Gonna get along without you now

Between avoiding unpacking, avoiding eating, going to the gym, and avoiding the world through reading, it's no wonder I've taken so damned long to update this.  Unfortunately for the people around me in my real life, they've had to suffer the brunt of my frustration at not venting my emotions through a highly privatized online medium.  Isn't it funny the way the world works?  In fact, I realized I desperately needed to write something today, while bitching myself out over playing the guitar poorly.  So I've added loads of Avett Brothers to my radio, have some tissues at the ready, and am prepared to unload some misadventures, thoughts, or insights. 

When last you saw me: I was in London, living at Gill and Diogo's, being generally awkward and misanthropic and emotional because my vacation was almost over and I wasn't ready to go home.  This isn't to say that I didn't miss my family: I did.  I just was ready to be selfish for a little bit longer.  My last night in London, we went to Joe's concert, and then ate ice cream at home and played cards.

They're pretty adorable together.

My last day in London, I woke up fairly early, took a shower, and packed.  I was fairly amazed that everything fit in my backpack.  I left London with a good 25% more in the Ergomatic, which was stuffed to capacity to begin with.  I watched the most recent episode of The Only Way is Essex, which I can no longer stream in America (sooo very, very sad!) and we drove off to get my legitimate, English Fish & Chips.

You don't want to see the bottom of the bag.  Trust me.

So glorious...

I ate so much, I thought I would burst.  I'm also very glad that I discovered this delicious, crispy, sour, slightly painful confection at the end of my visit, and not at the beginning.  If I'd known how good these are, I probably would've eaten nothing else, gained twenty pounds, and spent all my money.  We ate in the car, and I also had a Ginger Beer, which is quite delicious, and very gingery.  Quel suprise.

Oh, yum!

Irresistible

Yuuuuup

We drove from there to the airport playing summery songs.  We passed through Chelsea, where I will live when I meet an exceedingly rich English gentleman who decides he can't live without me.  Totally happening.  For sure.  It's a gloriously lovely place, with friendly-looking mini parks, and right on the Thames, too.  I was lost in thought for a long time, considering the gravity of my return, and what I would do once I came home.

I had to check my backpack in the airport, because apparently the flight was crowded.  I wasn't happy about this at all, but what could I do?  Then I bummed around the airport for a while by myself, and it was time to board the plane.  I was reading the borrowed If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Cavino and surreptitiously spying on my fellow passengers while riding on the tram to the airplane.  There were Swiss, British, American, and Old.  Maybe some blurred the categories.  I was seated between two women, both of whom were fairly interesting.  The woman on my right was grading decently-written philosophy papers about lies, and the one on my left had a fountain pen and a beautifully written (visually, since I couldn't read her damned handwriting) journal.  I think she might have been Catholic, because that's the only place they teach you such nice calligraphy.  I finished the tenth book of the month in Cavino, and I'm still not too sure what I think of it.  Certainly interesting, unique, and not something I would've picked up myself, so thanks Gill!  I think I might need to re-read it to post an actual opinion, though it's certainly worth the trouble.

When I landed, the security people decided I was suspicious, so I had to put my backpack through the extra scanner, and repeat that I wasn't carrying any food products.  Seriously, I wasn't.  I hadn't been around livestock either, but maybe the Denver airport personnel don't understand any motivation for visiting the amount of countries I saw that didn't include biological terrorism.  It's a valid point of view, I suppose.

Mitch met me, and it was very nice to see a familiar face after all that time.  He told me that a man on my plane had proposed to his girlfriend as soon as he came out of baggage claim right there in the airport.  I was sad I'd missed it.  I still am.  It's reassuring when people hold hands and pledge their lives to each other in this day and age.  Maybe not everyone thinks about the ramifications of marriage and codependency the same way I do, but it really warms my heart to see people overstep the terrifying prospect of stagnation and decay with the optimism required to vow to be together for as long as they can.  Officially.

On the drive back to my house, I realized how tired I was, and made conversation as well as I could.  My mother was home when I got there.  The trees have begun to bloom, and the air is filled with their perfume.  I keep meaning to take a branch or two home.  I ran up and hugged her hello while Mitch brought my backpack up the stairs, and deposited it in my room.  He really is one of the warmest people I know, in spite of himself.  Then, Mitch left, and the rest of my family arrived.  I spoke with my grandparents and Dad and Mom as we sat there at the table, trading stories and jokes until I could barely keep my eyes open.  Then, everyone dispersed, and I went to sleep.

The last two days have been fairly uneventful.  It's now Monday, and I've been home for a total of three days.  On Saturday, I caught the premiere of Doctor Who (terrifying!  What the hell?!  Why is it so scary, oh my sweet lord?!), painted eggs for Easter, and bought the last Pasha in the store.  I made up the Easter baskets and was set to go to the church and bless them when I realized yet again how tired I was, and went to sleep.  Sunday, I ate eggs and blessed Pasha, listened to my mom tell stories about the night before and the subsequent drama, went to the gym, took my brother to see Rio (adorable!) and read some more of The Jungle.  Today, Mitch came over, and we hung out.  We played guitar, chess, and saw Your Highness, which was vulgar, but hilarious. 

I've been waking up at six in the morning like clockwork, and been feeling definitively under the weather.  I might be allergic to my cat and have never noticed, or I might be legitimately ill.  It's a toss up to be sure.  Today, I also started feeling very low, and there's no particular reason why.  I still need to go to the gym, and maybe read some more, or see my dad.  Maybe if I keep distracted, I won't notice how much less interesting I feel, and subsequently how little I like myself.  Maybe eventually, I'll fool myself into enjoying spending time with myself.  I've been dragging my feet in accomplishing things I need to do like get my brakes fixed, go to the bank, and fill out my FAFSA.  When abroad, I felt like I could be anyone; do anything.  Now that I'm home, I've assumed the vacated role of the person I was when I left.  This life feels alien, and chafes my skin.  None of these belongings are mine.  Even this body is unfamiliar.  Is that insane?

Unreasonably early wake-up for no reason

Life is very difficult while traveling. For a while, your body seems to be on your side, experiencing all the great things your mind is going through with patience and resignation. 

"Well, if you must, you must.  I'll just be along for the ride, keeping track of your every movement, bite, and unwary hand placement."  Eventually, though, and more often sooner than later, your habits catch up with you, and there are no excuses.  For example: when you look down at the scale and find you've gained five pounds in spite of all the walking, or when you look at yourself in the mirror and find a HUGE pimple in the middle of your forehead. 

When you sit down somewhere and realize the most attractive option is immediate sleep; when you calm down for a week or so and your body decides to remind you how frail your immune system ACTUALLY is, or when the curtain is lifted from the romance and all that's left is the stench of your feet in a hotel room in a town whose name you couldn't pronounce for the life of you.  None of this comes from personal experience.  No, of course not.

I'm nauseous this morning.  Maybe because I'm still technically lactose intolerant, and last night was a whole lot of ice cream, and very quickly.  My stomach still hasn't forgiven me, possibly because I wasn't concerned with its welfare while stuffing my face.  Just goes to show: you can't escape your decisions, regardless of their scope.  Let me start over.

Yesterday, I woke up at ten thirty, and was tired.  I took a shower, because sedentary people do these things.  Brushed my hair out, fixed my face, and went into the kitchen for breakfast.  Had some olives, dates, and black tea, because I wasn't feeling my best.  I fled to my room with the boxes and the drum kit because I couldn't really stand sitting at the table awkwardly making conversation for another morning.  Gill eventually came in, and I confessed how crappy I was feeling.

