Sunday, September 27, 2009

As I Liked It!



I fully and dutifully apologize for a week severely lacking in blogginess.

It was a work week. The programme was inundated with tests, papers and “essays.” (No one here calls it a paper, it’s always an essay, and the length is prescribed by word count, not page, which makes fudging quota slightly more difficult. Ah, well, constriction breeds creativity.)

I had a philosophy paper due (Natural Law According to Me) and a Shakespeare essay due (Helen vs. Helen, From Page to Stage). I am pleased to announce I survived both.

I knew I was blogging too much when, on Thursday, arriving early to my class, I walked through Trafalgar Square and past the Fourth Plinth, where this activity is taking place:



For example:



On the plinth was a girl doing yoga, and beneath her on the ground a man was leading people in sun salutations. It looked like he was leading whoever happened by, including lots of business people who happened to have yoga mats in tote. I was about to pass it by when I thought, this could be a good blogging story, and I dropped my bag and onto all fours. I joined the unmatched mob for a while until one woman, whose abandoned baby started crying, offered me her mat. After about twenty minutes of breathing in and out of the nose, stretching myself temperedly, and doing my best to stay balanced lest the camera-happy Asians who were taking shots of us from all sides get a sloppy photo, it dawned on me: I’m standing (well, curving and balancing) in the middle of Trafalgar Square, on some random lady’s mat, in the middle of the morning, sun shining, with a bunch of random Londoners, doing YOGA. And it felt AWESOME.

I walked into class and I was like, “Yeah, I just did yoga in the middle of the square. Yeah, I’m that hip/random/lucky.” Basking in my own glory. (What else is new?)

This weekend, our class went to Stratford-upon-Avon. Cute city. I’m lovin’ this English countryside. I’m becoming accustomed to being bussed all over it during the weekends, and when these day trips stop, they will be sorely missed.

We unloaded and were greeted by the Bard himself. (Why does everyone call him the Bard? Was it a nickname that stuck? Is he just the most famous of them? Did kids pick on him in school?) The statue was lovely, surrounded by four of his most famous characters. The portrayal of Shakey himself seemed to say, “Yes, I know, I am all that.”





There was a street market on the way to the Birthplace of the Bard. I’m becoming quite good at navigating these little towns. It’s very funny: Starbucks interspersed with pubs celebrating their 800th anniversary.



We saw the house Shakey was born in! No time to go in, though. By the way, special shout out to my flatmate Kelly, who let me borrow her camera for the day (“I CAN’T GO TO THE MOTHERSHIP WITHOUT A CAMERA!!”) so if you see her, tell her how much you appreciate what she did to spice up this blog.



There were remnants of the house Shakey bought for himself after fame/fortune arrived. Unfortunatly, the guy who moved in after him got so sick of tourists peaking around his bushes that he tore the house down, just to spite folks like me.





We also saw the Church for which Shakey's father oversaw the anti-Catholicization. Notice where the Catholic iconography once was. You can even make out a castle in the left corner.



Next stop was the grave. The Grave. But some STUPID COUPLE DECIDED TO GET MARRIED IN THE CHURCH, which houses the tomb, so we couldn’t go in. THANKS, happy couple. You kept me from communing with The Master, I wish you MANY FAT CHILDREN.

The area around the church was beautiful. The graveyard went all the way to the river (Avon). (Hence the Stratford-on-it-ness.) I resisted any and all urges to Buffyize the area, running around/over/through gravestones with a stake in my hand. It took a lot of control. I mean, LOOK at it. Joss would have KILLED for this set.



Can you imagine? Joss + Shakespeare = the most beautifully told, poetic, musical, meatily-charactered, well-metered multi-media story this world has ever seen. Did you just…? Yeah, you did. As did I.



After the epic fail/extreme exercise of self control that was the graveyard of Holy Trinity Church, we were free to roam. I opted out of the pubbing (who wants to sit inside the dark and drink when you are TRODDING WHERE SHAKEY TROD??) and instead wandered around the area. I ran into a girl in my class and our conversation went like this:

“Do you like Shakespeare?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like Firefly?”
“Yeah. Do you like Firefly?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s be best friends for ever and ever and ever.”

