Revelations, Part 1: Saying Goodbye

If I were emulating the coy style of Lin-Manuel Miranda, I might call 2017 #abitofayear.

However, for me to assert that 2017 has been "a bit of a year" would be a gross understatement, even by Miranda's standards. Between not finding much particularly humorous after the election and the ensuing rapid-fire of events blasting me in the face like a runaway fire hose, I've barely had time to remember my own name much less to write or to finish any projects.

What began earlier this year as a new dedication to my ever-increasing passion for genealogy--via an online "Genealogy Essentials" class in February through Boston University--has now turned into a wildly improbable journey of discovery, one that is rife with endless ironies (as all my best adventures are).

The Essentials course only served to whet my appetite, so I decided to take the serious graduate-level course "Certificate Program in Genealogical Research," which builds on the Essentials course by increasing one's professionalism and research skills in the field while helping to prepare one for future certification as a genealogist.  However, with the girlie finishing up seminary in May and moving to Atlanta over the summer, I opted to wait on the second course till September when things would presumably be a little calmer.  It's cute how I thought that.

Sometime during my first genealogy course the girlie was on her way to NY for a meeting and ended up slipping on some ice and putting her car in a ditch.  She was fine; the car not so much.  We rescued her from the cold, white north, then had to replace her car after much wrangling with the snail-like pace of the insurance company.  By the time March ended, my first course was over and the girlie was firmly ensconced in a cute little red Hyundai.  On the plus side, I now get to look forward to having extra pocket change every month when she mails me her car payment.

May was beyond insane.  First, my car started dying, so I had to work on replacing yet another vehicle.  Then my upstairs air conditioner decided to die, ultimately taking out the entire HVAC system and water boiler with it.  I can only assume that they went on strike in solidarity with the first unit, and not at all because they were each passing 20 years old and knew that all warranties were defunct, making it easier to screw with me.  Meanwhile, I still had all the requisite end-of-the-year concerts and the girlie's graduation on my plate. And, just because all that wasn't exciting enough, I got a call from my maternal uncle--ON MOTHER'S DAY (hello, Irony, I was starting to worry you weren't paying attention) that my birth mother Norma was critically ill and not expected to live long.

May turned into what amounted to a military operation of surgical strike precision in order for me to fly to Indianapolis to be with Norma before (and when) she died, to manage the intricate ballet of HVAC people coming and going in and out of my house on and off for three weeks, to coordinate graduation choir rehearsals and actual graduation, to acquire a functional vehicle for me, and to fly back to Indy for Norma's funeral.  Honestly, I'm still not entirely sure how I accomplished it all; the month is largely a blur and I still feel bad that I wasn't able to devote as much time and attention to each individual event as I might have liked.

Picture of Norma at 40-ish, gifted to me by my uncle.
(Photo Credit: Mark Wheeler)

Norma's funeral was definitely a unique experience, given that my status as a pretty much "life-long secret" was blown wide open virtually within minutes of Norma's death and without regard to my opinions on the matter. I found this particularly disconcerting; I figured that as the "secret" in question, Norma's moratorium on divulging said secret would then pass onto me and it would then be my right to decide when and how the revelation of my existence might be disseminated.  Alas, this did not turn out to be the case. Instead, the revelation became a juggernaut over which I had no control or say and I could only hold on for dear life and ride it out, much to my chagrin.  At the funeral, I could almost literally feel holes burning into my back from the piercing gazes of some of Norma's friends and associates; I was never quite clear whether it was because they were judging me (us) or just because they were burning with curiosity, which seemed more the case with some of Norma's relatives. To their credit, most of these relatives gamely introduced themselves to me and were reasonably welcoming, especially considering the news of my existence had to have come as a quite a shock.  For good or for ill, I was the skeleton now firmly out of the closet.

My primary concern about the entire juggernaut was that my presence might end up pulling focus from Norma and keep people from celebrating her life or from recognizing her passing with all the respect she deserved. I really didn't want her funeral to become about me; that would have been grossly inappropriate as far as I was concerned, and not even remotely the reason I was there.

All in all, things went somewhat better than I feared; for the most part, any people who were judgmental kept it to themselves, and the people who did speak to me were polite enough.  Doesn't mean I couldn't still feel the majority of them staring at me the entire service.  The rabid curiosity of everyone scoping me out was physically tangible.

When it was over, I was grateful that Norma could finally be at peace after an often difficult life. She was a quiet person, a private person, but she was loving and kind and generous.  She spent most of her nursing career helping to deliver babies at the same hospital in which I was born, always working the night shift like the night owl she was. I confess it was a little surreal being there in that hospital with her as she died and realizing that the last time I was there, it was also with Norma--when I was being born.  Talk about coming full circle.

There were many ups and downs in May, and many revelations about Norma's life and family (myself being perhaps the biggest one), some of which were good and some of which weren't...as revelations so often are.  But I got to meet some of my new-found cousins, one of whom is a live wire full of energy and and Life with a capital "L." And because Irony follows me like a shadow, it turns out that she was also an adoptee. Also, one of Norma's cousins is a redhead who shares my name and who has a daughter with the same name as the girlie.  There were many other weird little serendipities between us, proving yet again that genetics influences us and our choices in invisible ways we could never imagine.

Surprisingly, the revelations surrounding Norma's passing proved but a hint of what the rest of 2017 had in store for me.  If I'd only known in January where this year was going to lead, I could have purchased a case of Valium and some baseball catcher pads with which to prepare myself for the onslaught.

For more of the story, continue reading parts 2 and 3 of the Revelations trilogy.

Revelations, Part 1: Saying Goodbye

If I were emulating the coy style of Lin-Manuel Miranda, I might call 2017 #abitofayear.

However, for me to assert that 2017 has been "a bit of a year" would be a gross understatement, even by Miranda's standards. Between not finding much particularly humorous after the election and the ensuing rapid-fire of events blasting me in the face like a runaway fire hose, I've barely had time to remember my own name much less to write or to finish any projects.

What began earlier this year as a new dedication to my ever-increasing passion for genealogy--via an online "Genealogy Essentials" class in February through Boston University--has now turned into a wildly improbable journey of discovery, one that is rife with endless ironies (as all my best adventures are).

The Essentials course only served to whet my appetite, so I decided to take the serious graduate-level course "Certificate Program in Genealogical Research," which builds on the Essentials course by increasing one's professionalism and research skills in the field while helping to prepare one for future certification as a genealogist.  However, with the girlie finishing up seminary in May and moving to Atlanta over the summer, I opted to wait on the second course till September when things would presumably be a little calmer.  It's cute how I thought that.

Sometime during my first genealogy course the girlie was on her way to NY for a meeting and ended up slipping on some ice and putting her car in a ditch.  She was fine; the car not so much.  We rescued her from the cold, white north, then had to replace her car after much wrangling with the snail-like pace of the insurance company.  By the time March ended, my first course was over and the girlie was firmly ensconced in a cute little red Hyundai.  On the plus side, I now get to look forward to having extra pocket change every month when she mails me her car payment.