We'd smoked hookah the day before.  I'd partaken in a cigarette, and my throat felt like it had been scythed by the pastoral cast of Yentl.  I was coughing, which was potentially-frightening, because every single person in this house has fallen victim to a strange illness that renders you absolutely dead for days on end.  It always begins with a cough.  That's the first thing I need in a foreign country that I'm leaving in a day, right?  So instead of going to the National Gallery with Gill, I decided I would spend the day inside, recovering.  I ventured out and bought some raspberry jam, sweating all the way.  The day was hot.  I wasn't feeling well.  Luckily, Gill understood, and hovered a little bit to insure I was feeling well.  She even dragged out her only (lost) bottle of nail polish so I could feel slightly more like a human being, and made me tuna pasta for lunch.

All day, I sat in the room, read, and drank tea with raspberry jam.  This is possibly the best thing to drink when you're anticipating illness, because raspberry jam causes you to sweat, and sweating out the sick is a very good idea.  I finished another graphic novel, and my last book of vacation reading, which brings my grand total for the month up to 9.  Seven books, and two entire series of graphic novels.  Sometimes, I wonder what's wrong with me.  Other times, I wonder what's wrong with the rest of the world.

The Learners was good, by the way.  Chip Kidd is the master of one medium (jacket-making, so graphic design) and is quickly making advances on another one.  I'm an equal-opportunity bibliophile, but even I sense that Kidd is something special.  Since The Learners is a sequel, I recommend people read Cheese Monkeys first.  Not only does it introduce you to the characters, it seems a little more light than this more current book.  The current one has been out for two years or so now, but I've been waiting for the opportunity to purchase the paperback, because the hardcover edition (though absolutely beautiful, and chock-full of fun graphic inserts and things) is super expensive.  I finally bought the paperback in the Borders Closing Sale.

This series chronicles the misadventures of one, Happy, an up-and-coming graphic artist in the 20th century.  People say it's a little like Mad Men, which I haven't seen, so I can't verify.  Cheese Monkeys explains Happy's college years, and The Learners is what happens once he's out on the job market for reals.  Happy has a good voice for narration, because he's a little unattached in spite of his engagement with the world around him. 

In The Learners, Happy moves to New Haven, Connecticut, for a job as an assistant to a graphic artist in an advertising firm whose main client is a potato chip company.  He takes this step because his freshman-year Graphic Design professor started out at the same firm years ago.  Happy learns an unbelievable amount about the graphic world, and the reality of the utilities of graphic design.  He gets a firm grasp on the fundamental skills like drawing a straight line, and rendering in blue pencil. 

The great thing about setting this book in the 1960's is that these techniques come across as wholeheartedly brilliant, or as they appear to most novices hearing about this stuff for the first time (Kidd's readers), instead of the first thing you learn nowadays in your graphic design class.  Happy's doing fine for a while until a ghost from his past storms her way into his life with the grace of a well-dressed bull in a paint shop, demanding the misplaced head of a rhinoceros.  Her name is Himillsy, and is the fag hag to Happy's--whoops, sorry, that's never said outright!--anyway, her intervention sparks a chain of events that lead Happy to taking part in the Stanley Milgram experiment going on at Yale.

If you're somehow unaware of the Milgram experiments, or want a refresher, here's a link to the Wikipedia article.  Don't be shy to follow it; I'll still be here when you get back.

Now that we're all up to speed, let's return to our scheduled programming.  Happy takes part in the experiment, and finds out something that he never wanted to know about himself.  He just can't get over the guilt and shame brought on as a result of the thing he learns, and spirals downward, which Kidd illustrates through frequent breaks of the fourth wall, very interesting use of text/font, and design influencing the content of the pages.  He does this very well, being a graphic artist.  As a book that stands alone, I would call The Learners a rousing success.  As part of a series, I would give it a cursory golf clap and be done with it.

Firstly, in Cheese Monkeys, Happy is completely obsessed with one particular person.  That person is mentioned only peripherally in The Learners.  Himillsy also takes a large part of the text away from Happy in the first book.  She steals the show neatly, and with the great style of a true Manic Pixie Dream Girl.  Here, she has a round chapter, and occasional mention later on.

Kidd drops so many different potential plots that I didn't notice when the actual plot came sidling into the room, and it was so much less interesting than any of the other routes he could've taken that I was exceedingly underwhelmed.  Don't get me wrong: I liked the book.  I just thought Cheese Monkeys was much better, and less up its own ass.  There were some legitimately funny moments in both books, but Kidd seems obsessed with the idea of building a calm, idyllic world, and completely shattering it in the last few pages with the bipolar gusto of a child who spends an entire afternoon building a sandcastle, admires it for a moment, and kicks it to bits.  Kidd is a great artist, and a wonderful designer.  He has a way with words, makes me laugh, and seems to have mastered multiple literary techniques designed to keep me engaged.  I'm not sure if he breathes life into his characters.  In short: for an artist, he's an amazing writer.

I would definitely recommend this book to my artist friends, and people looking for some relatively light summer reading that's as far removed from Danielle Steel as possible.

Anyway, that occupied the majority of my afternoon.  I also read Paul Pope's 100%, which was short, well-drawn, and dramatic.  I painted my nails, and drank more tea.  When I finished the book, Gill let me borrow If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino, which is meant to be my introduction to Post-Modern literature.  So far, it's entertaining, but bulldozes through the fourth wall as if it were air.  I'm about forty pages in.  Hopefully, it'll keep me for a few hours on the plane today.

Then, Rashed made green curry, Gill made rice, Diogo came home, and we sat down to eat.  After food, Gill and I practiced catching gummy bears in our mouths from opposite sides of the table like frat boys while the boys sat on the futon and watched Naruto.  I don't get the appeal, since I'm not a boy, and predisposed to hating most anime that's main-stream because of the--forgive me if I misspell this!--weebos. 

Anyway, after that, we all went out to The Old Queen's Head to listen to Joe's band.  They were decent, though slightly cacophonous.  The guy before them was a fairly convincing one-man band.  Whiskey sours in this time zone are pretty decent, but served with lemon, which confused me at first.  Some hilarity ensued as we watched the band members hit on girls, and we sat down in the couch that was literally right in front of the stage because Diogo is a brave one, and we all wanted to do it, but were too shy.

Our seat afforded me a good angle on the rest of the room, so I took a little time checking out the fashion of the Indie scene in London.  This year, they really like the bun on top of your head, the way they've been doing it in Japan for years now.  Also, they like the checker pattern, skinny jeans, and wing-tipped shoes.  Gill correctly associated it with 1960's American fashion, with a splash of rockabilly.  I don't mean to seem imperialistic, but the more I travel Europe, the more I find people trying to emulate American culture and fashion.  Rock n' roll, as it were, came from the jazz scene in America.  In Prague, we saw a Jack Rabbit Slim's (of Pulp Fiction fame).  In Italy, the younger kids were all rocking their Chucks and Adidas.

I digress.  By the time Joe's band finished, it was about ten, so we went out for a smoke, and then headed back to Gill and Diogo's, where we sat until about 12:30 playing a Portuguese card game and consuming two pints of Ben & Jerry's.  One was Phish Food, and the other was Half Baked.  Both were delicious.  Then, in no fit state to blog, I went to sleep, and awakened today at 8 AM for no real reason at all. 

Today is Good Friday here, and a Bank Holiday, so everyone has work off.  This is good, because everyone will be relaxed, but bad, because I need to be at the airport right at rush hour.  I still need to get my super authentic British fish & chips, and we're leaving the flat at one PM today.

I can't believe that my trip is already over.  It didn't turn out at all how I expected it to go, but I saw a lot of Europe, and spent some time getting acquainted with myself as a traveler.  I learned a few things about myself in the process.

