a day trip

on Saturday dan and and i took a tour through the Polish countryside to a small village called Oświęcim, or, in German, Auschwitz. i will never forget this visit to the Auschwitz-Auschwitz II (Birkenau) Concentration and Extermination Camp Museum and Memorial. never, ever.

i can't say much of anything about this experience that doesn't seem trite. my generation is so far removed from what happened during the war, protected by overlapping layers of time, distance, culture... it's hardly reality for me, what happened so long ago. for that matter, those horrors that may be happening now, but so far away, aren't a part of my reality either. i am not and was not there. i have no idea. it is difficult to even imagine it. and it's so easy to stay within the boundaries of my comfortable life.

i will say this, walking into a room where the braided tresses of more than 40,000 women are piled in a mountainous heap was an experience that almost made me puke. literally. seeing a piles of suitcases, combs, shoes, kettles, clothing was gut-wrenching. it was an appropriately dark, bitterly cold, windy day. uncomfortable in every sense.

i was finally brought to tears when i saw a pile of toothbrushes, the mundane and intimate little toothbrush. these people were told they were being resettled, so of course they would bring along a toothbrush. it is something i never leave home without. i guess that was my moment. the moment when, for me, the masses who were exterminated became individuals who were murdered.

i think they've kept those objects in the museum to connect the unfathomable number - 1,300,000 brutally murdered people - to the individual. for some people it is the name and birth date written on a suitcase. for others it is a face from a photograph or a pair of children's shoes. for others it is the forest of chimneys or the reconstruction of the crematorium. for me it was those toothbrushes. an item of the everyday that symbolizes an ending of someone's everyday.

historians keep telling the stories of Auschwitz, hoping that humanity will learn from its own horrors in efforts to help prevent a repeat of them. i am glad i saw what i saw, even though it was uncomfortable and disturbing.

we viewed this trip as a historical pilgrimage. a voyage from the comforts of our day to day. to see history. to feel sad. to wonder about the nature of our own kind. someone in a pub in Krakow said, "But, it's Christmas! How can you stand seeing that kind of thing during the holidays?" well, we hope to have many more christmases and many more holiday parties and many more presents and many more nights spent with friends and family in our future, but when an opportunity to do something important presents itself, it seems to us like a good idea to take it, no matter what time of year it is.

and it was.

facts about Auschwitz-Auschwitz II (Birkenau)

• more people were exterminated in the gas chambers at Auschwitz II (Birkenau) (estimate: 1.2 - 1.5 million) than were killed in action during the war from the U.S. and England combined (800,000)
• the Auschwitz camp, like all concentration camps, started as prisons for political "enemies of the state" and, other than military executions, it was not a killing camp at first.
• the series of events, the evolution in philosophy, that took place to slowly dehumanize, and finally mass murder, took place over many months/years and with the input of the intellectual, political, and military elite of German society. these were often not "crazy" people, but very intelligent people making rational decisions based on their ideals of right and wrong.
• at the peak of the "final solution," those Jews who weren't immediately killed on their day of arrival at Birkenau (just 20-30 percent) were forced to work hard labor with little clothing, 400 calories of poor food, and little heat or fresh water. they usually died within four months.

sleeping with the enemy

go ducks! i am proud to say that i set the alarm for a respectable 1:50 a.m., coincidentally the same time dan was getting home from work, for the 2:01 a.m. GMT kickoff of the the 113th Civil War. we sat up drinking ale and watching ESPN America until well after five. yes, the game was that good. yes, it was worth it.

as i read through the facebook posts this week, i realized that the beavers in my life outnumber the ducks about 4 to 1. maybe more. although i knew i was destined to go to Oregon from the seventh grade, i didn't actually move in until junior year. so my circle of alumni friends include cissy, mike and raman. sad, right? i also have angie (a gator-duck like me) and a few others in the network who sport the green and yellow. but it was mostly beaver believers posting: my husband is a beaver; my bestest friends are beavers; my in-laws are beavers; most of my high school alum are beavers. even my own dad seems to support whoever is doing the best during the season. unfair.

(i even found myself getting so angry at all the stupid duck fans with their stupid roses. we had a raging OSU machine coming to our house, on a roll, aiming to take our rose-bowl bid and we bring roses? like the game is already over? who does that? well, the beavers did last year. it was a dumb idea then, and a dumb idea now. we got lucky. bunch of idiots.)

so, you'd think a win would be extra-awesome against the beavs, but it's so strange...when we finally clinched the win and coach kelly was getting his gatorade shower, i was jumping up and down while dan slumped on the couch. as soon as it was over, radio silence. it's so lonesome being a duck in my life and knowing many of my friends were suddenly so bummed. and it's extra lonely when we lose and the crushing weight of shame hits me like a ton of bricks. it's amazing how emotionally invested we can get in our teams.

anyway, i guess the point is, i love the ducks and i am so happy they won. and i love all my beaver network, despite of and because of their allegiance. and i am more than ready for another 113 years of trash-talkin', high-stakes, barn-burners.

i just don't want to have to stay up until 5 a.m. again to watch them.

in all, it was a great game, State of Oregon.

i love college football.

p.s. dan got this in an e-mail last night. wtf? really? will people never learn.
and my friend emily sent me this, who doesn't love sportscenter (and a gigantic fuzzy duck)?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VN53yX9OnP0&feature=youtube_gdata.

2012? Move to Imlil.

did anyone see the end-of-the-world flick 2012? i don't know about you, but it opened my eyes to millions of new ways to die that i need to be terrified about that i hadn't even thought of yet! forget firey airline crashes and mini meets lorry on the A-14, now i have exploding mountains, lava-filled crevasses, tidal waves, imploding supermarkets...totally depressing.

but like many apocalyptic films, it got me to thinking about what i would do if there was some sort of epic society-destroying event: i would die. probably of starvation or exposure.


but i know who probably wouldn't die: the Berbers. high in the Atlas mountains of Morocco, there lives a group of people who still don't have electricity in many of their village homes. and the public spaces have only had it since 2003. they grow their food, weave their carpets, build houses with sticks and stones, carry their goats around, and teach their children to do the same. they are, literally, living with one foot in the past.


they do have schools, a "modern" hospital, some access to telephones and satellite t.v., and a few motor vehicles between them, so it isn't the stone age. the children looked happy and chubby, like children should, shooting marbles or playing football. everyone was working at something, instead of sitting on their asses. i even saw a one-legged 20-something guy hiking up the mountain on a crutch behind his cement-carrying mule as part of a construction crew. these folks are hard-core.


i am sure that i'm noble savaging a little bit about the Berbers, but regardless of their relative quality of life to the modernities of Western Europe, they definitely would have a much higher survival prospect than i would on Independence Day. they inspire a person to learn to plant and harvest. gather and preserve. hew and mortar. weave and sew. unfortunately, that "person" isn't me.


sure, i try to keep an herb garden alive and i can reattach a button, but i don't envision heading out the the prairie Laura Ingalls' style any time soon. so my plan is to keep visiting these cultures around the world, with appreciation and respect for their knowledge, skill, and relative odds against mine while embracing the reality that although myself or my people may not survive in the long run, i sure have it good in the short one.

flattered, annoyed

somebody stole my kickass jack o' lantern. and they didn't even have the decency to smash it to pieces in some gory, messy way in my front yard. so much for tricks.

