Observations from the Mothership: Day 2

The Day of Extreme Oversleeping

Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan.  Today was just such a day.  I'd intended to get an early(ish) start and do all my sightseeing today when I could leave my junk behind at the hotel and not have to worry about carting it everywhere, thereby saving the Scottish archives for tomorrow.  Instead, I was jolted awake at almost 1 pm by a horrific screeching noise blaring through my hotel room.  I've got to tell you, that's one hell of a way to wake up, and not one I care to repeat.  I don't know if all fire alarms in Britain or Scotland are that loud, but there might as well have been 6 ambulances parked around my bed.  I have a new sympathy for the plight of Odysseus trying to keep his sailors deaf to the Sirens' songs. While certainly I didn't intend to sleep past 10 am or so, a random fire drill still seems an unnecessarily enthusiastic wake-up call on the part of my hotel. That's not how you elicit tips, people.

Restored to enforced alertness, I took a quick shower involving a hotel bath towel far larger than the traditionally postage-stamp-sized towels we generally get in American hotels, got dressed, and checked my messages before finally making it out the door around 2-2:30.  While perhaps understandable after the jet lag and caffeine of last night, losing some 4-5 hours of potential adventure to sleep still seems an egregious waste of my already far too limited and precious time on this continent.  Didn't stop me from trying to make the most of what day was left, however.

My first stop upon leaving the hotel was to go grab one of the city's sight-seeing buses even though I took the tour some 15 years ago in the scant 3 hours I had here.  But I figured it would be the quickest and easiest way to get around where I wanted to go and I was assured that the hop-on, hop-off buses would be running till 8 pm tonight.  Plus, I got a discounted ticket to the Castle (which I've also seen but still wanted to visit again).  I didn't spend too much time on the bus before arriving at the castle stop, but I appreciated the modern upgrade in technology which allowed me to plug in earphones to the side of the bus so I could more easily and clearly hear the audio tour.  No doubt this also saves the cost of paying salaried workers to stand around in the cold and rain repeating the same spiel 5,000 times a week.  And because I could hear over the road noises and the rattling of the buses, I learned several interesting tidbits like the one about the brewer who was responsible for building Usher Hall and who happened to be a teetotaler, or that a young Sean Connery once posed nude for a student life studies class at the College of Art (is that your sporran, or are you just happy to see me?) The more you know...

Once at the castle stop I jumped off the bus so I could see everything before the castle closed at 6 pm.  This proved to be a wise move as I was one of the last people to leave the environs.  Whichever tour guide said to allow 2-3 hours to view the grounds was spot on.  Another handy technological upgrade was the addition of DIY audio tours.  I was given headphones and a giant iPhone into which I could punch the numbers listed conveniently around the castle and listen to stories and facts about that particular part of the castle.  This was actually nice because it allows you to move throughout the grounds at your own speed, as well as to repeat or fast forward through any bits of audio you liked.  As a result, I learned several new things about the Castle that I didn't remember from my previous trip, including that the castle is built on top of Castle Rock, which was formed by a volcano that erupted some 350 million years ago, that St. Margaret's Chapel is the oldest building in Scotland (12th century) and that my 1st cousin Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) was one of the people who set out to find and recover the Honours of Scotland (Scotland's crown jewels), which had been hidden away for over 100 years after the Acts of Union cause the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament.  Yup...my family is just that awesome.

Royal quarters

While there I saw the Scottish War museum, the war memorial, the prison (which I didn't remember) and the esplanade lined with cannons.  These were wussy, lackluster cannons compared to Mons Meg, a behemoth bombard built in 1449 as a gift for James II.  The "largest gun ever fired in anger on British soil," this 20" caliber cannon took 400 lb (insert rude jokes here); when it was fired in salute for Mary Stuart's marriage to the dauphin of France, the shot was found some two miles away.  That's some serious firepower for the time.  No wonder the Stuarts were gunning for Elizabeth I.  I also got to see the tiny closet chamber where James VI/I was born and I took a selfie with Mary Stuart, because why  not?  She looked bored...positively stony, in fact.  Meanwhile, visitors to the castle were truly diverse; I overheard conversations in French, Spanish, German, assorted Asian languages, and various dialects of American and British English.  I also saw a woman with Canadian flag gloves and a big, fuzzy hat that made her look a little like Cookie Monster.

Mons Meg

After leaving the castle, I wandered down the upper part of the Royal Mile for a bit to look for some clan scarves because I wanted a little of the Scott tartan now that I know I am descended from that clan (among others).  Not surprisingly, this section of the Royal Mile consists almost exclusively of shops flogging cashmere and lambswool scarves and assorted other kitschy trinkets, so much so that I'm now convinced "Royal Mile" is Gaelic for "Tourists, Please Spend Your Money Here."  I did purchase a couple of scarves, springing for the good stuff since I'm not likely to get this way again any time soon.  Mmmmm, cashmere....  I was also treated to an odd group of people wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a symbol that looked like nothing so much as a space-age number nine.  Obviously they were together, but I've no idea what their group was and I hadn't seen them at the castle.

