It’s That Time of Year Again!

That wonderful, fabulous, magical time of year.

The time for snowflakes and ornaments and happy little elves. For wreaths tacked to front doors and light-bedecked pine trees. For claymation movies about reindeer, snowmen, and jolly old Saint Nick. The time for good food and careful searching for just the right gift. Time to be spent with good friends and family—those who are precious and beloved and dear to one’s heart.

England has some issues with holidays.

They barely acknowledge Halloween over here (as evidenced by the complete lack of decorations, pumpkin carving, costumes, or…anything else really). And England doesn’t do Thanksgiving at all. Since these two holidays (along with my birthday, orange crunchy leaves, and the ability to wear one of my two million scarf accessories), make fall so absolutely marvelous to my eyes, it makes me sad when they suddenly don’t exist. It makes the season feel a little empty and…foreign.

But England! Lovely, lovely England. England knows about Christmas.

I walked by Starbucks today, and there are snowflake shaped window stickies in the front window. And there are metallic red Christmas garlands across the top of their mug display. Tesco’s (my local grocery store) has had Christmas displays out Since October: the top shelves are lined with stocking stuffers and Christmas crackers. Large Santa and Rudolph plushies sit smiling in cardboard display cases at the end of aisles. There are turkeys (!!!) in the freezer section, and Christmas puddings in the sweets aisle. I found body wash (for him!) in a novelty container shaped like the Stig.

There is a pedestrian tunnel that runs beneath the street from the South Kennsington tube station to a place just down the street from the Pepperdine house that I walk through to get to and from school every day. The tunnel exists to allow easy access to the three museums located just down the street from the school, and there are three exits: the one at the end that is closest to my school, and two that the lead to street level near the Victoria & Albert museum, about halfway down the tunnel. Late in October, on my way home from a late evening class, I noticed that the trees outside one of these exit had been decorated with Christmas lights, thousands of them, enough to light the exit and the street outside, and it’s so pretty it makes me smile every single time I walk past. (This being grumpy England, I get strange looks from the people passing me in the other direction, who can’t fathom why some girl walking alone is grinning in an inappropriately goofy manner at a bunch of lights.)

Each major square and many of the major streets are decorated in some way for Christmas: Leicester square, Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden…all beautifully decorated with tons of lights and/or trees and/or garlands, etc. My goal before I leave London id to visit them all! Even the pubs are decorated. And I don’t just mean a few strings of lights; these people go all out. There are trees and ceiling hangings, windows completely blocked by lights, multiple garlands and tons of ornaments.

It is glorious!

Unfortunately the creeping approach of Christmas means it is that time of year again.

The time for stress and worry, for studying and memorizing and rewording of rule statements, for hushed conversations in the library, for frantic printing of outlines, for rainbow colored textbooks and supplements and commercial outlines and the coinciding overuse of highlighters and a sudden lack of tabbies, and for frantic phone calls home. (Be prepared, Mom, I’m topping up my mobile!)

Finals. Fast approaching, looming dark and ominous on the horizon. They are one week away, and I have a study schedule planned for each and every day between here and there that must be strictly adhered to.

Last year, finals blotted out Christmas entirely. I remember being somewhat surprised when a proctor for my final exam came in last December in a Christmas sweater. There it was, a week from Christmas day, and I had essentially forgotten all about it.

This year, the wonder that is London is preventing that. Certainly the nearness of finals mars the joy and warmth the season normally brings to my heart, but this year, the Christmas spirit is not to be defeated!

I just have to keep reminding myself: Be calm. Keep working. Christmas light tour in two weeks…

Thanksgiving: Just Like Chicken Soup, It Makes Everything Feel Better

As I sit here at 2 am, I find I am exhausted. I am physically tired, because it is late and I should be in bed, and this is only one of many such nights. But I am also mentally and emotionally and spiritually drained. The last year and a half hasn’t been the best of my life; law school isn’t pleasant. And in my exhaustion, I find myself dwelling far too much on the bad things in my life.

Today is Thanksgiving. And though I am exhausted, I have turned on the Christmas music and granted myself half an hour to sit down and remember all the wonderful things I have to be thankful for. Some of them are small, and some of them are serious, and some of them are probably silly, but all of them make my heart happy and my life better.  And that's something I need to remember!

I am thankful for my family. They are amazingly supportive, particularly my mom, who deals with my school-induced panic attacks with tons of reassurance and patience. (especially appreciated this time of year!) I love you, family!