1.  I am stubborn.  If I say I'm going to do something, I will fight for it until the bitter end.

2.  There's a steel pole in my back instead of a spinal column.  If I need to, I will carry a 20-pound backpack up and down flights of stairs, through a city, in the snow, uphill both ways.  And I won't complain about it anywhere but my blog.  ;-)

3.  Art museums take me an average of an hour and a half per floor.

4.  Archeological museums interest me peripherally, at best.

5.  Every meal should begin with bread and olive oil, and end with gelato.

6.  Little luxuries make me sane, and feel as though I'm at home.  These include, but are not limited to: hot showers, shaving my legs, painting my nails, changing my shoes, e-mails from my loved ones, music in English, and having clean socks.

7.  I actually enjoy feeling like crap on the road.

8.  I can make myself understood in the Czech Republic through sheer will.

9.  I'm not addicted to cigarettes, pot, liquor, or any other substance intended to get you "high."  This includes caffeine.

10.  Cappuccinos are delicious; dates are your best friends.  

11.  I'm a compulsive collector/hoarder of books.

12.  Pickpocketing is completely avoidable if you're aware enough.

13.  I'm capable of drinking entire bottles of supremely crappy wine.

14.  When stressed, I grind my teeth during sleep.

15.  Water is the most amazingly useful substance known to man.

16.  Riding a bike is simultaneously easier and more difficult than it looks.

I think that's about all the wisdom I've gathered thus far.  Too soon, it's time to go.  I'm ready to be home, and back to my normal life.  Anyway, this is by no means the end of my travels.  In the mean time, though, I'll have to find something slightly more interesting than my life to write about.

Life Truths Gleaned from The Only Way is Essex

1.  If it rhymes, it's sound advice.  Example: 'Bros before hoes' (or, alternatively: 'Bros before hose'--as in hosiery, or stockings--)  Also: 'Chicks before dicks'; 'Check yourself before you wreck yourself'.

2.  "Shut up" actually only has three letters.  "Shuuuu-uuuuu," with your voice going up on the last "uuuuuu" sound.  If you want to make this expression shorter, just cut out the length of the "uuuuuu-uuuuuu."  "Shu-u!"

3.  Full words are too long to remember.  Making them shorter is cool.  Example: "jeal" for "jealous."  Ideally, use of this word can also rhyme.  ("That ho is jeal for real.")

4.  If you look any shade lighter than a piece of whole-grain toast, you're a white freak; unattractive, and unlovable.

5.  Asking people rhetorical questions at the end of your sentences is cool.  They don't have to make sense.  "That's a nice spray tan, innit?"  "She looks good tonight, don't she?"  "Shai 'as a noice pehso'aiity, dun it?"  If your every phrase is perceived as a question, and you're as attractive as these people, everyone is bound to agree with you.

Amy, who owns a salon, and has trouble pronouncing "Sylvester Stallone."

Lauren, whose nose doesn't exist

Mark, who's slept with most of the women on the show

6.  A woman's attractiveness is gleaned by her propensity to topple over for being top-heavy.  You should be a size 00 on bottom, and at least a double-D on top, or you're a fat freak (possibly a flat-chested one), and no one will ever love you.

7.  When resorting to plastic surgery, remember: looking like a race horse is cool.  You want no expression in your forehead, a tiny nose, lips the size of half your face, and very large teeth.  Think of a cross between Mr. Ed and a Bratz doll.

Chloe: a perfect 10

 8.  If your son breaks up with his girlfriend and is very sad, buy him a new girlfriend.  Go for the white Range Rover.

9.  Even though each of your boobs is twice the size of your head, you shouldn't cover them.  They were bought to be shown!

Amy again, because she's so quintessentially Essex

10.  When arguing with your significant other, the best way to placate them (if it's a girl) is to propose.

11.  When on a break from your significant other, the best way to get him to propose (if you're a girl) is to get the tattoo of his name removed.

12.  "Reem" is a word.  It means "really, really good."

 13.  When talking to/about someone who's "normal," one should refer to them as a "geezer."


14.  No one cares how stupid you are, or your knowledge of current events, if you're as obviously attractive as this guy:

Joey Essex, who they couldn't possibly have made up because he's so vain and vapidly stupid.  I sort of hope they made him up.

The following is a transcription of an actual conversation had during the show.

Girl: So, what are some of your, like, interests?

Joey:  -smile- Uh, well, you could say, like politics.

Girl:  Politics?  Who's the prime minister?

Joey: What, of Essex?

Girl:  -giggle- No, of England.

Joey:  Well, that's actually what I studied in school, is politics.  Um, they taught us stuff like, well, about the city, and stuff.  That's politics, innit?

Girl:  They didn't teach you who the Prime Minister of England is?

Joey:  Well...

Girl:  Don't you think that's something you should know?  -demanding- Who's the Prime Minister of England?

Joey:  Um, well -pretending to think- it's that geezer, innit?  Like, um... -toothy grin- I dunno.

Girl:  -giggle-

15.  The more annoying your laugh, the cuter it is.

16.  If you can still frown, you haven't had enough botox.

17.  20 years old is a fine age for sleeping around.  Any older, and you're a "slag."

18.  Essex is the Jersey Shore of England

19.  If your hair moves in the wind, you aren't using enough hairspray

20.  If your nether-bits haven't had Swarovsky crystals glued to them, it's unattractive to the opposite sex.  Men are like crows, so go and get your "vagazziles" done.

21.  When choosing your makeup for the day, remember: if anyone sees your eyes, it's because they're looking too hard.  Also, false eyelashes are daywear, and you're naked without  shiny, shiny gloss smeared all over your over sized, collagen-filled, comical, clown-like lips.

22.  When your boyfriend doesn't pay enough attention to you, whine.  Without end.

23.  If you're worried about him cheating, get a 20-32 black-and-white portrait of yourself taken, and hang it in his bedroom, right over the bed.

24.  Only lazy, ugly people aren't glamor models.

25.  If I watch any more of this show, I will talk of nothing else for YEARS.

The strange thing about being a confirmed bibliophile is that, no matter where you are, a book seems a welcome alternative to the real world.  This leads to awkward moments with other people who share reality with you because you're more interested in printed words and imaginary friends than flesh-and-blood humans.  It's not my fault that my two-dimensional friends are more interesting than the three-dimensional ones, but maybe I shouldn't forsake everyone as much as I do.  It makes things more awkward than they need to be when I'm confronted with a situation in which I need to be personable in order to keep things from descending into uncomfortable silence.

This morning was another late start.  I woke at around 9:30 for real, though I'd woken up earlier to the sounds of Diogo getting ready in the morning and fallen back asleep.  I bummed around the Internet for a little bit, and then continued with my last book of this voyage, which I'd intentionally left in London so that I wouldn't be tempted to read it.  The Learners, by Chip Kidd, in case you're interested.  Once completed, it will make seven books read in a month.  Perhaps a personal best.  Eventually, I rolled out of bed, and got into the shower.  If anyone's counting, that makes the first one in about two days.  It was time, since my hair was literally an undifferentiated sheet of grease, which may be very attractive, but not so easy to style.  My shower was leisurely, though the hot water went out about halfway through.  All the better, since London is super hot right now, and cold showers wake up your circulatory system much better than their hot counterparts.

After getting dressed, I went into the living room/kitchen to prepare my breakfast.  Rashed was still in, though awake, so I felt slightly awkward intruding on his personal space in his room, but it was time to wake up, anyway.  I sat with my book, my carrots, hummus, and some tea, trying to ignore the uncomfortable silence.  Gill came in, and I asked for a nail file, because my nails have been completely out of control due to travel.  My skin also isn't faring too well.  I sat there with different nail files for a good two hours, perfecting my manicure as well as I could with no clear polish.  It's a very sad state of affairs, but I'm days away from home, where I'll be able to have a proper mani/pedi done, so I can deal for the moment.

