Also Late, but From O'Hare

July 28, 2009.

It’s 3:45 pm…Chicago time! HaHa! I’m at O’Hare. Do you remember me telling you how much I hate O’Hare? Well I still hate it. Concourse G but Gates every other letter. Why, O’Hare? Why?

I’m sitting at the Chili’s in the airport and there’s a huge table right next to me and I just heard the woman tell the waitress “Oh! We’ve been out of the country for two weeks and it’s like, ‘Oh! A drink with ice!’” I just laughed out loud. You know the kind where it’s just basically a sharp breath forced through the nose and someone might mistake it for a bit of a cough or sneeze.

I ordered a coke. I couldn’t wait till Steak n’ Shake tonight. It’d keep me up all night and my jet lag would be unbearable. And I got a basket of nachos with ranch and salsa. And I’ll pay with dollars. Excuse me, Dollar$. But these chips are way too salty. And there are way too many.

So 3 hours and 15 minutes.

But! I will say this about security coming INto O’Here as opposed to going OUTof O’Hare. The guy standing behind the carry on scanner belt thing talked guitars with me. He plays the bass too. Reminds you that sometime people don’t lose their souls when they get a job.

I just thought about how nice the waitress was to me and the huge table who’s back in the country after two weeks and oh yeeeaaaah…Tips! It reminds me of something Lydia used to say: “I love being served.” To which I replied, “Unless it’s in a dance off, in which case, I like to do the serving.”

Oh yeah. Tax. Forgot about that too.

So I pulled out the coin purse that Sheena gave me over a year ago. It’s held my American monies for 7 months. It really does smell a certain way. It smelled very strongly of long, green, skinny paper. With little 1's written in the corners. One dollar bills. And a fist full of coins that will probably piss the waitress off. 3 dollars worth of quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies in the form of 26 coins. Quarters instead of 20 cent pieces. No funky two pence pieces. There are 50 cent pieces around but not like the 50p or 50 centime piece.

And the silly weirdness of it all hits me. I poured all the American money I have on me onto the table and counted it out one coin at a time. With a weird and satisfied grin on my face. I am weird and satisfied.

And the waitress picked up the 26 coins and 6 one dollar bills and calls back, “Sending me to Las Vegas?!” For a second I had no clue what she was talking about and then I heard all those coins clink into her cash belt.

Haha. I told you. American waiters Hate that stuff. I can’t hide how much that pleased me.

A Bit Late Posting but Here Is The Morning I Left London

July 28, 2009
10 hours. It’s 3:15 pm London time.

I had a thought that nothing would be weird at all. That it’s perfectly natural to be gone for 7 months. Like it happens all the time to everyone and lives don’t change. Things are the same. The people are the same. The time difference is irrelevant. There’s no new music, just music you started listening to because a friend said, “Hey, have you ever heard of Paolo Nutini? He’s really good. Listen, I love this line… ‘You said you’d marry me if I was 23 but I’m one that you can’t see if I’m only 18.’ I don’t know how he can have a voice like that, all rough and almost reggae is but with a Scottish accent.”

I woke up early this morning, about 7:15 am. I had plenty of time to organize my things and wash my hair. I didn’t feel anything while having breakfast this morning. Riding the tube out to Heathrow Terminal 5 was just like any other tube ride in London. I listened to my ipod. I had my luggage. I was traveling. There was no trouble finding where I needed to be. I didn’t wander around lost and pressed for time. I had plenty of time. I found my gate with absolutely no trouble. Everyone was pleasant and helpful. I had a big bagel with smoked salmon and capers and an iced mocha. I mean, there’s nothing strange about being in the airport. The flight is uneventful. I’ve been watching episodes of Peep Show, which is a British comedy about two flat mates. It’s kind of an alternative and very modern version of the Odd Couple. And you can hear their thoughts.

They served us Chicken Tuscana and coffee and what not.

It’s um. It’s a little like I’ve not been traveling for 7 months. I don’t know if that’s true, though. I mean, I might have already had my moment of painful realization when I was in Oxford yesterday hanging out with James Kanimba.

We traded music for about 4 hours then went to Hassan’s Van for chips and chicken curry. Then we watched some of his John Mayer DVD and I cried a bit of that terribly sad and somewhat panicked kind of crying all over James’ shoulder.

And that was pretty much that. So we’ll see.

The British Museum Is Pretty Righteous

I'm on the Oxford Tube to Oxford! Ahh, this reminds me of the day I arrived oh so long ago. I only had about 25% battery life. I've got 90% right now, so I'm under no pressure.

I could live in England. I think London is the only big city I've been to that doesn't feel...ugh, you know? It feels like a big city. It is. It's got it's own attitude but the attitude isn't obnoxious. It's expensive though.

I got to see things these past 2 days in London that I didn't the last couple times I was here. My friend Alex from Manchester came down to visit me and we went out to Hammersmith where my hostel is and we had a few pints and some dinner. I'd never been to Hammersmith before. That's in West London. So yesterday morning we met up at Trafalgar Square. My 3rd time being there but I really enjoy it. The lions. The 4th Plinth. Apparently they change what's on the 4th Plinth every 6 months or year or so. These 6 months they've been doing live performance theatre. When I got there there was a guy with a big sign that said "GIVE ME A JOB" and hanging from the plinth was a huge sheet that was his resume. It was pretty clever.

We then wandered our way to the British Museum which was cool. Really Really cool. I mean the Rosetta stone. Mummies left and right. Rooms full of mummified people and cats and birds and fish? Yeah, fish too. Jewelery from Tibet. Hats from Cameroon.





We saw an Easter Island statue man!





Cuneiform, Hieroglyphics, Traditional Chinese, Ancient Greek. I remember doing a project in 6th grade when we were studying Mesopotamia and I took clay and my dad and I spread it out on wax paper to make it look like a stone slab and we looked up Cuneiform online and picked some words and he gave me a flat head screwdriver and I pressed into this clay some real Cuneiform words, as well as a bunch of random marks.



That was 10 years ago and I still remember all these little details about it.

So it was pretty cool.

Alex even made me a mix CD cuz I'd told him how all my friend made them for me before I left. There are just some nice people out there. And I've met a lot of 'em.


PS. 1 day 9 hours.

Listen To Your Elders

Ok, things are getting serious. I have 1 day 14 hours.

It's almost 11 a.m. in London and it's raining. I couldn't imagine a better Monday. Honestly. I've been aching for some cool weather and the rain. I was talking to my friend James Kanimba the other day before I got to England and he said, "Maybe if you're lucky it'll rain." But I am lucky. and it is raining. It's 59 degrees and I'm wearing jeans. I'm wearing a sweater. I'm wearing my scarf. These clothes feel good.

I have a couple little stories I'd love to send your way. Here's one of the more recent ones.

I was in Paris right before getting on the train for London on Saturday and I sat at the little restaurant there at the Gare du Nord station and a little old couple came and asked if they could sit with me because there were no other free tables. I of course was delighted for them to join me and I asked if they were on holiday. The gentleman told me that "When you're our age, you don't need to take a holiday. It's all holiday, just in a different place." Here are some things I fould out about Harold and Christine. Harold and Christine Pooley just celebrated their Diamond Anniversary. (That's 60 years if you're not familiar with the scale). Harold and Christine have travled all over the world together. He's crazy about steam trains and they have taken steam trains all over the UK, the US, Eastern Europe, Russian, and they've traveled all over Asia and Europe together. Harold is 88. Christine is 83. Harold flew planes during World War II and did training in Canada. He was warned not to fly over Niagra Falls because the US wasn't involved at the time.
Harold and Chrstine almost crossed pathes twice before finally finding eachother. Harold was 8 and living in South London and Christine was 3 and living in North London and they both got Scarlet Fever at the same time and were taken to the same hospital in Central London. They were both in quarentine and remember the smell. Years later when Christine was finishing school and Harold was in the service, she lived in a house that had a back garden that touched the edge of the base he was training at. Finally Chrstine finished school, the war was almost over, and she got a job at an insurance company. Harold had worked there for a year before he joined the Army and when all was said and done he came back to work at the firm Chrstine was now working for.

The rest is an absolute dream. They received a framed photograph of the Queen in the mail for making it to their diamond wedding anniversary.

I told them about Joshua and me and how we've been married for almost two years. They said, "Only another 58 to go!" I said maybe we'll move to England so we can get a photo of the queen too. I told them Josh and I have big plans for traveling together. They said, "Wonderful! You're young! You have your whole lives ahead of you. You have so much time to be together and enjoy it that these 3 years apart will seem like nothing."

We chatted a bit more about this and that. About the statue of Crazy Horse, about Old Faithful, about the steam engine train in Colorado. They said, "Oh, we hope we haven't bored you here, talking so much." I assured them, no it was more than wonderful to have chatted with them. We began to finish our drinks and pay the waitress and Christine touched me on the arm and said, "Sarah, we hope you and your husband are as happy as we've been lucky enough to be for the past 60 years, traveling together and all."

I told her this was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to us.

They have successfully lived our dream. They have lived the kind of life Joshua and I talk about every time we speak to eachother. All the places we want to go. All the funny things we can't wait to do together. We always talk about what we're going to be like when we're 60 and 70 and 80 and we always say we'll still be going places and discovering new things and meeting new people and listening to new music and still living. Together. It's not an impossible thing. Harold and Chrstine are doing it right now. I was so moved by them and their encouragment. By their delight in eachother and their stories and their attitudes and their blessing for Joshua and me. Everyone has warm wishes for us. They all mean so much. Harold and Christine had the kind of warm wishes that are specific to a couple who has just celebrated their diamond anniversary.

There was so much beauty in this encounter that it made me let go of an ugly encounter I'd had about a week prior.