I am thankful for the opportunity to spend this semester abroad. I have seen and done so many new and exciting things; been so many wonderful places. I am thankful to be living in London (in an English speaking country!), especially at this time of year, when Christmas is everywhere!

I am thankful for foreign accents, which make just walking down the street fun and interesting.

I am so thankful that my home is in America. I am have been very spoiled living there, which I never really grasped before now, but I feel that’s okay. I am so thankful to live there. America isn’t perfect by any means, but I do love my country.

I am thankful for my thick winter jacket! I hereby renew my claim that it is the BEST addition to my wardrobe that I ever made. I am also grateful for thick, homemade woolen winter accessories. I would be lost (or at least some of my extremities would be) without my hat, scarf, and gloves. For my new warm boots, which I LOVE. Ummm, and for my heater, and my lack of utility bills…

For cheerful Christmas music. For music in general really. My life is a musical; I’m never truly happy if I’m not singing, or listening to someone else do so. (On that note, they have some pretty worship songs here!)

For office supplies, particularly binder clips, tabbies, and sticky notes. And only slightly less important, R.S.V.P. pens. And my Jetstream pens! Also Sharpie liquid highlighters. I would be lost without these things in large quantities, and it is probably a little pathetic how happy I am whenever I make new additions to my collections. (I am especially thankful to be going office supply shopping tomorrow!)

For mail, and messages, and IMs, and skype conversations with friends and family back home. And, for all the ridiculous things that come with it, for Facebook.

For smiles and laughter.

For fuzzy soft animals that purr. And for the puppy I am going to buy myself after the BAR.

For coffee!!! (tastes not great unless it’s frufru, but a total life saver.) For Italian food. For chocolate. For Kraft macaroni and cheese! And for Pumpkin bread. Ph pumpkin bread, how I miss you!

For children on the tube, who are generally (amazingly!!!) well-behaved, perfectly adorable, and whose natural inclination towards fearless curiosity makes me smile (even though it also scares me a bit. Parents here seem to think the tube is safer than I think the tube is).

I am thankful that I am in law school. It’s not fun, but I am blessed by the opportunities it will give me later to help make others’ lives better. And I am blessed to be going to Pepperdine, which is probably the most Christian, least competitive environment I could have chosen for this challenging portion of my life.

I am thankful that Pepperdine is providing Thanksgiving dinner!

I am thankful for the fact that I do NOT get a Thanksgiving break, because God, in His perfect timing, granted me instead a week-long travel break at just the right time for me to go home and celebrate my Granny’s life with my family.

I am thankful for dear friends, new and old, who have made my life richer and lighter.

I am so, so thankful for God. For His forgiveness and mercy and grace. For His Word, His peace, His love.  For His presence, and the gift of never really being alone.  For His comforting hand, and the way He has made my life so very blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving! (and goodnight! ^_^)

I Have A Confession To Make…

First let me say that a career in law (and thereby the decision to attend law school) is definitely something I was called to. When you spend a year and a half floundering, it is unmistakably God answering prayer when something falls in your lap, and your acceptance of that gift opens five million sudden and “coincidental” doors. I don’t believe in coincidences. I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be, because I was called to be here. That said…

Law school serves two primary goals: to teach you the law in preparation for the BAR, and to teach you how to be a lawyer. It’s mostly a matter of changing how you analyze and think about things. But the longer I study law, the more I realize: lawyers, as a whole, have earned their dishonest reputation.

This creates a problem for me. I am a Christian. I love my God, and desire, first and foremost, to follow Him. But ours is an adversarial system. And any system that encourages adversity inherently encourages a certain degree of dishonesty, manipulation, self-gratification, and a disregard for others.

Which brings me to my confession: I struggle with my calling.

I struggle with reconciling Christian principles with accepted law practices. I struggle with what lawyers generally perceive to be ethical. I struggle with a law system that seems to perpetuate injustices as much as it prevents and rectifies them. I struggle with the competitive, every-man-for-himself attitude encouraged in law school. I struggle with the fact that I have no idea what to do with myself after graduation, because I still have no idea what type of law I want to practice. And I struggle with the fear of making the wrong decision and getting sucked into practice at a firm whose ethics don’t match mine.

For the last year and a half, I have wondered and worried and stressed about how one can practice law and still remain faithful to God’s law. This week, my Negotiations class brought this issue to a head for me.

I am required as a lawyer to be a zealous advocate of my client. In and of itself, that’s not a bad thing. But what happens when my client’s desires clash with my own personal beliefs? To a certain degree I am protected from this by professional codes of conduct. I am, for example, prohibited from making statements that will result in a misrepresentation or fraud, regardless of what my client wants. But there is quite a bit allowed by the rules of professional conduct/ethics that is not allowed by my personal code of ethics.