After making my purchases I went to the bus stop, only to discover that I had just missed the last run of my particular tour.  This confused me, since they'd said they would be running till 8 pm (which it wasn't yet), but after loitering for over half an hour waiting on buses that should be running every 15 minutes, I finally gave it up as a bad job and started walking. Unfortunately, my feet were hurting from treading all the cobblestones, on which I'd earlier half-rolled my ankle twice.  I'm starting to remember why I gave up wearing orthotics a few years ago  Sure, they keep your feet aligned and ease the pressures of unsupported arches and insteps, but they also encourage already weak ankles to fall off the side of any non-level surface, aka the entirety of Castle Hill and the Royal Mile.  As a result, I wimped out and started looking for a taxi.  One finally stopped in front of me and I waited for the current passenger to get out, only to have him fall literally at my feet after stumbling over a step on the taxi.  If I had known that Edinburgh was going to rain men at my feet, I'd have come to visit here much sooner.  Anyway, I checked that the man was okay, then climbed in the taxi and took it to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner.

Apparently there's more to do in Edinburgh than see the castle or shop for wool.

Okay, I realize that Hard Rock is a bit of a cop-out when one is surrounded by the unique cuisine of an entire nation, but I was exhausted by this time and it was close and a known quantity.  Besides, I can now say that I have eaten at a Hard Rock in 4 different countries (not that I'm bragging, or anything...nope).  Totally worth it, though, for no other reason than my server Crrrrrrrraig, who was really a bartender, but who waited on me while I sat at a table by the window.  Crrrrrrraig was tall, had sandy hair, and was lovely and charming and made me laugh.  We discussed the relative merits of the barbecue options when compared to Memphian BBQ:  "I don't knooooow about Mehmphis barrrrrbecue..."  "It's world-famous."  "Weeeeel, if it's wharld-fehmous, you might find this a wee bit disappointing..."  He suggested instead a Hickory Smoked burger which involved cheddar, carmelized onions and bacon, because I was too big a coward to try the burger with haggis and it was indeed delicious.  Crrrrrrraig did tell me that you could get some haggis samples at some of the food stalls so that you could try it without committing to a whole meal of it.  Crrrrrrraig kept coming over to chat with me and check on me; I think he enjoyed the novelty of my accent as much as I enjoyed his.  When he asked if I wanted dessert, I said I wanted some, but didn't really need any. I then asked him about the apple cobbler, only to have him warn me about the abundance of cinnamon in the dish..."Do you like cinnamon?"  Oh, Crrrrrrraig, if you only knew. He then told me that I needed to "trrrrrrreat myself because I'm on holiday."  Twist my arm, Crrrrrrraig, twist my arm.  Hell, I'll start making your car payments if you just keep talking to me in that accent all night.  Seriously--I am such a Highland brogue whore.

Across the street from my window was The George, a hotel I'd considered when making my reservations for Edinburgh because it wasn't far from the archives.  Ultimately I selected a different hotel instead because it was cheaper and actually isn't far from stuff either. Still, I'd be willing to bet this gorgeous Georgian-style hotel doesn't assault its patrons with the song of the bean sidhe.  I mean, I know I'm in Scotland and all, but banshee sirens seem a little above and beyond the call of duty.  If that's the difference, perhaps I should have spent the extra few pounds for the swankier hotel...the façade certainly was lovely.

After dessert I paid the bill and received well-wishes from Crrrrrrraig, then headed back to my hotel, my feet much happier after the brief respite.  Outside the last of the sunset was fading away, leaving the skies a deep azure falling like a protective blanket over the glorious spires of the city and giving me a most beautiful and peaceful walk home.  What more could a girl want?

Blue skies at night, Scotland's delight.

Kilt count:  4 1/2 (Caught a quick flash of one, but not a proper look...and no, not that kind of
                             flash, ya perv.)
Trews count:  3   (Still not as good as kilts...no knees showing.)

Observations from the Mothership: Day 2

The Day of Extreme Oversleeping

Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan.  Today was just such a day.  I'd intended to get an early(ish) start and do all my sightseeing today when I could leave my junk behind at the hotel and not have to worry about carting it everywhere, thereby saving the Scottish archives for tomorrow.  Instead, I was jolted awake at almost 1 pm by a horrific screeching noise blaring through my hotel room.  I've got to tell you, that's one hell of a way to wake up, and not one I care to repeat.  I don't know if all fire alarms in Britain or Scotland are that loud, but there might as well have been 6 ambulances parked around my bed.  I have a new sympathy for the plight of Odysseus trying to keep his sailors deaf to the Sirens' songs. While certainly I didn't intend to sleep past 10 am or so, a random fire drill still seems an unnecessarily enthusiastic wake-up call on the part of my hotel. That's not how you elicit tips, people.