I was getting hungry so we wandered back toward the market, where I purchased a pork sandwich, made from pork pulled off of a roasting pig hanging directly in front of my eyes. Throw it on a bun with stuffing, cover it in apple sauce, and you’ve pretty much got exactly what Thanksgiving tastes like.



Last stop: The Theatre. We followed the masses to the temp venue (as they re-work the offish one) and took our seats. I was seated next to one of our Profs, who happens to have raised ducks this summer. I told him how my mother dressed me up as a duck for every Halloween until I could tell what she was doing, and we instantly bonded. Ducks are a mysterious, powerful animal that can really bring folks together.



This is a CONTRABAND PICTURE!! I was fully chewed-out after taking it. Totally worth it, to bring it to you. Do you see how much I love you?

“As You Like It” is about a chick who gets banished, dresses up as a dude and runs away into the forest. The Joan of Arcian fan in me was pre-dispose to like it, but kids, I LOVED it.

I LOVED THIS SHOW. I LOVED IT LIKE I HAVE NEVER LOVED A PLAY BEFORE. I have done a few plays in my life, and seen a few more than that. I am extremely judgmental, and though I’m willing to concede much to be entertained, I judge. Boy, do I judge. But, ladies and gentlemen, I HAVE NEVER SEEN A SHOW SO WELL DONE/ACTED/PRESENTED/COSTUMED/DIRECTED/DONE EVER EVER EVER. I was so excited at intermission (interval, half-time) that I couldn’t WAIT for it to begin again. When it ended, I was so simply PLEASED that I started tearing up. For no reason, no sadness or ecstasy, just FEELING. It made me feel so much. It touched something, tickled somewhere, and hit every single note. I loved every single character. Even William, who has about two and a half lines, made an unanticipated positive impact. IT. WAS. SO. FUNNY. Every character had their timing down, and God, it was good. I felt like they got it like I would get it, they presented it like I would want it presented. I felt so comfortable watching them. It was EXCATLY how it should have been done – everything. And you know how I know it was all that? Because I can’t put my finger on why it was so good, or why it touched me so much. I have no idea why it clicked. But it did. And it blew my mind.

There’s a part, right before the interval, where Orlando decided he’s going to write praises for Rosalind all over the forest trees. As I walked into the foyer, I realized that verses of poetry had been tacked up all over the theatre, inside and out, including all over the set when I went back in. On my way out of the theatre after it was over, I grabbed one. This is what it said:

“You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!”

Eerily fitting. Tell (clap) it (clap) again (clap)! Tell (clap) it (clap) again (clap)!

That evening I returned home, beaming on the inside. I was so…touched, that I looked up one of the actors and found his email (are we sensing a trend?) and shot him one telling him how inexplicably enjoyable the show was. I’m pushing my luck here, I know, but hey, last time I emailed one of my betters, I got a reply from the lead singer!

Weekend hit an all-time high when I received the mix CD one of my friends has been attempting to send me for about a month. From internet file-sharing to converting mp3’s, this whole it-takes-a-billion-dollars-to-mail-you-anything-bigger-than-a-postcard thing is getting really old. But I got it! And will been listening delightedly for days.

Sunday began with Mass at Westminster Cathedral (children’s choir, as if the place could get any sweeter) and then Flat Bonding Activity of Non-Disclosure (don’t worry, no drinking or anything like that). Dinner followed by The Unavoidably Addicting Cookies. We’re on our third batch. It’s getting chronic.

Pretty manageable week ahead. I’ll be blogging more regularly, I promise.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Jane Austen Broke My Camera

I knew that bitch was cold.

Ever since sophomore year of high school, when we were assigned to read "Emma" over the summer, and I spent every minute of that book wishing I could rip my eyeballs from their aching, bleeding sockets, I knew Jane Austen would bring me nothing but pain. Slow, pounding, overly dramatic pain. Kind of like the monster in the pit of sand that Jaba the Hut tried to feed Han Solo to in "Return of the Jedi." Except with flowery language. And dresses.