According to my Negotiations text: “Ethics codes forbid lawyers lying in court but permit in negotiation what the public would consider lying.” Lawyers must decide “how far to go in gaining a negotiation advantage for our clients by misstating or not revealing information” “Shading the truth and telling lies occurs in almost every case.” And “the essence of negotiation requires even the most forthright, honest, and trustworthy negotiators to actively mislead their opponents.”

In discussing what is permissible and what isn’t, the text cites a case in which the plaintiff was injured in an auto accident. The defense attorney demanded an examination of the plaintiff by a dr. working for the defense. This dr. discovered a life threatening aortic aneurysm likely caused by the accident. The defense lawyer did not disclose this info to the plaintiff, however, and settled the case for much less than would probably have been required had the other side known of the plaintiff’s condition. When it was later discovered, the ct ruled the defense attorney had no obligation to disclose the info, even though it jeopardized the kid’s life. The defense attorney was only doing his job; he was a zealous advocate for his client, working to get the smallest settlement possible. (I’m sorry, what? And how can that man live with himself?)

And when the text finally addresses what to do in a situation in which the lawyer’s ethics clash with client desires, it basically listed two options: try to talk your client around, or withdraw. Neither of these are great options. Clearly I didn’t find this section of the book particularly helpful.

The commandment is “don’t lie,” not “don’t lie, unless you’re a lawyer lying on behalf of your client.” And I feel uncomfortable just withholding information that may cause my position to be misleading in mock negotiations for class! (to the extent that, after one such negotiation with a Christian friend who is also in my class, we had to have a little confession time afterwards just to make us both feel better about misleading statements and nondisclosures we had made for the purpose of the exercise) Flat out lying is right out!


I know it is entirely possible to be a Christian and a lawyer because I know several (and know of many more) people who have managed to reconcile their careers with Christian principles. But I struggle with what that reconciliation looks like for me in my life. Maybe I should start by crossing negotiations off my list of career possibilities. If nothing else, it’ll narrow down my options!

If You Want To Shut Down London...

Shut down the tube.

I have come to London at a “fortuitous” time. I have, in my time here, the chance to see something few tourists do: how to cripple the city of London—a tube strike.

(Quick definition: The tube, for those unfamiliar with London, is London’s equivalent of the subway)

Now strikes here are, apparently, very different from strikes back home. In my experience, when American unions strike, they walk out and don’t work again until problems are resolved. A perfect example: the writer’s guild strike. No writers, no new episodes of all our favorite shows.

Here, for whatever reason, strikes don’t appear to work that way. The tube strikes have been only 24-hour strikes—two of them, one on September 7th, and one just yesterday. The strikes, as far as I can make out from BBC news, are in response to threatened job cuts. It shuts down pretty much the entire city. Skeleton crews run the least used portions of the tube lines, and the areas nearest Heathrow airport, but nothing anywhere near the city center (which includes anything near where I live, or near the school) is running.

And when I say that it shuts the city down, I really mean it.

More than 3.5 million people use the tube every day. Including me! When the tube shuts down, people have to find another way to get around town. The buses are one obvious (and thus, obviously overcrowded) method. Also, taxis. Or one could try driving, if one has a car and is willing to risk London’s notoriously bad traffic (which is obviously worse on a strike day). Here is a glimpse of the chaos that is a tube strike:

Normally, my trip to school takes me about 40 minutes or so, including the walk from my flat to the train, waiting for the train, riding the train, and then walking from the train station to school. On the day of the first strike, that 40 minute trip dragged out into nearly 2 ½ hours.

Luckily, I am located very centrally, so alternative means of public transportation are readily available—there are a bajillion bus stops nearby. The problem is that I am located centrally, so ¾ of London is also trying to travel the same way I am. Additionally, I live near King’s Cross. Almost everyone coming into London on national and international trains is coming through that station. And there is no tube. So they are getting off the train, with all of their luggage, and walking to bus stations—the ones I also need to use—in droves in order to get wherever else in London they need to be. I think I waited with several hundred people at that bus stop (when the normal average, in my best guesstimation, is 3-15).