The initial plan for today was to go on a day trip somewhere like Bath, or Oxford, but the buses take three hours each way, and seem ultimately not worth the effort, so we stayed in London.  I decided that I would literally kill myself if I stayed in the flat for the entire day, so Gill and I planned to go to Tea in a proper teahouse in Kew at around 4.  It was one when I decided I couldn't within reason file my nails any longer, and Rashed left, so I couldn't sit in the same room as him and make awkward conversation between requests for music.  I remembered a show Gill had mentioned a while ago, and asked her to find me a way to watch The Only Way is Essex on my computer.

Due to the virus my PC contracted on the first day in London, I had her find a safe channel through which I could watch the show, and I sat down to the UK's answer to The Jersey Shore.  It's pretty glorious.  Between vagazzils, botox, reem, jeals, spray tans, and useless cheap drama, I was thoroughly entertained for the remaining two hours before we left for Kew.  I threw some supplies into my "I love Giovanni Paulo II" bag from Rome, and we went to the metro to top up our Oyster Cards and get on the train to tea.

I was glad I brought the Chip Kidd book, because we were on the train for about an hour, or 21 stops.  Once in Kew, we passed large families who'd been barbecuing in Kew gardens (you could call it barbeKewing) and some very pretty buildings.  Kew is the sort of place I think of when I think of a classically English town.  It's in the more suburban area of London, and has lovely houses with flower boxes and quaint lilac trees.  The entire borough smells overpoweringly of flowers.  I took many pictures, and here are some.

When we arrived at the tea house, it was fairly crowded, especially since it was such a warm day outside.  I've always been a firm believer in drinking hot drinks when it's hot outside, because then any breeze turns into the most refreshing cool-down imaginable.  Also, you sweat more, so you're actually releasing heat.  Apparently, a good number of people in the area of Kew agree with me.  We ordered two for tea, and received a large tea pot, a plate of two scones each (complete with England's best-kept secret product: clotted cream, and jam, and butter) and a choice of any cake we'd want, as if the intense carbo-loading wasn't enough.  Everything was set off very prettily with doilies, blue china, and silver trays with adorable little spoons and antique knives.

Delicious and adorable.  Yes, the roses are real.

We're very happy to be here as Gill poses with the clotted cream ;-D

As you can see from the pictures, the interior of the tea house is all pink all over.  The curtains are gaudy with huge roses, and the waitresses are all adorable in their flower-print uniforms and sweet little aprons.  There are pictures of Henry VIII on a majority of the walls, as well as old black-and-white photographs of people in old models of cars, family portraits, and general kitschy antiques, which somehow comes off as legitimately adorable.  We had a leisurely tea, which lasted about two hours, at the end of which I felt as though I'd burst.  We waddled back to the train station, where I bought more dates, and we set on our way back to the flat. 

The tube was very crowded on the journey back because, apparently, it's rush hour at around seven PM.  I can't say much for the cleanliness of the city of London in general, or in the state of the sanitation in the underground, but everything runs very smoothly, and logically.  All the stations are announced clearly, in very proper English, and the interior rails of the trains are all painted to coincide with their colors on the maps, which makes locating the correct train for your destination much simpler than it usually is in foreign countries.  I did some more reading, and was very careful with my bag, which doesn't close very well.  Kind of an open invitation to enterprising pickpockets, but it comes with the territory.

After our tube ride, we walked back to Gill and Diogo's, where Rashed wasn't.  Gill had mentioned he was going to make curry for dinner for all of us, but that plan was clearly scrapped, and Gill made penne and broccoli for dinner.  I needed to digest for a while, so I went back into my room, and watched more of The Only Way is Essex.  They're so trashy, it makes me feel a lot better about my life.  They all have fake boobs, fake tans, huge lips, and touched-up noses, not to mention their general lack of any sort of maturity or common sense.  It's amazing.  Also, Diogo's student came over again, so being quiet and alone was the name of the game.  Eventually, I ventured forth to get some food, ate, and went back to watching this silly, addictive show until I finished every episode of this season.  Then, I sat down to blogmakken.  I should sleep soon, since it's almost one, and I decided that we'd go to the National Gallery tomorrow.  Should be pretty amazing; three full floors of Renaissance and Neo-Classical art.  I do love museums.  I especially love art museums, and free ones at that.  Good night!

Resort Vacation Destination: London

Full of dates and risotto, I sit to write, vowing not to stop until death, or when I get wherever I need to go.  Today, I woke up late.  Nine thirty local time, but about ten thirty by Italian time.  I can't seem to get enough sleep these days.  All the travel has me lagging behind no matter where I go.  I was a little depressed this morning, too, since my awesome vacation is slowing down, and the only further opportunity for exploration remains in the vicinity of London. 

Uncomfortable by how at home Gill is here, and feeling slightly alienated because of how like a stranger  I am, I desperately looked up bus fares to Edinburgh with my morning.  I found a way to get there for 50 pounds total, and had a place to stay with a couchsurfing host who seemed interesting, and at least funny.  Unfortunately, it's a silly idea, because the bus ride each way is about twelve hours, and I leave London in three days.  Edinburgh just isn't happening this time, and that's sort of okay.  I can't help the urge to flee when I see someone I'm so close to be equally close, on a completely different level, to people I'm practically strangers with.  I don't begrudge her happiness; I'm glad she's found a niche in the world; but I still feel left out of the community here, and this leads to loneliness, which leads to resentment, and a deep urge to flee far, far away.  I just have to deal at this point, though. 

We left the house to go to the post office and change some money for me.  I got more pounds than Euros when I exchanged my money in the train station.  Remember: never, ever change money in the station!  On the way to the post office, we were getting all sorts of random male attention, which is a bit creepy, but slightly ego-boosting at the same time.

London is bright and cheery.  I was unprepared for this, and wore a three-quarter-length shirt.  I was sweating on the walk to the post office.  It's amazing to see everyone in this city almost chipper when I'm used to everyone being dour and, at best, coolly polite.  The sun shone, the birds sang, and it was warmer than any place we'd visited, including Rome. 

We went grocery shopping with the money I changed, and I bought provisions for the next few days.  Gill bought ingredients for dinner tonight (an artichoke risotto) and I got dates, hummus, carrots, apples, and two pre-made salads.  I assume that should be enough to last me four days.  From there, we went back to the flat, and the concierge asked us if we were going to barbecue.  We weren't, since we're not nearly that talented, but we did go out to buy some shisha for Gill's hookah a little after.  I first needed to launder some of my clothing, which was getting ridiculous.  I'd had no clean socks whatsoever, and a dwindling supply of clean shirts, especially with the Ryanair fiasco in Italy when I ended up sweating through five layers of shirts for no real reason.

We took an hour-long bus ride to the Marble Arch, and walked to a store that sold shisha, according to a google search.  They ended up selling a shisha imitation made from sugar cane refuse, but we bought some anyway, along with a tempting-looking watermelon and some gelati, which are a necessity when traveling.  Then, we went back to the flat, and prepared a hookah.  We were setting it up outside on the balcony when Gill and Diogo's other live-in guest, Rashed, came back.  The three of us sat on the balcony smoking for a while, and then we all scattered to our separate pursuits.  Gill began preparing the risotto at around five, Diogo came home at six thirtyish, and we sat down to eat at seven or so.  The recipe was delicious, and only made with half a cup of rice.  All four of us ate our fill, and the boys had seconds.  Then it was a slice of watermelon for dessert, and Diogo's student came over for her tutoring session, so I went back to my room to read some more.

The Golum turned out beautifully, by the way.  I've only just finished it, and that's what's mostly on my mind at the moment.  It reminded me of the Prague that I could only guess at, visiting it as a tourist in this day and age.  It was convoluted, and twisty, and bendy, and steeped in mythology and folk-lore; tradition and legend; the most corrupt aspects of human nature and the most saintly.  It was fabulous, and read very quickly.  I've finished it in three sittings, which is very quick for a book of its size.  Gustav Meyrink is the author, and though the text was translated from German, it retained a sense of the magic.