To make a long story short, a few of us had decided to go to our favorite "Irish" pub in Aix for a drink and we sat next to these two guys, one from England named Jason who was in his 30's or 40's, married, and a helicoptor scientist. The other guy's name was Stan. Also in his 30's or so and from Australia. Stan was loud, rude, obnoxious, drunk, and obscene. Some inappropriate conversation was brought up by Stan and I said, "Excuse me, I am married and rather uncomfortable with this conversation. I think we should change the subject."
Stan then wanted to get into a political debate about Iraq but not until asking me, "Will it last? Tell me, is it going to last?" in reference to our marriage. I could barely get two words out about our relationship before he moved on to the subject of Iraq. "They're dying! They're dying over there!" I looked him straight in the face and said "You're telling ME they're dying? You are. Telling. Me?" I was so offended and angered by his audacity that I said, "I'm leaving. No, I'm leaving," stood up in tears, and left. I was angry for days.

Joshua said I'd done the right thing, to just get up and leave because people like that cannot even be reckoned with. There's no point in trying to talk to people like that. And he's right. There are people like Harold and Christine in the world.

Before we left the station, Christine told Harold to push up his glasses, they were slipping down his nose. He leand in and said, "Huh?" She smiled and pushed them up gently for him. He grinned a little sheepishly.

I can't wait to push up Joshua's glasses for him when he can't hear me tell him they're slipping.

Good Bye Aix

July 25th 2009. 10:50 a.m. French time. Provence time. Aix TGV time. The past few days there has been one French word that I can’t stop saying. It’s the only word that comes to mind when I think of anything. When I think of this. Incroyable. C’est incroyable. Maybe there’s another word. Bizarre. C’est bizarre. It’s not just because my vocabulary is severely limited, worse than a 4 year old, but it’s because this really is incredible.

I was talking to my mother on Skype the other day and I was telling her about all the fun cool things I did that day and the day before and she said, “Well it sounds like you’re having a good time!” Yes, despite what I’ve been writing in my blog, I’ve been having an incredible time.
I’m on the train to Paris. I have to change stations in Paris, which I’m a little bit dreading, and then I take the train to London. How bizarre is that. Pretty delightfully bizarre.

This morning was sad. Not only did Vero have to drop me off at the station, she also has to drop Millie, the cat, off at the airport. Millie is going to The States to stay with Bruno’s parents while they go on vacation. Millie is terrified of her little travel box and cars and planes. She’s made this journey before and was meowing continuously. Poor cat. She even was sticking her little paws through the door to try and touch you.

I have a beautiful idea of family. Giving someone a meal at the table with people you may have blood relations to or people who you let come to your home for 6 weeks. Helping someone mix the salad or stir the vegetables. Taking someone to the train station so that they don’t have to go alone. Sharing a cup of coffee. I was absolutely pampered at 14/14b Rue du Puits Neuf. I’ve been absolutely taken care of in Europe.

My family has always tried to feed everyone who walks through the front door, especially those who come through the back door. A little something to eat goes a long way. It can calm you down, get you ready, ease a headache, and as cheesy as it sounds, comfort your spirit. It’s just a bit of kindness that is unparalleled.

Today Vero walked to the bakery to buy some bread to make me a ham and cheese sandwich but she also bought a sweet bread that’s crunchy, flakey, and shaped like a heart. I was touched. She also gave me an orange soda.

I have 3 days 14 hours 41 minutes until this journey is completed. Three and a half days. What is this life? I couldn’t even tell you. I went to bed late and woke up early. I think I slept for 4 hours last night. Maybe a bit longer.

My emotions are absolutely volatile right now and have been for a week or longer. Probably will be for another week or more.

5 Days 22 Hours

But honestly.

I'm freaking out. I'm having severe mood swings. I'm not Hulking out or anything. I just get overwhelmingly happy and after half a day I'm borderline depressed. I go from being comfortable with the people around me to being unbearably awkward. So awkward I have to just leave.

I've spent most of these last posts not describing Aix or little stories about the people here or the things that happen. I've mostly been writing about the internal things. And most of the posts say basically the same thing "I don't know how to handle this."

I mean, I'm handling it. I'm loving it. It's hurting. It's good for me. There's something to be said for feeling this kind of ache, I just don't know what it is yet.

A Bit of a Cop Out

I have not written in a while but I have written something pretty hefty about Aix and about my stay here. I figure I'll just copy/paste the whole thing right here. It's a paper for one of my classes. Enjoy.


Musings on the Music
You lock the two locks on your front door – one turns twice to the left, the other turns twice to the right. You pass the Fresh Box Wok and you make a right past the BSA Tattoo Parlor and Hotel de Ville extends to your left. In the mornings you have flower markets. In the afternoons, evenings, and nights, you have café tables and chairs and umbrellas and chalkboards. And musicians. A whole assortment of musicians with their specialties and time slots and expectations. Watch them; you’ll see.
But this is a quick walk for the moment. For now it’s 8:23 a.m. and you’ve got class at 8:30. So no musicians are around. Hang a right onto Saporta and you might see the dirty haired past middle-aged man with a beat up guitar leaning against a building with a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer on the window ledge. You think you saw him last night in the same clothes. Across from this scruffy man is Place des Martyrs de la Résistance and it always has coffee tables. It doesn’t have musicians until 1 p.m. or after. You’ll check for musicians on your way back from class.
There’s no reason for you to wear your earphones when you walk through these streets. They provide music for you. Let them.
After class you have a look - well, a listen, rather. There’s a bit of swing jazz coming from up ahead and when you reach Place des Martyrs de la Résistance a fabulous sight meets your eyes: A jazz trio of young men complete with a tall blond bassist in a fedora and two seated Django-esque guitarists, both brunettes. You don’t have anything to do but stop and sit on a step behind them and listen and watch and wish you could be apart of whatever it is they are.
They face the two large cafes there. They swing away on old traditional jazz tunes and nod to those passing by who make eye contact. One of the guitar cases sits before them on the ground and gently asks for bi-colored coins, or even single colored coins. Anything really. You watch the bassist bob his head up and down with the steady walking of his chords. This group is tight. They feel each other. You’ll later find out the bassist’s name is Vincent but for now you watch him carefully put his bass down on the stone slabbed ground and take off his hat. The guitarists adjust and readjust – pluck a string, turn a knob, strum a chord in unison, scoot the chairs closer – and while they tap in a new number, Vincent weaves his way through the café tables, smiling at the girls and older women, making small talk with their men. The waiters say nothing to Vincent about his addressing their customers for coins. You’ll notice these same waiters chasing off certain musicians and leaving others alone. Perhaps you’ve even seen a waiter make pleasantries with a particular musician. It’s not impossible.
Every time you walk past Place des Martyrs de la Résistance, which is at least four times a day, you look for them. You’re pleased when you find an older jazz quartet with drums and even a fiddle, but you’re always looking for the Django Trio. They usually play around 2 p.m. but never on the weekends.
Today you’ve found neither the Django Trio nor The Old Quartet. Today you have an accordion player. He’s older in a stripped shirt with a less than pearly white grin. He feels French. He leans left with the stretching of his accordion and leans right with its three count. It feels traditional to you, even stereotypical. He paces between the two cafés opposite each other, playing for this table, playing for your enjoyment, playing for your two Euro coins, if he’s lucky.
And why this song, you wonder. Why “Hernando’s Hideaway” among the traditional French songs? You know he must be playing what he does for a reason and perhaps that reason is a hybrid of his love this kind of music and the expectations these coin tossers want to hear when they sip a café crème under a large tree in Aix-en-Provence. This is their South of France vacation, after all, and it should feel French.
There is a chained off section of Place des Martyrs where a massive plaque bears the names of known members of The Resistance who died during the war. You can enter this chained off section and a little brother and sister dance to the accordion player while their adults drink their coffee. The little girl raises her arms above her head and she flexes her fingers and waves a stick and gallops in circles. She stops when the music stops. She starts again with the next song.
After sitting at Place des Martyrs several times you begin to feel the time warp. The swing bands seem to gravitate to the place dedicated to The Resistance. Nazis hated American Swing and today those from Provence who resisted the Nazis are perpetually honored with plaques on the wall, a street in commemoration, and swing for their memory.

You find your evenings at Hotel de Ville. Once you saw a piano player there. Just tonight you’ve found a different jazz trio comprised of a bass, electric guitar, and tenor saxophone. You decide after a while that you don’t like them. After a bit more reflection, you decide that there are several reasons why. The first thing that strikes you is their get up. They’re all wearing straw fedora type hats and cheesy button up shirts. They’re wearing a uniform. A uniform doesn’t necessarily bother you, but it does remind you that these guys are putting on a show. When you stop to think about their show, you recognize that you’ve never been that big of a sax fan, let alone a sax solo. And they’ve got CD’s for sale. Again, this isn’t a reason in itself to dislike them, it just rubs you the wrong way. But the biggest and most legitimate reason to dislike them is that they’re on the scruffy solo guitarists turf and playing into his time.
You see Solo standing by the wall with a cigarette in one hand, a beer on the window ledge, and his guitar propped against his leg. He’s staring at them from behind. He’s puffing away. He’s touching his hair. He coughs something up and spits it on the ground. The next moment you look over at him, he’s approached the trio, waiving his cigarette at them, mumbling something inaudible to you at the tables – and perhaps even to The Pretentious Hats because when he shuffles back to his wall, they tune up and play another song that can no doubt be found on their album.
You’ve noticed Solo before this incident, but never really gave him much thought. If you’re honest, you’re made a little uncomfortable by him. He’s not a music student like the Django Trio and you suspect he’s homeless. But he’s really good. And all of a sudden you’re angry for him! He’s a good musician and this is the place that he has chosen and that has accepted him. The waiters at these four cafes know him and his music. He’s not chased away because he mumbles and smells like beer. There seems to be an agreement that The Pretentious Hats haven’t made. See, The Pretentious Hats want to be watched and looked up on MySpace and bought into. They want your full attention and participation. That’s not how it works here. The people come to Hotel de Ville and want to meet up with their friends and chat, not to attend a concert. When Solo plays, he sits on a box under a tree and plucks complicated classical guitar patterns and hits harmonics and smokes. Only two people actively watch him for a few moments, but when he finishes playing the tables around clap enthusiastically.
You never really know until the last possible second if you’ll give your coins to a street musician or not, but when Solo comes by your table with a mumble and a coin container, you drop a few in because you specifically withheld them from The Pretentious Hats.