22:14

3.1 miles in 22:14 at 29 years 9 months.
i've only gained 22 seconds per mile in 12 years.
not bad, H, not bad.

complete at-home guide to reparing a british mini

page 1: jiggle the wires. any wires. just jiggle them. again. maybe you're jiggling the wrong wires. look for other wires. jiggle them.

page 2: hmm. well, let it sit overnight. then go through the steps on page 1.

page 3: talk nice to the mini. then see page 1 and page 2.

page 4: curse at the mini. then see pages 1-3.

page 5: call your mechanic.

this process has worked really well for me during the past 29 months of mini ownership. granted, it is an old car and it is to be expected that things wear out. we have done more than our fair share of real, legitimate, routine classic-car maintenance (fan belt, alignment, brakes, suspension), but when crazy stuff happens, i follow (carefully) the steps above.

for example, the fuel gauge stopped working. come to find out, page 2 is the answer. most of the time when the weather changes, it gets damp and cold and the gauges will stick for a few days (or overnight). just park it somewhere dry and wait a bit and they'll work suddenly.

or a few months ago the windshield wipers wouldn't work. page 1 TOTALLY solved the entire problem. jiggle, jiggle, voila! i can see!

i also got some auxiliary headlamps put on the front and they didn't work one day. page 1, page 2, page 3, then page 1 again and i was back in business.

but recently i had to resort to page 5. for some reason the mini has become more Herbie-like than i am comfortable with. i pulled into the garage and switched off the ignition, and the radio stayed on. then it went off. then it came back on. i turned the car back on, off again, pulled the key out and 10 seconds later the radio came on again. then, the heater, too. i jiggled, cursed, talked nice, waited, tried again. nothing. i guess the car has decided that it is in charge of its own electrical system from now on. maybe it was tired of all the jiggling.

so, i decided that the mini is officially possessed. i just hope it doesn't figure out how to drive itself; i don't want to end up at the top of the Golden Gate.

heightened security

so i have two passports. like a super-secret international spy, except not that cool. anyway, one of my passports houses my UK visa documents and the other is for personal travel. i have to carry both of them because i "personally travel" out of the UK on trips and "officially re-enter" the UK with my visa.

so the other day, i travelled with dan and his parents over the channel to france. i was juggling all of our passports as we exited the ferry port and went through french border security. in my haste, i inadvertently handed the nice french girl sherry's passport, steve's passport, holly's passport, and holly's other passport. she glanced through the passports quickly as a long line of cars queued up behind us. suddenly she runs off, yells something in french to another french person, he hands her what turns out to be the entrance stamp, she stamps the four passports, gives us a funny look, and passes them back to me through the window. au voir! merci!

as i was shuffling through the documents to put them back in the appropriate wallets, i noticed my mistake. holy crap, i have entered france twice and dan hasn't entered france at all.

there was no way to rectify our mistake as i didn't want to explain my super-spy status to someone in a foreign language that i don't speak (especially since half of the english border agents don't understand why i have two passports, and we share a language), we couldn't turn around on the four-lane, one-way street leaving the ferry port, and i didn't want to be sent to french prison. so we kept on.

as we were leaving france a few days later, no one seemed to give a crap that dan hadn't ever entered france.

so much for increased security measures.

update

my in-laws visited.
for two weeks.

we took them to normandy.

and brugge.

and cambridge.

and...that about sums it up.

british kitty hates america

maybe she's worried that, when we move back, the american kitties might beat her up because of her funny accent. or maybe she was just giving the flag a big hug...with her teeth.

what's wrong with this picture

remember those pages in the Highlights kids magazine that had a picture and you had to go and pick out all the things that were out of place? like a dog wearing shoes or a banana as a door handle? well, as i do some of the most normal things during my america visit, i realize that they would be completely impossible in an english picture. for example:

• i am driving down a 5-lane road at 7 p.m. i come to a stoplight and realize that my sunglasses are missing a screw. i see a walgreens ahead, pull in, and buy an eyeglass repair kit for $2.99.
• in england: there are no 5-lane city streets, there are few stoplights, you rarely wear sunglasses, and there is no way that a pharmacy would be open anytime after 5:30 p.m., much less actually have what you are looking for.
• i am getting ready to go out in the bathroom, blow drying my hair and putting on some makeup when i realize i need to use the toilet. when the business is done, i flush and not everything disappears. so i flush again. and voila!
• in england: you can't get ready in the bathroom because there are no plugs for your hairdryer and no counter space to spread out your makeup and the mirror is the size of a dinner plate. you can't flush the same toilet twice in 10 minutes.
• as i write this, i am in a coffee shop with free wi-fi talking about college football with some complete strangers.
• in england: wi-fi is only free at libraries, people don't understand college football, and complete strangers would think you were insane if you began a conversation with them, i know from experience.
• i was waiting for a friend at a fast-food mexican restaurant where we needed to eat inside because it was too hot to eat outside. as we were eating, some dude walked in and sat at the table next to us wearing his 9mm strapped to a belt holster. he was not a cop.
• well, aside from heat and the lack of good tacos, this scenario seems just a little bit f*ed up for anyplace.

maybe i shouldn't have come here. i miss so much about america that i was actually lusting after full-size dishwashers during a trip to best buy. i wonder how long my love affair will last once i am back in suburbia eating at olive garden and having to drive to the cinemas and drink at a crappy bar on a saturday night? i have a feeling that the grass is always going to be greener. off to the old country in the morning for a pint of cask ale in a cozy pub with my friends...

deep, deep, deep, dark, deep, dark pit

yeah. it's devastating. i've been a duck fan when the ducks totally suck and lose a bunch of easy games and then go to the seattle bowl and get their asses kicked by BYU or UTEP or something. i've seen horrible offense. i've seen crappy QBs and RBs and something similar to the South Eugene High School as the defensive line.

we've suffered through losing seasons (although, not 28 consecutive ones from 1978-1998, so i am not that pro at dealing with it. maybe i'll ask my OSU friends how they coped for so many years). anyway, the point is, it is absolutely horrific what happened to the university of oregon, its fans, its alumni, its football team, and its national reputation, such as it was anyway.

i was so upset as "the punch" was replayed over and over above the blue turf. especially after the boise state fans had been so gracious to us as we cruised in our green and yellow through the tailgate parties. i heard more "good lucks" than i've ever heard at a NCAA football game in my entire life. everyone was having real fun and, it seemed, prepared for a real good time.

of course there was some old-fashioned taunting, like when the ducks finally had a first down and the entire crowd joined the visiting section in a standing ovation. and even i had to join in under my breath when the fourth quarter "ov-er-rate-ed" chants began.

but is what happened after the game is a symptom of what is happening everywhere (exception: T. Tebow)? it's fairly obvious that Blount isn't a man under control. he is a gigantic boy out of control. he is a child, from what background and experience, i'm not sure, thrust into D1 semi-super-stardom without the skills to handle himself off the field. whose responsibility is it to help children make this transition into adulthood? possibly parents, and for football players, coaches, too?

i am happy to see him suspended for the rest of the season. his life is changing. hopefully the football program will provide some support so he can graduate (likely?), mature, and get himself under control. it wouldn't be responsible of the university to cut him loose, would it? he's already a loose cannon. or is it OK to use him and lose him when he screws up? or are they teaching them anything besides how to thread a gap? who knows.

i hope this suspension gives him an opportunity for a second chance at starting a life. as we watch all of our saturday games this season, we should remember that these young men are very young. it is remarkable what they do and the pressure they are under. yes, blount is and should be getting the punishment he deserves. maybe they've even been too soft on him. but hopefully it will prevent him from taking the road of maurice clarett.

now, as for the chip kelly era having begun. OH F*$&K.

cultural experience

heh, heh. as we know, my enthusiasm for museums, cathedrals, and other historical or educational sightseeing has been waning at the downward slope of an olympic ski jump ramp. swoosh. i'd rather eat cardboard than go to the louvre again in the next 18 months.

but i haven't given up on culture entirely. i still like reading, food, drink, and events. theatre, markets, gatherings, festivals, and the like.

recently we attended the local greyhound track. every tuesday and saturday at Mildenhall Stadium (your ticket buys you the whole seat, but you'll only need the edge) the professional greyhound trainers turn loose their canine stallions for winnings as high as $50 a race. if the same breeder won every race, they could have a winnings of $600 a night! probably just enough to feed the 12 dogs who won. ha!

it was awesome. fish and chips, havin' a bet, the old country version of white trash, and pints of beer in a rural setting so "easy to find." we one some, we lost some, we drank ale. a smashing time. and we made a few mistakes (like taking a flash photograph of the race in progress), but the brits are so nice that a woman kindly reminded us to not take photographs with flash and then assured us that it was ok we made a small mistake. we wouldn't know unless we were regulars. we can only hope.

roughing it

for a change-up, we decided to take an old-fashioned weekend camping trip to the Yorkshire Dales National Park. we found a perfect little campground about 15 miles up a dead-end, 4-meter-wide country lane in the middle of Nidderdale (nidd being the river, dale being a very, very steep valley).