May was beyond insane.  First, my car started dying, so I had to work on replacing yet another vehicle.  Then my upstairs air conditioner decided to die, ultimately taking out the entire HVAC system and water boiler with it.  I can only assume that they went on strike in solidarity with the first unit, and not at all because they were each passing 20 years old and knew that all warranties were defunct, making it easier to screw with me.  Meanwhile, I still had all the requisite end-of-the-year concerts and the girlie's graduation on my plate. And, just because all that wasn't exciting enough, I got a call from my maternal uncle--ON MOTHER'S DAY (hello, Irony, I was starting to worry you weren't paying attention) that my birth mother Norma was critically ill and not expected to live long.

May turned into what amounted to a military operation of surgical strike precision in order for me to fly to Indianapolis to be with Norma before (and when) she died, to manage the intricate ballet of HVAC people coming and going in and out of my house on and off for three weeks, to coordinate graduation choir rehearsals and actual graduation, to acquire a functional vehicle for me, and to fly back to Indy for Norma's funeral.  Honestly, I'm still not entirely sure how I accomplished it all; the month is largely a blur and I still feel bad that I wasn't able to devote as much time and attention to each individual event as I might have liked.

Picture of Norma at 40-ish, gifted to me by my uncle.
(Photo Credit: Mark Wheeler)

Norma's funeral was definitely a unique experience, given that my status as a pretty much "life-long secret" was blown wide open virtually within minutes of Norma's death and without regard to my opinions on the matter. I found this particularly disconcerting; I figured that as the "secret" in question, Norma's moratorium on divulging said secret would then pass onto me and it would then be my right to decide when and how the revelation of my existence might be disseminated.  Alas, this did not turn out to be the case. Instead, the revelation became a juggernaut over which I had no control or say and I could only hold on for dear life and ride it out, much to my chagrin.  At the funeral, I could almost literally feel holes burning into my back from the piercing gazes of some of Norma's friends and associates; I was never quite clear whether it was because they were judging me (us) or just because they were burning with curiosity, which seemed more the case with some of Norma's relatives. To their credit, most of these relatives gamely introduced themselves to me and were reasonably welcoming, especially considering the news of my existence had to have come as a quite a shock.  For good or for ill, I was the skeleton now firmly out of the closet.

My primary concern about the entire juggernaut was that my presence might end up pulling focus from Norma and keep people from celebrating her life or from recognizing her passing with all the respect she deserved. I really didn't want her funeral to become about me; that would have been grossly inappropriate as far as I was concerned, and not even remotely the reason I was there.

All in all, things went somewhat better than I feared; for the most part, any people who were judgmental kept it to themselves, and the people who did speak to me were polite enough.  Doesn't mean I couldn't still feel the majority of them staring at me the entire service.  The rabid curiosity of everyone scoping me out was physically tangible.

When it was over, I was grateful that Norma could finally be at peace after an often difficult life. She was a quiet person, a private person, but she was loving and kind and generous.  She spent most of her nursing career helping to deliver babies at the same hospital in which I was born, always working the night shift like the night owl she was. I confess it was a little surreal being there in that hospital with her as she died and realizing that the last time I was there, it was also with Norma--when I was being born.  Talk about coming full circle.

There were many ups and downs in May, and many revelations about Norma's life and family (myself being perhaps the biggest one), some of which were good and some of which weren't...as revelations so often are.  But I got to meet some of my new-found cousins, one of whom is a live wire full of energy and and Life with a capital "L." And because Irony follows me like a shadow, it turns out that she was also an adoptee. Also, one of Norma's cousins is a redhead who shares my name and who has a daughter with the same name as the girlie.  There were many other weird little serendipities between us, proving yet again that genetics influences us and our choices in invisible ways we could never imagine.

Surprisingly, the revelations surrounding Norma's passing proved but a hint of what the rest of 2017 had in store for me.  If I'd only known in January where this year was going to lead, I could have purchased a case of Valium and some baseball catcher pads with which to prepare myself for the onslaught.

For more of the story, continue reading parts 2 and 3 of the Revelations trilogy.

Let It Go, aka Fun With Colonoscopy Screening

When I was a kid, anyone over 50 seemed positively ancient.  That was still pretty much true during my 20s.  By the time I hit 30 I began to adjust my expectations, particularly when my first white hair made an unwelcome appearance at age 39 about the same time my eye doctor began bandying about the "B" word--bifocals.  I kept so busy in my 40s with commencements and two interstate moves that I didn't have much time to think about my encroaching age beyond a certain smugness that I was still under 50 when the girlie graduated from college. Still, 50 began sounding a lot less ancient than it once had.  Then, last spring, it happened.  I turned 50.  Within minutes of the year turning over my mailbox became inundated with missives from the AARP proclaiming my sudden eligibility for retirement programs and benefits, because now I was officially old.  I ignored them all and took myself off to Great Britain for an outstanding adventure instead, comforted by the knowledge that I never would have been able to afford such a trip in my callow 20s (or 30s...or most of my 40s, for that matter).

This year for my birthday, instead of a kick-ass trip overseas, I got to have a colonoscopy.  Apparently what you're supposed to do when you turn 50 and suddenly become magically at risk for colon cancer because obviously your best days are now behind you and it's only a matter of time before body parts start breaking down.  Needless to say, I was less than thrilled by the prospect.  Call me old-fashioned, but I don't consider having someone Roto-Rootering my rear to be an appropriate birthday gift--at least not without buying me dinner first.  But I sucked it up and put on my big-girl panties like the old-lady-who's-supposed-to-know-better I have theoretically become (everyone who knows me can stop laughing now) and set about to prepare for a long day of unpleasant purging.

Mission Control...you're doing it right.

First I went shopping to make sure I had all the requisite clear liquid diet items allowed, including two bottles of Citrate of Magnesium (clear cherry-flavored, thank you very much), which I assumed to be much the same as digestive WD-40 when it came to greasing things that need to move more freely.  Next I mixed up some yellow Jell-O for when I eventually became hungry and put it in the fridge to set.  Beside it stood some white grape juice, lemonade, and chicken broth.  Turns out my future diet was not so much clear as ironically urine-colored.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Lastly, I deployed my cell phone, laptop (complete with charging cable), and a blanket in the bathroom and put on some comfortable stretchy pants.  Then I forced myself to chug the first bottle of bowel basher and hunkered down to wait.

I'll spare you all the gory details that followed; in the end it really wasn't all that bad (aside from the mag citrate sitting in my stomach like a lead balloon and forcing up vile cherry-flavored industrial solvent belches) and I had an easy go of things (puns intended).

All we who are about to die salute you.