But let's start at the beginning. This Saturday I went on the ND organized "Jane Austen Trip." My motives had nothing to do with Jane Austen, but with the prospect of getting out of London for the day and see the country. And they advertised a cathedral on this trip. As we all know, I'm a sucker for cathedrals.

We bussed up and drove to Winchester, and toured the Winchester Cathedral.



Built by William the Conqueror



about 1000 years ago



now Anglican, but Catholic saints have been restored



original medieval tiles, too



It was great. I love walking where Catholics billions (okay, thousands) of years ago walked. It's almost paralyzing to think I am praying to the same God in the same way that they did a millenia ago. I got about as giddy-geeky as I do when a new "House" comes on.

Then we got to Jane Austen's grave. Or should I say, stone in the floor. Note, when you read the epitaph, there is no mention of her being a writer. Still inapprops in her time.



This is about the time that my camera started to tank. Since Edinburgh, when it got tossed in the bottom of my backpack into the bottom of the bus, it's been persnickety. The lens doesn't really feel like opening or shutting anymore. Hence, closing the camera is like doing a salsa to a song in 5/4 time. I tried to keep up with the steps as long as possible, but eventually I had to leave the dance. But that didn't stop me from attempting to close the camera, igniting a series of unhappy burps from the lens that sounded like "GAKGAKGAKGAKGAKGAK" before it belched and gave up, blinking at me innocently as if to say, I'm sorry, I just can't take this anymore. In my indignant fury I attempted to close the camera a number of times, receiving the same series of burps followed by a degraded wheeze about every 16 seconds. Pretty soon I was slapping the lens on the front while it was gakking, trying to shock it into submission. I did this every time our tour guide moved us on to a different post, trying to wrestle incognito, turning sideways and holding it under my sweatshirt as I bopped it on the face, silently willing it to close and shut up. These attempts, of course, were for naught, because not only did my camera refuse to close, it also echoed, belching throughout the space with a force that would have put Molly Leer's fantastic display of female digestive regurgitation during Regis's Sophomore retreat to shame.

I did manage to get some final shots, though.

Original medieval arch thingies



Original paintings of religious scenes (ORIGINAL!! I LOVE THAT WORD!!)



Original Baptismal Font AND THIS IS THE FIRST RECORDED...RECORD OF A SHIP WITH A RUDDER!! Look closely - there is definitely a rudder on that ship. First time we know of anyone bothering to note them. Yup. A replica is on display in the British Naval Museum. (Next to the display on belly-button wax. Well, my flatmates laughed.)



It should be noted that the last picture my poor camera ever took was the shot of Jane Austen's grave. During its last lucid moments I ran through the cathedral snapping photos of everything I had missed, and the grave stone was the final shot...pity.

Next stop was the house of Jane's brother. This is probably the most picturesque English Countryside Scene one will ever find. I would show you images that may have helped you visualize it, but...JANE AUSTEN'S COLD DEAD BONES FRIGHTENED MY CAMERA TO DEATH. Just imagine the movie Pride and Prejudice. It's pretty much EXACTLY like that. The house itself was gorgeous, perfectly preserved and fully functional. Conferences are held on the estate, and anyone can come and visit for the day.

After the Estate we went to Jane's actual house. I saw the desk where she wrote all of her novels. It was quite small. Now, close you eyes and imagine that. Good. There was also an ORIGINAL Clementi piano from back in the day, and I played it. (!!!!) Lots of copies of all of her novels. Most of this was lost on me, but I saw my friend Katherine, an Austen de-vo-tee, walking reverently around the garden with her hand on her chest, breathing deeply. As far as religious experiences go, to each her own, I suppose.

The past 24 hours have been filled with an overabundance of good food, with steak smothered in bleu cheese and croutons last night, nutella french toast after Mass this morning, and home-made pizza for dinner tonight (each made in conjunction with either Kamen Flat 10 or Minerva Flat 8). No class tomorrow - SLEEP!!! And a philo paper.