Vincent Drank Absenth, I Drank Iced Coffee

I went to Arles yesterday with my class.

It rained for about 15 minutes around 3:30 or so. I miss the rain. It's been sunny and dry for 5 weeks in Aix. It's been hot. It's been windy a day or two. It's quite different from England. Different season, climate, temperament, and life style.

I hope it rains when I'm in London.
I hope the skies drop with the weight of water and press down on our heads so that we have to hunch over and dodge dense clouds. I hope we have to raise our hands and shove the sky up a foot or two. Then I hope the whole sky takes in one monstrous breath that sucks the clouds all the way back to where they started and then I hope it realizes it's over estimated it's ability to handle so much moisture and ruptures.

I hope the sun is in awe of this and steps back for a moment and is silent and feels slightly ashamed while the rain roars in pain and relief.

I Always Fall in Love With an Open Door

Do you know what today is? Today is a day in Aix-en-Provence. It is 81 degrees F. It's partly cloudy. Mostly sunny. It's humid. It's a bit windy. I walk past the tattoo parlor and wave to the guys who work there. I walk past the Noodle Box and wave and the guys who work there. I walk past the Aix-Presso cafe and wave to the guys who work there. I whistle, which isn't something many girls do here. I get approached by people raising awareness for something and I fail at communicating in French.

I start to evaluate what I've done out of convienance and what I've done out of sheer desire and I see the vast divide between the great former and the ever shrinking latter. I sit in class and look at each person and realize that I know no one and their reality does not include much of what I consider reality.

I am haveing physical reactions to the thought of leaving. Heat in my chest and stomach, my very core. The backs of my knees tense. I tip my head way back.

I unlock an ancient door with two locks and say hello to a cat. I walk up 41 spiral steps. I turn on the air conditioner, drop my backpack and throw myself face down on my bed. I look at my knitting. My laundry basket. My polka dot dress hanging from a bar. I sink. I tell myself I'll do this and that. I do something else. I count days till home. Hours till dinner. Minutes till class. I'll go to bed at a decent hour tonight. I won't. I'll get a decent amount of work done today. I won't. I'll reserve my ticket for London. I've got a little more time yet.

I'll wash my feet. I can't.

These days feel like a little much, don't you think? All this lame duck-feeling air and breath. It's just a matter of time and it should hurt.

Paint

Hey, I just realized that my last few posts have been a little bit whiny. What's with that? And! I haven't really talked about any of the cool stuff that's been going on. I briefly mentioned going swing dancing one night, but I didn't tell you how beautiful it was.

Let me try and do a better job of expressing it.

That night of swing dancing was a little bit like an impressionist painting. A lot like an impressionist painting. It was late and dark and there was a huge big band set up on a stage at the edge of Place Hotel de Ville and all the cafes had rearranged their tables to make way for a dance floor. There were lights strung up around the dance space so it was warm. The night was warm. The people were warm. I wore heels and my black swing dress. I didn't know how legit the dancing would be, but after about 20 minutes and 3 dances, I decided I needed to rush home and put on my dance shoes.

The best way for me to show you what that night was like is to take some of Van Gogh's advice. He said one time to his friend and fellow artist, Paul Gauguin, that maybe it'd be a good idea for painters to work together on one painting, each adding what they do best to create the perfect picture. So. That night was a combination of Van Gogh's night and lighting and Renoir's people and location.





That's what swing dancing in Aix was like.

I've also been seeing a lot of the places that inspired Van Gogh. Last weekend our school took a trip to St. Remy. The assaylum where Van Gogh spent the last 2 years of his life is there. This is where he painted Starry Night. Pam, the woman leading the trip told us how to get to the room he stayed in and then how to get to the gardens he painted. All of it has been preserved so it's basically the exact same way it was when he was a patient there. I booked it to his room while everyone else wandered around the gift shop so I could have a moment alone with Vincent's spirit.

He painted the view from his window minus the metal bars.

I saw his wheat fields. His olive groves. His sky and sun and stone wall and sunflowers and mountain and cypress trees and church steeple and his room. It gave me an idea as to how much of his color really existed in the earth for the rest of us, and how much of his color only existed in his mind.
I have always loved Van Gogh and the more I learn about who he was, how he worked, and what his life was like, I appreciate him and his art more and more. I've started reading some of the hundreds of letters he wrote to his brother, Theo, and his passion for everything moves me.

Next Friday my class is taking a trip to Arles where he lived and painted the cafes. I want to spend the week reading his letters so that when I get to Arles I can have a better idea of what he was experiencing while there.

Happy 233rd

Today I went to the pool to do homework.

I haven't been to the public pool since I was 8 years old.

The high today was 91.

I didn't get any homework done, if you were really wondering but I don't think it was the pool. I think it was just me.

This is my problem:
I think of other things to do.


This has been my problem for quite some time now. It could be anything. Sometimes I clip my toe nails or watch people or send an email or go get a drink of water or who knows.

I didn't go swimming and there's something strange about the public pool.
I went with Lily and Marc.

Today's the 4th of July and it's my favorite holiday. It's not so much the fact that it's all American and I'm all American and America. America.

It's the summer. It's the cook out. It's the watermelon. Iced tea. Red plastic table cloth. Blue napkins. Cans of Coke. Baked beans. Thick slices of tomato and cheese cooked right on the burger. Sea salt and vinegar potato chips. Running in and out of the house. Water balloons and a frisbee. The back yard. Cousins. Brothers. Friends. Yelling. Barefoot. Sparklers. Lawn chairs.

Fireworks.

And this year I get to watch The Baker's Wife and eat a Noodle Box.

I'll Take that as a Compliment

This little memory made me laugh today.

I spent a lot of time at HMC in the 3rd floor kitchen making coffee, eating yogurt, and helping Seb B make pasta dish after pasta dish.

It was probably during 3rd or 4th week and I was wearing a tan turtle neck kind of shirt and my dark maroon, brass buttoned jacket. This jacket has always made me feel cool and kind of funky elegant. It's one of those articles of clothing that always makes you feel like you look better than normal.

So by 3rd or 4th week things were pretty much going and I'd kind of gotten used to things, I at least finally had friends that I felt comfortable around. I was making coffee or something when Seb B came into the kitchen to start making dinner and I started jabbering on about this or that and after I'd quieted down and asked him if he wanted me to grate some cheese, he said, "Yes, grate some cheese, and you're looking very, mmm, mundane today with that jacket."

I think I made some noise like, "huh" or "heh." I might have made a little comment like, "Wow. Mundane."

Seb B has a delightful habit of giving compliments to girls that could be taken slightly offensively like, "You're at every meal and you're always early. You must really like to eat." Which is the first thing he said to me besides, "I think I'm your neighbor." So I thought he was trying to give me one of his Seb-esque compliments, because being able to eat a lot is a good thing to him, but I couldn't figure the compliment in saying that I looked mundane. Did he mean I looked like a normal, down to earth, friendly girl, who's easy to approach and non-pretentious? What I couldn't figure out was that he was also very good with the kinds of compliments every girl likes. For instance, the first formal dinner we had I wore a dress and we walked to dinner together and he commented on how smart I looked. Using the word "smart." And while "smart" isn't a word we use to describe a pretty girl in the States, I knew that's how it was used in England.

So I must not have given the response he expected from a girl who'd just been called mundane, because he said the word again a little questioningly. "Mundane. That's an English word right?" I confirmed and he asked me what it meant, because he knew it was a word in English, but it might not have been the word he really wanted to use.

"It means plain and boring. When something is mundane, it's repetative and there is nothing special about it."

He said, "Well that is not the word I want to use. Mondän is a word we have in German and it means sophistocated, um. A woman who is kind of, chic and feminine. You don't have this word in English?" Nope, he'd just called me boring.

We laughed about it and how confused we both were with each other for about 25 seconds.

That jacket is gone. It was lost on an over night ferry to Santorini Island. Sometimes things happen that way.

Now I cannot hear the word mundane and not think of feeling a bit chic.

Hilary Swank is Playing Amelia Earhart.

My room was once a furnace, but now it is a room again.

I generally prefer my living space to be a little warmer than cooler but being on the top floor in Aix in the middle of summer, a little warmer is an understatement. My French parents got a little air conditioner that makes my room sooooo goooood.

So my cellphone. It's dead. It really is. I was talking to Joshua on the phone last night and he said, "Lady, Lady, are you there? You're cutting out pretty bad." And then my phone made some quite strange noises and shut off completely. It rang again and I couldn't find a pen to answer it and then, kaput. Done for.

I'm gonna try and take it to a cellphone store tomorrow and try a new battery. Or just try and put my SIM card in another phone. This is a terrible time for my phone to die because I've only got 30 days left. That's too long to go without a phone, but not long enough to really feel like it's worth my money to get a new phone. Ugh. I hate that cell phone. I think I've decided it's going to end violently.

And I went swing dancing last night. What can I say except that it was good for my spirit? I need to take lessons again. I need to take private lessons on a very regular basis.

Wait. 30 days? 30 days two hours? This...can't be.

I don't know what to do.

I mean, I know what to do. Travel myself back to London. Get on a plane. Get off a plane. Greet friends and family with an immodest show of screams, hugs, tears, the usual. I'll say things like "I can't believe it! You got your hair cut? I've never seen you in a baseball cap before! Am I in Indiana for real? I'm home."

My junk will be put in a car. Someone will take me to a place to sleep. Someone will take me to Steak 'n' Shake. I wanna go to Steak 'n' Shake. We'll laugh so much. I'll be so tired.

I'll be so. Tired.

It'll be so final.