Then next morning I got up at the ass-crack of dawn and dressed to go to the Endo Center.  As instructed, I didn't put on any makeup.  I don't know why that was a specific requirement because it sounded as though they were expecting me to put makeup on my backside so it looked nice for the occasion or something.  After completing my paperwork, I sat in the waiting room thinking it absolutely criminal that the room was not ringed with bathrooms for the intestinally-compromised patients filling it.  Next to me sat an older woman whose son, a bald dude in a Fu Manchu mustache, was complaining about there not being a spread of food in the waiting room because the poor guy was hungry.  Seriously, dude? Having a room full of food next to people who haven't eaten in 30 hours would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.  I wanted Bald Dude to shut up because he wouldn't stop talking about breakfast, therefore inciting me to want to smack him for making me hungry. Where's a Snickers bar when you need one?

Eventually a nurse took me in back and loaded me up with special socks and two hospital gowns, one to leave open in the back and one to wear as a robe opening in the front, instructing me how to wear them--twice.  I assured her sardonically that I did indeed comprehend the rocket science that is dressing for surgical procedures and she left me to it.  While I was waiting for a changing room to become available, an elderly man waddled out of one wearing both gowns open to the back and displaying his tighty-whities for all to see as he looked around for a nearby bathroom.  So much for disparaging rocket science jokes...apparently surgical dressing is difficult after all.

Once changed I was taken to a bed, asked a bunch of repetitive personal questions, and given an IV.  An anesthesiologist's assistant came in to ask yet more questions while a nurse plied me with further instructions for the procedure, including that if I had to pass gas afterwards I should rest assured that it was "clean" and just "let it go."  Personally, one of the last things I needed the morning of my colonoscopy was Idina Menzel belting out "Let It Go" on a continuous loop inside my head.  The nurses and I joked around a bit, during which I happened to mention that I'd intended to write "Bottoms Up" across my tush but had forgotten.  The anesthesiologist promptly responded, "Oh, I haven't seen that one in a while!"  My eyebrows shot up and I replied, "Wait--that's a thing??"  The assistant and two nurses all nodded vigorously so I asked what was the best one they'd ever seen.  They all considered seriously before throwing out phrases like "Exit Only" and "No Admittance" and "Be Gentle."  I offered "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter" and was quickly informed that they'd never seen that one.  Note to future self...

After a chorus of gigles they all disperse, leaving me in the bed to listen to the hustle and bustle of patients and staff all around me.  I had the impression of being part of an extensive assembly line and, sure enough, when the nurse came to wheel me to a procedure room I found I was part of a line of beds whipping through the building like speed racers on Mario Kart.  Once we had all been arrayed at battle stations, you could hear the staff returning empty beds to the holding area for the next wave of patients.  I asked how many procedures they typically performed in a day and was told the average is around 80.  That's a lot of drains to snake.

I met my new anesthetist, while waiting for the doctor to arrive; he was a cute young man possessed of a very snarky sense of humor who had inexplicably switched places for the day with the Exit Only girl.  My kind of people, really. The anesthetist arranged an oxygen tube over my ears and on top of my head like a tiny silicone unicorn horn so it was readily accessible once the procedure started, then began placing electrodes on my forearms to monitor my heart rate.  I was a little surprised that he was limiting them to my arms and said so.  He told me "I don't stick my hand down anyone's shirt without buying them dinner first."  How dare the little weasel steal my line!!

When the doctor finally came in he caught me jamming to the '80s music playing over the PA system and smirked at me.  He asked if I had questions before starting, then sat down to mess about on the computer while the nurse had me roll over on my side.  As I did so, Rod Stewart started blasting "Spread your wings and let me COME INSIDE 'cuz, tonight's the niiiiiiiight...gonna feel alllllllll riiight..."  I snorted and said that had to be the most wildly inappropriate (if accurate) song they could have played under the circumstances.  The anesthesiologist then informed me that he had worked at another such medical center at which the theme from Deliverance invariably started every morning around 10 am, just as he was about to put someone under, and that it had made even him uncomfortable.  I chuckled and told him I was now disappointed that I wouldn't be hearing Dueling Banjos outside the door.  He just smiled as he hit me with the nap juice; one quick head rush later and I was out cold.

Pretty Much

Moments later (or so it seemed to me), I became aware of people discussing a musical and I remember wanting to chime in.  I couldn't tell you now which musical it was or even if it really was a musical and not just wishful thinking.  I awoke in what seemed to be a hallway, where I was given saltines and some water.  I commented that it hadn't seemed to take long at all because I had the distinct sensation of not much time having passed.  The nurse told me the procedure itself had only taken about 15 minutes and that they usually stop the anesthetic just before finishing up...so I really wasn't out very deep or for very long.  After maybe another 15 minutes in recovery, I was escorted to a recliner and offered more juice and crackers while I waited for the doctor to come by with my results.  A few minutes later he showed up and told me that I was completely clear and wouldn't have to do the test again for another 10 years, barring any difficulties in the interim.  Yay, me!  He then asked where I was having breakfast--the 5th or 6th time that morning I'd been asked.  No doubt that's a common topic of conversation when managing people deprived of solid food for a day or two.  (For the record, I went to Panera's where I had a breakfast sandwich of ham, egg, and Vermont white cheddar on toasted ciabatta bread...mmmmmmm.)  The doctor handed me a copy of his report, complete with TMI pictures of the inside of my colon. One picture clearly displayed the only two kernels of corn to survive the previous day's purge, something the doctor made sure to tease me about, as though leaving them behind had somehow been a deliberate choice on my part.  Thanks, Doc.

All things considered, I have to admit that while perhaps not the most enjoyable of activities, getting a colonoscopy was still not even close to the worst medical experience I've ever had.  Those honors probably go to the time a podiatrist did a wedge excision on an ingrowing toenail edge, in the process giving me a rampaging staph infection--twice--which took months to heal.  Really, I've been pretty lucky so far, medically speaking.  Here's hoping that luck holds out a few more years.

And that brings us to your your PSA for the day:  Go and get roto-rootered screened for cancer.  A day or two of mild discomfort is infinitely preferable to the alternative, especially if you get to be surrounded by fellow smartasses into the bargain.  Doesn't hurt that you're in and out of the building in less than three hours.

I still expect to hear "Dueling Banjos" next time, though.

Let It Go, aka Fun With Colonoscopy Screening

When I was a kid, anyone over 50 seemed positively ancient.  That was still pretty much true during my 20s.  By the time I hit 30 I began to adjust my expectations, particularly when my first white hair made an unwelcome appearance at age 39 about the same time my eye doctor began bandying about the "B" word--bifocals.  I kept so busy in my 40s with commencements and two interstate moves that I didn't have much time to think about my encroaching age beyond a certain smugness that I was still under 50 when the girlie graduated from college. Still, 50 began sounding a lot less ancient than it once had.  Then, last spring, it happened.  I turned 50.  Within minutes of the year turning over my mailbox became inundated with missives from the AARP proclaiming my sudden eligibility for retirement programs and benefits, because now I was officially old.  I ignored them all and took myself off to Great Britain for an outstanding adventure instead, comforted by the knowledge that I never would have been able to afford such a trip in my callow 20s (or 30s...or most of my 40s, for that matter).