it was the end of the road, literally. after passing charming farm after charming farm, we climbed up a 25% grade to Middlesmoor village where there is a sign that says beyond here "road not suitable for motor vehicles." although there were two pubs within walking distance and our campground had electricity, a shower room, and a hair dryer, we really were remote for british standards. there were no shops, supermarkets, petrol stations, or services of any kind for 15 miles. that's a big deal for a country where at any given moment you are always within 70 miles of the sea.

our camping neighbors commented on their love for camping and yorkshire, but it was too remote. too barren. too desolate. there wasn't even cell phone coverage. yeah, if you're from anywhere else on the island, this place was a right boondocks.

so, you can imagine our absolute astonishment when, as we were setting up our tent, a big blue van pulled in the campground and stopped across from us near tent pitch #17. the van was, no kidding, a grocery delivery van from Tesco Direct. the driver hopped out and began unloading a BBQ grill, beer, and probably some milk, eggs, bread, tea, a take-away tandoori dinner, an evening newspaper, and God-knows what else! roughing it FAIL.

after growing up in a land where camping means a 30 to 60 minute drive off the side of a mountain, or at the very least a Forest Service campground complete with picnic tables, a hole in the ground for pooping, and a honesty box for paying the fee, i was shocked and amused by Tesco's appearance in Nidderdale.

that night, as we sat around our (highly against the rules) campfire/cooking fire eating our home-packed meals and drinking our ice cold ale, we kept hoping that we'd see the Domino's man pull in next.

a-ha moment

"so," says dan, "some people really do live in Glasshouses...."

and there were plenty of stones around for throwing.

we figured it was better than living in Blubberhouses, a presumably slimy village a few miles in the other direction.

island fever

most of the time i love living the historical and charming expatriate life. but lately i've been feeling the need to lemming myself off the white cliffs of dover. maybe it's the mid-60s-partly-cloudy-cool-breezy perpetual spring we have suffered all summer (and last year, and the one before that). maybe i am tired of feeling socially claustrophobic and professionally invisible. that could be, too. but i know part of it is simply because the british are infuriating.

i made an order from Amazon.co.uk for school books. i thought the mailman would just hide them in the bushes or give them to my neighbor if i wasn't home.

not the case.

i called to have them re-delivered for when i would be home.

"I need to schedule a redelivery"

"Ok, how about Monday?"

"Sure, what time?"

"Well, our deliveries can be from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., but I can't give you a specific time."

"So, you want me to stay home and miss an entire day of wages for a package that is not even worth half that much because there is no specific times?"

"Well, last week he delivered at 10 a.m., but I can't guarantee it would be the same driver or the same route."

I thought, "Wow. Hi, I'm Earth, have we met? Can you book me a flight coming back from Chicago?" But I said, "That's very helpful information. Can the next driver just leave them in the bushes or on the steps?"

"No. It is a signature required package, or he can leave them somewhere secure, like a garage."

"So, I should un-secure my garage so someone can stop by and steal my $1,500 worth of bicycles so a stranger can go in and drop of a package worth 80 DOLLARS?! Why don't I just unlock the front door and leave it open for him"

"Oh, that wouldn't be a good idea."

Really?!?!?!?!?!

and last month I e-mailed stupid BT (british telecom, nightmare-ville) because we'd gone "paperless billing" and when i logged in, there were no paperless bills to view. my e-mail was something like, "I logged in and clicked 'view bills' and there were no bills to view. Can someone post me or e-mail me copies of our last three bills?" the response: if you've forgotten your password, please click the link below to reset your password so you can log in. YOU IDIOT!!!! I said "I LOGGED IN" how the hell did i send you the freakin' e-mail in the first place if i wasn't logged into my stupid account?

it is everywhere, this lack of basic common sense and customer service. i was reading the newspaper the other day and the post office workers were on strike. protesting "modernisation." they fear change. that, alone, tells you what kind of culture we're living in.

a friend likened the british bureaucratic attitude as that of a crowd of zombies. they follow the rules. they don't get outraged. they don't want to modernize. they don't seem innovative. they move VEERY slowly. they eat flesh. (no, they don't eat flesh! gross.)

i definitely miss the American, land of the outraged, customer-is-always-right, do it bigger-better-faster, bend-the-rules-to-make-it-happen, attitude. now i just hope it can live up to the high standards i've set for it when we have our grand homecoming in one short year.

it's a girl!

we would like to announce the arrival of the newest member of our family, HRH Queen Elizabeth "Lizzie" Harper....

we were feeling the need to tend to something more animated than our herb garden. i thought it was my maternal instinct kicking in, but when she woke us up at 5 a.m. i was really glad that i could toss her out the door on her little furry butt. hack!

thai fish sauce honey chipotle barbecue

i rushed home from work thursday to do some prep work for thursday and friday night dinner. thursday -- thai beef with lime, fish sauce, green beans, and onions. friday -- chipotle honey barbecue chicken with black beans. i chopped, diced, and put everything in the fridge and headed out to meet the girls for a cosmo. on my way out the door my lovely, lovely husband calls and offers to make dinner when he gets home.

"ok," i say, "the beef is in the fridge, just score it with a knife, and grill for six minutes on each side. the beans, drop them in a pot of boiling water for three minutes. the sauce is all made up, it's sitting on top of the steak. just mix that with the --"

"i can read the recipe," Dan cuts me off.

"but, you need to score the beef, do you know what that means? so it doesn't curl on the grill? and rub it with some olive oil, too. i've already whisked everything -- you'll see that on the --"

"i got it; i got it." famous last words.

harley and i arrive home just in time to discover that dan has mixed the thai asian fish sauce with the honey chipotle barbecue sauce. demolishing two dinners worth of sauce and creating a fusion never dreamed of on the food network.

i was beside myself. "you could read the recipe??!"

"well, i thought that this chili paste meant --"

"it says 1/2 teaspoon! what would make you add two cups of barbecue sauce?"

"well i didn't read that part, i --"

"what am i going to do tomorrow, i used up all the ingredients to make that one batch?"

"well, uh, i...."

he was feeling pretty low, and i was ranting and raving about him "boying" up my best laid plans.

and the worst part: it was delicious.

my poor liver

we went to scotland.

yeah.

for me, the best part about touring, anywhere really, is eating and drinking what is locally produced in that region. i always seek out restaurants that locally source their cuisine, and generally the food comes with a locally sourced libation, too. as dan is reading every informational sign and sloooooowwwly strolling through every room in any museum, i am flipping through my various guidebooks or asking a stranger about the best place to eat nearby. i would much rather see the Colosseum from a cafe terrace than a three hour tour.

as i look back on my life on the whole, i feel like i owe an apology to my poor liver. not only my general freewheeling lifestyle, but the added burden of excessive travel can't be good for me.

dear liver, i'm sorry for the whisky in scotland, the lager in turkey, the hefeweizen in germany, the wine in france, the sangria in spain, the schnapps in switzerland, the pilsner in prague, the vodka in poland, the baijiu in china, the lambic in belgium, the ale in england, the "coffee" in amsterdam (hmmm...sorry lungs, on that one), the ouzo in greece, the lemoncello in italy, the margaritas in vegas, the guinness in dublin, and 1998-present.

but don't worry, MOM. all things in moderation.

especially moderation.

my favorite commercial on the telly

wait for the Yorkshire horses.



the british version of woodsy the owl -- give a hoot, people.

poor weston

where did they come up with some of these village names? this could get awkward for people named lizard.

striking a chord

when i was 17 jessie played me a CD that her brother sent from college. we put it on the stereo, turned it all the way up, and listened to it all night long. i know that i'm just one of a zillion Dave Matthews Band fans, and i'm not even a warehouse-card-carrying, t-shirt-wearing, live-recording-collecting, DMB True Believer. i just love the music.