Restored to enforced alertness, I took a quick shower involving a hotel bath towel far larger than the traditionally postage-stamp-sized towels we generally get in American hotels, got dressed, and checked my messages before finally making it out the door around 2-2:30.  While perhaps understandable after the jet lag and caffeine of last night, losing some 4-5 hours of potential adventure to sleep still seems an egregious waste of my already far too limited and precious time on this continent.  Didn't stop me from trying to make the most of what day was left, however.

My first stop upon leaving the hotel was to go grab one of the city's sight-seeing buses even though I took the tour some 15 years ago in the scant 3 hours I had here.  But I figured it would be the quickest and easiest way to get around where I wanted to go and I was assured that the hop-on, hop-off buses would be running till 8 pm tonight.  Plus, I got a discounted ticket to the Castle (which I've also seen but still wanted to visit again).  I didn't spend too much time on the bus before arriving at the castle stop, but I appreciated the modern upgrade in technology which allowed me to plug in earphones to the side of the bus so I could more easily and clearly hear the audio tour.  No doubt this also saves the cost of paying salaried workers to stand around in the cold and rain repeating the same spiel 5,000 times a week.  And because I could hear over the road noises and the rattling of the buses, I learned several interesting tidbits like the one about the brewer who was responsible for building Usher Hall and who happened to be a teetotaler, or that a young Sean Connery once posed nude for a student life studies class at the College of Art (is that your sporran, or are you just happy to see me?) The more you know...

Once at the castle stop I jumped off the bus so I could see everything before the castle closed at 6 pm.  This proved to be a wise move as I was one of the last people to leave the environs.  Whichever tour guide said to allow 2-3 hours to view the grounds was spot on.  Another handy technological upgrade was the addition of DIY audio tours.  I was given headphones and a giant iPhone into which I could punch the numbers listed conveniently around the castle and listen to stories and facts about that particular part of the castle.  This was actually nice because it allows you to move throughout the grounds at your own speed, as well as to repeat or fast forward through any bits of audio you liked.  As a result, I learned several new things about the Castle that I didn't remember from my previous trip, including that the castle is built on top of Castle Rock, which was formed by a volcano that erupted some 350 million years ago, that St. Margaret's Chapel is the oldest building in Scotland (12th century) and that my 1st cousin Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) was one of the people who set out to find and recover the Honours of Scotland (Scotland's crown jewels), which had been hidden away for over 100 years after the Acts of Union cause the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament.  Yup...my family is just that awesome.

Royal quarters

While there I saw the Scottish War museum, the war memorial, the prison (which I didn't remember) and the esplanade lined with cannons.  These were wussy, lackluster cannons compared to Mons Meg, a behemoth bombard built in 1449 as a gift for James II.  The "largest gun ever fired in anger on British soil," this 20" caliber cannon took 400 lb (insert rude jokes here); when it was fired in salute for Mary Stuart's marriage to the dauphin of France, the shot was found some two miles away.  That's some serious firepower for the time.  No wonder the Stuarts were gunning for Elizabeth I.  I also got to see the tiny closet chamber where James VI/I was born and I took a selfie with Mary Stuart, because why  not?  She looked bored...positively stony, in fact.  Meanwhile, visitors to the castle were truly diverse; I overheard conversations in French, Spanish, German, assorted Asian languages, and various dialects of American and British English.  I also saw a woman with Canadian flag gloves and a big, fuzzy hat that made her look a little like Cookie Monster.

Mons Meg

After leaving the castle, I wandered down the upper part of the Royal Mile for a bit to look for some clan scarves because I wanted a little of the Scott tartan now that I know I am descended from that clan (among others).  Not surprisingly, this section of the Royal Mile consists almost exclusively of shops flogging cashmere and lambswool scarves and assorted other kitschy trinkets, so much so that I'm now convinced "Royal Mile" is Gaelic for "Tourists, Please Spend Your Money Here."  I did purchase a couple of scarves, springing for the good stuff since I'm not likely to get this way again any time soon.  Mmmmm, cashmere....  I was also treated to an odd group of people wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a symbol that looked like nothing so much as a space-age number nine.  Obviously they were together, but I've no idea what their group was and I hadn't seen them at the castle.