This year for my birthday, instead of a kick-ass trip overseas, I got to have a colonoscopy.  Apparently what you're supposed to do when you turn 50 and suddenly become magically at risk for colon cancer because obviously your best days are now behind you and it's only a matter of time before body parts start breaking down.  Needless to say, I was less than thrilled by the prospect.  Call me old-fashioned, but I don't consider having someone Roto-Rootering my rear to be an appropriate birthday gift--at least not without buying me dinner first.  But I sucked it up and put on my big-girl panties like the old-lady-who's-supposed-to-know-better I have theoretically become (everyone who knows me can stop laughing now) and set about to prepare for a long day of unpleasant purging.

Mission Control...you're doing it right.

First I went shopping to make sure I had all the requisite clear liquid diet items allowed, including two bottles of Citrate of Magnesium (clear cherry-flavored, thank you very much), which I assumed to be much the same as digestive WD-40 when it came to greasing things that need to move more freely.  Next I mixed up some yellow Jell-O for when I eventually became hungry and put it in the fridge to set.  Beside it stood some white grape juice, lemonade, and chicken broth.  Turns out my future diet was not so much clear as ironically urine-colored.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Lastly, I deployed my cell phone, laptop (complete with charging cable), and a blanket in the bathroom and put on some comfortable stretchy pants.  Then I forced myself to chug the first bottle of bowel basher and hunkered down to wait.

I'll spare you all the gory details that followed; in the end it really wasn't all that bad (aside from the mag citrate sitting in my stomach like a lead balloon and forcing up vile cherry-flavored industrial solvent belches) and I had an easy go of things (puns intended).

All we who are about to die salute you.

Then next morning I got up at the ass-crack of dawn and dressed to go to the Endo Center.  As instructed, I didn't put on any makeup.  I don't know why that was a specific requirement because it sounded as though they were expecting me to put makeup on my backside so it looked nice for the occasion or something.  After completing my paperwork, I sat in the waiting room thinking it absolutely criminal that the room was not ringed with bathrooms for the intestinally-compromised patients filling it.  Next to me sat an older woman whose son, a bald dude in a Fu Manchu mustache, was complaining about there not being a spread of food in the waiting room because the poor guy was hungry.  Seriously, dude? Having a room full of food next to people who haven't eaten in 30 hours would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.  I wanted Bald Dude to shut up because he wouldn't stop talking about breakfast, therefore inciting me to want to smack him for making me hungry. Where's a Snickers bar when you need one?

Eventually a nurse took me in back and loaded me up with special socks and two hospital gowns, one to leave open in the back and one to wear as a robe opening in the front, instructing me how to wear them--twice.  I assured her sardonically that I did indeed comprehend the rocket science that is dressing for surgical procedures and she left me to it.  While I was waiting for a changing room to become available, an elderly man waddled out of one wearing both gowns open to the back and displaying his tighty-whities for all to see as he looked around for a nearby bathroom.  So much for disparaging rocket science jokes...apparently surgical dressing is difficult after all.

Once changed I was taken to a bed, asked a bunch of repetitive personal questions, and given an IV.  An anesthesiologist's assistant came in to ask yet more questions while a nurse plied me with further instructions for the procedure, including that if I had to pass gas afterwards I should rest assured that it was "clean" and just "let it go."  Personally, one of the last things I needed the morning of my colonoscopy was Idina Menzel belting out "Let It Go" on a continuous loop inside my head.  The nurses and I joked around a bit, during which I happened to mention that I'd intended to write "Bottoms Up" across my tush but had forgotten.  The anesthesiologist promptly responded, "Oh, I haven't seen that one in a while!"  My eyebrows shot up and I replied, "Wait--that's a thing??"  The assistant and two nurses all nodded vigorously so I asked what was the best one they'd ever seen.  They all considered seriously before throwing out phrases like "Exit Only" and "No Admittance" and "Be Gentle."  I offered "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter" and was quickly informed that they'd never seen that one.  Note to future self...

After a chorus of gigles they all disperse, leaving me in the bed to listen to the hustle and bustle of patients and staff all around me.  I had the impression of being part of an extensive assembly line and, sure enough, when the nurse came to wheel me to a procedure room I found I was part of a line of beds whipping through the building like speed racers on Mario Kart.  Once we had all been arrayed at battle stations, you could hear the staff returning empty beds to the holding area for the next wave of patients.  I asked how many procedures they typically performed in a day and was told the average is around 80.  That's a lot of drains to snake.

I met my new anesthetist, while waiting for the doctor to arrive; he was a cute young man possessed of a very snarky sense of humor who had inexplicably switched places for the day with the Exit Only girl.  My kind of people, really. The anesthetist arranged an oxygen tube over my ears and on top of my head like a tiny silicone unicorn horn so it was readily accessible once the procedure started, then began placing electrodes on my forearms to monitor my heart rate.  I was a little surprised that he was limiting them to my arms and said so.  He told me "I don't stick my hand down anyone's shirt without buying them dinner first."  How dare the little weasel steal my line!!

When the doctor finally came in he caught me jamming to the '80s music playing over the PA system and smirked at me.  He asked if I had questions before starting, then sat down to mess about on the computer while the nurse had me roll over on my side.  As I did so, Rod Stewart started blasting "Spread your wings and let me COME INSIDE 'cuz, tonight's the niiiiiiiight...gonna feel alllllllll riiight..."  I snorted and said that had to be the most wildly inappropriate (if accurate) song they could have played under the circumstances.  The anesthesiologist then informed me that he had worked at another such medical center at which the theme from Deliverance invariably started every morning around 10 am, just as he was about to put someone under, and that it had made even him uncomfortable.  I chuckled and told him I was now disappointed that I wouldn't be hearing Dueling Banjos outside the door.  He just smiled as he hit me with the nap juice; one quick head rush later and I was out cold.

Pretty Much

Moments later (or so it seemed to me), I became aware of people discussing a musical and I remember wanting to chime in.  I couldn't tell you now which musical it was or even if it really was a musical and not just wishful thinking.  I awoke in what seemed to be a hallway, where I was given saltines and some water.  I commented that it hadn't seemed to take long at all because I had the distinct sensation of not much time having passed.  The nurse told me the procedure itself had only taken about 15 minutes and that they usually stop the anesthetic just before finishing up...so I really wasn't out very deep or for very long.  After maybe another 15 minutes in recovery, I was escorted to a recliner and offered more juice and crackers while I waited for the doctor to come by with my results.  A few minutes later he showed up and told me that I was completely clear and wouldn't have to do the test again for another 10 years, barring any difficulties in the interim.  Yay, me!  He then asked where I was having breakfast--the 5th or 6th time that morning I'd been asked.  No doubt that's a common topic of conversation when managing people deprived of solid food for a day or two.  (For the record, I went to Panera's where I had a breakfast sandwich of ham, egg, and Vermont white cheddar on toasted ciabatta bread...mmmmmmm.)  The doctor handed me a copy of his report, complete with TMI pictures of the inside of my colon. One picture clearly displayed the only two kernels of corn to survive the previous day's purge, something the doctor made sure to tease me about, as though leaving them behind had somehow been a deliberate choice on my part.  Thanks, Doc.