And because 3.5 million people are all trying to get around without the tube, traffic is terrible. In some places it barely moves at all. And people are even more reckless when driving than usual. And far more impatient. The angry tension was palpable all over the city. People just walking down the streets were angry, glaring, and even pushier than usual. There are honking cars left and right. And they keep driving in the bus lanes in an attempt to bypass other cars. All of which contributes to the buses being very behind schedule. And the buses, when they did arrive, were very overcrowded. I’m talking, standing room only, push your way in and stand shoulder to shoulder to back to front, hands touching on the hand rails because there are so many people, overcrowded. There were practically fights on the rare occasion a seat did open up. It was…intense. So I wiggled my way into a corner, propped myself up between the window and rail, and read my text book for 2 hours.

The ride home was shorter, because class got out at 7 and most of London had either already made it home from work, or given up on trying to be out in public in the first place. So I got to spend the hour and 15 minute ride home sitting, for the first time, in a seat on the top level of a double-decker bus. I relaxed. I chatted with Stefani about our post-finals travel plans. “This,” I thought, “will be a much easier ride than the one to school.”

My friends here keep accusing me of jinxing things. I say, “at least it’s not raining,” and 10 minutes later it will be. I say, “at least it’s only sprinkling,” and immediately the skies open up. I’ve practically been forbidden to speak “silver lining” thoughts regarding the weather. I’m beginning to think there may be something to their accusations, because no sooner had I had this thought than our bus hit a bicycle rickshaw.

No, I am not joking. It really did.

We were pulling up to a stop light when it happened. Londoners are bad about stop lights and walk signs at the best of times. If the walk sign is red, but no cars are coming, or they are but you think you have time to get across, well then, go for it! Those walk signs are just suggestions anyway! Do it at your own risk, though, because cars aren’t appreciative of pedestrians in their way. They’ll likely stop for you if you really are in the way, but maybe not in time. And mostly, they assume you won’t be there by the time they reach you, so no problem! Who needs to slow down? And bus drivers drive like maniacs behind the wheel of a mini instead of a gigantic vehicle.

Combine all these factors with a tube strike and the resulting anger and impatience, and what you have is a situation that practically guarantees accidents.

So we feel a bump, hear a noise, and then there is a LOT of yelling for a few minutes. Thankfully, the only casualty was the bicycle/rickshaw/cart thing, but there was a whole lot of unhappiness going on. Surprisingly, when the light turned green again, the bus just left. No reports to file? No questions? I wonder still if the bus driver left because he was supposed to, or because he just didn’t care anymore, at that point on that day, about what he was supposed to do…

This last strike wasn’t quite so bad, probably because people knew little better what to expect. Traffic was marginally better. People’s attitudes seemed to be better. The buses weren’t quite so overcrowded. Honestly, I think more people just stayed home. I sure wanted to! Slightly better or not, tube strikes are still extremely inconvenient. And there are at least 2 more scheduled for next month.

This leaves me with only one thing left to say: Dear tube workers on strike, Striking once a month is not a very effective way of pressuring the city into giving you what you want, but it is an extremely effective way of messing up a lot of people’s schedules, holding up traffic to a ridiculous degree, and all around irritating a whole lot of innocent bystanders. Please stop!

Ireland, Part 3: Can't See The Rainbow For The Rain...

Our final day in Ireland involved sleeping in, so I was all set to love it from the get go. We intended it to be a lazy, low-key day, and the fact that the church we’d chosen to attend didn’t start until 11:30 was a wonderful blessing. We got up early enough to go get breakfast (at McDonald’s again—they have the best porridge ever!), and then made our way to church. Which was…not what we expected.

The church was located in the city center, so it was near to our hostel, but it was in a rather shady part of it. The building is set in a converted garage or shp front or something (it’s a little hard to tell), and there was an awful lot of graffiti on the nearby walls, but the interior was surprisingly nice, and the people were amazingly friendly. Even better, the preacher (who being Irish, spoke with an accent that was way fun to listen to), gave a convicting sermon on being meek. Which, I, apparently, am very not. But I want to be! His insight into that portion of the Sermon on the Mount was new and interesting, and I found I really liked the way he described what meek really looked like, and what that meant for people today.

After church, we decided a little sight-seeing was in order, so we took a wuick trip to Dublin Castle. Then we made a brief stop at the Beatty library, where they have some old illuminated Persian poetry books on display. And finally, Dublin’s crown jewel: Christ Church.