Tomorrow, I think we're going sight-seeing, and then having a proper teatime in a little cafe somewhere in Kew.  I'm excited, since I've already been to the cafe in Kew, and I love the ambiance, the waitresses, and the entire construct of the little tea house nestled in a pretty neighborhood next to a large garden.  I'll probably be taking more pictures, so prepare yourselves!

Super helpful travel tip straight from my experience #2: don't change your money in a train station.  Ever.  They rip you off so hard that it feels like you're being raped, and then tell you that they're giving you a good price.  Bull.  Shit.  Seriously.

Today was very frustrating for a lot of different reasons.  One of the main ones is that I found myself in the middle of a line in a Roman central train station sweating my face off underneath twelve shirts, three scarves, three pairs of pants, and six bras.  Another reason is the afore-mentioned rip off.  Another is the time I spent on trains getting into Rome, being bolstered on either side by surly Italians who didn't have the decency to realize that the large thing strapped to my back wasn't easy to maneuver.  I can go on anachronistically, but it's probably best to start at the beginning.

We woke up at around nine.  I'd awakened a few times before that, though always returned to sleep, because it wasn't yet time to get up.  The lazy day yesterday had me fairly rested, so when it was finally time to get up, I was ready to face the hellish day of travel that loomed before us.  We went to breakfast, ate our usual dry crackers with jam and butter and jam-filled croissants with powdered sugar, and drank our large pot of tea.  Today, we watched the Italian MTV Top Ten, and discovered that J-Lo is, in fact, still alive, and definitely attempting something like music.  Her ass dance was entertaining. 

Once back in the room, I set to dressing, which today meant layering, because Ryanair (the company with which we were flying) has a strict weight limit on baggage.  10 kg, or about 20 pounds.  My bag was overweight last time we weighed it by about 2 kg, so the plan was to wear five pounds of clothing to the airport, weigh the bag, and then change out of the clothes in time to get on the plane.  It sounded simple enough in theory, but I quickly discovered that five pounds of clothing means six bras, 9 shirts, three scarves, three pairs of pants, and two sweater/hoody contraptions to cover everything up.  I looked in the mirror and it was as though I'd gained twenty pounds, or a good two to three inches all over the top half of my body.  On the bright side, I was tickle-proof.  On the not so bright side, I was completely desensitized and had six different bra straps digging into my shoulders.  We sat in the hotel room reading until it was time to check out.  I started The Golum, which is quite good so far.  All about life in a Jewish ghetto in Prague some centuries ago, and the evil beast that inhabits the subconscious of the people who live there.  Light vacation reading.  Then, we left the hotel room to the brightest, sunniest, and warmest day we'd had so far in Italy.  Just my luck.

We caught the bus, and then the two trains required to get to the airport without major incident.  It was really uncomfortable to be so much more heavy-set, and I couldn't breathe very well with all the underwire from my bras digging into the top part of my ribs, no to mention the unyielding, unsympathetic Italian commuters who had no regard for my large pack, or the fact that it was obviously difficult for me to move.  They insisted on trying to squeeze past me to leave the train, though there was a perfectly easy way to do it without disturbing me at all.  Murpy's Law, I suppose.  I was sweating profusely by the time we got to the last train station, and that was the one where we needed to climb up and down stairs unendingly to find our way to the airport, which wasn't the main one in Rome, so there was no Air Shuttle. 

We ran around the entire station, looking for an information booth, and finding a great deal of nothing.  To mix things up a little bit, I stood in a huge, hot line for a good fifteen minutes with my overweight pack, multiple bras, and PDA-happy Italian couples while Gill looked around for another Information booth.  The people there told her that we needed to get to the airport shuttle, but I was so fed up at this point that when we couldn't find the airport shuttle outside, I agreed to the idea of taking a cab to the airport, and started hunting down kiosks where I could change my money.

We found one, but they were busy changing thousands of Euros for some people who probably owned a small country in the Middle East, so we went to another bureau.  I asked them to change forty out of the hundred that I handed them, but they said they couldn't give me change for a hundred, and proceeded to exchange the entire bill for 47 Euros and some change.  The exchange rate for dollars to Euros is about 1.5, so we looked at the receipt, sure that they'd made a mistake.  No such luck: their flat fee for exchanging your money just happens to be 20 Euros, regardless of the amount they're changing.  Absolutely livid at how screwed I got in this transaction, I wordlessly walked with Gill to the nearest cab outside, got in, and we were on our way to the airport.  Finally.

Our driver was terrifying.  He'd swerve, not use turn signals, and accelerate from fifty to eighty or ninety miles per hour at will.  If we hadn't hit traffic, I'm sure I would've been screaming like a small schoolgirl at the unbelievable stress he put his passengers under.  Then again, I was feeling the effects of the large amount of clothing I'd been wearing, as well as the heat of the day, and the slow-cooking fury at the stupid money exchange people for capitalizing on my misery.  We drove through all of Rome for one last time, and I saw pretty much everything we'd walked through now in rapid succession through the window of the cab.  Finally, we were at the most cheap airport I've ever seen.  I think it has a total of about ten runways, only one approach, and flies exclusively Ryanair and Easyjet, so only within the EU, and only airlines who are a pain in the butt for travelers, but with super cheap fares.  I'm talking about 20 pounds total for a ticket. 

We checked in, me still in my ridiculous layers, and were let into the security line with no hassle.  They insisted that I had a second laptop in my backpack, and when I assured them that I did not, they asked me to open the top of my bag, where I had cords for my one laptop.  I also set off the machine with the copious underwire from all my bras, and was patted down, though I didn't feel anything.  They let me go, which just goes to show that I'd make a pretty amazing terrorist.  Once we got through passport control, we couldn't see any large scales, so Gill convinced me that it was now safe to remove my layers, which I did with great gusto in the ladies' bathroom downstairs.  The extra clothes I was wearing fit into my emergency carry-on bag, which is sad.  I re-packed my bag in the airport, and got around to relaxing, enjoying overpriced airport chocolate, and reading.  By the by, The Golum is pretty worth reading, and gives a cool portrait of the Jewish Ghetto in Prague before electricity, most indoor plumbing, and general civilization.

It was finally time to board, and I was worried about them weighing my bag, because it was now certainly over the weight limit.  Luckily, my cool, ignorant face saved me from undue attention by the flight personnel, and we boarded the shuttle to the airplane unmolested.  We found seats next to each other, stowed our bags, and relaxed. 

Two and a half hours later, we'd landed in London, gotten our bags, and walked through passport control with no grilling questions.  I knew the address where I'd be staying this time, so I didn't even get a lecture, which was a big plus.  I'm distracted while writing this.  There's too much going on in my head, and I can't really express it properly without betraying myself or hurting someone, and that's stupid.  The point of having an outlet is to blow off steam, and allow yourself to be completely honest.  I don't think I'm very good at doing that.  The more I think about it, the more I realize that people live their lives equivalently, in every direction they attempt.  If you're successful at one thing, you're successful with everything.  Not because you're naturally talented at everything you attempt, or because you have hands of gold, but because of your attitude.  If you're used to winning, and devoting yourself fully to everything you attempt, then you're successful by force of habit.  You follow the same steps everywhere, and exert the same sort of pressure on the world until it yields to you.  I think I'm just ready to give up and go home.

We got into London without incident.  Diogo drove us into the city, and we sang and jammed out while in traffic, to the great amusement of drivers next to us.  It was nice to see signs in a language I could read.  Then we dropped off our huge backpacks in Gill and Diogo's flat, and went out for some Chinese food next to the tube station.  We met Rashed there, who is also staying in Gill and Diogo's flat, and ate some yummy comfort food.  I had veggie udon, which was slightly bland, but I added hot sauce, which made it better.  Then, since it was eleven or so, and waaay past my travel bed time, once we got to the flat, I made a beeline for bed, and fell asleep, which is why this is being posted this morning instead of last night. 