All things considered, I have to admit that while perhaps not the most enjoyable of activities, getting a colonoscopy was still not even close to the worst medical experience I've ever had.  Those honors probably go to the time a podiatrist did a wedge excision on an ingrowing toenail edge, in the process giving me a rampaging staph infection--twice--which took months to heal.  Really, I've been pretty lucky so far, medically speaking.  Here's hoping that luck holds out a few more years.

And that brings us to your your PSA for the day:  Go and get roto-rootered screened for cancer.  A day or two of mild discomfort is infinitely preferable to the alternative, especially if you get to be surrounded by fellow smartasses into the bargain.  Doesn't hurt that you're in and out of the building in less than three hours.

I still expect to hear "Dueling Banjos" next time, though.

Observations from the Mothership: The Wrap-Up

Final Impressions

Sometimes it's funny how things work out.  I always intended to write up a list of final observations about my trip when all the other posts were finished and I was back home.  Instead I fell behind on posting during the trip because I was either too busy or too tired at the time, then after returning home I was simply too preoccupied by other things.  Thus, while I was actively procrastinating and/or goofing off, someone got the jump on me.  An American tourist named Scott Waters decided to detail the differences he observed between American and English culture while on his 4th visit overseas.  His extremely accurate list has since gone viral; you can (and should) read it here.  I'd like to say Mr. Waters' post will teach me to rest on my laurels and to finish my writing when I should, but you and I both know that's not likely to happen any time soon.  My expertise is in smartassery, not punctuality.

So what are some of my final impressions of the United Kingdom, then?  First of all, I agree with many of Mr. Waters' observations:  shops do close entirely too early, dogs are everywhere (something I loved seeing) and are well-behaved, and the staircases are indeed exceptionally narrow--as in too narrow to navigate with a suitcase beside you; you have to drag it behind or walk sideways to allow adequate room.  Either way it's a hassle.  I also agree with Mr. Waters that facecloths/washcloths seem to be non-existent for some inexplicable reason and that the shower controls are often illogical or confusing (and not standard from hotel to hotel).

I do have some observations of my own, however.  For example, I don't entirely understand the death-defying step-down tubs everywhere.  You climb in and are showering essentially two feet off the ground.  That's a little weird and disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.  The real problem occurs when you then have to climb back out of these raised tubs while still wet and slippery.  I don't understand how there aren't elderly hips breaking all across the country every few minutes as older people attempt to navigate these hygienic death traps and arrive safely on the ground.  Are the British just way the hell more coordinated than I am??  (Those of you who know me well can stop laughing at any time.)

Foreign Tall Bathtub of Death

Continuing with the bathroom theme, I was likewise fascinated by the apparent preponderance of removable sprayers in lieu of fixed shower heads.  This seemed infinitely practical and I wish this were as standard practice here in the states.  The only problem is that when holstered they then tend to spray straight down rather than outwards, so you don't always get very good coverage when standing under them.  Still, this seems a small price to pay for their added flexibility.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced the only reason the British try to keep a "stiff upper lip" is because that's the only way they can cope with the stiff lower ends which must surely result from using loo (toilet) rolls with the overall softness of 36 grit sandpaper.  You'd think this rather indelicate tissue would turn everyone there into (literal) hard asses, though if anything the opposite is true.  But then I suppose even sandpapery loo rolls are preferable to the minuscule squares of paper one gets in a public restroom, which are about as effective as trying to wipe with Post-Its (and only slightly less comfortable).

On the other hand, while British toilet tissue leaves much to be desired, their bath towels are a vast improvement over ours--at least in hotels.  It's not that the towels are appreciably softer, necessarily, but rather that they are simply larger.  I find it ironic that the British people, who are on average notably smaller than the typical American, have bath towels more than ample enough to swathe even the largest person while we usually have to settle for hotel towels the size of Barbie's dish rags.  Go figure.  The abundance of oversized towels was wonderful.  Plus how can you not love a country with a towel-warming rack in nearly every bathroom??  Pure decadence right there.

While we're in the vicinity, another thing I really loved on my trip was the bedding--not to be all lurid, or anything.  Most beds I encountered had nothing but a bottom sheet and a big, fluffy comforter or duvet.  There were no top sheets to mess about with or get tangled up in while you slept.  I actually slept the best I have in months while there.  I'm sure part of that was due to the simple exhaustion of constantly walking everywhere, but just the same there was something truly glorious about sliding in under a thick, cozy coverlet every night and burrowing in for a nice, deep sleep.  Small wonder I found it so difficult to pry myself out of such a warm, pleasant nest every morning.

Another thing I really enjoyed in Britain was using the railway system for all my travels.  The trains rocked.  Even with the assorted stops on each trip, I could get almost anywhere in the country in 2-5 hours by train, with the added bonus of being able to enjoy the scenery instead of stressing out over whether or not I was on the correct road.  Most of the time I was able to snag a table and spread out with my laptop or my puzzle books and whatever snack I'd grabbed along the way.  Even when I couldn't get a table, the regular seats had pull-down trays like on airplanes which served almost as well.  The seats were comfortable and often had nearby outlets I could use for recharging my phone.  Each carriage had a luggage rack for larger bags and an overhead rack for backpacks and such.  Several even had storage for the bicycles people use to travel in town.  Most trains also had random signs exhorting passengers to "always carry water when traveling" as though Britrail thought everyone was going to suddenly disintegrate into a puff of dust if not sufficiently hydrated.  Needless to say, I found those signs pretty humorous.

I thoroughly enjoyed riding the trains during my trip.  Admittedly, I originally thought paying nearly $600 for a 2-week rail pass was a bit steep (never mind my largest expenditure by far), but it was worth every penny.  I'm pretty sure I came out around $100 ahead when all was said and done, but even if I hadn't it would still have been totally worth it just for the convenience and travel flexibility alone, something which came in handy more than once.  I highly recommend rail passes when traveling in Europe.

In addition to the rail pass, I also managed the paper money and £1 coins reasonably well, though I found the other coins to be pretty much pointless unless I needed to use a public bathroom where "spending a penny" now costs more like 30p-50p.  I'm not sure when peeing became such an expensive proposition, but there you go (or not, as the case may be).  I will confess that the newest-minted coins are pretty cool, though, because they can be assembled to show the royal heraldry displayed on the back of the £1 coins.

Thanks for showing me this, Dean!