After making my purchases I went to the bus stop, only to discover that I had just missed the last run of my particular tour.  This confused me, since they'd said they would be running till 8 pm (which it wasn't yet), but after loitering for over half an hour waiting on buses that should be running every 15 minutes, I finally gave it up as a bad job and started walking. Unfortunately, my feet were hurting from treading all the cobblestones, on which I'd earlier half-rolled my ankle twice.  I'm starting to remember why I gave up wearing orthotics a few years ago  Sure, they keep your feet aligned and ease the pressures of unsupported arches and insteps, but they also encourage already weak ankles to fall off the side of any non-level surface, aka the entirety of Castle Hill and the Royal Mile.  As a result, I wimped out and started looking for a taxi.  One finally stopped in front of me and I waited for the current passenger to get out, only to have him fall literally at my feet after stumbling over a step on the taxi.  If I had known that Edinburgh was going to rain men at my feet, I'd have come to visit here much sooner.  Anyway, I checked that the man was okay, then climbed in the taxi and took it to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner.

Apparently there's more to do in Edinburgh than see the castle or shop for wool.

Okay, I realize that Hard Rock is a bit of a cop-out when one is surrounded by the unique cuisine of an entire nation, but I was exhausted by this time and it was close and a known quantity.  Besides, I can now say that I have eaten at a Hard Rock in 4 different countries (not that I'm bragging, or anything...nope).  Totally worth it, though, for no other reason than my server Crrrrrrrraig, who was really a bartender, but who waited on me while I sat at a table by the window.  Crrrrrrraig was tall, had sandy hair, and was lovely and charming and made me laugh.  We discussed the relative merits of the barbecue options when compared to Memphian BBQ:  "I don't knooooow about Mehmphis barrrrrbecue..."  "It's world-famous."  "Weeeeel, if it's wharld-fehmous, you might find this a wee bit disappointing..."  He suggested instead a Hickory Smoked burger which involved cheddar, carmelized onions and bacon, because I was too big a coward to try the burger with haggis and it was indeed delicious.  Crrrrrrraig did tell me that you could get some haggis samples at some of the food stalls so that you could try it without committing to a whole meal of it.  Crrrrrrraig kept coming over to chat with me and check on me; I think he enjoyed the novelty of my accent as much as I enjoyed his.  When he asked if I wanted dessert, I said I wanted some, but didn't really need any. I then asked him about the apple cobbler, only to have him warn me about the abundance of cinnamon in the dish..."Do you like cinnamon?"  Oh, Crrrrrrraig, if you only knew. He then told me that I needed to "trrrrrrreat myself because I'm on holiday."  Twist my arm, Crrrrrrraig, twist my arm.  Hell, I'll start making your car payments if you just keep talking to me in that accent all night.  Seriously--I am such a Highland brogue whore.

Across the street from my window was The George, a hotel I'd considered when making my reservations for Edinburgh because it wasn't far from the archives.  Ultimately I selected a different hotel instead because it was cheaper and actually isn't far from stuff either. Still, I'd be willing to bet this gorgeous Georgian-style hotel doesn't assault its patrons with the song of the bean sidhe.  I mean, I know I'm in Scotland and all, but banshee sirens seem a little above and beyond the call of duty.  If that's the difference, perhaps I should have spent the extra few pounds for the swankier hotel...the façade certainly was lovely.

After dessert I paid the bill and received well-wishes from Crrrrrrraig, then headed back to my hotel, my feet much happier after the brief respite.  Outside the last of the sunset was fading away, leaving the skies a deep azure falling like a protective blanket over the glorious spires of the city and giving me a most beautiful and peaceful walk home.  What more could a girl want?

Blue skies at night, Scotland's delight.

Kilt count:  4 1/2 (Caught a quick flash of one, but not a proper look...and no, not that kind of
                             flash, ya perv.)
Trews count:  3   (Still not as good as kilts...no knees showing.)

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Bon Voyage

Today has been a long time coming, plain and simple.

A few months ago I decided it would be supremely cool if, for my 50th birthday (which just happens to fall on St. Patrick's Day,) I went overseas to celebrate actually in Ireland, because really, how many opportunities does one ever get to mark a half-century of life in the land of one's forebears--never mind on the ultimate Irish holiday (well, at least in America)?

The more I thought about it, the more exciting it sounded, particularly because it would offer me a change to go and learn more about my ancestry in the places where it began.  Didn't hurt that I've been hoarding frequent flyer miles for years for just such a trip.  Problem was, as with so much in life, there was always something else coming up to delay my journey.  First I had to wait till my house in Georgia sold.  Then April was crazy.  Then we were moving the girlie to New York for an internship.  Then I was painting all over the house in a desperate frenzy to get it finished and over with.  Then we were moving the girlie back from NY and then into her campus housing, and, and, and.