See, I can't help but do this. Think way to far ahead. Too far in advance. It's hard to stay right here, in Aix, on my bed. It's hard to make Aix my home because it feels so temporary. Oxford became my home. It was the beginning. It was the time. I feel bad for Aix because it's so much in the shadow of Oxford. I hear all the students here just die with excitement and wonder over the little things. For a lot of them, this is their first time studying abroad. For one girl this is her first time away from home. She didn't even go to summer camp.

And I can relate to them a bit in the sense that I experienced very similar things when I went to Oxford, but I cannot relate in the sense that I'm experiencing it all with them at this moment. A lot of them are traveling on the weekends to Italy, Barcelona, Geneva, other parts of France. Or they're going to spend a few weeks traveling after term ends. Me? This is the end of the line, not the beginning.

A little secret. When I first got here Vero took me and Lily on a walk around town after dinner. She showed us the school. She showed us some fountains and this and that place. And I said it reminded me a lot of Oxford. First thought. I'd already compared it to Oxford.

Forgive me, Aix. I'm trying.

Real Swing Dancing Tonight!

I've been spoiled with libraries lately. I don't think I will ever feel the same way about them after spending a term at Harris Manchester.

The library here at IAU certainly has it's charm. The IAU school is located in an old church that they created rooms in. The library is a funny shape and about a quarter the size of HMC's library. I really shouldn't compare the two. It's not right. It'd be a bit like comparing Frankie Manning to a dance instructor in Indiana. There are excellent dance instructors in Indiana. I know a lot of them and they're fantastic. But Frankie Manning had the age and wisdom that comes with just simply being Frankie Manning. His knowledge was unique and unmatched in his field.

I just feel a bit sad when I go in there because I miss the HMC library with an intensity I didn't know I could feel for a room fulla books.

I hope I can still appreciate UIndy's library when I get back.

I still think a bit like I'm traveling.
For example: my host mom wanted my laundry so she could do it and it's just weird. Someone else to do my laundry? I don't have to pay for it? And when deciding what's "clean" and "dirty" it's a little more like deciding what absolutely has to be washed that moment and what can go another week without getting rank.

And so. When traveling you have x ammount of clothes. You have x minus what you're wearing at the exact moment you will do laundry. So what can go into the wash at this point = x-w. (where w represents the clothes you're wearing). If you have to let your clothes air dry you have to be careful because sometimes it takes a full day, or a day and a half for them to dry. Towels and jeans take espeically long. So if you need to shower that day you have x-w-t = l. (where l represents laundry). Sometimes if t is dirty, but you cannot do l right away, then you must use w to dry off.

Anyway! The point is that there is a limited supply of x. So when my host mother asked for t1 (the t she gave me) to wash, I had to think: "If I give her t1, which she gave me at the beginning of the week, I won't have it for my shower. I have MY t (=t2), which is slightly less dirty, because I used it as a mat for my painting. I can use t2 for one day while t1 dries."

But this kind of math is only necessary when the supply of x is travel limited, not house limited. Lo! and behold, t3 appeared on my bed while I was eating breakfast!

And she helped me strip and make my bed. How weird is that? It was really weird.

I dropped my phone yesterday. Off a wall. It fell about 10 feet to the stone ground below. Every piece that can be taken apart came apart. I thought for sure this was the end of this terrible phone. I was wrong. It still works. But I don't have a key pad any more. That piece fell into a grate and could not be recovered. Now I have to use a pen to poke at the sensors. I have to count where the numbers are and texting a simple message will take me 10 to 15 minutes to complete.

I hate this phone but I must give it credit. It basically shattered and it still does my bidding. I can't wait to put it down for good when I get back to the states in, cringe, 31 days 7 hours 44 minutes. I'd invisioned throwing it agains a brick wall, driving over it with my car, dropping it from a 5th story window, putting it in the yard to get mowed over, or just plain taking a hammer to it. Now I might give it a proper burrial and just let it become one with the earth.

We'll see. It's kind of like a blackberry phone now, though, cuz I have to use a stylis. But it's not a blackberry. And it's only a little funny.

I Have a lot of Homework.

Have I told you that it's painfully obvious that I haven't had a French class in over a year? It's not like riding a bike. Riding a bike is muscle memory. Skydiving is like riding a bike. Speaking French is like playing the violin. I spent years in my early childhood learning it and I haven't touched one since 7th grade and I can remember one section of one song. And it sounds terrible when I play it.
I mean, it's not that bad. But it's rough and rocky.

I'm not gonna let my posts fall off the face of the Earth, like then did when I was at HMC.

In the mornings my cellphone alarm goes off at 7:25. Then I hit snooze and it goes off again at 7:30. Then I turn it off. My watch alarm beeps at 7:33 and I roll over and open my laptop. It sits on my bed all night long, kind of like a stuffed animal, but my laptop really does communicate with me, unlike Pity Penguin, who just kind of sits there and sometimes falls off the bed.

So I check my email before I get out of bed and turn on some music and this morning I looked through all the photos I took at Oxford. There are surprisingly few.

I didn't take ANY inside any building. I barely have any photos of any of the places I frequented. My memory of that place is an expansive panorama, and the actual photos I have are itty bitty tiles here and there.

I can't let that happen here. But I'm sure it will.

So I'm slowly working my way into a friendship with these three musicians who are about my age. Yesterday I saw the bassist walking down the street carrying his bass and he stopped and put his bass down and gave me the cheek greeting and we chatted and he told me when they were playing next (tonight!) and that I should come. So I will. A set of French musician friends is just what I need.

And life is right where it should be.

I Have My Knitting Again!

I'm doing a new thing or two.

I found a huge canvas in my room already mounted and painted with a base coat. It's dark brown and it's been here for a while, I can tell. There are places where the paint's been scraped off from rubbing against this or that. My room is stark white and there's a large space of wall above my bed framed by two lights. I asked Veronique, my French mother, if I could mount it above my bed. She said I could even paint on it.

That was on Sunday. Yesterday I went to the art supply store and bought red, blue, yellow, white, and black paints, and 7 brushes. And I went to town on that canvas. For three hours. What came out was a giant tree.
I can't tell if I'm done or not. But I was so excited to tell my Veronique about it. In French, of course.

And today was my first class at 8:30 a.m. and maybe I've been a bit spoiled, but that's ridiculous early. I've not had a class before 9 a.m. at UIndy. God bless the History/Poli. Sci. department.

So it's a bit of a strange life what with a crookedly shaped oblong room that's naturally got more character than than any other room I've inhabited because it's had about six or seven hundred years to shift with the earth beneath it and be reshaped and remodeled and reflexed and repainted and redecorated and re-inhabited.
I just received a suitcase I sent to myself while in Austria. Have you ever sent yourself something from the past? Its like someone knew that you wouldn't forgotten about those things, but that they were just out of mind. And they wanted them to come back into your mind when the time was right. And the time was right today.

All I want to do while here is create. I've painted. I drew today. I bought a harmonica, too. If I cannot play the bass I'll learn a more portable instrument. So it's in C and I'm gonna spend from today until June 21st learning how to play it better than poorly so that I can hopefully find people to jam with at the festival de musique! It's an entire day, starting at 4 p.m. of musicians in the streets and it lasts all night.
I'm gonna go back to that shop and try to chat with everyone there, looking for people to play with. And people to speak French to. And to befriend.

Today I had a traditional French afternoon. After class a friend and I went to a cafe and drank coffee and ate sandwiches and sat there for two hours. Which is what you're supposed to do. And then I found some Django Reindhardt players and sat and listened and drew a street lamp. And then I went to the music store and should have just stayed and chatted chatted chatted but I just wanted to get home and play. And unpack my little life that arrived in a red suitcase.

And tonight a few of us are going to Le Skat. It's a jazzy kinda club and tonight they're playing rhythm and blues.

And I caught wind of a rumor that there was swing dancing somewhere in the city. I will find it. I will wear my swing dress. I will dance. I will show these French swing dancers how an American swing dances because, after all, they can have Django cuz we have Frankie Manning.

And my French class is hard :( But! I love speaking French and my French parents are a dream.
Today my French mom and I had breakfast together and it was so delightful.

It's 11:26 p.m. here in Aix-en-Provence.

I'm currently in my incredibly comfortable room. I need to indulge in some more Aix details.

And I feel a little cheesy because whenever I listen to Eva Cassidy singing "Fields of Gold" I just break up inside. It always reminds me of Oxford.

The streets are narrow and mostly one way. There are fruit and vegetable markets every morning. There are tons of fountains, all different with different important histories. There are sidewalk cafes All over the place. Even more than Paris, I'm sure. I see old men sitting outside with serious moustaches and eating chunks of bread with cheese and a bottle of wine within arms reach.

And I've got orientation tomorrow at 9 a.m. so I'm actually going to cut this post super short. But the next one will be worth it, I promise!

Tiny Bit.

So Paris. Barcelona. Aix.

I'm in Aix-en-Provence.

This is the last stretch. 44 days till I fly home.

But this is home until then. I've got some French parents and an American sister. Those are a few things I've never had before.

Quick bulleted bits about Aix and my new life here:

- I love Aix-en-Provence.
- It's a bit like Oxford in the sense that it's Old and Beautiful.
- There are tons of fountains.
- And there are cobble stones.
- My mother is beautiful and friendly, much like my real mother. And she's got dark hair, too.
- The doors are majestic.
- My home is from the middle ages.
- I get the 4th floor room with my own bathroom.
- There are 41 spiraled stair steps to the top floor, which is my bedroom.
- And I've got a full sized bed.
- There is art throughout the whole house.
- We have a cat named Millie.
- My window looks out over the street and much like at Oxford I cannot help but gaze out of it every 45 seconds. I watch all the people walk by and they just don't know.
- I was nervous but not anymore.
- I'm living in a house older than my country.
- I have a gabled window.
- I'm happy to be settled for the next 6 weeks.