By the time I headed back to Heathrow, I felt like I could almost pass for a native...in my imaginary world, at any rate.  Aside from the dead giveaway accent, I had my little black rucksack and was able to pack away tea and English breakfasts with the best of them.  Heck, I even mastered the coinage, even if it was just before I had to leave.  The only thing I figured I had left to do to become native would be to invest in a gross of black leggings because I saw those freaking things everywhere.  Skirts, boots, and black leggings:  the British woman's uniform, apparently.

I'm sure I could think of other interesting differences between England and the US, but why bother, really?  Intriguing as many of those differences are, they won't be what sticks with me.  What I'll remember most isn't the differences or even the big touristy sites I saw like Stonehenge or the Globe or the assorted castles I visited--amazing though each was in its own right--but rather getting to know the heartbeat of every town by wandering through the streets and the everyday places one doesn't normally see on tours.

I'll remember how much I loved Aberystwyth; I'll remember the gorgeous flowers everywhere, the sound of the waves lapping the shore of the bay, and the melodious lilt of native Welsh speakers.  I'll remember how even though I enjoyed the bustling streets of London and Edinburgh and all those cities had to offer, it was the peaceful serenity of Wales that made me feel as if I'd finally come home at last, as if I truly belonged there.

Welsh beauty.

I'll remember all the people I met, whether Crrrrrrrrrrraig from the Hard Rock Cafe or Stacey with an E or the lovely couple making their first trip to Edinburgh for an anniversary holiday or Sari the Australian from Perth.  Docents and tour guides can be very informative, but you learn far more about a country by listening to its people and learning from their experiences.

Lastly, I'll remember how the best part of my whole trip was the time I got to spend hanging out with new friends, whether I was being escorted to an event or whether we were simply chatting and laughing together.  No matter how epic or breathtaking a given building is, the human connections we make are far more important and enduring than any structure could ever be.  Besides, memories are always better when you have someone with whom to share them, and so I am especially grateful for every moment I was able to enjoy with friends.

As for final impressions, the only thing really left to say is:  Best. Birthday. Trip. EVER!!!

Observations from the Mothership: The Wrap-Up

Final Impressions

Sometimes it's funny how things work out.  I always intended to write up a list of final observations about my trip when all the other posts were finished and I was back home.  Instead I fell behind on posting during the trip because I was either too busy or too tired at the time, then after returning home I was simply too preoccupied by other things.  Thus, while I was actively procrastinating and/or goofing off, someone got the jump on me.  An American tourist named Scott Waters decided to detail the differences he observed between American and English culture while on his 4th visit overseas.  His extremely accurate list has since gone viral; you can (and should) read it here.  I'd like to say Mr. Waters' post will teach me to rest on my laurels and to finish my writing when I should, but you and I both know that's not likely to happen any time soon.  My expertise is in smartassery, not punctuality.

So what are some of my final impressions of the United Kingdom, then?  First of all, I agree with many of Mr. Waters' observations:  shops do close entirely too early, dogs are everywhere (something I loved seeing) and are well-behaved, and the staircases are indeed exceptionally narrow--as in too narrow to navigate with a suitcase beside you; you have to drag it behind or walk sideways to allow adequate room.  Either way it's a hassle.  I also agree with Mr. Waters that facecloths/washcloths seem to be non-existent for some inexplicable reason and that the shower controls are often illogical or confusing (and not standard from hotel to hotel).

I do have some observations of my own, however.  For example, I don't entirely understand the death-defying step-down tubs everywhere.  You climb in and are showering essentially two feet off the ground.  That's a little weird and disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.  The real problem occurs when you then have to climb back out of these raised tubs while still wet and slippery.  I don't understand how there aren't elderly hips breaking all across the country every few minutes as older people attempt to navigate these hygienic death traps and arrive safely on the ground.  Are the British just way the hell more coordinated than I am??  (Those of you who know me well can stop laughing at any time.)

Foreign Tall Bathtub of Death

Continuing with the bathroom theme, I was likewise fascinated by the apparent preponderance of removable sprayers in lieu of fixed shower heads.  This seemed infinitely practical and I wish this were as standard practice here in the states.  The only problem is that when holstered they then tend to spray straight down rather than outwards, so you don't always get very good coverage when standing under them.  Still, this seems a small price to pay for their added flexibility.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced the only reason the British try to keep a "stiff upper lip" is because that's the only way they can cope with the stiff lower ends which must surely result from using loo (toilet) rolls with the overall softness of 36 grit sandpaper.  You'd think this rather indelicate tissue would turn everyone there into (literal) hard asses, though if anything the opposite is true.  But then I suppose even sandpapery loo rolls are preferable to the minuscule squares of paper one gets in a public restroom, which are about as effective as trying to wipe with Post-Its (and only slightly less comfortable).

On the other hand, while British toilet tissue leaves much to be desired, their bath towels are a vast improvement over ours--at least in hotels.  It's not that the towels are appreciably softer, necessarily, but rather that they are simply larger.  I find it ironic that the British people, who are on average notably smaller than the typical American, have bath towels more than ample enough to swathe even the largest person while we usually have to settle for hotel towels the size of Barbie's dish rags.  Go figure.  The abundance of oversized towels was wonderful.  Plus how can you not love a country with a towel-warming rack in nearly every bathroom??  Pure decadence right there.

While we're in the vicinity, another thing I really loved on my trip was the bedding--not to be all lurid, or anything.  Most beds I encountered had nothing but a bottom sheet and a big, fluffy comforter or duvet.  There were no top sheets to mess about with or get tangled up in while you slept.  I actually slept the best I have in months while there.  I'm sure part of that was due to the simple exhaustion of constantly walking everywhere, but just the same there was something truly glorious about sliding in under a thick, cozy coverlet every night and burrowing in for a nice, deep sleep.  Small wonder I found it so difficult to pry myself out of such a warm, pleasant nest every morning.

Another thing I really enjoyed in Britain was using the railway system for all my travels.  The trains rocked.  Even with the assorted stops on each trip, I could get almost anywhere in the country in 2-5 hours by train, with the added bonus of being able to enjoy the scenery instead of stressing out over whether or not I was on the correct road.  Most of the time I was able to snag a table and spread out with my laptop or my puzzle books and whatever snack I'd grabbed along the way.  Even when I couldn't get a table, the regular seats had pull-down trays like on airplanes which served almost as well.  The seats were comfortable and often had nearby outlets I could use for recharging my phone.  Each carriage had a luggage rack for larger bags and an overhead rack for backpacks and such.  Several even had storage for the bicycles people use to travel in town.  Most trains also had random signs exhorting passengers to "always carry water when traveling" as though Britrail thought everyone was going to suddenly disintegrate into a puff of dust if not sufficiently hydrated.  Needless to say, I found those signs pretty humorous.