No doubt all these postponements would have continued indefinitely had I not needed to fit the trip in by mid-September or wait till next year rolled around, which would no longer make it the epic birthday trip it was intended to be.  What I ultimately realized is that you can't just wait till things are perfect...till you're ready.  If we waited till we were ready for something, we'd be waiting till the end of time, whether to have kids, to buy a car or a house, to take up fan dancing or naked Tetris, or to lose that last 20 lbs.  That's just not how life works--at least that's not how it usually works for me. 

So I purchased my ticket and prepared to set off even though I would not have a chance to lose the weight I gained back during the last year of stress and moving and chaos.  I would not have a chance to get back into a regular workout routine to guarantee that I'd have the stamina and energy to do all the walking I'd need to do.  I wouldn't have a chance to get as much prep or planning done in advance as I'd like because of juggling all the girlie's moving (never mind completing my painting).  Honestly, I might as well have been tossing around New Year's resolutions like Mardi Gras beads for all good my excuses were ever going to do in getting me to my goal.   Frankly, sometimes you just have to throw all the fears and concerns out the window and just go for it. 

Now I know what you're going to say--50 seems a little old to be gallivanting off to Europe to find oneself.  Perhaps it is. But it's only been a couple of years since I found my birth mother and so having access to my own genealogy is still a major novelty and one I could spend untold months traipsing around Europe exploring if only I could locate the pot of gold at the end of my St. Patrick's Day rainbow to fund it. But minor details.  Personally, I'm decided to place this little jaunt in the "better late than never" category and run with it.

As a result, I spent the last 48 hours running around like a chihuahua on speed trying to get everything done before flying out this evening.  I must have packed and repacked my carry-on bag 5 times in an effort to pare down my belongings to a more manageable quantity for my 14-day excursion.  No doubt I'll regret some of my choices, but it is what it is.  I was sorry to leave behind the spiffy new camera I got earlier this year, but I just couldn't justify finding room for the large padded bag when half my trip was going to involve spending time in dusty archives where I likely wouldn't be allowed to snap photos anyway.  But I did manage to acquire a small point and shoot camera to augment my iPhone camera as a compromise.  I mean, it's still England.  Pictures are not really optional.

This eyesore is really my own fault for joking that I needed to see a Pope bobblehead before he could visit Philly.

In a rare turn of events, I made it to the airport well ahead of time and even passed through security unmolested, in spite of the metal buttons on my shorts. Still, it's me, and that pretty much guarantees there's going to be a snag somewhere.  This time it was the security and assorted airport staff all insisting that my carry-on would have to be checked (even though it's never been a problem before) because it was 'too fat in front.'  Sigh.  I went over to some seating and yanked out the extra duffel bag I'd prepacked figuring I could rearrange my belongings so I could check the duffel if necessary while keeping the important stuff in my newly-compressed carry-on.  The baggage clerk at Delta told me it would be fine, but still made me shove consolidate my laptop bag inside the duffel so I would only have two items with me in the cabin.  Pre-security still got pissy with me about the bag, but I got the bag through the security scanners just fine and no one at the Delta gate even gave it a second glance.  Suck it, Security!  However, on my way to the gate I noticed the duffel bag was tearing at the strap and that I was likely minutes away from my laptop falling out and crashing to the floor.  Of course. So I went back to the main concourse to locate a replacement.  I found a tote with an obnoxiously large pink flower on it (because that's so my style) for around $50.  Airport extortion as usual, but still vastly preferable to spending a couple hundred bucks fora second carry-on bag.  Because karma has a brutal sense of humor, moments later I passed another shop with a duffel bag I'd originally missed hidden on a shelf for $20 less.  Naturally.  Regardless, the impending crisis was averted, so I guess that's all that really matters.

That can't be good.

Yeah...because I'm such a neon pink Hibiscus kind of girl.

Once at the gate I was held up by my passport, which it took them three tries to verify because I'd already checked in at home.  I can only assume they were going for the 'third time's a charm' motif.  I boarded and spent the next 30 minutes bobbing up and down like a fishing lure while my seatmates, two older ladies, kept needing to get up and dig through their luggage for one thing or another.  No sooner had everyone finally settled than an airline official came over with new tickets and informed the ladies that their seats were being changed to first class (without me!!) so they could keep a mother and child together.  So I got up again.  My fellow passengers were all trying to catch my eye to give me a WTF? look or the inevitable rolled eye.  And when exactly did all the transatlantic planes become so small?  The last time I flew to Europe there was a separate first, business, and coach class with 8 seats deployed across coach.  This plane only had the usual 6 seats across and didn't look big enough to go across the street, much less the ocean.  But I digress.

My new seatmates were a young mother with epic Scary Spice hair (of which I was wildly jealous) and her young daughter who had a cute British accent rendered in the deep, husky voice of an 80-year-old lifelong smoker.  She seemed pretty well-behaved though, so I had no complaints.