DMB is one of those bands whose music can get inside my bones. the opening notes of satellite (for some reason) can make me emotional, and it's not even a sad song. ants marching makes me want to dance. the entire crash CD makes me crave sunshine. his lyrics can be so witty, funny, sad. and this new release -- i love it. classic Dave.

harley and i went to see them perform last night in London and i am, even after 11 years of fandom and four previous concerts, still absolutely in love with these overwhelmingly talented musicians. they are, truly, overwhelming. if you play an instrument, you know what i'm talking about. you don't see many dave cover bands out there. it's not just dave, either. it's carter beauford on drums, boyd tinsely on violin, tim reynolds (yes, he was there) on guitar, stefan lessard on bass, jeff coffin (in LeRoi Moore's spot) on sax, and the trumpet player (hm. i don't know his name)...i think it's just too much.

and its not just the music, its the meaning. the associations. college dorm rooms. trips to OSU for some party or another. getting ready to go out. the Gorge at George in August. Tecate man! late nights alone and feeling lonely. sunny summers. road trips. a train to london and a bottle of wine.

as we walked out of the concert, the iPhones were lighting up all around us as news of Michael Jackson's death hit the london airwaves. it was like a crazy ripple effect. our ears were still ringing from dave when we heard about michael. although i wasn't ever a michael jackson fan, and i think the media reaction is a little bit much at this point, i can see how so many people are really mourning their pop icon. it isn't just michael jackson that has died. it is the person that wrote songs tied to their own memories -- childhood, growing up, MTV, first love, heartbreak, really bad yearbook pictures -- who is gone. both a reminder of how fast life is passing and another testament to the power of music.

a page turner

what i did on my summer vacation: 3,056 pages of fiction.

and not good, pulitzer prize-winning fiction. no book awards. no bettering myself. just escapeism. beach reads. chick-lit. like reading the entire TV series of Grey's Anatomy in one week. after two years of psychology, intercultural studies, and management strategies, it felt nice to relax my brain a bit.

oh, and a bottle of malibu rum helped.

when life gives you a lemon tree...

i have just experienced one of those vacations that i am actually jealous of myself for having gone on. after spending the last two years learnin' my way across europe, i didn't realize how nice it would be to go "classic holiday" and just relax. screw the toppled marbled columns and Lycian tombs. we just wanted a cold beer and the hot sun.

there was a lot of debate between Dan and i about where we should go -- we haven't seen Barcelona or Budapest, Dubrovnik or Faro; we might never get a chance to float the fjords or hike the alps. but do we really need to? we have seen so much more than we'd ever dreamed we would, so why don't we take a vacation from vacation and spend some quality time with a good book and a gallon of SPF 50?

it was by pure Google that we came upon Kas, Turkey. i had only two requirements: average 85 degrees in June, have private pool. after some creative searching, i hit the vacation jackpot. we found our house, overlooking the Med, only 2 hours from the airport, and the owner was willing to knock 200 Pounds off the price because there were only two of us staying at three-bed Villa Jasmine.

now is where you should cover your eyes if you don't want to know how freakin' perfect this place was...we were just a short walk from a swimming platform and beach cafe, but we only went once because the view from our infinity pool was just as great and the beer in our fridge was just that much colder. we had our own lemon tree, from which we made fresh squeezed lemonade to serve with the aubergine, basil, and tomato pasta we cooked in our kitchen (the herbs having been given to us by an old man downtown who grows them in front of his tailor shop). the pool man and gardener, Mamhet, brought fresh bread every morning for our breakfast. the ocean was warm and clear enough that you could see 30 feet in any direction, at least that was my guess from when i did my first ever scuba dive. should i go on?

we had our own car, so we could run to town and get kebaps, beers, fresh fruit, and any sort of dish made of lamb that our hearts desired. the market on friday was full of spices and knock-off Lacoste, perfect for tourists, of which there were very, very few. the daytime high never dropped below 86, but the sea breeze would cool you off if you got too warm.

after spending months or weeks apart from Dan, or months and weeks living together but both going a thousand miles an hour in different direction, it would come to a point where our relationship seemed a lot like two roommates rather than a husband-wife. with our precious 15 minutes together we had time to discuss the bills or the ever-testy Mini, the next six weeks schedule, appointments, trips, chores.

this type of vacation with seven long days of nothing in front of us -- no navigating to a hotel or seeking out a bus schedule. no deciding where to eat or what to see, nothing but time to chat, swim, read, eat, cook, and just spend our obligation-free time -- was just what we needed.

how do you pronounce "LLLL"?

on our way to the Welsh beach on a day warm enough to get a sunburn on a Welsh beach (which is like a day cold enough to build a snowman in a Las Vegas backyard), we stopped in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Angelsey Island, Wales. Commonly known as Llanfair P.G., for obvious reasons, this little town is a great example of the ridiculousness that is Welsh. How exactly does one pronounce four, consecutive L's? there was also Cwrw, Cwm, Caerdydd, and other words without vowels. usually i try to figure out the language basics when i visit a new place, but i saw no point in Wales. a land that regularly omits vowels seems uncivilized.

but we joined the busloads of tourists who get their photo taken next to the sign at the longest town name on a train station sign, and quickly discovered that Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch probably means "tourist trap" in Welsh. the only things in the village are the train station, a mall selling cheap Welsh souvenirs, and a Volvo dealership. i applaud their clever publicity stunt, and for some of these coach-riding American (and British) tourists, a belt with the name spelled out on it probably fits perfectly.

walking the bikes in wales

after a long winter in the garage, a bicycle likes to get out and see the world again. when spring rolls around, it's time to put some air in the tires, oil the gears, and take the bikes for a walk. i would say take our bikes for a ride, but with our current level of fitness it ended up that we did a lot more walking of the bikes than riding of them. who knew that Wales had such steep hills?

after we'd walked the bikes up to the top of a lovely ridge, admired the ancient stone fences, the poofy sheep with racoon-like tails, and the views of Mt. Snowden, we hopped on the seats and rode the brakes down a slate-ridden trail that was twice as steep as the one we'd just pushed our bikes up.

it seems like it would be frustrating, but it was a fantastic day out and a wonderful way to celebrate dan's 30th birthday. how better to face a new decade than to don a $20 plastic helmet and careen down a gravel forest track at 30 mph?

we'd never before been to wales, but if our little village of Betws-y-Coed (still not sure about the pronunciation, either) played sister-city to an american village, it would be a lovely match for McCall, Idaho. it, too, was an undiscovered hamlet high in the mountains only known by lead miners, loggers, and sheep farmers until the 40s (1840s in this case). now it is a outdoor mecca (seven sporting-goods stores, four pubs, eight restaurants, and more people clad in fleece and dri-fit than sheep on the hillsides)....

we thought about camping, but the only part of the weather forecast one can trust here is the phases of the moon. and half the time you don't even know if they are lying about those because who ever gets to see the moon? so we opted for a B&B with biking, hiking, and beer drinking just a few steps out the front door.

it was the first time in my travels that i felt at home and homesick at the same time. something about real forests, real elevation, bars where there's more bicycle parking than car parking, and friendly people wearing Chacos gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. now i know where to go if i need a dose of the northwest, albiet with funny accents.

standing still on the autobahn

usually when you get a rental car, it has no guts. no get-up-and-go. i think they do it differently in germany where the rentals need to keep up on the famous autobahns. i had my VW golf settle right in at 130 km/hr. that's a little over 80 mph, and for me, that's pretty zippy. i have been known to drive like a grandma when i am not running into things in parking lots and tearing bumpers off my cars.

i felt pretty good about myself out on the open road, sort of like in eastern oregon or west texas where you can haul ass without anyone around to care. mom and i were listening to some pop hits (poker face makes me want to drive fast and simultaneously punch someone in their poker face) and i had the golf up to about 150 km/hr (93 mph-ish) when a little BMW roadster zoomed by at the speed of sound. he was followed by a few Mercedes, a motorcycle, and a Porsche. i didn't mind until the 95 honda civic whipped by like i was standing still. that was followed by an 88' Opel sedan of some sort -- the german version of the chevy cavalier.

talk about taking the wind out of my sails. we quickly exited the autobahn in favor of the two-lane country byways where i could still drive fast and pretend like my golf cornered like it was on rails. it doesn't. the golf corners like a shoebox. but at least no one could pass me.

paris in the springtime

the goal: get M to the major european capitols whilst i live in england. with paris last week, we've conquered them all: london, rome, amsterdam, paris. she's a well-travelled k-townian.

other than M almost getting killed by a vespa, the trip to gay paris was drama-free. we both gained 13.5 pounds from eating pastries and cheeses, we saw the major landmarks, and i think i can safely say that i am finished with city breaks. i miss the pace of country livin'.