I thoroughly enjoyed riding the trains during my trip.  Admittedly, I originally thought paying nearly $600 for a 2-week rail pass was a bit steep (never mind my largest expenditure by far), but it was worth every penny.  I'm pretty sure I came out around $100 ahead when all was said and done, but even if I hadn't it would still have been totally worth it just for the convenience and travel flexibility alone, something which came in handy more than once.  I highly recommend rail passes when traveling in Europe.

In addition to the rail pass, I also managed the paper money and £1 coins reasonably well, though I found the other coins to be pretty much pointless unless I needed to use a public bathroom where "spending a penny" now costs more like 30p-50p.  I'm not sure when peeing became such an expensive proposition, but there you go (or not, as the case may be).  I will confess that the newest-minted coins are pretty cool, though, because they can be assembled to show the royal heraldry displayed on the back of the £1 coins.

Thanks for showing me this, Dean!

By the time I headed back to Heathrow, I felt like I could almost pass for a native...in my imaginary world, at any rate.  Aside from the dead giveaway accent, I had my little black rucksack and was able to pack away tea and English breakfasts with the best of them.  Heck, I even mastered the coinage, even if it was just before I had to leave.  The only thing I figured I had left to do to become native would be to invest in a gross of black leggings because I saw those freaking things everywhere.  Skirts, boots, and black leggings:  the British woman's uniform, apparently.

I'm sure I could think of other interesting differences between England and the US, but why bother, really?  Intriguing as many of those differences are, they won't be what sticks with me.  What I'll remember most isn't the differences or even the big touristy sites I saw like Stonehenge or the Globe or the assorted castles I visited--amazing though each was in its own right--but rather getting to know the heartbeat of every town by wandering through the streets and the everyday places one doesn't normally see on tours.

I'll remember how much I loved Aberystwyth; I'll remember the gorgeous flowers everywhere, the sound of the waves lapping the shore of the bay, and the melodious lilt of native Welsh speakers.  I'll remember how even though I enjoyed the bustling streets of London and Edinburgh and all those cities had to offer, it was the peaceful serenity of Wales that made me feel as if I'd finally come home at last, as if I truly belonged there.

Welsh beauty.

I'll remember all the people I met, whether Crrrrrrrrrrraig from the Hard Rock Cafe or Stacey with an E or the lovely couple making their first trip to Edinburgh for an anniversary holiday or Sari the Australian from Perth.  Docents and tour guides can be very informative, but you learn far more about a country by listening to its people and learning from their experiences.

Lastly, I'll remember how the best part of my whole trip was the time I got to spend hanging out with new friends, whether I was being escorted to an event or whether we were simply chatting and laughing together.  No matter how epic or breathtaking a given building is, the human connections we make are far more important and enduring than any structure could ever be.  Besides, memories are always better when you have someone with whom to share them, and so I am especially grateful for every moment I was able to enjoy with friends.

As for final impressions, the only thing really left to say is:  Best. Birthday. Trip. EVER!!!

Observations from the Mothership: Days 12 & 13

The Days I Lounged in London and Flew Home

"Buzzzzzzzzzt!  Buzzzzzzt!!

I'm pretty sure it's not every day that one gets awakened by a text message buzzing under one's ass, or at least it's not an everyday occurrence for me.  But that's pretty much what seems to happen when one climbs into bed after a very long, very busy day and promptly face plants into one's phone.  Turns out traveling is exhausting--at least the way I do it is.  Clearly I need to write a bestseller that gets optioned for a movie and thus become independently wealthy so I can afford to have drivers escorting me from destination to destination the next time I travel overseas.  On the plus side, I'm now positive that I've lost some weight because none of my pants want to stay up. I'm currently maybe a pound or two away from causing an international incident.

My buzzing phone dealt with, I dragged myself out of my cozy, warm bed just in time to make it downstairs to the complimentary breakfast buffet.  Even though I was awake under extreme protest, I had to appreciate the variety of items on offer at the buffet (look at me, speaking all Britishly!).  There were several fruits on one cart, an omelet station, assorted breads and pastries, yogurts, juices, and of course all the makings of a full English breakfast on the hot bar.  I sampled a modest variety of items and then drug myself back upstairs and attempt to accomplish some writing under the possibly unrealistic assumption that I could keep myself upright and conscious for a change instead of slamming face-first into my electronic devices yet again.  As it happens I did not get much writing done, but I did thoroughly enjoy decadently lolling around in bed all afternoon after a hectic two weeks.  Sometimes the simplest things are the most pleasurable.

My cozy "Exectutive" room.

In the evening I forced myself to go downstairs for dinner at the hotel restaurant rather than copping out by ordering room service and continuing to hide out upstairs.  The restaurant was called Oscar's and looked more like a bar than a restaurant. After my quiet day in I opted for soup and salad instead of something heavier. The French onion soup arrived in a giant bread bowl and was teeming with so many onions that I could hardly get to the broth; it looked rather like an explosion of translucent worms trying to climb out and infest the restaurant.  Mmmmm, tasty! My efforts to consume the soup were not aided by it soaking almost immediately into the dense bread bowl, but I spooned up as much as I could before tearing off bits of bowl to eat. Edible dishware is always a novelty.  Meanwhile, the chicken Caesar salad was absolutely delicious and I scarfed  down every single bite.  I hadn't really planned to order dessert after the meal, but it seemed a shame not to enjoy one last sugary hurrah before leaving the country in the morning so I requested a simple ice cream sundae.  The small, overpriced sundae I anticipated arrived in a 12" tall parfait glass and had two different flavors of ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped cream (the good kind), assorted sprinkles, and a large cookie/waffle wedge perched on top.  My jaw dropped at the immensity of the creamy vision before me.  Rather than stay there sucking down a mound of ice cream alone like some jilted lover, I paid my check and took my delectable plunder upstairs where I could savor it in private and not while I was surfing the internet like a sad, pathetic woman at all.

I spent the rest of my evening packing, which involved redistributing clothing and gifts/souvenirs between my original carry-on bag and the new cheap one I was able to purchase in the hotel gift shop.  I put most of the gifts in the crappy new suitcase to take on the plane with me, choosing instead to stow all my toiletries and dirty clothes in the sturdier bag with which I'd started and which would likely survive molestation by baggage handlers.  Besides, I figured if some clothes went missing on the way home it would be no great loss, but I wanted to make sure I personally kept track of all the good and/or irreplaceable stuff.  Once everything was stowed to my satisfaction, I selected clothes for the trip home, washed up, and climbed into bed.

The next morning my alarm went off first at 5:30 am, then again at 6 am.  (I always set a back-up alarm to give myself a little extra time to become coherent as I wake up.)  Then I promptly fell back asleep for an additional 20 minutes.  I woke up, saw the time, employed some of the new British swear words I'd learned, and then quickly dressed and shoved the last few things in my suitcase.  I grabbed a light breakfast at the Executive Customers Only buffet, bags in tow, then checked out and plowed down the hotel walkway like a steam roller to Heathrow's Terminal 4 where I checked my bag and collected my boarding pass.