The plan for today is copious laundry, since I've run out of even remotely clean socks, and dinner tonight with everyone. 

La dulce fa niente

Hello there.  It's strange to clack my thoughts out on this little word processing device.  I haven't done much in the way of self-expression today, unless you count intentionally mixing horrendous patterns in my outfits to cause the blood pressure of every Italian woman in a five-kilometer radius to rise just a little bit.  Palm Sunday, according to the Catholics.  A day during which all of Rome is closed, and there are barbeques, and parties, and assorted fun things.  My Italian is pretty amazing.  Probably too good to waste on actual Italian people, who aren't ready for the things I could do to their language.

Nothing particularly interesting happened today.  Gill and I went to breakfast, ate, and went back to the room.  I got to finishing Preacher by Garth Ennis (a graphic novel I took from a friend's portable hard drive).  All sixty-something books of it are officially read.  We lazed around all day eating oranges and soaking up sunlight and the unwary breezes that found their way into our room via the open window.  I took a shower, and almost killed myself in the cubicle intended for this purpose, first by scalding myself within an inch of life, and then by cutting myself shaving once or twice because the shower isn't large enough, or equipped with enough foot-holds, to make this endeavor anything resembling easy.

Gill and I took a walk at around four thirty because the day was pretty outside, and there was nothing to do in the hotel room.  On our way out, we encountered some women with hiking poles and boots and large floppy hats.  They were walking in the direction of the church in our town.  I personally think it's relatively famous in this area for being scenic and quaint.  At least, judging by the sheer mass of people that swarmed it today, I would believe that it holds some sort of significance for the local population.  The walk took us halfway down a hill near the road that leads up the hill to our town, the exploration of which yielded an irate puppy dog in a large cage carved into the rock, a large pile of rocks and trees and rubble that smelled suspiciously of dead things, and a little creek that reeked overwhelmingly of sewage.  In the other direction, we found large trees, pretty vines creepy-crawling their way up long-dead trees, some ambient sounds of Italian folks enjoying themselves with barbecue, a gray tabby cat with a loud Meowl!, and a local cemetery, closed for the day, which expressly forbids visits in excess of thirty minutes per grave.  And they said you can't put a time limit on grief!

We returned to the hotel room the more ambient sounds of Italians enjoying themselves, and got back to our pursuits.  I to my reading, Gill to her tumbler-ing, and e-mail writing, and music-listening.  We had a good ten or fifteen minutes in which we listened to just Taylor Swift songs, because of a hilarious encounter with a guy on the train the other day.

We were heading back from Rome, tired and extremely sore.  The train was fairly crowded, so we sat down next to a harmless-looking Italian fellow in circular glasses.  I expressed how happy I was to be back in the warm, because it was a very cold day outside, and he looked at me strangely.  Then, as we settled into our seats, I became aware of the fact that he'd applied his headphones, and was now listening to some sort of music on full blast.  Not one to deny others the privilege and untainted joy of auditory degeneration, I contented myself with eavesdropping, and quickly realized that there was something wrong with the music he was listening to.  I'd accustomed myself to listening for undifferentiated techno of poor and mass-produced quality, but this was something different.  The singer didn't sound Italian...and then it hit me like a thunderbolt in the uterus!  This boy was bopping to You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift!  I made Gill aware of this fact, and we listened bemusedly as this guy flipped through other songs to get back to more Taylor Swift.  He also had time to play Love Story and another song, which I can't remember because those are the only two songs I know by Taylor Swift.  I was crying and turning the color of a radish because of suppressed laughter.  He finally got off the train, and I exploded into hysterical giggles, to the quiet amusement of our fellows in the area. 

After listening to Taylor Swift today, we derped around for a while, wrote some more couchsurfing requests, and finally threw in the towel with going to Scotland.  It just wasn't meant to be!  No hostels are available for Good Friday, and the only hotels that will take us cost ridiculous amounts of money.  So I'll deal with being in London for an extra four days or so, and then head home to Colorado.  It's a little exciting, because I miss the elevation, and the clean water.  Oh, and the people.  ;-)

We changed my ticket to arrive in Denver on the 22nd, and I expect to be back in the swing of things in the middle of the weekend, or at the very latest, Sunday.  That'll be Catholic Easter, which was a bitch to plan around in all of the Southern European countries.  At least I can safely ignore it from my den in Colorado, drinking lots of coffee and scribbling away to my heart's content.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll even plan a mini-roadtrip somewhere interesting with the remainder of my funds from the European Vacation. 

And that's how I spent my Palm Sunday!  I need to pack now, since tomorrow is the day we leave the hotel for the airport, and the magic of Londontowne once again.  I probably won't get around to it until tomorrow, though, because I'm unspeakably lazy, and perhaps taking the spirit of this day of complete rest slightly too seriously.  Also, I'm interested in reading my new book.  Ciao!

Another day, another pizza...

I'm ridiculously tired right now, for no reason in particular.  I'm sick of the road, but I'm also not ready to go home.  Unfortunately, it seems as though I'll be getting home either this coming Monday or this Friday, depending on accommodations in the last city we would like to see.  Either way, we're flying into London the day after tomorrow.  From there, we may or may not be traveling further.  It'll be nice to do laundry in a space that's not a sink, but I feel as though I did London while I was staying with Gill.  Of course, it's impossible to see an entire city in a day, but I've been to London before.  There isn't all that much to do, I don't think.

Today, we woke up late.  Gill finally shook me awake at 9:30, which left us thirty minutes to change and get to breakfast before they stopped serving it at 10:00.  Simone (the friendly hotel worker) opened the breakfast room for us again, and we had the run of the place.  This hotel is seriously abandoned, but that makes it all the nicer.  We also saw bits and pieces of MTV in Italian, as well as the new series of YuGi-Oh with fabulous dubbing, and a commercial with George Clooney speaking Italian.  And here I thought he couldn't get any sexier.

We then went back to our room and proceeded to upload the huge mass of photos we took yesterday, and I finished my blog post from this morning because pic upload was taking forever.  Between uploads, I would read passages of Dharma Bums, which I am literally about ten pages away from the end of.  I don't want to finish it yet, but it's almost there, and I have another book I can get into by the time we get to London.  I read too much, but what can you do?  I've already finished Wiseguys, Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Eyre Affair, 127 hours between a rock and a hard place, and now almost all of Dharma Bums this month alone, between traveling and sightseeing and late nights and early mornings.  I'm fairly impressed with myself.  Anyway, we took a break in the middle of the marathon upload to go outside and sit in the sun for a little bit.

The weather this morning was absolutely beautiful; sunny, with limited cloud cover, and a cool breeze.  We sat outside and soaked up the sun when one of the friendly neighborhood kitties crossed our path.  I call him Giovanni, just because.  He's a skinny black cat with big green eyes, and his coat shines red in the sunlight.  We called him over, and he stayed some time with us, purring, marking us, and allowing us to pet him.  In fact, he butted his head into our hands more often than not, and spent some time in each of our laps.  Then, he decided it was time to get back to normal kitty things, and he ran off to laze in the sun, watching us walk back to our room with the air of an appeased monarch. 

Back in the room, we finally ran out of toilet paper, and decided it was about time to go outside, pictures be damned!  So we suited up, donned our scarves, and sat in the sun to wait for the bus.  In the meantime, a family had met up in the main square of the town near the restaurant, and were all speaking about something in animated Italian.  There were two little girls with them, dressed up in their Sunday best, and I surmised that a sort of birthday party was happening.  The bus was forever in coming, but it finally arrived, and we had a female driver, which is new.  The ride down wasn't as terrifying as it could have been, but we were also on the lookout for a local copy point where we could print our ticket vouchers for the flight to London on Monday.  We arrived at the main train station without having seen the building, and got onto the train in the direction of St. Peter's.

