jackets as the pawns); and the Lord Mayor of Belfast. Yeah, he just walked by, sporting his absurdly heavy official gold amulet thingy, and obligingly stood still while everyone took pictures of him. (He even removed his coat to provide a better photo-op.) 


Backtracking a bit: after the Black Taxi tour ended, I got a text from my very own Belfast contact, the fabulous Natalie Pavlatos, letting me know that she'd be done with work at her internship around 3 and would try to meet us afterward. The city hall tour started at 3, so I let her know where we were and figured she could come meet us by the time it was over. 3:45 rolled around and Natalie was still en route to city center, having been driven all the way home by her program coordinator (the famous Nigel) rather than dropped off at city hall as she'd been hoping. While we waited for her to show up, I perused the historical exhibit on Belfast's development as a city, which was conveniently located in (of all places) the city hall coffee shop. Apparently Belfast linen conquered the world in the early 1800s, and Jim Larkin was "one of the most effective union organizers in Ireland or the UK." Note the diplomatically ambiguous use of the word "or." Belfast in a nutshell right there.


By this time Claudia finished her tea, the others were dozing off, and Natalie was still MIA, so we wandered over to the Linen Hall Library, which has a fascinating (and sobering) collection of political posters on display. At last, around 5:00, just as the others were poised to give up and go back to the hostel (we were literally standing on the doorstep of the library, umbrellas at the ready) Natalie appeared on the rain-drenched horizon. I must say one of the weekend's best moments was when we tackled each other for one of our classic biffle (derived from BFFL) hugs. And since the rest of this post has been so somber, I think I'll end on that cheerful note. Tune in next time for an account of Saturday's adventures and more long-winded musings on Important Matters Beyond My Grasp.

Bi-winning (or even multi-winning!) in London

Here begins the long-awaited, hotly anticipated London post. It shall begin with a timeline and then devolve into chronologically sketchy highlights.

5:30. Woke up. Already packed (including liberal supply of sandwiches, cereal bars, and oranges). Win. 

6:40. Caught bus to airport. Did not get off one stop early as a friend apparently did the previous weekend, thus adding significant walking time and confusion to this leg of the trip. Instead got off at the right spot and checked in without mishaps. Another win.

7:30. Me: "People are lining up..."

Kelsie: "Queuing up."

Me: "Oh, right. Do we not have boarding groups?"

Claudia: "It's like Southwest, they just have a free for all."

Me: "Ahh....Should we queue, then?"

Claudia: "That requires moving."

7:40. Claudia: "They're supposed to be boarding now, aren't they?"

Me: "Yeah...I don't see a plane, though."

Claudia: "Damn it. We're gonna get delayed."

Me: "Should we at least get in line? Queue?"

Claudia: "Mehhhhhh...."

We queued.

7:45. A little boy--three years old, max--in the line ahead of us said to his mother in his adorable accent, "Do we have luggage?" Who knew the word "luggage" could sound so cute!?! 

7:50. Yup, the flight was delayed. Queue dispersed. Everyone sat down.

8:00. Claudia: "Oranges, anyone?"

8:15. I got up to go to the bathroom. Walked into the wrong bathroom. Never done that before; most instructive.

9:00. We boarded.

9:15. We took off. 

9:16. Claudia fell asleep.

10:30. Landed. Got cash. Got really excited about British money. "Look, they have the queen on their money! Oh and wait, who's this? Adam Smith!? No way!!"

10:45. Dashed out to catch the bus that was about to leave and snagged the last seats available. 

10:46. Claudia fell asleep.

the next 1.5 hours: Looked out the window at England. Not as scenic as Ireland. But I saw a castle tower just chilling in the middle of an otherwise nondescript town, and a kite flying off in the distance, and the faraway figures of a mother and child holding hands while they walked across an open field...not all in the same place, but I can condense a little bit.