17 again

i am finishing up my two-year-long substitute teaching career this week, and i am thrilled to be almost done. as i sit here in freshmen geography listening to 15-year-olds debate the merits of the death penalty, i can actually feel my brain dissolving into a pool of useless goo. except for the $400 worth of electronic equipment in the backpack of each pubescent moron, i am constantly amazed at how little has changed in the world of high school since i attended 15 years ago.

Erin and i went and watched the movie 17 Again last night, and i realized that, not only do i have no desire to re-live the late 90s, but even if i had an opportunity to "do it all over again" nothing would be that different. you would look as you did when you were 17, you would be treated the same way, the kids are in the same cliques with the same insults and insecurities. everything would seem tedious and dull, again.

you would know better and you're smarter, but that would just cause a severe case of claustrophobia and frustration. and being smarter than a high school student doesn't help people relate to high school students. if it did, maybe parents would have better relationships with their teens. i think the only part of me that apparently doesn't mind being 17 again is my chin, since i've had more zits in the last month than i have had in 11 years.

just thinking about going back seems sad and depressing. if high school was the highest point in your life, what does that make the rest of your life? you wouldn't even want to seduce the captain of the football team anymore because he would be SEVENTEEN, and the thought of sex with a 17-year-old child makes most sane people cringe. and if you are insane, and that barely legal action still appeals to you, talk about the most disturbing, awkward, skinny, fumbling, 15 seconds of your life.

many of us had great fun in high school, because we were 17 for the first and only time. there is a reason we're not a bunch of benjamin buttons. keep moving forward, folks. from what i've heard, things keep getting better and better. well, at least 45 seconds better, anyway.

going legit, sort of

i am getting a job. it's a semi-fake job, but it is a job. something i can do to give my life a little bit more structure and a little bit less of watching entire television series between going to paris and going to the gym. sure, i still plan on going to paris and going to the gym, but now those in-between hours will be filled with work (i would call it 'paid' work, but it is barely paid) instead of Weeds.

some people do fine in a world without structure. they make projects for themselves, cultivate an active social life, volunteer, and do all manner of other activities. i am really struggling in this structureless environment. i am volunteering, coaching, subbing, travelling, finishing up my master's degree, keeping things organized at home, studying spanish, and still i find hours where i feel a little bit unorganized, unmotivated, and uninspired. is getting a job the answer? i have no idea.

what i do know is this: the grass is always greener. you always want what you can't have. and all things in moderation. i've had too much of this free-time gluttony for now. it's time to take a job, if for nothing else to give me the appreciation for what i once had.

the contest

i was asked if i thought i'd travelled more in these past two years than anyone else in my peer group. honestly, i think i've done pretty well, but when talking with most people around here, it seems we all travel quite a bit. i just tend to talk about it more and do it at regular intervals. i also tend to go to many cities in one trip.

because of my extreme Type A tendencies, i decided to start a running catalogue. my goal in moving to england was to go on one trip per month (average) hoping for 32-36 trips in three years. so far i am reaching those goals nicely. here is my tally so far -- number indicates overnight trip, cities during trip next to number, "A" for airport.

Updated Nov. 7, 2010

1. london
2. canterbury, dover
3. venice (A)
4. tonbridge, hever
5. sevilla, granada, marbella, nerja, gibraltar (A)
6. hong kong, chengdu, tongren (A)
7. k-town, portland (A)
8. dublin, cashel, killarney (A)
9. amsterdam (A)
10. brugge
11. rome (A)
12. edinburgh
13. mannheim
14. boleslawiec (A)
15. naples (A)
16. prague (A)
17. dublin (A)
18. san francisco, santa rosa (A)
19. brugge
20. florence, pisa (A)
21. portland, k-town, boise, CDA, las vegas (A)
22. the cotswolds, stratford-upon-avon, warwick
23. rome, amalfi (A)
24. istanbul, ephesus, mykonos, santorini, crete, alexandria, gisa, corfu, olympia, athens (A)
25. stonehenge, salisbury (day trip)
26. zurich, lucerne, interlaken, murren (A)
27. provence (A)
28. bath
29. copenhagen (A)
30. madrid, segovia, avila, toledo (A)
31. london
32. paris
33. rothenburg, bavaria, munich (A)
34. wales
35. kas, turkey (A)
36. scotland (A)
37. yorkshire
38. boise (A)
39. normandy, brugge
40. heidelberg (A)
41. morocco (A)
42. krakow (A)
43. chiavenna, italy (A)
44. london
45. las vegas (A)
    
46. norway (A)
    
47. south africa, zambia (A)
    
48. washington, d.c., las vegas, oregon, road trip to north carolina (A)
    
49. romania (A)
50. red sea, egypt (A)
51. brugge
    

Open publication - Free publishing

brush with royalty

i've seen The Queen!

a few months ago, it was advertised in the local paper that the HM The Queen would be visiting BSE for Maundy Thursday, some random royal tradition where at a mid-morning cathedral church service she gives money to old people who do volunteer work. she gives little coin purses full of cash to as many men and women as years old she is (83 men, 83 women this year) on the Thursday before Easter.

i marked it in my diary, expecting my embossed invitation to arrive by royal courier. it never did. so i decided that i would try to go out and see her drive by, at the very least.

then the newspaper reported that there would be "very little" opportunity to see her, as she was popping in the church, crossing the street for lunch, and then back on the road for some other royal engagement. so i lost hope.

as i was cooking lunch this Maundy Thursday, i saw little girls and boys walking by my window with their teeny Union Jacks, headed home after having been flag-waving, loyal subjects when Q arrived. i put my dreams of seeing The Queen to bed.

an hour later I headed downtown to pick up my bike from the shop. and who should be rounding the corner in her black limo with the full Hot Fuzz escort? HM The Queen and The Duke of Edinburgh themselves! i stopped by the barricade and gave a wave, and she waved back! no shit, there were only me and a man and his son on our part of the street, and she waved at US!

of course i didn't have my camera. why would i have taken my camera to pick up my bike? doh!

a visit from the milkman

what perfect timing. i am home alone today and was beginning to be a bit sullen about it. oh, lonely, lonely me. when, "ding, dong," the milkman visits. now most of you sex-starved friends of mine would automatically jump to the conclusion that he was young and handsome, blue eyes, perfect smile. of course you'd imagine him wearing no shirt to show off his tanned biceps and chiseled six-pack. those abs developed from long days wrestling steers and bucking hay bales...hello? are you still paying attention? please remember that i live in england.

my milkman was a pudgy 40-something dude with bad teeth that was only interested in delivering fresh dairy milk to my door every other morning. despite my lack of physical attraction to this british milkman, i was so happy to finally sign up for milk deliveries. i am so charmed by england and its narrow streets, crooked houses, hedge-rowed-milkman-sporting countryside. it makes me want to give everyone a big smooch, except for my milkman. maybe the postman is cuter?

plaza del toros 2: the photos

great light this time of day, but i needed a better lens.
suit of lights. classic move.
to prove he's got a pair, the matador turns his back on the bull at least once. between the tight pants and the fact that he is in a ring with a 1200 lb. bleeding, angry animal, it isn't as if we need more proof.

the importance of reading Ernest; or should blogging be banned?

of course blogging shouldn't be banned. but there is an argument out there that blogging is creating lazy writers. take me, for example. i am supposed to be able to put out a press release or write a newspaper article without much effort. but after blogging for some months without doing those other things, i find that i am loathe to use correct grammar and seldom capitalize letters.

there is another argument that blogging is creating an army of people who think they are writers. a legion of bad writers who think they are good writers and who have equally bad writers as critics. critics who aren't even qualified to criticize what they, themselves, can't do.

i have always fancied myself competent with the pen when forced to turn a phrase, but competency and being a writer are two different things. that is why i think it is important to read good writing. read as much good writing as possible. then, as Ernest Hemingway writes, it becomes easy to spot a fake.