The church itself is lovely, and the fact that the choir was singing when we walked in only made our trip better. We wandered around inside for a bit, then took a trip downstairs in to the crypt (where we really didn’t see any tombs, although there were an awful lot of gold treasury type things behind glass to look at). I found out that the Hallelujah chorus was written in Dublin in the 1700s. and was first performed at Christ Church by the Christ Church and St. Patrick’s choirs.
After sight-seeing we made an attempt to look for yarn for my mom, which failed miserably. Apparently the stores are closed on Sunday, because Ireland is primarily Catholic. The on shop we did find open on Sundays had closed 20 minutes earlier, and the people inside calmly informed me nothing else would be open until Monday. So that was frustrating. Because if I hadn’t missed my plane…

Sunday was also my introduction to Europe’s football madness. There was a soccer game in Dublin on Sunday, and everywhere you looked, people were celebrating the fact with supportive team gear. There were hats, scarves, braids, face paint, flags, capes, flags worn as capes, and a hundred other forms of team paraphernalia every which way. Everywhere I went, I felt like Moses parting the red sea. It was insane!

Ireland, Part 2: For the Beauty of the Earth...

On the second day of our trip to Ireland, I woke up ridiculously early. Ridiculously early meant leaving the hostel at 6:15 and trekking about a mostly empty Dublin looking for someplace that might be open and serving something breakfast before our tour. What we found was McDonald’s. Another staple of American life, which I have not been into since leaving home, though I have missed it (never mind that there’s one right near my flat. I have been resisting!).

I will stop here for a moment to discuss the…novelty, I guess, of European McDonald’s. At home, McDonald’s is a slightly cheesy, often low-class, cheap restaurant. They do the plastic and vinyl seat thing. In Europe, McDonald’s is a thing of beauty. They are several stories tall (this one was 4), have table service (mostly you get your food at the counter, but they clear your table for you when they notice your done, or bus it after you leave), and are very trendy in their decorating schemes. No cheesy yellow and red here! I swear, there’s hardwood floors in there! And this one had a chandelier. No. Joke.

Anyway, yes, breakfast of porridge and sliced apples obtained, we headed off to our tour’s meeting point. Our tour van was a bright, turqoisey color that would be hard to miss even in a blackout, and our tour guide was a wild-haired Irishman named Cat (“but I also answer to Santa Clause, Werewolf, Hairy-Face…whatever you want.”) whom I swear is Gandalf’s brother or something.

(Photo taken by Tyler Fouche)

After hopping into our van, joined by a loud contingent of mafia playing Spaniards and a couple other odds-n-ends, we set off for Limerick.

(Photo below taken by Tyler Fouche) Limerick is a very cute little town, in which I saw my First Ever Castle: St. John’s Castle. It’s located right next to a bridge and the Shannon River, and was quite lovely in its castle-ness. Cat dropped us off and drove across the bridge while we wandered around taking pictures and posing in front of the castle doors. The setting was very picturesque, and even included two lovely swans swimming about the castle’s base. After taking a million pictures (because my FIRST CASTLE!!!), we set off across the bridge.

The bridge is apparently very special. Legend has it that if you are single, and cross the bridge by hopping on one foot, you will have good luck with the opposite gender. Tyler and Tracey, being newly married, really didn’t feel the need to participate, but Hannah and I did definitely tried it. That bridge, which isn’t really very long, seems about a million times longer when you are hopping across it, let me tell you! And neither of us were very good at it, really (meaning we so didn’t make it all the way by actually hopping—there was definitely some cheating via skipping, switching feet, and walking with really big steps involved), but it was fun to try! We also got a quick glimpse of an old stone abbey (the first church in Limerick), then it was off to the real point of the tour: the Cliffs of Moher.

There are no words to describe the cliffs. Beautiful, gorgeous, and all similar synonyms certainly apply, but this is really one of those times where the English language doesn’t have the words to portray how truly awesome the cliffs are. It’s no wonder they form the backdrop of famous scenes from a hundred different movies. I am in awe of God’s creation. His sense of beauty is clearly beyond imagining, and I feel so blessed that He created such beautiful places and then chose to gift me with the opportunity to see some of them. I just wanted to stand there and have a devo all day!

Obviously, we spent ages taking pictures. The fact that it was cold and so windy that the strongest gusts nearly knocked me over really didn’t bother us much under the circumstances. There’s a wall a bit back from the edge of the cliffs, so you can’t get to close and fall over, so we weren’t too worried about it. And the view was so fantastic…

We headed up the path a ways to O’Brien’s tower where the view is even better. And for two Euros, you can climb to the top of the tower for an even better view. Best of all, it is possible to climb up on the roof of the stairwell, and get a completely unimpeded view all the way around. Now technically you aren’t supposed to (oops! We honestly didn’t see the sign until after the fact), and it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do with winds as string as that (yeah, couple of scary moments there). But it was…so worth it.