I'm so tired. PS. Salsa dancing in Barcelona is incredible.

Listen to the Song "Gypsy Melodies" by The Snake, The Cross, The Crown

June 10

What can I even begin to say? You have no idea. I have no idea. All of Santorini and Paris have no idea, either. Did we find Atlantis? Yeah, it’s that big dark spot just off of that beach somewhere that direction, Lori said as we stood on the edge of a cliff watching the sun set. Mystery solved. Everyone chill. Let’s go to the beach.

Santorini is…one of the best things about traveling. It was one of the most fun and most memorable parts of the trip so far. It’s definitely in the top 25, at least.

It’s been a while since Santorini Island, it seems. So how bout some highlights? The hostel was so cheap and so awesome. It was seven euros a night. It was 2 minutes from the beach. It was full of Australians and Canadians and some Americans. There was a 24-hour bakery just down the street where nothing was over 2 euros. There was a beach about 2 minutes from the hostel. There was beach service at a lot of the restaurants. The beach was less than a two minute walk from the hostel.

On the first day we got to the beach and Lydia looked at a mountain and said “I’m gonna climb that mountain.” And I said. “See that ship way out there? I’m gonna swim to that ship.” We laughed and said, “I’m gonna sleep on this beach for 4 days.” That was a little closer to the truth. But Lydia really did climb that mountain. I think I showered once in Greece. It was kinda useless to anyway because the water was salty. It did wonders for my hair, though. I didn’t wash it at all while I was there; I just dipped it in the sea every day and it was awesome. On the last day one of the waiters on the beach told me my hair was perfect. I laughed and he said, “Don’t you think so?” I just thought it was funny because I hadn’t washed it in a week. He might have just been trying to sell me a beer. I took the compliment and left the beer.

We rented 4 wheelers and rode all over the island. We ate lots of pastries and bread and (tatzsiki) I can’t spell it but it’s that garlic-y cucumber cream sauce.

::side note:: I love watching people wake up on trains because we all do the same thing. We fall asleep. We wake up. Look out the window. Look around at who’s still on the train. Look at the watch. Calculate where we’re supposed to be at what time. Calculate how long we’ve got till our stop. Go back to sleep in a slightly different position. By the way, I’m on a train from Paris to Barcelona. I’ll get two days to make Brent Lederle proud. Then I’m back to France. 48 days.

We met some crazy characters in Greece. Unfortunate Max from New Jersey who appreciates punctuality and fell off a bicycle and had to get stitches. Santorini Dave from Australia who hung out with us every day. “Geographical South” Brandy from Texas who studies in Mississippi and hates it because it’s the stereotypical “anthropological south.” Normal Sarah and Kathleen from New York who study in Paris. Jerk-Face Alex living in Greece who thinks girls shouldn’t play soccer. Bottle Opener Martin Powers Jameson from Ireland who always had a bottle of Jameson with him but he loves Powers Irish whiskey more so Powers and Jameson are not part of his name and he could open any bottle top with any object, including another bottle top.

Our batting average for making ferries ended up being a 500. If it were a test we would have gotten a 50/100. That’s failing. But when life is a song, not a test, it’s better that way because it lends itself to more interesting lyrics.

Speaking of Life is a Song. After Santorini Island we had an afternoon in Pareaus, Greece. We got there at 7:30 am and we went to a café and drank frappes and analyzed song lyrics for about 2 hours. Ask us if we went to the Acropolis. Go ahead. Did we go to the Acropolis? Yeah, twice. Once on Santorini Island and got delicious 2-euro gyros and once in Pareaus and got frappes! We didn’t even want to go see the real thing. Everything in Greece is named after the Acropolis.

So…what’s really on my mind is this train and feeling a little bit nauseous and sitting by myself in a dining car and only speaking to strangers in a strange language because Lydia and Lori just left and I just left and we’re all leaving Paris behind. I love goodbyes. I love saying goodbye at train stations and bus stops and airports and all those transitional places. I love it when the people you’re saying goodbye to will give you a hug and then look you in the face and then once you get on the train or they get off the train they stand there and keep looking at you and waiving a little bit and maybe make a little funny face and after the doors close they find the window that’s open and call out your name to catch your attention because they’re not done saying goodbye and after the train starts to slowly wind its gears into motion, they walk in time with it and run even if it’s crowded and they’ve got heavy packs on and say things like “I love you, Sarah K!”

I think saying goodbye at a train station is way better than saying it at an airport. You get more time to say goodbye and there’s no weird post-goodbye but pre-departure period. And the first time I rode a train, other than the SouthShore, was summer after my junior year in high school and Josh came to see me off and he gave me a hug before I got on the train and after I was on, the train slowly wound its gears into motion and he ran along side and called my name and jumped up and hit the window and I pulled ahead of him and thought that I wish I could spit off the bridge one more time with him.

I’ll have to write about the rest of Greece and Paris a little later. I just can’t do it now.

No More Ruins. Please.

June 1, 2009
If there’s one ferry we should have missed, it should have been this one.
I can’t believe it.

We got to Athens at probably 6ish and by then end of that night ferry and traveling on this terrible train, I didn’t even want to be in Athens at all. I didn’t want to see the Acropolis. I didn’t want to experience the culture. I wanted a beach and I didn’t want to move. I was a little cranky.

We got to our hostel and the reviews were right: It was the right hostel in the wrong part of town. We turned the street and literally the smell of piss and garbage was overwhelming. There was a corpse looking person lying on the sidewalk two doors down from the Easy Access Hostel with their mouth gaping and a hand down their pants. Where in God’s name were we?
The hostel was clean, friendly, brightly lit, had free wifi, and you got a free shot of ouzo when you arrived. I’m not a fan of licorice and I’m not a fan of ouzo.
We asked the girl working at the bar where a good place to eat was and she gave us directions to her favorite restaurant. She told us the salads were good and the waiters were funny. She was right on both counts. It was one of the top three meals we’ve had in Europe. Number 1: Seb B’s mom’s Weiner Schnitzel. Number 2: A restaurant in the smallest town in Austria. Number 3: This Greek place last night. I also really liked the meal we had in Bari, Italy, even though I hate that place.

So after we ate we went back to the hostel and tried finding an island we could stay at for days. One of the waiters had said Santorini was the place to go. It was calm and good for beaches. After a little research we found a really good hostel for seven euros a night, a two-minute walk from the beach. We also decided to extend our Greek adventure to accommodate for the missed day and travel time to and from the island. The only catch was all the ferries to Santorini left at 7:30 am. We’d have to get a train from Athens to the port in the next town about a 15-minute drive away. Could we get a train that early?

I went down to reception to ask about 6 am trains. There were a group of French girls, a pair of American girls, and one surfy looking Aussie guy ahead of me. The French girls were super giggly and couldn’t figure out how to work the elevator. That took forever. The two American girls were wearing Roma City pub-crawl tee shirts and had matching sandals and backpacks. We were propositioned to go on the Roma City pub-crawl and we opted No. Pub-crawls are not exactly cool. They didn’t take as long as the giggly girls. The Aussie offered to let me go first but he’d been standing there a while so I insisted he get checked in. The hostel only has one key for each room and the last person just drops the key off at the front desk. So the receptionist reached up for key 307 but it wasn’t there. Because Lori, Lyd, and I are in 307 and we had the key. I introduced myself and told him he could go up to the bar and look for a girl painting in the corner and another girl next to her on a mac. They’d have it.

And trains started running at 5:30 am! We could do it! I went back upstairs to book ferry tickets and book the hostel. Dizzy sat with us and we talked about movies, books, traveling, ukulele, and other various instruments, hostels, and islands. For some reason the ferry website wouldn’t let me access the reservation page but Dizzy said if you just showed up at port, you could get your tickets there. He’d done it. So we booked 5 nights at the hostel and decided to get up at 5:30 to give ourselves plenty of time. I set my watch alarm.
I think I was the last to fall asleep sometime after 2 am. Lydia was out like a light as soon as she hit the bed. Dizzy, whose real name is Cam but last name is Gillespie so everyone calls him Dizzy after the Jazz musician, and Lori talked about football for a while. They were both on top bunks. We also tried to get him to change his U.S. travel plans to include a bit of the Midwest and not just see NY, LA, and San Fran. We might have him convinced.

The next thing I remember I’m looking at my watch and it says 6:45. Not good. My watch is 7 minutes fast but in all honesty I thought, “We going to miss the third ferry in a row.”

I told Lydia what time it was. Can we make it, she wondered. Should we even try, I worried. “Lori. Get up!” We discussed and discussed even though time was wasting. The ferry leaves at 7:30. 10 minutes to the tram. Another 10 minute ride. Finding the place. We haven’t even got tickets. No one wrote down the name of the hostel or how to get there! I was incredibly tired and incredibly pessimistic. Lydia just kept saying we could do it. We Could. Should we try? We asked again. And then, the voice of our guardian angel came from above with an Australian accent: “Get a texi. You’ll mayke it.”
Alright, Dizzy. We’ll try.
I was still quite pessimistic. We called a taxi. Lydia looked up the name of the hostel. I had told Lori the night before that I’d make her breakfast cuz she knew she’d be cranky in the morning. When we were sitting down stairs waiting for the taxi she said she’d make me breakfast. I asked her if I should tell the taxi driver to “step on it.” We laughed a little.

Our cab driver was awesome. He drove like the wind. He asked us what gate we were leaving from. We didn’t even have tickets! He asked us what island we were going to. Santorini! Gate 7 he said. What a great guy. He knew which gate left for which island! He dropped us off at the ticket office and helped us on with our backpacks. We ran in. Three tickets to Santorini! Can we do it? Yes yes. 33.50 each. Cash only. Cards? No, cash only. We had 65 euros in cash between the 3 of us. Ok, card.
Right, cash only. Whatever. But you must run! Hurry. Run. You have seven minutes!