We settled in once again, only to be told that instead of leaving 10 minutes early as planned, we were going to be delayed while some potential mechanical problem was checked out...because that's just what you want to hear before spending several hours over an open ocean.  Ultimately it turned out to be nothing; I presume Penny just left her check engine light on again.  We finally took off around 7:15, nearly an hour late, but I was on my way overseas at last, some 6 months after my birthday.  But who cares--let the adventures begin!!

Bon Voyage

Today has been a long time coming, plain and simple.

A few months ago I decided it would be supremely cool if, for my 50th birthday (which just happens to fall on St. Patrick's Day,) I went overseas to celebrate actually in Ireland, because really, how many opportunities does one ever get to mark a half-century of life in the land of one's forebears--never mind on the ultimate Irish holiday (well, at least in America)?

The more I thought about it, the more exciting it sounded, particularly because it would offer me a change to go and learn more about my ancestry in the places where it began.  Didn't hurt that I've been hoarding frequent flyer miles for years for just such a trip.  Problem was, as with so much in life, there was always something else coming up to delay my journey.  First I had to wait till my house in Georgia sold.  Then April was crazy.  Then we were moving the girlie to New York for an internship.  Then I was painting all over the house in a desperate frenzy to get it finished and over with.  Then we were moving the girlie back from NY and then into her campus housing, and, and, and.

No doubt all these postponements would have continued indefinitely had I not needed to fit the trip in by mid-September or wait till next year rolled around, which would no longer make it the epic birthday trip it was intended to be.  What I ultimately realized is that you can't just wait till things are perfect...till you're ready.  If we waited till we were ready for something, we'd be waiting till the end of time, whether to have kids, to buy a car or a house, to take up fan dancing or naked Tetris, or to lose that last 20 lbs.  That's just not how life works--at least that's not how it usually works for me. 

So I purchased my ticket and prepared to set off even though I would not have a chance to lose the weight I gained back during the last year of stress and moving and chaos.  I would not have a chance to get back into a regular workout routine to guarantee that I'd have the stamina and energy to do all the walking I'd need to do.  I wouldn't have a chance to get as much prep or planning done in advance as I'd like because of juggling all the girlie's moving (never mind completing my painting).  Honestly, I might as well have been tossing around New Year's resolutions like Mardi Gras beads for all good my excuses were ever going to do in getting me to my goal.   Frankly, sometimes you just have to throw all the fears and concerns out the window and just go for it. 

Now I know what you're going to say--50 seems a little old to be gallivanting off to Europe to find oneself.  Perhaps it is. But it's only been a couple of years since I found my birth mother and so having access to my own genealogy is still a major novelty and one I could spend untold months traipsing around Europe exploring if only I could locate the pot of gold at the end of my St. Patrick's Day rainbow to fund it. But minor details.  Personally, I'm decided to place this little jaunt in the "better late than never" category and run with it.

As a result, I spent the last 48 hours running around like a chihuahua on speed trying to get everything done before flying out this evening.  I must have packed and repacked my carry-on bag 5 times in an effort to pare down my belongings to a more manageable quantity for my 14-day excursion.  No doubt I'll regret some of my choices, but it is what it is.  I was sorry to leave behind the spiffy new camera I got earlier this year, but I just couldn't justify finding room for the large padded bag when half my trip was going to involve spending time in dusty archives where I likely wouldn't be allowed to snap photos anyway.  But I did manage to acquire a small point and shoot camera to augment my iPhone camera as a compromise.  I mean, it's still England.  Pictures are not really optional.

This eyesore is really my own fault for joking that I needed to see a Pope bobblehead before he could visit Philly.

In a rare turn of events, I made it to the airport well ahead of time and even passed through security unmolested, in spite of the metal buttons on my shorts. Still, it's me, and that pretty much guarantees there's going to be a snag somewhere.  This time it was the security and assorted airport staff all insisting that my carry-on would have to be checked (even though it's never been a problem before) because it was 'too fat in front.'  Sigh.  I went over to some seating and yanked out the extra duffel bag I'd prepacked figuring I could rearrange my belongings so I could check the duffel if necessary while keeping the important stuff in my newly-compressed carry-on.  The baggage clerk at Delta told me it would be fine, but still made me shove consolidate my laptop bag inside the duffel so I would only have two items with me in the cabin.  Pre-security still got pissy with me about the bag, but I got the bag through the security scanners just fine and no one at the Delta gate even gave it a second glance.  Suck it, Security!  However, on my way to the gate I noticed the duffel bag was tearing at the strap and that I was likely minutes away from my laptop falling out and crashing to the floor.  Of course. So I went back to the main concourse to locate a replacement.  I found a tote with an obnoxiously large pink flower on it (because that's so my style) for around $50.  Airport extortion as usual, but still vastly preferable to spending a couple hundred bucks fora second carry-on bag.  Because karma has a brutal sense of humor, moments later I passed another shop with a duffel bag I'd originally missed hidden on a shelf for $20 less.  Naturally.  Regardless, the impending crisis was averted, so I guess that's all that really matters.