-- This too to remember. If a man writes clearly enough any one can see if he fakes. If he mystifies to avoid a straight statement, which is very different from breaking so-called rules of syntax or grammar to make an effect which can be obtained in no other way, the writer takes a longer time to be known as a fake and other writers who are afflicted by the same necessity will praise him in their own defense....incompentence in writing seeks to mystify where this is no mystery but is really only the necessity to fake to cover lack of knowledge or the inability to state clearly. -- Death in the Afternoon

now, i'm not talking about you people who don't think you are writers but are simply using the blog as a forum to keep in touch or post cute pictures of your kiddos. or those of you who obviously have no writing ambitions as every time i read your blog i suddenly wake up with a keyboard impression on my forehead, having nearly died from boredom. who am i talking about then? i am talking about you, and you know who you are, who, when you sit down at the keyboard, visualize your blog as the next Oprah's book club selection. you over explain. you use disgusting, sentimental language similar to that woman who wrote Twilight. you are all trying too hard, and not taking enough time to see what good writing really is.

to conclude, i am probably talking about me.

lips and assholes

having grown up in the country, i've had my share of cow tongue, bacon rind, frog legs, catfish, various livers, and even fresh-from-the-field Rocky Mountain Oysters. as i travel, i am brave but not stupid when sampling the local cuisine. i ate goat in china, shared a date bar with some students in egypt, tried tacos "carne" (meaning any sort of meat?) in mexico, and had one of those weird green eggs in hong kong. this week in Segovia, i was happy to add to my resume the lips of cow served with chorizo in a spicy sauce. i am going to steer clear of the assholes, unless you count the tail of bull and potatoes i had on thursday?

new kind of flasher

so, i'm at an internet point in madrid, waiting out the rain. i don't have much to blog about, but on the way to find a computer there was a dude sitting in the middle of the computer bank looking at online porn. he wasn't (as i am) sitting quietly in the corner getting my weekly dose of www.penisland.net or www.NYCAnal.com. he was in the CENTER of the cafe at an aisle computer searching spanish porn. is this a new kind of flasher? he isn't exactly showing off his bits in public, but he definitely wasn't shy about letting everyone know what he was into. gross. i am going to stop by the farmacia to pick up some hand sanitizer after using this keyboard.

tank top

i am not sure what the word in spanish is for this particular piece of clothing, but i would have liked to recommend to one of my profesoras that she purchase a couple. on monday, she came into class sporting DDs, a white bra, and a transparent black shirt. i thought, 'oh, no, she forgot her undershirt!' but that was apparently not the case. on wednesday she came in with what looked like the same white bra, but with a transparent grey shirt draped over those DDs. it is really difficult to pay attention to pronouns and past perfect verb tenses when you are four feet away from gigantic spanish boobs attached to a wildly gesturing woman who already uses the half-shout as a teaching method.

like much of european fashion, i just don't understand it. sure, it is a step up from the XXL Hanes Beefy T's that women in the U.S. wear with their sweatpants and Nikes, but sometimes i wonder how far haute couture can go before it flames out. take the woman on the metro this morning -- her shirt was red, her trousers black. her shoes matched the shirt, a nice touch. but she also had a scarf, a necklace, a bigger necklace, a belt, a handbag, gigantic earrings, and boots with more buckles than an S&M conference. easy on the accessories, please.

death in the afternoon

after being given a copy of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises from my amigo Sam many years ago, i became curious about the spanish tradition of bullfighting. in the newspapers, it is reported in the arts section, not sports section, alongside gallery openings, symphony schedules, and book reviews. it is quite controversial in spain as it is elsewhere as animal-rights activists protest its apparent cruelty to torros, but it still has a strong following. after having the opportunity to see the infamous spectacle yesterday at Madrid's Plaza de Torros, i can sort of see why.

i can't do it justice describing it here, but it is truly mesmerizing. at first fast as they frustrate the bull with a game of hide and seek. then he gets to attack a horse, but is speared. the third stage, the acrobatic banderilleos skewer him a couple of times to drain his energy through blood loss. but then the finale.

the bull's 10 minutes with the matador isn't a fight. it is more of a hypnosis, a ritual, a deadly, dangerous dance this matador does with a 1500 lb. angry bull. the matador is graceful and sexy in his suit of lights. he is masculine, but delicate. strong, but agile. the bull is powerful, but quick. angry, but entranced. it is very passionate, this tradition, and you can feel the danger and adrenaline.

is it cruel? well, yes, but isn't life?

game over?

remember when you were a kid and you and your brother spent an hour talking in pig latin just to annoy the crap out of your parents? it was such a fun game and whoever messed up first was a big gigantic loser. yesterday we took a lovely excursion to Alcala, a suburb of spain. everyone in our group was fluent in english, but the good students that we were, we spoke solely in spanish to each other the entire day. i am sure every spaniard within earshot cringed upon overhearing our broken sentences and mispronunciations, but we were totally rocking at the language game.

when i got home after a full day of chatting, i went home and pilar asked me some random question. i immediately answered in english. she was so confused and looked at me like i was crazy. oops. game over. i lose.

i totally started cracking up and apologizing. it´s hard to remember that this isn´t a game for everyone.

school

i don´t know how immigrants do it - pack up their bags and head to a foreign country without having the resources to take classes in the new language. knowing how i feel now, i must admire their courage. i have been here for a week, living with Pilar who is kind enough to chat with me in basic Spanish, taking six hours of language each day, followed by an hour of studying in the evening whilst watching Spanish TV. basically, the entire two weeks i´m in Madrid i´m focused on studying. i´m making a teeensy bit of progress. i still can´t understand conversations in the street, but i had a nice chat with Pilar about laundry and cooking.

i have no idea how anyone would approach this without having time or money to study. i´m constantly overwhelmed, and almost had a breakdown on thursday just because i hadn´t spoken or heard english for 36 hours. it is isolating and overwhelming. but fantastic at the same time.

my school =elemadrid= is reputed to be one of the best in spain. right now i only have one other person in my class, maddalena, from italy, so it is very nearly one-on-one instruction. the other day our profesora was chatting about something and a word came up that neither maddalena or i knew. maddalena whipped out her dictionary and said "ah, si, si!" she leaned over to show me the entry, and i glanced at the definition. in italian. the spagnolo a italiano dictionary isn´t that much help to me.

on wednesday i found out that i am not the very worst spanish speaker in the country during our group lunch with 11 students and two teachers. Judy from Colorado speaks spanish like Napoleon Dynamite´s grandma and Sarah from Australia put a hilarious spin on the spanish accent. it´s nice not not to completely suck, but my tongue is tied in knots every time i try to conjure up a complete sentence. nearly every madrileño thinks i have learning disabilities and just talks to me in really slow english or loud spanish.

speaking of english, being in spain is a constant reminder of how monolingual the united states really is. did you know that the U.S. has 55 million spanish-speakers, the second highest number in the world after mexico? we have 20 million more spanish-speakers than spain, and i only know three or four non-latino people who are fluent in spanish. i know that it is mostly a product of our size and the relative socioeconomic relationship between us and our southern neighbors, but i still find it interesting. most of my classmates are already at least bi-lingual (spanish being their third, fourth, or even fifth lanugage). Suzanna, from germany, is fluent in german, english, and french. She is nearly fluent in spanish and italian, and she can "get by" in Japanese and Flemish. Maddalena speaks italian, german, and english. i am painfully jealous.

every day when i am told or overhear something and my brain approaches internal combustion temperatures as i work to decode, i feel a huge sense of victory if i can understand just one word. it is like a glimpse of a world that i am not yet invited into. i am here feeling somewhat isolated and awed by the language skills of my european classmates, but suddenly something will make sense. something with go from jumble to understanding, and i feel door between me and that other world open just a little bit wider.