So we did. We got to the boat and they were pulling up the walkway. Wait! We have tickets! There were two Canadians behind us who didn’t have tickets but were gonna get on the ship anyway. We all made it.

It was exactly 7:30 am. We were on the ferry. The ferry that if the world had any order to it at all, we should have missed. But seeing as this part of the world functions on a different plane of space and time, we made it.

In the cab I remembered that the Blue Star Ferry left at 7:25, which is the one we were taking, while the Hellenic Ferry left at 7:30. I didn’t have the heart to tell Lyd and Lor. But this is Greece and much like Italy, there are no rules and things don’t happen on time. So I assumed the ferry wouldn’t leave at 7:25.

I was right about that, but gloriously wrong about not being able to make the ferry. I hugged Lydia for being a source of strength and confidence. I hugged Lori for carrying my heavy heavy pack in the interest of time when we got out of the taxi.

I still made her breakfast in the form of crunchy oatmeal cookies with nutella and strawberry jam on them.

We stole about 5 hours of sleep in second class before being forced into the economy class, which is what we really paid for. We would have gotten away with staying in the second-class seats if it weren’t for the annoying Australian women in front of us who also didn’t belong in 2nd class. We’d unnecessarily revealed to them that we didn’t have seat numbers on our tickets either and when they were asked to move by the people who’d reserved those seats, they loudly turned to us and said, “We all have to leave, cuz we don’t have seat numbers on our tickets.” No, you vindictive wretches. You have to move because someone’s reserved your seats. We don’t because no one’s reserved ours. But it was too late. Every vulturous person there with a seat number was watching, with a bit of condemnation in their eyes. They all seemed to emanate the same thing: a mood of rightful ownership. They’d paid extra. They deserved a seat with a number in front of a TV screen with a horrible Greek show on. Greek television, by the way, is complete and utter crap. Inane. Obnoxious. Ugly. Loud.
Some people just care too much about belonging to things that have a strong correlation to money.

Sooooo we found a table and got frappes and busted out the laptops and ate bread and cheese. We’re still about 2 hours from our destination: paradise. Apparently Santorini is where the Lost City of Atlantis is. Lori asked if that was the Disney movie. I just stared at her. Oh! Haha. Right. Atlantis.

May our next adventure includes finding it.

Few Pics of Me Lyd and Lor

I Didn't Divide This Post Up But I Probably Should Have

22 May 2009
Back to Innsbruck but this time with Lydia and Lori.

We had a great time in Berlin. We got to our hostel at maybe 6 p.m. but I’d accidentally left the directions on the train. We roamed around a bit asking people if they knew where the Mitte’s Backpacker Hostel was an no one seemed to know even though it was within a 7 minute walk from the station. We asked some police looking people. No help. We asked a cab driver, no help and an attitude. So we thought if we could just find an internet café we could find the address and Google Map directions. We didn’t find an internet café but we did find a hookah bar.

The guy working there didn’t speak much English and we only know four phrases in German, none of which included subjects like the internet. The guy behind the counter said, “Yes, yes! We have internet!” I expected wifi or a room with computers like a call center. Nope. It was a closet with a personal desktop. I don’t know if I would have used a computer in a closet if Lydia and Lori weren’t there with me but I was able to get the address and ask the guy where the street was. We said we’d come back, but we didn’t.

Instead we ate bread and cheese in the room and went wandering around Berlin. We stumbled upon a gallery opening of someone’s photography. My favorite photographs were arranged in pairs. They were sepia colored and kinda fanciful. There was one with a young boy wearing a paper hat in a field blowing into a paper towel tube and in the sky were hundreds of little birds. It looked like the boy was blowing the birds from his own lungs. I feel like that sometimes.

After that we went to a park. It was such a delightful park. Everyone was sitting around on blankets eating ice cream. I swear, every time I look out across a park I think of this one painting by Renoir or someone. It’s just a bunch of English people in the 1800’s hanging around a park on a Sunday afternoon. I feel like that sometimes, too.

So we ate Ice cream and then we thought a bottle of wine would suit the moment quite well. It also seemed like everyone else was drinking wine or beer while sitting on their little blue and white blankets. We walked to the little convenience store and picked out a bottle of wine. We realized that it was corked and we did not have a corkscrew. Nor did the little shop sell one. Now, we’ve voiced worries about being three young women wandering around Europe for an extended period of time. Perhaps if we were guys, we’d be a bit safer. Actually, being three young women has paid off quite nicely.
For instance: the other guy working at the convenience store was quick open the bottle for us by taking a flat head screwdriver to the cork and shoving it into the bottle. Would he do that if we were three dudes? I’d like to think not. But I’m pretty sure we’ve accumulated the equivalent of a case of beer and a bag of coffee beans just cuz we’re girls.

Anyway.

This post is a little outdated. It’s now May 30, 2009. A lot has happened between that night in Berlin when we sat in a park and tried to get an idea for how big we felt and how absolutely not big we really were.

We managed to not miss any trains to Innsbruck. Which was awesome. We had legit worries. We had to take a night train from Berlin to Zurich. That was cool enough. The chairs looked like they were made for a space flick in 1966. So what everyone in 1966 thought would be really stylish and functional in the year 2009. Which very well could have been the age of American colonies on Mars. Except that it’s not and reading Ray Bradbury’s book The Martian Chronicles has made me glad that it’s not. There were about twenty fifteen-year-old French kids in our car who were chowing down on Red Bulls and Dunkin Donuts. We obviously didn’t have a quiet night. But that wasn’t the part that we were worried about. It was the change at Zurich because we had about 25 minutes to find the ticket counter, buy 2 tickets, get breakfast, and find the track for the train to Innsbruck. It’s easy with a Eurail pass cuz you just hop on and off when and where you need. Not so much when you have to buy tickets at every place.

We decided Lori would get coffees and rolls while Lydia and me went to buy tickets. When we got off the train we left Lori pretty quickly without looking what track the train would be leaving from, and when Lyd and I got to the ticket counter, I voiced my fears about leaving Lori. It could have been really bad. As soon as Lyd got to the ticket counter I bolted to find Lori to tell her that it was track 9! track 9! By bolted, I just mean I waddled really really quickly in my flip flops and huge back pack, hoping Lori’d just stayed pretty much where we’d left her. And she did! Like they teach you in Girl Scouts when you’re lost in the woods! You stay where you are and basically wait for the world to find you. Maybe blowing a whistle if you have one handy. Note to self: Carry a whistle with me to the train station.

So we all got on the train and Lori’d gotten us these Delicious croissants filled with chocolate.

We got to Innsbruck and got on Bus F, which would takes us within a 3 minutes walk of Seb B’s mom’s house. I couldn’t wait to get there. We arrived about 3 in the afternoon and she had homemade Weiner schnitzel and potato salad and regular salad and coffee for us. And we got to meet Seb’s sister, Lena, who’s just home from studying in India.

I love Austria. There’s so much I can say about how beautiful and warm Austria is but it’s certainly beautiful and warm because of the people I’ve been honored enough to spend time with. I have been graced with so much generosity and hospitality that I hope I can repay even a third of it.

While in Austria we learned to surf in Niklas’ wave pool. We went shopping for shorts and a plant for Gabriele, Seb B’s mom. We celebrated Christoph’s 25th birthday with a huge cook out. Christoph is Niklas’ housemate. We went to the Café Bar Moustache, which is the bar belonging to their best friend, where we had a huge foosball tournament and Lydia and Stephan (another friend of Niklas’) rocked while me and Lori and Niklas did not rock. We went back to Moustache on Sunday night for the Sunday night quiz, which is done in English. The guy and girl doing the quiz threw in a few American questions for us because they met us at Christoph’s party and knew we were coming to the quiz. The questions were “What is Bill Clinton’s middle name?” “Which of the 5 great lakes in the US borders Chicago?” and, “Who was the only president of the south during the American Civil War?” We got 2 of the three. Robert is Not Bill Clinton’s middle name. It’s Jefferson.

We got to Innsbruck on Friday and by Friday night we were being urged to skip Venice and stay in Austria until Monday. By Saturday afternoon we’d confirmed “Forget Venice!”

Monday Niklas took us to this little lake about 50 minutes east of Innsbruck, but still in Tyrol, way up in the mountains. I cannot even describe to you how beautiful this place was. Niklas told us that this region of Tyrol was as Tyrolean as you could get. He’d never been there before either so it was new for all of us. We hung a hammock between two trees and laid out our blankets on these wooden platforms that were built because the ground was so soft and moist. The water was warmer than we’d expected. There were only two other families there with their little children and big dogs. I’ll post pictures, which still won’t do this place justice. In fact, it started raining while we were in the lake, it was only about navel deep, and we looked out across the water and the world was surreal. The sun was shining and the raindrops were massive and three quarters of them formed bubbles when they hit the water and the other quarter created diamonds that jumped up for a split second. Thousands of diamonds hitting the water and sinking to the bottom of the tiny murky lake, getting lost and buried under the muck and seaweed no one wanted to put their feet in.

We swam to a huge rock in the middle of the lake and Niklas started to climb up, finding finger and foot holds. He pulled his face up level with the top of the rock, which had grass and a tree growing on it, and threw himself backwards off the rock. “Let’s get out of here!” I thought he’d slipped and just didn’t want to try again. He was swimming away from us back towards the dock and said, “Snake!” We caught up with him and didn’t slow down until we got back. He’d looked a huge snake square in the face and after hearing it hiss at him, he decided it best to just get away. A bit of a thrill.

After the lake we went to the smallest town in Austria. We ate traditional Austrian food and Niklas taught us a traditional Austrian card game called Watten. It’s a lot like Euchre and you need four people so maybe I’ll teach it to you sometime, if you want.

Niklas got us to the train station with about 25 minutes to spare before our night train left and we suddenly had the urge to eat Burger King. Niklas ran into a friend who couldn’t make it to the party and we greeted him and offered to get him a sandwich. We got Niklas a cheeseburger and this guy a whopper. We gave them hugs and said, “Next time we’re in Innsbruck, we’ll hang out!”