That can't be good.

Yeah...because I'm such a neon pink Hibiscus kind of girl.

Once at the gate I was held up by my passport, which it took them three tries to verify because I'd already checked in at home.  I can only assume they were going for the 'third time's a charm' motif.  I boarded and spent the next 30 minutes bobbing up and down like a fishing lure while my seatmates, two older ladies, kept needing to get up and dig through their luggage for one thing or another.  No sooner had everyone finally settled than an airline official came over with new tickets and informed the ladies that their seats were being changed to first class (without me!!) so they could keep a mother and child together.  So I got up again.  My fellow passengers were all trying to catch my eye to give me a WTF? look or the inevitable rolled eye.  And when exactly did all the transatlantic planes become so small?  The last time I flew to Europe there was a separate first, business, and coach class with 8 seats deployed across coach.  This plane only had the usual 6 seats across and didn't look big enough to go across the street, much less the ocean.  But I digress.

My new seatmates were a young mother with epic Scary Spice hair (of which I was wildly jealous) and her young daughter who had a cute British accent rendered in the deep, husky voice of an 80-year-old lifelong smoker.  She seemed pretty well-behaved though, so I had no complaints.

We settled in once again, only to be told that instead of leaving 10 minutes early as planned, we were going to be delayed while some potential mechanical problem was checked out...because that's just what you want to hear before spending several hours over an open ocean.  Ultimately it turned out to be nothing; I presume Penny just left her check engine light on again.  We finally took off around 7:15, nearly an hour late, but I was on my way overseas at last, some 6 months after my birthday.  But who cares--let the adventures begin!!

New Jersey -- One Year Later

A year ago yesterday, in the wee hours of the morning, I arrived in the wilds of southern New Jersey to stay.  A year ago today all my furniture arrived (mostly intact), causing my perturbed pooch to breathe several deep sighs of relief at being surrounded once again by familiar smells.  The same day I also demonstrated my inestimable grace by promptly tearing off half of my big toenail while trying (obviously unsuccessfully) to shift a cabinet in my soon-to-be office.  Ah, the perils of wearing flip-flops. You'd think I'd have learned to wear steel-toed shoes before moving furniture by now.  Now, a year later, I finally have a normal toenail once again (sans surgery!) and am eagerly looking forward to my first real pedicure in months.  (It's important to celebrate the little things in life.)

Two months after moving I wrote a post called Happy Jerseyversary in which I covered some of my initial observations concerning life in South Jersey.  With one year past I still find the people generally to be friendly (if direct), the inability to pump my own gas a weird novelty (though I certainly appreciated it during the frigid temps this past winter), and the lack of fire ants a distinct advantage, particularly after someone helpful recently threw food in my mailbox, obliging me to retrieve my mail from amidst an undulating wave of several hundred tiny black ants.

Likewise, I still find the appeal of both Scrapple and jughandles largely incomprehensible, the general expense of living here (particularly when it comes to paying my utility bills) breathtakingly high, and the prodigiously pockmarked pavement a literal hell on (my car's) wheels.

True story

Other things I've learned since moving here:

1.  You never goes to the beach; you go "down the shore."  Beaches are for Florida. Near as I can tell, this is true regardless of the direction you are heading at the time.

2.  New Jersey drivers are assholes.  Except for you, of course.  Obviously I didn't mean you.

3.  You have to pay a toll to get out of New Jersey.  Seriously.  It's $5 bucks every time I drive over the bridge into Philly.  And yet you don't have to pay to get back in to New Jersey.  I suspect shenanigans.

4.  New Jersey is only a stone's throw (okay, two stones's throw) from Vermont, maple syrup Mecca of the United States.  And yet it's impossible to find syrup in microwavable bottles here.  I know what you're thinking: "Who the heck is weird enough to heat their syrup and WHY??"  Southerners, that's who.  My first trip south to meet in-laws involved waffles and a bottle of syrup being warmed in a pan of water on the stove.  I feared they were hosting a wildly inappropriate Aunt Jemima sacrifice.  Turns out it's a thing, like sweet tea or fried chicken and waffles.  Southerners like their syrup warm and plentiful.  That doesn't happen here.  Here restaurants give you syrup in little plastic cups holding enough liquid to cover a short stack for Tinkerbell and no more.

Southern pancakes scoff at your wussy Jersey syrup offerings.

5.  I've decided the reason my TomTom app can't deal with New Jersey is because the town names (and often the roads) change approximately every 30 feet.  I can tell SCA friends who've lived here their entire lives which town I'm in and all I'll get back are crickets until I tell them which major roads are next to me.  It can make navigating...interesting.  Especially when your town is part of a township with the same name as a county and also possibly a separate town. Because that's not confusing at all.