We spent about an hour or so at the cliffs. It wasn’t enough time to hike down to see the puffin colony that lives there (Sad! Next time I’m in Ireland, puffins. Your cute little selves are definitely on my to do list!), but it was more than enough time to take millions of pictures, and just…marvel.

By this time, we were starving, so we headed off to Doolin for lunch. Our tour guide took us on a brief detour to the harbor for a different view of the cliffs. We spend ten minutes taking jumping pictures on the shore (Hello, Atlantic Ocean! We’ve never met face-to-face before!), and looking at the Aran Islands, which are visible from that point (first language on these tiny islands: Gaelic!). Lunch was a yummy seafood chowder at Fitzpatrick’s pub, where we ran into Stefani and her friend, who happened to be doing a similar tour!

After lunch we took a trip to the Burren. The Burren is a place with flat rocks and cliffs, and spongy grass, near Galway harbor. It looks a lot like the lava fields in Hawaii might in a bajillion years, when things start to grow there again and the rocks are worn smooth by the weather. It’s beautiful too, in a strange sort of way. The tour of this area was wonderful. We saw a lot of the Irish country driving around here, including a bunch of B&Bs, and the ruins of several old penal houses. There is some kind of superstition about these houses, apparently, because the locals won’t knock them down. They might put a cow inside them, in hopes the cow will do so, but they themselves will not destroy these houses. In fact, one guy even built himself a new house, with a pretty new lawn, and actually left a carved out hollow space in that lovely new landscaping around the ruins sitting in his front yard.

Our next stop was Corcomroe Abbey, an old stone abbey built in 1142 (the third oldest building I’ve ever been in!). The abbey is roofless now, but the towering stone walls are still standing, and the interior is full of interesting old tombs. It’s no longer used as an abbey, but the graveyard outside is still in use.

Our final stop was Dunguaire Castle in Kinvara. It was a beautiful little castle, set on a small hill at the edge of the water, and is the coolest castle ever because they hold authentic medieval banquets there twice a week! There was even one scheduled for the night we were there, and we wanted to stay, but we couldn’t.

Ireland, Part 1: The Day That Went Not As It Should Have

According to Stefani, we should have known it was going to be a bad day when Stef got groped by a drunk man while we were waiting at the bus stop. And really, she’s right. I mean, there we were, at 3:30 in the morning, freezing, and waiting or a night bus that may or may not actually get us to the Victoria station bus stop on time, and suddenly there is this man. He was creepy, and definitely sleazy, and so intoxicated that when he appeared suddenly between us, I thought I was going to get drunk off the fumes. And then Stefani is glaring and stepping back and saying “Excuse me, no.” And the creepy drunk guy is laughing and apologizing and walking away, but…

Yes, that should have been our first clue.

But then our bus miraculously got us to our stop with 3 minutes to spare. And we managed to (run fast enough to) catch our airport bus on time at the stop down the road. And then we made it to the airport by 6:00, with just enough time to make it through security. So it was looking like our day was turning around. Only no. It wasn’t.

Because England has issues. Instead of putting the visa/passport check at the gate or near security, as everyone else in the world does, they put it at the check-in gate. Which is literally a 15 minute walk (minus the wait to get through security) from the gate where our plane took off. Only we didn’t know that. And the board said those on our flight were to “proceed to the gate.” So we assumed the passport check was ahead of us.

Wrong!

“I’m sorry,” said the lady checking boarding passes for passport stamps. “We only have 20 minutes left until take off, that’s not enough time for you to go get you boarding passes stamped.”

What does that mean? we wondered.

Apparently it meant that we would have to go back to arrivals and book another flight to Ireland. We were escorted (why? Who knows.) back to the arrival part (through a shortcut that cut our fifteen minute walk down to three) and left at arrivals. Why they couldn’t escort us to get our boarding passes stamped, and then escort us back, I will never know. We still would have had plenty of time to make the plane had they done so. But apparently “it’s Ryanair policy” and that’s that.

So Tracey, Tyler and Hannah went to Ireland, and Stefani and I set about figuring out a way to join them.

There was another flight leaving at 9:15, but from another airport in a different part of London. The rebooking costs were already going to bankrupt us, a taxi ride wasn’t really an option. And the bus booking offices weren’t open yet. So we booked ourselves a 1:10 flight leaving from the airport we were already at. Which left us with 7 hours to kill.