We did not sleep on the night train. We did not receive futuristic 1966 space shuttle seats; we got regular, immobile, train seats. And it was uncomfortable. And Long. And we made it to Rome.

We did not purchase our train tickets for the next destination like we’d told ourselves we would. We hadn’t booked our ferry to Greece yet and we weren’t sure what time it’d depart. But we’d get the tickets anytime within the next 3 days. Our hostel was a 5-minute walk from the station.

Rome was strange. I liked it, but it certainly wasn’t my favorite place. We saw the Coliseum. Every day. The first time we saw it it was amazing. Breathtaking. Stunning. The second time it was still far from the hostel. By the third time we’d come across that building we were like, “How do we keep ending up here?” We went to the Vatican but didn’t go in. We went to the Pantheon. It was free. Raphael is buried there. But that’s not his original burial place.

Oh, our first meal in Rome we managed to piss off the waitress. There was just a language miscommunication and she brought us a pizza we didn’t order, or at least we didn’t think we ordered, and she took it back but wasn’t very nice to us the rest of the time we were there. The whole time I was eating the replacement pizza and I was wondering if I was tasting spit or if the cheese had been dropped on the floor or if they were watching and laughing at us eating something they’d taken their revenge our on. Maybe not.

We watched the Man U Vs. Barcelona game at Fergie Field near the Stadium Olympico. Only Manchester United fans were allowed in this field. The Barca fans had a different filed they could watch the game at. There was also supposed to be no alcohol sales at all the day of the game in Rome.
I’ve just decided that there are no rules in Rome. There are no walking rules, driving rules, parking rules, drinking laws, or fashion restrictions whatsoever. It’s a lawless ancient land where there are so many ruins and historical sites that they have to start turning them into cat shelters. I’m not exaggerating.

We came across some fenced in ruins that might have been small temples. They were discovered in the 1920’s and no one really knows what they are. We noticed a lot of cats. About 12 or so. That was a little odd, we decided. Just cats hanging out in the ruins. We then found a sign that said it was a cat refuge. Basically stray cats are found, spay and neutered, tested and vaccinated, and then put in a pit of ancient Roman ruins. Does this seem slightly ridiculous to anyone else?

What else was slightly ridiculous about Rome? Our hostel had free pasta dinners at 7 pm during the week. It was terrible but we ate there every night. It was free and you could bring your own wine and the people at our hostel were really cool. We hung out with a Ben from just north of London. An Alex from Vancouver. And a couple of kids from Montreal. By kids, I mean 18 year olds. I can’t believe that 18 seems young to me. I guess it’s cuz I’m a week away from 22.

One night in Rome, the night before the Champions League Game, we went to a café to get ice cream and we sat next to these middle aged guys from Manchester who were really drunk and really loud. They kept chatting with us and looking at Lydia’s paintings and saying things to randoms walking by like, “Don’t worry. She’ll be back! She’s not left you!” And they were singing, “The famous Man United went to Rome to see the Pope! To Rome to see the Pope! To Rome to see the Pope! The famous Man United went to Rome to see the Pope and this is what they said! Glory, glory Man United! Glory, glory Man United! Glory, glory Man United and the Reds go marching on!” to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.
Lydia decided to paint these guys and the one kept saying to make sure she got his black fascist socks in. Don’t forget to include my fascist socks. What ever that means. They also kept calling the waiter Tony, because every Italian guy is named Tony. And they also kept making references to his questionable sexuality.

I wonder what they were singing when Man U lost the game. Probably what everyone else was singing which was something about Man U never dying. On our walk back from the park there was a fire under a bridge. What would a football match be without a fire? Not a football match, that’s for sure.

Poor Lydia. On our walk back a very fat man in a black tee shirt pinched her butt. Lydia’s just corrected me, “squeezed her bottom,” she says. Which is after the tactful phrase of Ben North of London. A few blocks later we came across the perp. and Lori asked if she should beat him up. Lydia said no, but if you could give him a bottom squeeze, I’d feel better. Alex Vancouver and Lori Lue Ludwig grasped hands and went in for the kill. They ran up behind this very fat man in a black tee shirt and together squeezed his bottom. They then broke hands and ran off in different directions laughing and laughing while we pointed and laughed and laughed as well. Karma had been restored.

We checked out of our hostel at 11 on Friday. We didn’t leave the hostel till after 1. We had to book a hostel in Greece. Every review for every hostel made references to how dirty they were. Ugh. We weren’t able to book a train to Bari for our ferry that night.

I don’t want to talk about it. I almost flipped out. We’ve missed two of two ferries. We are 0 for 2 for making ferries. Like I said, I don’t really want to talk about it. But I’m sure there’s a phrase that goes something like “fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me.” But applied to ferry making: miss two ferries and what in God’s name is wrong with you? It was completely our fault. So we had an extra day in Rome we didn’t really want and we had to cancel our hostel in Patras, which cost us about 20 euros.
What do you do in Rome when you don’t really want to be there anymore? Go see Angles and Demons starring Tom Hanks in Italian. Of course. Certainly not visit the Coliseum Again. Even though you know you can’t understand Italian. So we watched about 40 minutes of the movie in Italian then snuck into the English version that started 5 minutes before the Italian one.

That’s probably the best movie ever to see in Rome. I felt like they’d just followed me around for three days, filming where I’ve been and then just superimposing Tom Hanks into my place. It’s also one of the worst movies ever. And Euan McGreggor has severely disappointed me by participating in that film. I may never forgive him. Then we went to McDonald’s for dinner. I ate a Big Mac and French fries and drank a coke.

We didn’t miss our night train to Bari. But it was uncomfortable.
Bari’s been giving us trouble all day. But it’s also given us a bit of comfort here and there. We got to the port at about 8:30 am. We were so tired. We tried to sleep on the benches. A woman kept telling people to sit up, even thought there were a total of 10 people in the huge lobby. I watched her force these three Canadians up and thought, “Screw that. I’m lying down.” A while later she came to me, saying something in Italian and without even opening my eyes, I said, “Oh my shoes. Sorry.” and just shifted my feet from the seat to the floor. I’m about done with authority. Seriously about finished. Especially knowing that for a second night in a row I won’t have a proper bed. Not sleeping will make you do some strange things. For instance: It was quite cold in the lobby of the ferry station so I decided to go to the bathroom and put jeans on. There were only two stalls and by 10 am the station was packed with loud people. The line was very long and a woman and wedged her way in front of me. I saw Lydia come out of one of the stalls and I looked at her and the 9 people ahead of me and was like “Right here.” So I kicked off my shoes and dropped trow right there. Lydia says it wasn’t enough that I had an intense look of determination on my face, but that the looks on the faces of the women around me. I don’t need to be understood. I need to be warm.
I tried to sleep for another hour but there was a kid across the lobby who was meowing and meowing as loud as his obnoxious lungs would allow and I said to Lori after about 10 minutes of this meowing that I’m not one for punching children, but that kid was really really unaware of what he was stirring up inside me. We decided to drop our luggage at some lockers and find a good restaurant. The luggage room was on the other side of the port and didn’t open until 11:30 so we sat outside in the sun and read. By the way, it was really windy and raining when we got to Bari. It was miserable.
We left our baggage and went walking around the town. We were whistled at, honked at, and cat called 10 times today. We counted. Can you believe that? It’s absurd.

Anyway.

We found an awesome restaurant and ate the best meal I’ve had in Italy. It was a typical Barian dish made of rice, fried potatoes and mussels. We then found a stonewall to lie on. For two hours. I fell asleep and I tell you, that stonewall in the sun was more comfortable than a padded chair on the night train. I slept on my stomach for over an hour then turned over and slept on my back a bit. I knew I was getting a sunburn on my arms but I was so tired I didn’t care. And I was getting hot hot. But I couldn’t move. When I finally got up Lydia was already awake painting. Lori was stirring as well. The piazza was full of people. We went in search of a grocery store. We compared weird sunburns. Lori has severe sunglasses outlines on her face. Lydia not only has a farmer’s tan (burn) but the crease in her elbow is pure white from how she had her arms folded. And she’s got a line down her left cheek from where she put her sweater over her eyes. I didn’t really get burnt at all. I’d slept on my stomach so my face isn’t pink and my arms are just a little red. I’ve been making a bit of fun of them all day.

By the time we got on the ferry (about 4 hours ago) I realized that I too was burnt. A sharp, bright red line across my lower back. It’s worse than theirs and in a terrible place when you consider that I have to walk around with a backpack for the next two weeks.

I just want to get to Greece. I don’t even want to go to Athens. I want to go to a beach and stay there for 4 days. I want to sleep in a bed. And I want to chill out.

Oh. And we were attacked by a group of Italian kids at the fountain.

We were walking back to the ferry at about 6 pm and we were out of water. We saw a group of kids filling water balloons at the fountain in the piazza and thought, well, let’s get some water here. The kids addressed us. English? They asked. Yes. English. They all laughed. We didn’t much like the scene, but we needed water, and we couldn’t let them sense our fear. Kids are like dogs and horses in that respect. Lydia went forward and filled the bottle. One of the smaller boys fake tossed a water balloon at me. I put my bag down and held out my hands, yeah toss it here, kid. I knew it wouldn’t break, even if it hit the ground because they were filling the balloons too full and weren’t puncturing the bottom with a needle sized hole so they’d burst on contact. He didn’t toss it to me, he full on threw it at me. It bounced and rolled behind me. I grabbed it and gave him an “oh, you’re in a bit of trouble now,” look. He bolted back a few paces and I held it out to him. I wasn’t going to throw it. He wouldn’t come close. So I put it on the ground and backed away. He came and got it. Just then two girls ran up from the right and started attacking Lori and Lydia. No no! We don’t want trouble! They were laughing and we were laughing and one of the bigger boys went after Lori, who squirted water from her bottle back at him and thought she could find safety by getting closer to a group of guys who were about our age. No dice. They just moved farther and farther away. Lydia and Lori got nailed. I got a soggy shoe. But I’d dropped my jacket and knew I’d have to go back into the danger zone to get it. I turned and saw one of the little girls, with a crazed look in her eye and foam at her mouth. What Lydia likes the call the Devil Child of Bari, Italy. These weren’t children. These were beasts. Children of the Fountain. We were slightly over our heads here.
There was a dad figure who’d picked up my jacket at the exact same moment that Devil Child of Bari, Italy did. I saw the scene and for a split second thought the dad figure would join them against us. No, that would have been absurd. But no more absurd than being attacked by a gang of bloodthirsty Italian children. Devil Child released on command and Dad Figure returned my damp jacket.