Cheers!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

The Camera Doesn't Know It's Broken

Shots from my days, to make up for the essay of the last post.



Sitting on my train to High Wycombe. I love this shot. There is something just so evocative about TRAINS, and it's quite interesting living in a country that survives by them. People would much rather take a train into London than drive their car.



Walking over the Thames to the Globe.



Now, in your best Pocahontas voice: "Just around the River Thames!"




People walking over the Millennium Bridge.



The Glory Moment. Stewart Copeland, ladies and gentlemen.
Look at the interest in his eyes! LOOK AT IT!
I think I was saying something like "I'mamusicmajorandyouarethemostimportantmusicalinfluencorofmylifeiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou..." Or something like that.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

When It Rains, It Pours, Especially If You're Polish

No pics this time (sorry, Kaitlyn) just a story. Hopefully a GOOD story. A story of my first encounter with this blasted English rain and the ruination (or adventure) of my evening.

First off, it should be noted, that in my specific case, the irony will always be as great as possible. Hence, on the rainiest day London has experienced in the past 500 years (so I say) I will be wearing nothing other than leggings and a short skirt, a short sleaved dress shirt, and a leather jacket, whilst carrying a mock-leather un-close-upable bag, whose umbrella I will have extracted that morning due to lack of use. And my shoes will be ballet flats. Of course.

SO, lovely day, many classes, watched a great/horrendous film called "Mischief Night" about drug dealers in Leeds. (Comedy. Hilarious. Bogie - pick this one up and watch it with yourselves.) Went to Mass in the itty-bitty chapel on the fifth floor of the Centre. (Not the fourth. I donna ceer ha mani times theh sah ootherways. The floor you walk in on is the first floor, not the ground floor. The second floor is the second floor, I don't care if you want to call it the first. Note: Assimilation has never been my strong point.)

Eventually the time came to round up and go to the Orange Tree Theatre (at least I think that's what it's called). Me and my flatmate Claire bummed tickets off the Intro to London Theatre class to go see a play called "The Ring of Truth" (whatever you're imagining, stop). The theatre is far away, in a magical land called Richmond. We bought dinner at Pret a Manger (yes, mother, I know what that means) and boarded the Tube. Note: the whole time we're doing this, it's raining. Not bad, just consistent.

We squeezed onto the Tube with the masses. Now, it wasn't just crowded, it was Tokyo crowded, like, you don't get to move your arms because you might accidentally butter-cut someone. I was travelling in a group of four, and I used the crunch time (literally) to explain the plot of an episode of Bones where a pedophile mummifies girls in subways because it's the only place with a consistent flow of warm, dry air. I'm sure all those in listening distance of me really enjoyed it.

About half way there, the Tube decides to crap out. Well, the track, I suppose. We get alerted that, due to flooding, the train is being rerouted. Far far away from the magical land. We get off and meet up with the other eight or so ND kids who were in a different car headed the same place. We're all hanging out on the platform, which is above ground, under the overhang, waiting for another train to Richmond to come alone.

I took this time to eat my dinner. I bought a baguette (I can never write that word without reading it bag-wetty) with brie, tomato and basil. One of the greatest things about this country is that they put brie on everything. I also bought a "Chocolate Mousse" cup thing. Now, I was expecting to enjoy it, but I was not prepared for the potpourri of unmeasurable delightedly chocolate deliciousness that exploded into my oral cavity. If you are anywhere near a Pret A Manger, you must go, right now, and buy a cup of chocolate mousse. Buy ten. If you can't get to a Pret, get on Amazon and stock your fridge and your bathtub. And steal your neighbor's bathtubs and fill those, too.

That was the highlight of my evening, eating that chocolate mousse on the platform in the rain, if that gives you any idea of how the rest of the night is going to go.

Then someone had the brilliant idea to take a bus to the mythical land of Richmond. We poured out of the tube station and onto the streets, feet slapping the wet cobblestones and umbrellas bumping and bobbing above our motley mob. We heaved into a bus bound for Richmond and were once again transported to Tokyo. Apparently we weren't the only ones with the bus idea.