Noonish. Arrived in London. Got out booking confirmation printout from the hostel only to discover that it included neither the address nor a phone number. Fail. All we remembered was that it was by the northwest corner of Hyde Park. So we took the tube to that general area and found ourselves in a neighborhood full of hotels. The first street we walked down was dominated by a block-long white pillared building that looked like the summer home of an obscure member of the royal family. Concluding that this wasn't nearly shabby enough for the price we'd paid, we proceeded to wander around for the next hour and a half, inquiring at the reception desks of no less than four different hotels about the whereabouts of our hostel.
Concierge #1: "It's either on [insert street name] or the next one over..."
Concierge #2: (having drawn us a map) "Hyde Park, yes. Hyde Park."
Concierge #3: "Uh, it's probably on Leinster Street. There are loads of hostels there."
Me: "Ohhkayyy..." [receives weird look; Claudia cracks up] You have to understand, this is the third place we've tried and we still haven't found it, so we're just a bit trepidatious..." [yes, I used the word trepidatious]
Concierge #3: "I understand, ma'am," [I suddenly became a ma'am...scary] "but I'm ninety percent sure it's on that street..." [He was wrong.]
But concierge #4 came through for us after I asked her to just Google the hostel, click on the first link she saw, and see if it showed an address. So will call this, ultimately, a win, because we did find it. And yes, it was in the massive elegant building we'd passed up about five minutes after we got off the Tube. This settled, the visit commenced "proper."


And now for the best parts.


The usual suspects. Big Ben was smaller than I expected. Westminster was bigger and more beautiful than I'd envisioned. Buckingham Palace, dutifully flying the Union Jack, was surrounded by about as many people as will be watching William and Kate's wedding. The Tower was just really cool (it kept being expanded outward over the years, so the oldest part is the 12th-century "white tower" at the center, which isn't actually white anymore because it hasn't been painted in centuries). Trafalgar Square was lovely, especially at night with the big fountain lit up. 

Hyde Park was lovely too, full of trees that (I like to think) might've been saplings back in 1536 when Henry VIII made it his hunting grounds. Now, instead of royal game animals, the place is teeming with adorable dogs whose owners all wielded ball launchers (hooked staffs that I swear I've never seen before; reminded me of shepherds' crooks). 

The reconstruction of Shakespeare's Globe (which is a tad off-target from the original location; they found this out after they'd built it) has the distinction of being the only building in London with a thatched roof. (After the 1666 fire, folks decided thatch wasn't really the way to go.)  The London Eye makes so much money from hosting weddings (!!?!?wtf!?!?) that we figured it didn't need a donation from us, and besides, we got to see quite a bit of London by other means. Specifically...


Ghost-themed walking tour. Our guide was a gregarious middle-aged man about as tall as Daniel Radcliffe, who said "innit" a lot. He showed us, among other things, the house where the famous diarist Samuel Pepys (Jana, are you listening?) once lived and where his ghost is said to occasionally look out the window chuckling to himself (doubtless in hopes of spying the specter of the naked lady who resides next door); Saint-Dunstan-in-the-West Church, which is referenced briefly in A Christmas Carol (quite a stretch from the "haunted" standpoint but still a little bit of nerds-and-fuzzies for me, thanks to my force-fed intimacy with that book); and the alleged location of the alleged bloody deeds of the alleged Sweeney Todd and his alleged lover the alleged Mrs. Lovett. We also randomly passed by the house where Ben Franklin lived during his time as envoy to London. It's now a small museum, and the young staffers were just closing up as we walked by. Our guide said, "Hello, ladies, are you in charge of running this lovely little place?" And they reolied with radiant enthusiasm, "Someone's got to do it." (I WOULD DO IT. Just pay me under the table since I don't have a visa....)


River cruise. We got to go on the Thames. On. The. Thames. Okay, either you vicariously feel the excitement, or you don't. I have this cruise to thank for the chance to sail under London Bridge (freshly repainted in a sprightly baby blue pattern), a fantastic view of the city, and a hokey scripted narration. (At least I hope it was scripted. I'd be concerned if both that guy and the guide on the bus independently came up with the same Big Ben joke--"Queen Victoria thought about naming it after Sir Benjamin Hall's younger brother, Richard, but...")