There are a lot of nuns in the area of Rome.  Like, a huge amount.  I don't think I've ever seen as many nuns in my life as I've seen in our two days here.  They're everywhere, with their adorable habits, and cute little hats, and wimples!  I want to take one home as a pet, but I don't think the Roman Catholic Church would approve of my chloroforming one of the sisters and stuffing her in my backpack under any circumstances.  Alas.

When we got to St. Peter's, we took approximately the same path we'd taken yesterday through the city, because we were going in the direction of the Spanish Steps, and the fashion district, which are slightly beyond the area where we stopped walking yesterday.  I didn't take many pictures at all today, because it was all the same stuff, but here are some pictures I didn't fit in this morning's post for one reason or another:

John Paul II stares benignly out at you from random buildings in this city

The churches really pop out from the residential housing because of the latter's plainness

I also really really liked this graffiti :-)

By the time we got through town, we were both feeling a little hungry, so we looked out for a relatively cheap cafe where we could sit and eat.  Neither of us brought any water today, so it was doubly important to find somewhere to eat, because we could order a giant litre bottle of water and drink it all up.  We finally found a place, and sat down.  The service was the worst I've ever experienced in my life.  The waiters couldn't give a shit less about us, we were barely acknowledged, and had to wait a long time to get the check, even after we'd asked the attendant for it.  Ugh.  We also got a seat next to the giant display of artichokes, so the bugs were a bit of an annoyance.  I had a strange pizza that sounded good.  When they brought it out, it literally had everything I would ever want to try in Italy on it.  Gillian had the spaghetti bolognese.

Pizza the size of my face, with an attractive backdrop of artichokes

Yeah, that's half a hard-boiled, baked egg

I never would've thought of combining all the different ingredients on my pizza, but they blended together well, and the crust was thin and flaky.  It wasn't as good as yesterday's, but it was nice, and I didn't look up until I'd eaten a good 3/4 of this entire pie.  It was delicious.  Then, we flagged down the surly waiter, got out check, paid, and walked in the direction of the Spanish Steps.  I'd bought a few souvenirs along the way, and then we were there.

I didn't take pictures, because the crowds were absolutely out of control, and the stores were all haute couture.  I mean, they probably wouldn't have let us in, looking like consummate travelers as we did.  The line to Chanel was around the block.  I saw a lot of floral prints on shoes, and some interesting work with ruffles, but Gill and I talked about how strange it is that some people center their entire lives around fashion, and what random people (read: designers) decide that the masses should wear.  We saw the panicked scatter of the hawkers of off-brand goods (knock-off handbags, mostly) for no visible reason.  I assume the police must've gotten too close for comfort, but there's no way of knowing.  We also popped into a bookshop (finally!) and looked around for a while, but didn't get anything, because I'm now carrying four books in my backpack, and they all take up extra, mostly-useless weight.

We saw the Spanish Steps, which were crowded with huge masses of tourists, looking down on the fashion district.  We also climbed all 125 or so of the steps, looked down, and climbed all the way back down.  It wasn't amazingly exciting, but it was nice to have done all the mostly-touristy things there are to do in Rome in two days.  Getting out of the fashion district was challenging, since it seems like every single person in all of Rome was trying to get onto the street we were attempting to leave at the same time.  Gill and I held hands and did it like you do in concerts: create a pathway, and bust our way through it.

When we were clear of the large crowd, we got some gelato, and ate it on the way back to St. Peter's, and the train station.  Gill was the victim of an attempted pickpocketing, which we were soo prepared for.  We laughed about it as we crossed the bridge and walked back through The Vatican.  It was sunset, so the light was very pretty, and there was a significantly smaller amount of people.  Hawkers on the side of the road were already putting out palm-themed goods for sale tomorrow.  I can't believe I'm going to be in Rome on Palm Sunday.  There's no way in hell I'm getting within a mile of the actual city on that kind of holiday, but it's cool that I'm so close. 

We took the train back, and then the bus, and collapsed in the hotel room, killing time until we can go to sleep.  I don't know why I'm so tired today, but it's there, and there's not much I can do about it.  It's now 10:30, and my songs on grooveshark have almost all expired, so it's time to turn in.  Good night! 

Roman Holiday

Today, we crossed into a different country, walked an inordinate amount, saw some of the oldest shit in existence, ate the world's most delicious lunch, heard some amazing musicians, and in short got so tired out that I don't want to be writing this right now, but I will, because writing is good.  Also, I won't have any time tomorrow, and have some amazing pictures I'd like to share.  With 49 songs on queue on grooveshark, here goes.

We woke up at 8:30, and lay in bed for a while talking about random things.  I'd had a very sad dream, and discussed it with Gill, which made me feel better about it, though not completely.  It was one of those dreams that you are afraid of speaking aloud because you don't want it to become true.  We then went to breakfast, after putting on layers upon layers of clothing because it's effing COLD!  We definitely didn't stay in some hotels because they didn't have air conditioners.  We were so caught up looking for air conditioners that we didn't think to search for hotels with heaters!  It's very, very cold here.  I thought Italy would mean sunshine, but it definitely doesn't.  Oh well.  At least there are extra blankets.  Anyway, breakfast meant some croissants, toast, and a large pot of tea.  Yummy.  The helpful hotel owner here also turned on the television for us, so breakfast was accompanied by Italian Big Brother, which is excellent.

From there, we went and checked our e-mails.  I'd sent one last night to my family asking for advice and love, and received an e-mail from both my mom and my dad, separately.  They made me cry big sad tears of homesickness and inadequacy.  We went back to the room, and I unloaded about how much I miss everyone in my life, and how all I want to do is teleport home and sleep in a bed and never ever move again.  Eventually, we left the room to go to Rome proper, in spite of our distaste for Italians in general, and predisposed dislike for Rome.

We walked from the San Pietro station, where we saw an ascetic with bare feet and a scratchy robe walking on the dirty subway floor.  We derped around looking for Saint Peter's Basilica for a while, in spite of the fact that it was right in front of us, and then finally got into the area.  Once we crossed into Saint Peter's, we were officially in Vatican City, with is a separate city-state from the rest of Italy.  Country-hopping...literally!  xD

"Romans are all bitches"

Nonsensical sign

A large pumpkin

Unknown vegetable.

St. Peter's

The best picture of a fountain I've ever taken

Inside the collonade

A picture of me!  Squinty, because it was bright.

From St. Peter's, we walked in the direction of the Castel Sant' Angelo.  From the Castel, where the requisite tourists congealed with the hawkers of random wares, we walked down the Ponte Sant' Angelo, to find some lunch, since it was about one in the afternoon at this point. 

Jesus wants a high 5

Romulus and Remus at the teat

Awesome bag!

I want that girl's shoes!

The castle

The view from the bridge

A statue of an angel

Couples come to this bridge, lock the locks, and throw the key into the water

:-)

The castle from the other side of the bridge

Our delicious lunch!  It was soooo good!

We lunched on margherita pizza and still water, and let me just say that what we make in the United States and sell as "pizza" is a travesty, and unworthy of the same name as the perfectly-balanced pie we were treated to at the foot of the bridge to the castle.  Seriously.  It was light, and fluffy, and the cheese was obviously fresh, and the sauce wasn't overpowering, and since we shared, it was perhaps my best purchase of the day.  Well, it was more expensive than the twenty post-cards I got for no real reason, but I think I'll get more lasting enjoyment from the memory of that pizza.  I know, I know, who'd have EVER thought that pizza in Italy would be delicious?  You know these things cognitively, the same way you rationally understand that the poppy-filled libations in the station in Prague will by far exceed anything in your experience, but it's still a shock to the taste buds with every bite.  I was expecting a good pizza.  I received the most amazing gastronomic experience of my stay in Italy.  It didn't top the pig's knees, but it was close. 