Mostly we read or napped. For awhile we chatted. We made plans to eat brunch once we got through security a second time (silver lining anyone?), but we would be unable to do that until they opened the check-in for our flight at 11:10. Which still left us with 5 hours. Eventually, after time crept by slowly slowly, the board showed our check-in gate number, and we lined up with several hundred other people to get our boarding passes stamped. Only they only opened one gate. For everyone on our flight. Half of whom were also checking bags as part of this process. We were in the first 3rd, and it took an hour to get through the line.

Obviously brunch was right out. We got through security, trekked to our gate with half an hour to spare, and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. Our flight, of course, was late, and an hour after take-off was scheduled, we were finally boarded and ready to go. Alright!

But the plane wasn’t moving. What…? Eventually, the captain kindly informed us that about the time they were ready to close the doors, they discovered that a “small but critical part” on one wing was broken. “We’re in communication with a storage place nearby,” said the captain, “and we’re trying to get a spare part so we can fix it as soon as possible. I’ll let you know as soon as I know more.” Only the storage place didn’t have the part. So they decided to send a plane from Dublin to come get us, and made us leave the plane. “We’ll board again at 3:50,” they told us.

At this point I was exhausted. Stefani was exhausted. We were supposed to have been in Ireland either 5 or 1 hours ago, and we were still sitting in an airport in London. So we did what any girl would do in this situation: we called our moms.

Which made me feel a bit better, for all that international calls use up a lot of my cell’s minute allotment, so the call was short. Then it was back to the gate, with the intention to board a plane…that didn’t show up for another half an hour. By this time, obviously, our whole flight was frustrated. When the plane finally did arrive, minutes before they started boarding, the airline changed our gate number, and this seemed to be the end of everyone’s patience. The nice orderly queue that once existed was abolished in favor of hoard mentality, and the airline employees were hard pressed to keep order while checking our tickets.

Four hours after our flight was supposed to leave—10 ½ hours after Stef’s and my original flight—we finally got into the air. The flight itself is a little blurry, I think because Stefani was sick and I was getting a headache, and we kinda napped through it, but eventually we landed in Ireland. Our potential troubles weren’t over yet though. Stefani still had a three hour bus ride to the other side of the island to meet a friend, and I still had to figure out where in Dublin Hanna, Tracey and Tyler were at, and how to get to them. Worse, Stefani’s bus was scheduled to leave 15 minutes after we got off the plane, and we still had to get through customs. So we ran. And ran. And ran some more. I swear, I will never complain about an American plane terminal again! None of them are so badly spaced out as European airports, and for no apparent reason, either. I mean, I understand Phoenix or Honolulu being huge and maybe requiring a tram to get from one end to the other, but let’s be honest, there’s just not that many flights in and out of Dublin. There’s no reason for that layout!

Fortunately, customs wasn’t busy, and there was no line at all. A quick stamp in the passport (my favorite one so far; it’s green!), and we were racing through the airport to the bus terminal. And then running to the far end of the bus terminal to Stefani’s bus stop. And, just as they were closing things up, we arrived. For the first time all day, something went right. I waved at Stefani once the bus driver checked her ticket, and took myself off to find a local bus to the city center.

I met my three friends at a pub near our hostel (where the waiter took ou picture behind the bar), carting my back pack and looking more like the walking dead than a weary traveler, at nearly 8 in the evening, more than 12 hours after my original arrive in Ireland time. But though I was exhausted, hungry, and nearly dying of a migraine…I was doing those things in Ireland!!! And let me tell you, Ireland is beautiful. Even Dublin, which feels more like a less crowded London with wider streets, was just lovely. There’s this river running through the middle of it, and bridges crossing it all over the place, and I just love it there!

(Pub photo courtesy of Tyler Fouche)

So, excited about the rest of my trip (especially for the bus tour scheduled for the next day) I snagged a quick sandwich (Subway! Like McDonald’s, you have settled yourself all over the world, and the yummy familiarity of my favorite turkey on wheat—my first time in an American restaurant since leaving home—was a marvel to me in that moment) and took myself off to bed.

Buckingham Palace: A Visit to the Queen’s House. (Too Bad She Wasn’t Home!)

Last Friday, I got to visit Buckingham Palace. Considering that it’s the home of a queen and several princes, I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised that the Palace was fabulously beautiful. The thing is, I’ve never seen anyplace so extravagant. Even the outside was gorgeous; I mean, there was gold gilding on the fence. (Although I will say there were some mean looking spikes on this fence. Like gigantic barbed wire on some serious steroids. And then they put regular barbed wire above that!)

Now, I’ve been to the White House. Well, I’ve been outside the White House. And while it is very pretty to look at, it doesn’t hold a candle to Buckingham Palace. It’s just a big white house, surrounded by a very plain black fence. Buckingham Palace, however, lives up to its name.