In retrospect, Lydia noticed that Dad Figure wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t really surprised or really reprimanding the kids for attacking us. She reckons it’s a daily thing. “Eat your breakfast. Don’t harass the tourists.” And you accept it when you can get your kid to eat a bowl of coco puffs, even if they won’t drink their milk and you accept it when they attempt soak tourist with water balloons, but when they start to steal garments, they’ve gone too far.

We wish we could have seen the reactions of the other tourists and the other locals. Would the other tourists have helped if things got out of hand? Fight or flight? Which would it be? Were they thinking, “glad it’s not me! Let’s get out of here!” Were the other locals secretly wishing they could take the revenge on tourists their children were attempting, or were they horrified their children would treat strangers with such disrespect?

Either way, it was the second time we’ve thought about punching a kid. What has Italy and a serious lack of sleep done to us?

So! Present moment! It’s 11:55 Greek time and we’re on our ferry and we’ve taken over a little corner where we intend to sleep and we’ve eaten more bread and cheese and there’s a shower we can use and we’ve been chatting away delightfully with an older Belgian couple and Lori’s on her laptop and Lydia’s reading my copy of Brother’s Karamazov and if only we had a guitar.

And if only this Really drunk guy would leave everyone alone. But the staff already has a close eye on him.

This post is 7 and a half pages long in a word document. Whew! I’ve been working on it for days and I’m finally caught up but I’ve left a lot of details out. That happens when you’re trying to talk about 3 different cities in one blow. Hope I can be a little more regular with my posts.

58 days left in Europe. 93 till Josh is home from Iraq. 285 till he’s home for good.

I Don't Wanna Be Homeless Anymore :(

19 May 2009

Sar-y Sar-y quite contrary
how do your travels go?
With canceled trains
and bus crashing pains
and 3 maids asleep in an elevator.


Every poem is a short story. So given the short story above, let me hash out the full story. In as much harrowing detail as possible.
Our departure from Oxford was nearly perfect. We were planning on taking the 5 pm bus to London but ended up taking the 5:30 bus. That afforded us a last cup of coffee with dear Seb B. Spirits were high and hearts were all aflutter with the exciting journey ahead.

We arrived at the Victoria Street station about 7:30 ish. All we had to do was hop on the tube from Victoria Street station to Liverpool Street station and catch the train to Harwich. Easy.

About a quarter of the tube lines were down due to construction. Scheduled construction. That we were unaware of. That’s ok. At this point we’ve still got plenty of time because the ferry doesn’t leave until 11:45 pm.
We manage an alternate route to Liverpool street via the Victoria line north to Oxford Circus, then the Central line east to Liverpool street. We made it to Liverpool Street at about 10 past 8. That meant we missed the 8:03 train to Harwich. The last train was the 9:03 leaving from platform 14. We rejoiced in the fact that we were going to make the last train of the night. If we’d left any later we might have been stranded in London!

So we sat on some steps and watched the mangy pigeons. We watched everyone walk by. We talked about fashion. Who/what dictates it. What you can tell about a person based on their shoes or hair. Basically judging people, I guess.

About 8:45 we decided to head towards platform 14. Didn’t want to have to rush to the train when it arrived. As soon as we got to the platform an announcement came on the loud speakers.
“The 9:03 train to Harwich departing from track 14 is canceled due to technical malfunctions. A replacement train will depart from track 14 at 9:33.”

They might have apologized for any inconveniences this may cause. At this point Lydia was about 11 and 1/2 percent worried that we wouldn’t make the ferry that night. I was a bit more worried than that. We had 2 hours and 12 minutes to make an hour’s journey. We’d be alright. Once we were on the train we’d have to take a bus replacement from Marks Tey Station to Manningtree Station, then get back on the train at Manningtree for the last 10-mile stretch to Harwich.

We got on the 9:33 train and the ride seemed a lot longer than it was supposed to be. We finally got to Marks Tey for our bus replacement. By then we had 45 minutes till the ferry left port. The driver of the bus was pretty old. He was pretty slow. He looked up how far it was from Manningtree to Harwich for us and said the bus ride from Marks Tay to Manningtree would be about 20 minutes or so. After the first stop he crashed the bus into a pole.
We couldn’t believe it but in a very Murphy’s Law way, we could believe it and almost expected it. The bus driver crashed the bus so we had to get a bus replacement for the bus replacement for train replacement for the cancelled train. We could still make it.

The second bus got us to Manningtree at about 11:24 or something ridiculous. There were 5 people on the bus and we said to the man working at the station “Next train to Harwich! Our ferry leaves in 20 minutes!”

“There aaarrh no traaains to Harwich toniiight.”

This was the end of the line. We weren’t getting out of England. We were stranded at Manningtree. There was one other person besides us trying to get to Harwich. A Shaun who’s actually from Harwich and in the Army and he was just as stuck as we were. He offered us his last three cigarettes and called a cab from Harwich to pick us all up in Manningtree to take us back to Harwich.

If only the cab could run out of gas or hit a deer. That would top off the night. But that wasn’t the cherry on our disaster sundae. No. That’s still to come.

We figured once we were at the station we could talk to someone and crash in the lobby. Or maybe since every single mode of transportation we’d attempted had been late, the ferry would be too. But this was a lofty hope.

We pulled up to the Harwich station at quarter past midnight. The ferry was gone. There was one train on the tracks that said out of service. The doors were locked on it. We tried the lobby doors. They were also locked. We thought we saw some security guards inside, but they were gone by the time we made it around to the other door.

There was nothing we could do. The cab had already gone to drop Shaun off. We didn’t have any phone numbers for anything. Several thoughts occurred to us.

Wishes were coming true left and right on this trip. Lori got to see Big Ben. Dream come true. I wanted a commissioned painting of Harris Manchester. Dream come true. Lydia Joy Fischer always wanted to know what it was like to be homeless. Dream come true.

We slept in an elevator.

Luckily we had a block of cheese, 3 bread rolls, a bag of peanuts, an orange, 2 bananas, 3 bars of chocolate, and a bottle and a half of water. We wouldn’t go hungry. And we’d all used the bathroom on the train.

When we bought the bread and cheese we thought about getting a bottle of wine but thought we wouldn’t be able to bring it on the ferry. We wished we’d just gotten it anyway. Maybe we would have actually slept if we’d split a bottle of wine.

We were thankful for the elevator because it blocked the wind, even if it wasn’t necessarily warm. We used our backpacks as pillows. Towels as blankets. Notebooks as cushions for those hard joints like hips and knees. The floor was cold so the more layers you could put between you and the floor, the warmer you were. But warm is a relative term.

Absolutely unbelievable. We spent the night in an elevator in Harwich, England. Who doesn’t? Would we get kicked out if a security guard found us? What if this was a real homeless person’s spot and we were taking over what didn’t belong to us?

What if we were each on our own? I refused to even entertain the thought. Lori said she would have had the taxi driver take her straight to the nearest hotel and not even try to get into the station. Lydia said that thought probably wouldn’t have occurred to her.

Things got cold and we had to huddle together and at one point I said to Lori, “Lori, do you need more space?” She said, “No, I’m trying to get closer.”

It was very bright in the elevator and I asked if there was a way to shut the lights off. Would that be too much to ask? What I found annoying (bright lights) Lydia and Lori found comforting. They’d rather the lights be on than off.

The luster of experiencing life as homeless wore off after a while and at some point in the middle of the night I moaned that I didn’t want to be homeless anymore. I wasn’t kidding. I groaned it in as much sincerity as I’ve ever possessed.

The station opened at 6:30 a.m. so we spent 6 hours in that elevator. We approached the desk and told the woman that we were supposed to be on the night ferry and we obviously missed it. She was quick to assure us we’d be on the 9 a.m. ferry to the Netherlands. We were prepared for maybe not trouble, but at least a bit of an explanation and a little persuasion. We’d reviewed the case over and over to determine if we’d made a mistake in this situation, but we didn’t.

When we told her we’d slept in an elevator she didn’t laugh. She was concerned. I guess we’d been laughing about it most of the time we expected her to laugh about it too.

We slept a nights worth in the middle of the day on the ferry and arrived in Amsterdam about 7 pm.

We often reference that night we slept in an elevator. If something goes a little inconveniently, we can always say, “at least it’s not an elevator.” And it’s pretty satisfying to say, “Slept in an elevator.”

I’m pretty sure that in 45 years I’ll be in the grocery store buying an apple or an orange and some small thing like an add for deodorant with a picture of several people cramped in an elevator and a tag line that says, “Don’t sweat it” or something equally as cheesy and I’ll laugh out loud at just the thought of being hot in an elevator.



Bit of an update:
The train from Amsterdam to Berlin was great until the last 2 hours or so. It got so crowded and stuffy hot that we figured the cosmos were trying to make it up to us for the cold night in an elevator by supplying us with a hot afternoon on a train. No, Cosmos. We appreciate your thoughtfulness, but let’s just call it even.

We’ve got today to roam around Berlin before taking a night train to Zurich and then a train from Zurich to Innsbruck. Lori’s bound and determined to get a leather jacket. Lydia’s in need of a good watch. I need shorts. Things are getting warm and jeans are heavy. It’s time to lose some layers.