Biblioteca

Another day, another free wi-fi connection at the biblioteca nacional de espana. I know folks are walking around wired every day, everywhere with their iPhones, but I'm still charmed with the magic of my little ipod touch. Anyhoo, not much time this sunny morning for hunt-and-peck blogging. Headed out on an excursion to la casa de Cervantes with the entire tour being conducted in Spanish. I might learn where Cervantes' bathroom was (donde esta el bano being one of the few things I know) but I doubt I'll return with much info regarding Spanish literature. Que lastima!

nesicito mas tiempo

even after three years of español con señora arkins in escuela secondaria, y un otra mas año en el universidad, i still have no idea how to speak much spanish. so, what better way to learn then to spend three weeks in madrid, spain, right? well, after having been here for 48 hours, i´ve realized that it isn´t nearly enough to even begin to learn spanish. i need more time. like years!

my spanish madre, Pilar, no habla engles NADA. yes, that is correct. Pilar, a very lovely 55-year-old woman who is nice enough to host foreign students, speaks no English. which is totally cool, since i shouldn´t expect people to speak english, but it didn´t make our conversations easy! i showed up Sunday and spent the afternoon watching a random spanish-dubbed Lifetime movie about Linlin, the single Chinese mom, and her American lover. corporate espionage and leukemia aren´t things they teach on my Rosetta Stone, but i kept up.

after our pelicula, pilar and i went for a walk around the barrio. madrid, at least what i´ve seen, is a really great city! we had a cup of hot chocolate (think a melted hershey bar, not that watered down shit they serve at starbucks) with parras (think churros, but more fat). then, in true Spanish madre style, we went to la iglesia catolico. i hadn´t been in country for 12 hours and already someone´s mom was dragging me to church. i think the language barrier helps. maybe if mine and dan´s mom didn´t speak english, they could trick us in to church more often?

anyhoo, that was day 1 in country. ayer (yesterday) i had a full day of classes (more on that later), and came home to find Pilar´s sister and brother-in-law (my spanish aunt and uncle, ¿i guess?) at the house for an after-dinner visit. being the silly american girl whose name translates into ¨the tree called holly¨-- i was quite a hit. they ask ¨¿tu nombre es un arbol? curiosa.¨the brother in law, my spanish tio (uncle) loves airplanes, so we could chat about that. he also loves ¨say, ennay, ennay¨and ¨say, essay, EEee - Nueva York.¨(That´s CNN and CSI -New York, that took me a few minutes to figure out.)

In all, Pilar and her family have been fantastic hosts. I love that they don´t speak english -- it keeps me guessing and helps me practice my confused look.

fake scandinavia

i found a ticket to copenhagen for $50, and couldn't pass it up. when i told my friends about my plans for a two-night trip to the danish capital, one of them said, "that's not even real scandinavia, it's part of europe." well, while that guy was sitting around on his couch watching reruns of scrubs, i scored my next passport stamp, enjoying a lovely solo weekend in denmark.

i did the usual touristy stuff -- museums, old buildings, famous art, shopping, and eating local foods whilst enjoying local beer. the architecture is lovely. the living-Ikea sense of style is refreshing. the city is safe, welcoming (everyone speaks english!), and boasts the longest pedestrian shopping area in europe (there are three H&M shops in the town center alone). and i even like Carlsberg. nothing really remarkable happened, which was nice. and like my solo jaunt to london, i really enjoyed the freedom of being able to do whatever i wanted, wherever i wanted, and for however long i wanted.

i got to read my first non-school book since january, taking time to sit in a cafe, read, and watch people stroll by. i had a nice chat with gus, from sweden, over a danish microbrew. and i spent one evening listening to live jazz with the 50+ crowd of copenhagen. one guy thought i was so "young and cute, like his granddaughter" that he bought me a drink. what could be a safer than an evening hanging out in a bar where everyone orders metamucil with their entree?

i think travelling alone or having dinner alone or even going to the cinema alone takes a certain amount of confidence in your ability to enjoy your own company. do you like yourself enough to spend a whole weekend on the road with you? do you know what interests you? are you good company? will you annoy yourself? do you talk too much? well, i hope not that last one, or you might scare the locals. anyway, i can safely say that i would rank "myself" among the top ten people that i prefer to travel with.

i won't publish the entire top 25 list here, because i don't want to hurt the feelings of people that fall in the category of "i would rather be alone than with you on vacation." sorry, _____. maybe next time you'll let me pick the restaurant. if there is a next time.

technology

So, I'm blogging from my iPod touch using the wi-fi in the Copenhagen bibliotek. I'm feeling pretty advanced right now. Too bad the only place to sit is in a chair in front of the toilet. Now I know how to say "are you in line?" in Danish.
I'd write more, but I have little patience for this teeny keyboard. Off to dinner!

getting laughed at

when i lived in america, i had a beefcake of a mutt. although generally harmless, our dog Sahera looked like she could kick the ass of anyone that crossed her path. she trained with me for my marathon and half-marathon, so her little poochie muscles rippled like A-Rod's-steroid-enhanced biceps.

when we went for our walks, people thought she looked pretty tough, but with her ridiculous ears, she still had a certain "Can i pet her?" appeal. she was totally cat-like in her indifference to being petted by strangers. she had a nonchalance about outings to the point that she would sprawl out in the middle of the sidewalk apparently dying of boredom. but with all the smiles and awe (see also: fear?) exuded from strangers at her physique, we never (ever) got laughed at.

this brings me to today as i am petsitting Maddie. i would say dogsitting, but this little polly-pocket-pooch is half dog, half hummingbird, and about the size of the latter.

she's quite pleasant as far as dogs go. she likes to cuddle, chew on rawhide, and go for walks. i am definitely appreciating her company and her cuddly-ness, but she's seriously hurting my street cred. everyone laughs at us as we walk around the streets of bury. people have asked me if she was a joke, a puppy, or a toy. i want to blurt out, "she's not mine!" at every smirk, giggle, and eye roll, but i can't hurt her feelings. she thinks she's a big dog as she lifts her leg around the 'hood.

i have never considered myself a vain person, but Maddie has made me realize that i'm probably more suited to a dog that could take on the mailman, not serve as his afternoon snack.

the crooked path to bath

for a few months now, some girlfriends and i were planning a short break to Bath for Valentine's Day. the plan was to indulge in a bit of spa, wine, chocolates, and relaxation courtesy of our Valentines en absentia. by all accounts, the weekend was absolutely flawless. we had a five-star experience complete with a eucalyptus-scented steam room, authentic Italian lunch, toppled Roman columns, riverside cafes, hours of chatting, sunny winter afternoons, and many bottles of wine. what's more to want?

but possibly the best part of the trip was what flawed it. how can you tell a story about something that is perfect or predictable? i find that the irregularity makes something interesting and unique.

so, nothing notable in Bath, but on the way there, amidst hours of very engaging conversation, carrie mentioned that it was Friday the 13th. oooooo......scary. not ten minutes later we discovered we had a flat tire. sweet. we exited to a petrol station and, of course, their air machine was out of order. the village was so small they didn't seem to have another petrol station anywhere near. but as our "bad" luck would have it, the only two shops in the town (that we later discovered was called "Frogmore") were a tyre center and Casa de Jed, serving hot tea and bacon rolls, and they were adjacent to each other!

i was relieved that young Rory could replace the tire whilst we enjoyed a cup of tea, and we were back on the road in 20 minutes. it was so absurd that we were cracking up -- we didn't know where we were, we were shocked that the fix was so simple, we all wanted some caffeine, and Rory asked for my facebook contact info. oh, and Casa de Jed did not serve nachos and "cannot guarantee that there are ingredients that may cause an allergic reaction in the food," but we can always hope.

and on the way back, we suddenly had to pee so badly that our eyes were turning yellow. so we hopped of the M25 into a town that had a one-lane road and found a cute pub with a chatty english woman that was so friendly that i almost fell over. i wish my locals were so happy to have a chat. and they even had good food!

it wasn't that the cake of Bath wasn't perfectly sweet, it was the detours that provided the icing.

the curious case of who-gives-a-shit

for some reason a person can be watching a reasonable dramatic television show here, and it will followed by something so stupid that one considers gouging out the eyes to ensure that she may never watch TV again. if it is possible that the telly can make a person dumber, then i am officially dumber for having watched (accidentally and with morbid fascination) a reality show about a B-actress who is "alive with large breasts." if you haven't guessed, the show is Denise Richards' show, and the plot line of the episode that i watched featured a recap of her promotional tour in New York where she was promoting the show i was currently watching. it was sort of like watching an episode of "How It's Made" about how "How It's Made" is made.