Staying near the terminal proved a canny choice because, in spite of my slight oversleeping, I arrived with plenty of time to stand in line in the bowels of the airport with my VAT receipts and wait to process them for refunds.  The line moved quite quickly and efficiently though I was slightly annoyed to discover that I'd been misled about the refunds when I saw people standing in line with stacks of receipts 2 inches tall.  I'd been told you could only request up to 6 refunds and I didn't find out that each receipt required a specially-printed form from the original vendor in order to be processed.  So my most expensive purchases were not eligible.  Sigh.  When I reached the front of the queue I submitted what I had, was told I'd get the refund in around 3 weeks (which I still haven't gotten), and was sent blithely on my way.

Back upstairs I walked past a currency exchange which did not appear busy and so decided to go ahead and change my money there before heading through security rather than have to make an extra trip to the bank at home even though I knew I'd take a little bit of a hit on the exchange there.  Just as I was walking up to the counter, however, some Middle Eastern dude walked up in front of me with his entire family and a 4" stack of VAT forms.  I assumed he'd get shipped downstairs to the processing center like everyone else, but he didn't.  So I waited patiently in the queue like a good faux Brit while he was processed, fully expecting the other girl at the counter to call me up at any moment.  Which she didn't.  So I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  As I stood, I watched the man's children wander about, clearly as bored and impatient as I was.  His daughter, who was maybe 10, was wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled over to the side in the gangsta hip-hop style, making it look wildly incongruous next to her pink Hello, Kitty! sweatshirt.

Twenty minutes later the queue was some 8 people deep and the second girl still wasn't serving anyone.  I was becoming antsier by the second, wanting to get through security and off to my gate.  I know I probably should have just left and changed the money at home, but eventually I got to the point where I want to WIN rather than having waited so long in vain.  Silly, I know.  Sometimes it's just about the principle of the thing.

Finally another woman came to the desk and changed out places with the one not waiting on anybody.  Just as she did, some woman jumped the line and walked directly up to her to be served.  My first thought while glaring at her was "Dammit, woman, we're British!!  We QUEUE!!!!"  Two weeks here and apparently I've already gone native.  The line-jumper did her exchange, then I jumped the queue and went over as well.  I guess the staff had assumed that everyone in line had VAT slips (which, to be fair, several did) and so neither employee had asked the rest of us forward as a result.  I got my £70 exchanged into $50 or so, taking a far bigger hit than expected.  Or maybe I have the amounts backwards; at this point the morning is a bit of a blur.

My business completed, I headed over to queue up for the scanners, where I sailed through security.  I did not have to take off my shoes, I did not need 15 bins to hold my belongings, I did not have to stand in the cancer chamber, and I did not get over-enthusiastically frisked by overzealous and self-important security staff.  I couldn't believe it--me, simpatico with airport security.  Who knew miracles were performed at Heathrow? As far as I'm concerned, this is yet more proof that I belong in Great Britain; clearly London loves me far more than the US, where TSA mocks and torments me at every possible turn.  I retrieved my things from the bin on the belt and headed off to my gate, which I found surprisingly devoid of passengers.  I just figured I'd gotten there early in spite of the financial queues and that people would continue to arrive in due course.  They didn't.

While I waited, a lovely British woman in a Delta uniform sat next to me and asked if I would be willing to do a survey.  I figured it was as good a way to pass the time as any, so agreed and ended up subjected to a good 15 minutes of fairly personal questions about my travel habits and my opinions on the airport/airline/etc.  I couldn't really be irritated by the lengthy survey questions, though, because everything sounds better in a British accent; even swear words like "Fook!!" or "Slutty bitch!" which I'm supposed to find offensive just make me giggle maniacally instead.  Shortly after the lady finished with me my flight began boarding.  I walked on early and stowed my suitcase, then sat in my aisle seat to await the inevitable line of people smacking their bags into my head as they passed.  They never came.  By the time the door the attendants closed the door there were maybe all of 60 passengers on the plane.  It was absolutely glorious.  Everyone spread out all over the plane.  I had a row all to myself, as did a guy next to me who spent most of the flight stretched out across all three seats and fast asleep.  Easily the most comfortable and most quiet flight I've ever been on, this unexpected boon was made all the more priceless given the several-hour length of the transatlantic journey.  Every flight should be even half so peaceful...I highly recommend traveling like this whenever possible; it's infinitely preferable to being crammed into the cabin like drunken college students into a Volkswagen.

Taxiing down the runway proved unexpectedly emotional for me; when the wheels left the tarmac and London began to shrink in my window I choked up, my eyes welling with tears.  The funny thing is it's not like I've never been to England before--I was there with my family 15 years ago and although I enjoyed my visit back then, this trip was somehow very different. Certainly I reveled in my British adventures this time around, but I was still surprised to be overcome at liftoff...surprised to find just exactly how much I truly love this amazing country and how much it means to me. Perhaps this was merely the result of being in Great Britain on my own or perhaps it had something to do with my newly-discovered genetic ties to the country. All I know is that the history, the architecture, the food, the atmosphere, the people, the language--everything, really--has now become a deeply-imbedded part of my soul and I felt a physical pain at leaving.

I didn't sleep much on the trip back; I wanted to remain awake so I could recalibrate my internal clock more quickly once home (not that it worked, mind you).  Instead, I plugged my earphones into the seat-back console, cranked up some tunes, and spent half the flight writing and the other half surfing the internet.  You've got to love technology--ten years ago it never would have occurred to me that I would one day be able to access the internet from some 30,000 miles above the earth.  Pretty neat trick, really.  Even better was being able to use my would-be neighbor's tray table for food so I didn't have to move my laptop from my own tray table.  Life is all about the little things.

Several hours later, we began our descent towards Philadelphia.  As the city grew larger in my window I turned off and stowed my laptop, thinking how surreal I felt to be back in the States as though I were just starting my holiday rather than finishing it.  It seemed like I should be heading home to Europe at any moment.  Two weeks later I was only just beginning to feel "back to normal," or at least as "normal" as one can feel after leaving a big chunk of one's heart with the cobblestones and grey skies of Edinburgh, with new friends in the Doctor Who podcasting community, with the ancient stones on Salisbury plain, with the calligraphic kiss of Magna Carta and the heraldry of her staunch protectors in Salisbury Cathedral, with the pubs and theaters and bustling streets of London, with the sea lapping at the shores of Aberystwyth while gulls keen overhead, with archives full of books and the heady, musty perfume of age and knowledge leaking out from between their pages, and with the silky slate and ancestral castle walls of Cardiff.

"On final approach to Philadelphia..."

All things considered, I could not have asked for a more meaningful or fulfilling birthday trip. In truth, if governments these days weren't so anal about immigration I'd be on a plane tomorrow, work visa in hand, bursting to become an American expatriate.  Seriously. America may be far more familiar to me, but the United Kingdom feels far more like where I belong.  Must be the genes of all those British ancestors flowing through my veins and calling me home.