Museums. We spent several hours apiece in both the British Museum (Mummies! Headless statues! Jewelry! Small countries...well, no, but there was enough room to fit a few...) and the National Gallery. I think I've admitted before that I know essentially nothing about art and have very little appreciation for a lot of what are apparently the greatest works ever. But seeing things like Monet's water lily painting up close turned out to be very impressive. You can see the layers of paint. Paint that was put on that canvas a hundred or two hundred or five hundred years ago and is still there and still shows the same image. How amazing is that? Claudia's life was complete as soon as she saw Van Gogh's sunflower painting, but my real geek-out moment didn't come until we'd already progressed to the gift shop and I saw a postcard-version of this portrait:

Meet Christina of Milan. Based on this portrait, she was strongly considered as a candidate for Henry VIII's fourth wife. He was really into her, but he already had a bad rep thanks to his first two wives. Sixteen-year-old Christina allegedly told the English envoy that if she had two heads, one of them would be at King Henry's disposal...aka, he should back off. He ended up married Anne of Cleves instead, which turned out marvelously. Good story, tell it at parties.


Anyway, I dashed back into the museum, into an area we hadn't been through, to look at this portrait. Hans Holbein the Younger (aka the rockstar of portraiture at Henry's court) painted it after a three-hour sitting. How did he do that? How did he capture the folds of the skirt and the black threads on the edges of her sleeve ruffles? (This is the kind of stuff you notice up close.) It's, like, wow.


Anyway, we estimated that we got through about one wing of the gallery (out of about half a dozen) and I don't even want to guess at what tiny fraction of the British Museum we covered. You could literally spend weeks in there. (Entry's free, after all.) But we had other things to do....


The not-so-usual suspects. Raise your hand if you knew there was a Sherlock Holmes museum at 221 Baker Street. That's right. It's a house furnished and decorated to look as if the great detective lived there--full of items that were featured in the stories themselves. Hardcore Sherlockians (and believe me, there were people there who were unabashedly wearing deerstalker hats and matching coats) can smoke Holmes's pipe, examine his laboratory equipment, poke through his correspondence, and get friendly with some rather freaky wax figures of his clients and adversaries. (Moriarty should really blow his nose more often.) Okay, now raise your hand if you've ever eaten a pot pie. Keep your hand up if you've eaten it in London. Keep it up if you've bought it at the Borough Market from a cute English guy manning a stall that specializes in them. HA. 

Best lunch ever, and possibly the coolest market ever. Pictures do not even hint at its size and vibrancy and crowdedness and aromas...ah, food. 

And now raise your hand if you've heard of Grosvenor Square and if you know that the U.S. embassy is there (along with a small, understated, moving September 11 memorial and a random statue of FDR) and if you care that John Adams once lived in a house right next to this square, as did his wife when she joined him for the last few years of his ambassadorship, as did Thomas Jefferson's younger daughter when she stayed with the Adamses for two weeks en route to France after her father had her kidnapped. K, I think that just leaves me with my hand up, again. But here's why I was so keen to see this spot: London is a modern, dynamic city that, like most cities, is constantly changing with the times. So there aren't a whole lot of places where you can stand and say, "So and so stood where I'm standing and saw what I'm seeing now." Everything burned down in the London Fire, so there goes a lot of continuity with the pre-17th century...and things get replaced or rebuilt or or lost all the time...and even the path of the river has shifted...so despite the rich history of the city, going there isn't an automatic trip back in time. If you want to really place yourself in the past (which, being a dork, I do), you have to make an effort. So I wanted to go to Grosvenor Square--not because I thought it would be the same as it was back when the Adamses and Polly Jefferson knew it--but because it was at least still there, and still a square, not a supermarket or an apartment complex, and not something that costs money to see, like a castle. Hence, my quest. We planned to swing by there on Saturday, and at one point I even had the foresight to remark, "You know, we might want to go before it gets dark so we can actually see to look around," but of course this part of the plan was a fail. We ended up walking there after sunset, with me squinting at the map to make sure we wouldn't get lost. Once we arrived, Kelsie used the light from her phone to illuminate the inscriptions and informational plaques of the memorials, and I used my imagination to picture this little green patch of a glorified courtyard in daylight 230 years ago. So we'll call that an overall win.


And of course, the visit itself was a big win--despite several memorable and (in hindsight) amusing mishaps, of which some of you know more than others...and I think we'll leave it that way. Suffice it to say that everything turned out fine in the end, and I shall always remember, among other things, the sound of a little English toddler saying "luggage."