So I stood. And stood. Mashed up against the side of a bus window. I put in my earbuds (NOT ipod earbugs - SONY earbuds. Fight the man.) and listened to Imogen Heap's new album (more on why this album is singularly defining my experience later). I got through the entire album. So, after 90 minutes on the bus, sloshing through streets and the mind-blowing speed of about three feet a minute, everyone in the bus has pretty much become a fan of the Notre Dame Experience. See, unlike most Brits, L'enfants de Notre Dame tend to TALK while using public transportation. So everyone knew our plight and our personage.

AFTER AN HOUR AND A HALF OF WATCHING RAINDROPS SLIDE DOWN THE WINDOWS OF A STEAMY, OVER-CROWDED BUS we arrived at the theatre. The prof met in the lobby, for we had arrived just as it was hitting intermission (interval, half-time, what have you). He immediately began with, "You poor DEARS!! You must feel DREADFUL!! Your journey must have been JUST awful, how HORRID for you to go through that I do hope you will enjoy the rest of the show I fee just TERrible."

The second half was pretty much all you needed. The show it self was a drawing-room comedy/thriller. It was 1950's England and...bad. Old people laughing at jokes I hadn't the chance of the Diamondbacks in the postseason at understanding. Kind of like Arsenic and Old Lace, but less funny. The only redeeming factor was the cook's Polish husband, who ran in furious because his wife had been investigated by the police.

"Why you hateah de POLES? EVEREbody HATEAH de POLES!! When I comma to dis countreh, I WORK HARD. I marry my wifa, and she WORK HARD. Why you suspect her? Because I am POLISH!! BECAUSEH YOU HATEAH DE POLES!! We are ALWAYS ANGRY!! From BIRT, we ANGRY. In de WOMB, we ANGRY! YOU! You wear HORN-RIMMED GLASSES!! You areah a COMMUNIST!! ANDEAH YOU HATEAH DE POLES!!!"

Basically, it was like watching my mother on one of her my-family-came-to-this-country-from-Poland-with-nothing kicks. Very entertaining. I was positively HOWLing, causing most of the audience to look up my way. Oh well. They clearly did not grow up hearing about the greatness/plight of the Polish heritage. Their loss.

After the show we scrambled to a train station and...well, I don't really remember. At some point we took the tube. I had to buy a ticket somewhere. Oh, well. At this point I was pretty much a sad, wet lemming. But I did get home.

Last night I saw Troilus & Cressida at the Globe. FANTASTIC. Terrible in the reading. Wonderful in the watching. Now off to The Comedy Club for an evening of stand-up for my alternative poetry class.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

A Castle, a Clan, a City and a Song



On Friday night, my roommates Eileen, Claire, and Lauren and our hallmates John and Sunil set out to find Aldgate Station, from whence we hoped to travel on an overnight bus to Edinburgh. I packed up my backpack, brushed my teeth and put in my retainer, ready to take on the world and my first real college-backpacking-adventure. It was only for a day (night bus back Saturday night) but it had the makings of an adventure the likes of which I have only dreamt.

Background: I am 25%ish Scottish. My mother has oft expatulated about Clan Baird, and how one of our own invented TV. I never really understood/cared until, of course, I found myself in Scotland desperately seeking to claim heritage.

Second, earlier that week I had heard that my second favorite currently-active band Carbon Leaf (Favorites in Order: The Police [inactive]; Nightwish [active]; Carbon Leaf [active]) was performing at Notre Dame, which means of course I would miss it. I. Was. CRUSHED. (grr irony grr.) BUT! In an act of unparalleled chutzpah I found a general email for them on their website and emailed them that they HAD to play a song for me, because the timing in this world is too cruel.

Third, when I am tired/smelly/gross looking I don't anticipate guys hitting on me. When it's 12:30am at a bus pit stop, I don't anticipate guys hitting on me. And when I am tired/smelly/gross and stretching my legs at a bus pit stop at 12:30am, I figure I'm just about as attractive as a mouldy beetroot.