6.  Never go grocery shopping on a Sunday afternoon.  Seriously...don't do it.  It's akin to walking voluntarily into a piranha tank during a feeding frenzy.  JUST DON'T DO IT.

All this is not to say I haven't found many awesome things about New Jersey too. Jersey has many things to discover and I'm looking forward to exploring my new home much more thoroughly when I'm finally freed from the incarceration of paint and home repair.  For example:

1.  New Jersey is called the Garden State for good reason.  Fruit and produce stands dot the countryside; you can barely turn around without running into a  farmer's market.  I've also heard that Jersey tomatoes are famous, though I've yet to try one personally.

2.  Four separate seasons...'nuff said.  Well, not really.  No doubt it will be a while before I'm satiated enough with the local fall foliage to stop geeking out over it every year.  Can you blame me?  How often can you say that the countryside coordinates with your hair?  Plus it's wonderful to live someplace with proper snows once again...well, at least until I have to shovel the results.  During the last big snow this winter one of my neighbors came over to help me clear my drive; I rapidly discovered a passionate appreciation for the almighty snow blower.  In case a glorious fall and winter aren't enough, summer around here is a virtual Amazonian rain forest of lush greenery.  You can feel the moisture surrounding you, above and beyond mere humidity, as if the resident leaves were going to encompass you with a restorative mist at any moment.  Which they might, because it rains all the freaking time here.  My poor dehumidifier has been working overtime to keep the dampness outside. Meanwhile, my dog has become a fescue whore because the whole time the movers were hauling my possessions in the house she was outside repeatedly rolling around in the grass like it was made of cashmere.  She still does.

3.  If you love Italian food (and I do), this is the place for you.  There is a huge Italian population in Jersey and, as a result, there is an Italian restaurant on virtually every corner not unlike Memphis and BBQ joints (though I should point out that here BBQ is a verb, as in "to grill meat" whereas in the South it is a noun referring to a particular style of cooked meat).  Italy is referenced everywhere; I see little Italian flags on cars and buildings all over and the grocery stores are filled with so many different types of obscure pasta forms that they have to number the styles on the boxes. Clearly New Jersey is proud of its Italian heritage, as well they should be.  I am no longer the lone redhead surrounded by scores of Southern blondes; I am the now the ginger anomaly amongst a bevy of brunettes.  Apparently I was born to stand out either way.

4.  In case Italian food isn't your jam, you can probably find a diner on every other corner of New Jersey.  Usually open 24-hours, diners provide breakfast or dinner at any time of day for all your fried food needs.  On a side note, I have observed an inordinate number of funeral homes in the area and can't help wondering if they're related to the abundance of diners and rich Italian food, kinda like how the South has most of the best heart centers because of all their fried food.  Just sayin'...

5.  Southern New Jersey is near the Cradle of Liberty.  Twenty minutes over the river--the Delaware River that George Washington crossed in winter to surprise the Redcoats--and I can revel in all the American history a person could possibly stand.  The Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, the Constitution Center--you name it.  It's like having the National Treasure movie come to life.  A bit farther out and I could end up in Valley Forge, ironically dominated by an enormous shopping mall.  I can't help wondering how much the nascent American army might have wished to pop over for new shoes during their bitterly cold and miserable stay in the area.  It never fails to amuse me that once I was surrounded by names and battle sites relevant to the Civil War and now I am encircled by ones related to the Revolutionary War.  You can hardly spit without hitting a sign that says "Liberty" or "Patriot" or "Minuteman."  Good thing I like history.  Even if I didn't, the area is rife with art museums, performing arts venues, theaters, and choral groups, never mind being located within 3 hours of NYC, Washington DC (yay, more history and the Smithsonian!), Baltimore, Lancaster, Hershey Park, and Boston (though that's closer to 4 hours).  What's not to love?

Independence Hall (Philadelphia, PA)

6.  New Jersey has a reputation for many things (some founded, some not), one of which is the word "youse," as in referring to multiple people much like "y'all."  In the year I've lived here, NOT ONCE have I ever heard a single person say "youse."  I have heard a few people say "ya's," as in "Do ya's have everything you need?" but never "youse."  Also, I have yet to hear a single soul utter the word "Joisey." So knock it off with the jokes, already...they annoy me and I'm not even a native.

All in all, it's been a good year.  Admittedly, I haven't yet seen as much of the state or Philadelphia as I'd like, but I'm almost done with home improvement and I know many new adventures await me.  In the meantime, I'm content to sit here in my magically shrinking office chair with the malfunctioning hydraulic lift and ponder all the infinite possibilities.

Suggestions welcome.