Poor Denise was being asked by various journalists about the plot of the show, which is apparently her life as a large-breasted, B-actress, self-promoting, divorcee, single parent, but subsequently being upset because they were asking her about her life as a large-breasted, B-actress, self-promoting, divorcee single parent. It sorta went like:

Journalist: "So, what's the show about."
Denise: "My life as a single mom. I am just like everybody else."
J: "So your kids are on the show?"
D: "Yes, they are a huge part of my life."
J: "Sorta controversial, little girls being exploited for E! Entertainment Television?"
D: "I don't want to talk about my kids."
J: "But aren't they on the show?"
D: "Yes, they are a huge part of my life. But I'm not here to talk about my kids, I'm here to talk about the show."
J: "Which is about....?"
D: "My life as a single mom. I am just like everybody else."
J: "And your kids are a part of your life, so they are then, de facto a part of the show?"
D: "Well, yes, but....I don't want to talk about my kids, I want to talk about the show."
J: "But your kids are on the show. So we are talking about the show."
D: "Why are you being so mean to me? I just want to talk about the show, not my kids."
J: "So the show. Who is on it?"
D: "Me. My kids."
J: *Shoots self in face*

and it's not just Denise. apparently there is another show entirely dedicated to following a group breast-implanted blondes and surfer boys who work in an L.A. tanning salon.

Salon Worker 1: "Hi, welcome to this tanning salon. Would you like a tan?"
Customer: "Yes, I am sickeningly wealthy and somewhat out of touch with reality, but I must look orange today."
Salon Worker 2: "OK. That will be $358."
Customer: "Wow, at that rate, I'd like one for my pet, too."
SW2 to SW1: "Let's have sex with each other now."

why is this happening? isn't there a game show where people must fit through holes to win money?

and it's not just television, either. i saw the movie Seven Pounds. once you figure out in the first 20 minutes what the hell Will Smith is trying to accomplish with his oppressive guilt and many, many painful camera close-ups, you just want him to make a decision. yes or no. it could have been an episode of scrubs and i would probably have enjoyed it much more.

and that brings me to benjamin button. i actually aged a year during that film. and brad pitt is only extremely hot for 20 minutes of the two-hour extravaganza. he is also slightly retarded. and there is no character development. it is like he's old, then he's aging backward, then he's still aging backward, then, yes, he's a little younger yet, and then he is really young, and wow! everyone else is aging normal, what a juxtaposition. and then he is more young. and let's make some obvious comment about how old folks are childlike, and still more young. he is in love. they are not aging in the same direction, an obvious problem. and then more reverse and regular aging. and then it is over with the even more obvious "when we get really old we die" ending. holy crap. phenomenal. can i please have a refund?

i am going to go back to my standards: comedy, 'splosions, and "The Girls Next Door."

MVP

as part of my independent personality, i've been seeking contact with the natives as of late. i have some volunteering obligations, i say "hi-ya" to strangers, i am regularly inviting myself to dinner with bill and jill next door, and i've been "signed" to the local b-ball squad, the Ipswich Bobcats.

i'm awaiting endorsements to come pouring in after this recent release on the team's Web site, which i'm sure will be picked up by BBC World Sport any day now. what they failed to mention is that our opponent was one 50-year-old lady and a bunch of high school kids. oh, and the 40-something ladies from the british ARMY that we played against in January smoked us.

before the last match, laurie the canadian, and i were having a chat about our age relative to the rest of our team.

"we're old, laurie," i said.
"we're not that old," she said.
"riiiiight, the rest of our team is made of all 17 year olds."
"they're not all 17!"
"no, they're not all 17," i turn to look at the girl standing next to me. "how old are you?" i ask.
"fourteen"

damn.

snowed in

in the UK, much like in Florida, when snow shows up, the entire nation shuts down. it began snowing on Sunday, and by Monday midday, we had 6-9 inches on the ground. that's the heaviest snowfall in 13 years in Suffolk. schools were closed, more than 30 crashes were reported, and i kept the radiators turned up all day.

also like Florida, the majority of the snow melted within 24 hours.

but unlike Florida, the weather never gets better here.

flying solo

it was sunny today, and i couldn't bear to waste the day with homework and housecleaning, so i went to london. i was supposed to have some wingmen for the trip, but one of them was contagious, one of them has a job, and the other one claims to be a slave to his work. i went anyway.

although i enjoy the company that having a travel companion provides, there are bonuses in going solo. like when you go to the british museum and realize, "hey, i hate museums," you can take a quick photo of the Rosetta Stone and some Greek friezes and get the hell out of there. luckily it's free, so i didn't even feel bad sloughing off the 2.5 miles of Chinese jade, Native American masks, Mexican art, and toppled marble columns (see also, the cruise). i know that if a certain LJ would have tagged along, i might still be there right this minute (ding! time for a pint!).

after ditching the ancient world, i thought maybe it was the subject matter that was putting me off. so, i hopped on the tube and thought i'd give the National Gallery a go. i like paintings! i walked in, scouted out the goods, avoided the 4,000 "Madonna with Child" canvases from the renaissance, and spent a nice hour drooling over my impressionist friends. the national gallery has more than 60 rooms, and i spent my entire visit in three of them. because i could.

follow that up with a pint in a cozy pub reading a good book and enough sushi to make my stomach stretch to twice its normal size, and i would say that i've had a pretty good day.

what's in a name?

this guy was parked across the street from my house monday, presumably doing some plaster work for the neighbors. so clever, these British.

texture

here's a good idea? take a pretty purple eggplant and a few zucchini, slice them up, marinate them in fresh olive oil, sea salt, and herbs, roast them over an open flame...and then toss them in a bowl and go at 'em with a Magic Bullet to create the perfect French meal: Jell-O a'la Provence. these French made goop out of everything -- leftover poultry innards (chicken liver pate), fish eggs (caviar), smoked salmon (salmon terrine), and even their pancakes are a little stretchy and slimy (crepes). oh, and most goop was served cold.

i thought the British had the Euro-reputation for bad teeth, so i am unsure why the French feel the need to make meals fit for Springfield Retirement Castle. i actually like chewing my food. and i like all of those items listed above. maybe the blender is the dirty little secret of Le Cordon Bleu.

my traveling companions kept commenting, as they slurped their jellied caramel creme desserts, on their inability to deal, not with the (really fantastic) flavor of cuisine française, but the texture. which brings up a little bit about said companions.

i like meeting people; sort of like i like doing jigsaw puzzles. you know when you meet someone, and you just barely break the surface? it's all polite small-talk and "where are you from?" you mull over facades and first impressions, twisting around the pieces. i found it really nice to take a gamble with some girls that i didn't know all that well and spend some time travelling with them. i learn so much about myself and what i value, whilst having a great time learning about them. the little journey we make from fuzzy impression to multi-dimension.

i won't go into too much detail, but it was fun to reveal -- preferences (things Brent-sized), favorites (pearls), hobbies (playing ball), and memories (getting it -- a new car for Christmas that is). and we all prefer red wine. perfect!

oh, and the question we've all been waiting for: Are the French really assholes? actually, not the ones we met. everyone was so helpful and friendly. no fewer than three people helped guide us through the many 18-point-Austin-Powers-style turns through the medieval streets of Arles. our wine guide was polite and fun. a group of French teens pulled over and gave us directions when they stopped beeping and realized we weren't retarded, but lost. sure, every culture has assholes, and the Parisians have a reputation of being some of the worst on the planet, but mostly these Provencal French folks were happy to host us in les sud de la France. but we had 10 boobs on our side, too.

and now i can order a coffee with milk in three languages. i'm cafe fluent!

tension.

i want to rant. about something. but i've been stalking people online (probably you) and simultaneously discovering that people i know read my blog and i don't know about it. there is so much information out there. i can have a first impression of you even before i meet you, and vice versa.

i had a chat with a dude about this the other day. he said something like, have you ever learned something about a friend that you didn't need to know from their facebook page? maybe it is streamlining the friendship process. or maybe we could have a certain type of friendship and i don't need to know that you think Steven Segal should win an Oscar, Scientology is the only way to eternal life with aliens, and and you are in the group "Addicted to Paris Hilton." then all i will be able to think about is how i want to punch you in the face. even though you are my favorite racquetball partner, and that was working out just fine before you "friended" me on facebook.

so, either i make my blog private, or do some slight censoring and wait until i'm with you before i have a rant or share an emotional outburst or give a cheesy life lesson of some sort. i'll try keep the blog to the abstract stuff (hollylosophy), the serious stuff (toilet cleaning), and silly stuff (my upcoming plans to go to france and drink wine until i find the french charming. that might take a lot of wine!)