But back to Aldgate. Now, I'm of the opinion that this "bus station" (as it calls itself) doesn't exist. I've never seen it. I spent an hour and a half running around central London looking for it Friday night, and it never appeared. The pre-bus travel was one of those situations in life when you know too many chiefs won't bode well for travel bonding, so I lemminged my way around and let everyone else decided where we were going. I tried not to be bothered when our departure time came and went, and so when Aldgate inconveniently disaparrated to Tahiti, I was down for taking a taxi to Victoria Station and meeting the bus there for its second leg.

We met the bus, boarded, and attempted to sleep. I say attempted with a bit of sarcasm. 50+ week-weary people packed into your average coach bus for 10 hours isn't EXACTLY the greatest place to hit REM. Especially not when the guy in charge of the bus tries to tell you your ticket isn't for this bus (har har har) and then explains that your armrest is what we would call "CAH-PUTT!" I'll leave the rest of the drive up to interpretation.

About 5am I awoke, looked out the window, and said, "Yak." I was heartily confused because 1) I was on a bus 2) I had no idea where I was 3) about 63% of my body had fallen asleep and 4) I was staring at animals I though didn't exist in Europe. Maybe I HAD gotten on the wrong bus.

Turns out my morning greeters were "Scottish highlands cows."


Fig. 1

Strange. When we finally reached the station, the six of us piled out and onto the streets of Edinburgh - AND THE WORLD!! We walked around for a good bit, looking for a place to eat. The first thing I noticed was a very castley-looking thing on a hill above everything else. Precision deduction led me to believe this was, in fact, the Edinburgh Castle. It's in the opening pic, but I love this shot below because of the juxtaposition of old and new.



Our first stop was a restaurant called The Filling Station, which we learned after the fact is a route-66 Americana themed diner. We were so hungry/tired, though, we didn't really care. I had Classic Scottish Porridge. It was lovely.



After breakfast we scaled the cliffs and toured the Castle. I bought an audio guide to go along with my entry ticket (these one-way information radios are really starting to grow on me).



Thus began the most amazing oh-my-God-I-can't-believe-it's-a-real-castle experience of my life. The whole no royal history in America thing plus my time-tested obsession with Lord of the Rings culminated in me walking around with my mouth literally hanging open, muttering to myself about kings and queens actually living here once upon a time, in a bit of a shock that something like this exists and is real and isn't just a model built by Weta Workshop.







The views were jaw-dropping







My favorite part was St. Margaret's Chapel. It was built by King David I in order to honour (britspell) his mother, who was Catholic. (I'm always a sucker for anything old and Catholic). It was later converted into a magazine when Cromwell took over, and is now used for christenings and weddings for members of the Scottish military. We actually saw a bride and groom going in when we were leaving. Cool note: since we were there on a Saturday, there were a number of weddings going on, and most of the grooms and male attendees were wearing kilts.







I got to see the "Honours," or crown jewels of Scotland. I also got to see this guy talk about Scotland in 1822. His talk was in the "Great Hall."







Edinburgh Castle: One of the top-five coolest places I've ever been. After the castle we walked down High Street and ran into about 58 statues and dedications to Sir Walter Scott. Do I have any idea what he did? No. But I appreciate that in Scotland he's a PBD. I dragged everyone into a Tartan-weaving store, where I found a scarf knit with the plaid of Clad Baird! Arr! The store itself was cool, and you could see how they weave the tartan!





Baird Tartan! ARR! (I don't know why the Bairds suddenly sound like pirates. But they do.)





We walked around the city, enjoying the sights and soaking up the ehm-bee-ence.





For mid-afternoon tea we went the The Elephant Room, a cafe. Now, a certain writer made this cafe famous for writing large chunks of her novels here. Cue Amanda gasping.





We sat in the back were Rowling would sit and write, with a great view of the Castle out the window. Visions of Hogwarts?