From the restaurant, we went on to do numerous touristy things, with pictures below.  Unfortunately, it didn't rain while we were at the Pantheon.  If you're ever in Rome while it rains, though, high-tail it to the Pantheon for the once-in-a-lifetime experience of seeing with your own eyes the ingenious architects and their brilliant plan to compensate for the giant hole in the ceiling every time it rains.  The floor is concave in places, and convex in the center, so it filters rainwater along predetermined pathways whenever any comes into the building, turning pieces of the floor into mini-canals, and other pieces of the floor into islands.  It's a glorious sight, but as I said, in spite of the menacing clouds and the likely start to the rain when we'd already passed the Colosseum, there was no proper rain. 

Gill also bought an amazing souvenir for Diogo.  I can't even explain it here, but it's effing fabulous.  I wanted to get the same thing for every single male that I know, but I feel like it could be taken the wrong way.  If you want further detail, she might just explain it in her blog here.

There was a glass bead shop underneath, but these looked a lot cooler than the window

So they took a delicious confection (Florentine cream-flavored gelato, which has hints of caramel, chocolate, and hazelnut) and covered it in dark chocolate.  Whuuuuut!

What strikes me most about Rome is how perfectly the ancient buildings are integrated with the more modern housing.  Many people live in apartments that open directly onto historic squares, and it doesn't seem unnatural.  Motorbikes and vespas blend into the tiny turning streets, all of the grates still emblazoned with "S.P.Q.R." (which I translate roughly as "Romans Was Herre Ya'll!") and well-dressed schoolchildren pop in and out of churches which date back to the beginning of the Catholic religion.  There are gelati stands on every corner, along with panini stands, and tourist shops, all of which sell vaguely the same merchandise, but at seriously varied prices.  We never knew exactly where we were, or where we were going, but Roma opened its arms to us, and I must say that it changed my mind about being in Italy.

Before actually seeing Rome, I thought there was nothing worse than a country FULL of the annoying tourists from Italy, my abiding hatred of which I've detailed on several occasions.  They're loud, extravagantly-dressed, get in the way of everything, and in general make such asses of themselves that they made me perfectly content with our plan to skip all of Italy, and visit Rome for a single day.  In fact, the Italians here keep mostly to themselves (or out of the way of tourists) and have been distinctly helpful on every occasion of our interaction.  The only ones you have to look out for are the drivers, who will run over you if you don't scamper across the pedestrian crossing when they slow down from seventy miles an hour to fifty because you have the right of way.

A lovely view of a famous church

People are pretty patriotic here

"Hey mac, you wanna buy an oil painting?"

View of a famous fountain

Even the police officers are better dressed than us!  This one is probably whispering sweet nothings to one of his girlfriends.

Another famous church :-)

The inside of the PANTHEON!

The police officers here differ wildly from the Greeks.  In Athens, I never saw the police doing anything, but they were always in a cluster with the motorcycles, smoking cigarettes and watching you.  In Italy, they don't give a shit what you do.  In fact, they probably have better things to think about than your behavior in all of these holy places.  They get paid regardless of whether or not they do anything about your silence in the Pantheon, for example, or purchase of off-brand goods.  They're all spread out in their fancy outfits on their cell phones, talking to someone.  Everyone is on their cell phone at all times here.  Our bus driver even takes calls while terrifying us within and inch of our lives on the road.  Luckily, he's cut down on the gesticulating, so he at least has one hand sometimes while driving. 

Glorious

I quickly came to the conclusion that there is no way in hell to do justice to the Pantheon on film.  It's the most amazingly beautiful rotunda I've ever seen, and the walls speak of age and good construction.  The inside is a perfect circle, and mimics the Oculus in the top (the hole cut out of the ceiling).  A perfect 360 degrees.  Began in Hadrian's time, and standing since long before the birth of Christ.  Coffered ceilings, empty pediments, and countless decorative windows.

Did I mention that Rafael is buried in the Pantheon?

A different tomb in the Pantheon

Above Rafael's tomb

"Who Nature feared in life, thinking she would be outdone, and Who Nature feared in death, thinking she would die as well."

There's nothing within the scope of my limited talents as a photographer that can express even a fraction of the amazing beauty of the Pantheon.  My little snapshots are nothing compared the the scope, scale, or majesty of the building itself. 

The Pantheon

But I try.  That's the thing about travel this way: you can't see everything.  You're crazy if you try.  However, there are small things you can capture.  Little pieces of life that are there for everyone, but especially for the tourist, who has new, bright eyes, and a honed instinct for the effortlessly beautiful. 

Inside the church of St. Ignatius of Loyola

We walked and walked and walked, following the trails of the tourists, and our trusty map.  Eventually, we would happen across a famous church, of fountain, or pile of rocks, and take pictures.  We came to Rome at a good time: the week before Holy Week in the Catholic calendar means that all the museums are absolutely free.  As in, you pay no money to get in, and only spend money if you want souvenirs, which you can buy for cheaper from the street vendors which hemorrhage the squares.

A super awesome rocking horse

Myself in front of the Fontana di Trevi

  We did the touristy thing a little more, and bought scarves.  Mine is detailed in the picture above.  I can't believe how much we underestimated the cold in Rome!  It was as cold, if not more so, than Warsaw.  The only difference was that Warsaw is more spread out, with less buildings in the way to block the freezing winds.  Roma is pretty well insulated, so with the scarf, I was fairly comfortable walking around.

From the Fontana, we walked to the Via dei Fori Imperiali, and happened upon the following:

Entrance to the Colosseum was free, since it's the week before Holy Week, and we were amazed at the magnitude of this place.  Of course, it was full of tourists, and the grass outside had protesters for Palestine bitching about one thing or another the Israeli government has done, but there was also a saxophonist who played Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and I gave him my last bit of change because music should be acknowledged.  We walked through the Pantheon, and I thought of the scores of eyes that had seen this place; the countless feet that had trampled in and out of it, from time stretching backward unfathomable, and forward infinitely, and felt a little nostalgic. 

If you look right in the center of this frame, you will see the smartest kitty in all of Roma :-)

In the face of all this timeless artifacts, perfectly preserved, stands man, as confused as he ever was about his place in the world.  I waxed philosophic, I must admit, and didn't say any of it aloud because it seems so silly when you put your raspy voice to the idea of eternity.  So instead of spouting useless esoteric nonsense, I got a little silly.  Gill and I were giddy with the sights we'd seen, and ready to head in the direction of home.

My favorite picture of us this trip :-)

The arch of Constantine

Constantine's kind of a big deal...

The many faces of sleep-deprivation

"Yeah, an ARCH"

Lulz

I don't even know.

 And then we were really heading in the direction of the train station, because we both needed to pee and Rome is seriously lacking in any form of public restroom, ever.  We finally found one in the station of St. Peter's, but it was kind of gross, with no toilet paper, and no locks on the doors. 

And that's how I lost my hand...

We found Il Bocca de la Verita!  Completely randomly.  Seriously, just happened across it after talking about how we had no idea where it was, and with thirty minutes to spare until closing time.  It was pretty epic.  And then we went into the church nearby, and took a few pictures of the ancient decorations and the mosaics, looked around the gift shop, and went back to the hotel room after having walked a total of about five miles all together.

One of my favorite graffiti of this trip!

I love this old couple, hanging out of the window the same way they've been doing for about thirty years

And so concludes my largest amount of photos/blocks of text EVER!  I probably have more things to say, but I've been working on this post for the last two days, and the program is getting increasingly bitchy about the amount of photos I've uploaded, so I'll quit while I'm ahead.  Anyway, Gill and I are leaving for our last day of free museums until Palm Sunday, at which time we'll probably be stuck in our hotel rooms all day because the buses don't run.  Don't you love exceedingly Catholic countries?