Early evening Eileen decided we should go on a ghost tour. Now, I don't do scary movies. They do, in fact, scare me. They don't gross me out or make me laugh or entertain me, they just scare me. I think there's enough evil in this world without us using it as entertainment or to freak ourselves out for kicks. But I decided, since I'm abroad and "trying new things," I'd go on the ghost tour.



There were about twenty in the group. We paid our 7lbs and were ushered into a stone hallway in the back of an old building, supposedly a remnant of an old bridge. There were no lights save the tourguide's flashlight, which she shone on her face. She began, "Now, one of the scary things that can happen is that during a tour you will hear loud, even footsteps," which she demonstrated. "They never slow down or stop, they just keep moving. People call the owner of these steps The Watcher. Now, I will tell you as a tour guide, when you are standing up here and talking, and you know no one is moving, and you can hear the footsteps behind the crowd but can't see anyone coming up, it's quite unnerving."

That was it. "Can I go?" I asked as my hand shot up. "Can I just...go now?" I swiftly moved through the crowd and out of the door back the way we came as the tourguide shouted "You can get a refund at the office!" I ran onto the street, into the sunlight...and burst into tears. I. Hate. Scary. Things. I decided to walk up and down High Street while I waited for my doomed comrades. I went into about every touristy highlandian shop there was, and bought a CD of Scottish fiddle music for 3lbs. Way better way to spend my money, as far as I'm concerned.

After the troops returned from the dungeons, we decided to go to "The Monument." I still don't know what The Monument is for/to, but it is a bunch of classic pillars on a hill in the corner of the city. At first glance I was a little skeptical of walking all through the city just to get to a monument dedicated to something we didn't even know, but as we came up on it, all worry was lost. It was, in fact, the perfect way to close the day. The six of us sat around the pillars, staring out over Edinburgh, recouting tales of our adventures during the day, and being, literally, on top of the world.















We were running short on time so instead of gamely seeking out some authentic Scottish foodstuffs, we went back to The Filling Station, which we knew the directions to the bus station from and knew wouldn't break the bank. I had fish & chips. Again, delicious.



We made our way back to the bus station as I resigned myself to another night of 2 hours of shotty sleep. When we hit our first pitstop I got out and used the bathroom. Before I walked back I looked in the mirror and had one of those Mia Thermopolis "Well, this is as good as it's gonna get" moments, taking in my greasy hair and remnants of the make-up I put on 24 hours ago. On my way back to the bus a guy looking a few years older, nice eyes, with a think accent asked, "Are you American?"
"Yeah, I am."
"Where are you from?"
"Denver, Colorado."
"What are you doing here?"
"Studying abroad in London..."
And we both sorta looked around...
"You are...a singer?" I then occured to me that I had been telling John on the bus all about being a voice major. I realized at that moment I probably had not been talking as quitely as I had supposed. (You may all now roll your eyes.)
"Yeah...where are YOU from?"
"Guess."
"I dunno...eastern Europe?"
"*mumble*"
"Turkey?"
"Italy."
"ITALY! Cool."
and then it happened.
"Do you have a phone number?"
"I...what?...OH NO SORRY HAVE TO GO BYE."

And then I realized I had been sleep flirting in front of the bus with this guy for about two minutes. I ran back into the bus, thoroughly embarassed, and fell asleep.

We returned to Victoria Station at 7:30am. After a series of Tube-related disasters (does EVERYTHING have to close on Sunday?) we returned to the flats and I opened my email. I found one titled thus: "CARBON LEAF READ YOUR EMAIL AND DEDICATED A SONG TO YOU." My eyes pretty much popped out of my scull as I read my friend's recount of how the lead singer read my email to the crowd and then dedicated the song "Block of Wood" to me. And then I realized it really HAS been the greatest weekend ever. I got an email reply from Barry, Carbon Leaf's esteemed vocalist, thanking me for my note and wishing me luck in London. HOW DO THESE THINGS HAPPEN? HOW'D I GET SO GORRAM BLESSED??

And a good time was had by all!