When you first get to the Palace, they give you a headset (like some museums do) so that you can wander room to room and listen to explanations on the history of the different things you’re looking at. Photographs weren’t allowed, so I can’t show you how lovely it really was, but I’ll try to describe some of the things that made the biggest impressions on me.

When you first enter, there’s this beautiful grand staircase leading from the main entry up to three different parts of the second floor. (called the first floor here—still trying to get used to that!) The banister is made of mahogany and is carved with beautiful flowers and curlicues and cost some astronomical amount to make and install. Through an antechamber and a drawing room at the top of the stairs is the throne room. The room itself is amazing. It’s all decorated in red and gold and white, with vaulted ceilings covered in intricate carvings set with gold and the shields of the United Kingdoms. There’s also a huge crystal chandelier set in the middle.

The thrones themselves, the originals from Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, were a bit of a letdown, being very small and rather simple, but they were set beneath an arch with two winged figures holding garlands, and there was deep red fabric draped all around them, and altogether, the room was very impressive.

Most of the other rooms were equally pretty. Many of the sitting rooms have colored themes, with silk wallpapers to match the colors of the drapes and the furniture. There’s a Music room, where, strangely enough, many members of the royal family have been christened. This room also has a nifty domed ceiling, and a rounded wall full of windows looking out over the gardens.

My favorite room was the white sitting room. It’s entirely decorated in whites and golds, except for the rug. The windows of this room, like the Music room, look out over the gardens (which are huge and just gorgeous!), and best of all, there’s a secret entrance! In one corner, there is a short table pressed right up to a mirror mounted on the wall behind which there is a hidden door—this whole arrangement (table and mirror) swings out from the wall. When she receives guests in this room, the queen will enter through this secret doorway, which provides access to the royal family’s private quarters.

I didn’t really get to see the ballroom, although I was in it, because this year they have a huge presentation set up in the ballroom on “the Queen’s Year,” explaining what a year in the life of the queen is like. The presentation was interesting, and included several of the queen’s ball gowns and other ceremonial outfits. (That woman is tiny—super short!) Apparently they host garden parties 3 times a year for those who have made significant contributions of some sort to the kingdom. This information made an impression on me, because they usually invite 8,000 guests for each party. (!)

Definition of silver gilt: a piece of silverware (or a vase, or a plate, whatever) which is made out of silver, and then plated in gold. (I had no idea. I couldn’t figure out at first why the headset kept referring to the table set as silverware when it was clearly gold.)

There was a porcelain table in one of the rooms, commissioned by Napoleon, which took 6 years to create. The table features cameos of 12 grand commanders (including Alexander the Great) and is a masterpiece (although it doesn’t really look like much) because the entire tabletop (not very big!) is a single piece of porcelain. Apparently it is incredibly difficult, considering the delicate nature of porcelain and the difficulty of firing it over and over, to create a table with this kind of picture made all of one piece of porcelain. So that was kind of neat.

When our tour was over, we got to hang out near the gardens for a bit, waiting for one of the girls in our group to finish the tour. While we were waiting, several guards (in training? They looked rather young…) came out onto the patio where we stood. Normally you don’t see the footguards hanging around the palace unless they’re, you know, guarding something, so of course the tourists took this opportunity to take pictures. We snagged a couple of guards to take a picture with the six of us. Then we sort of decided we each wanted individual pictures with the guards. Then one of the guards suggested we take a picture with all of the guards (there were 5 or 6 hanging about), so we agreed, and he called them all over. By the time we were done, we’d caused a bit of a scene (as there were a number of people who wanted their pictures taken, but none of the guards were available…oops!). It’s not every day you get to take a picture with a guard like that though, much less a large group of them, so who were we to say no?

The lady who took our picture for us was hysterical. She was an older lady, and completely shameless. As soon as we had finished our very large group picture, she shooed us out of the way so that she could have the guards all to herself for her picture—shooed us away so much, in fact, that she had to chase after us a bit to get one of us to take her picture for her! Then the guards left, and we headed off ourselves…to the gift shop! (I am now the proud owner of a Buckingham Palace mug!) Then a lovely, but brief, walk through part of gardens to get to the exit, and home sweet home.

London: The Grumpy City or Where it Is Dangerous to Be a Pedestrian!

Listen up, London locals, let us just address this grumpy thing right now. Yes, you live in a very expensive city. Yes, it rains a lot, and is cold, even in August, if there is so much as a single cloud in the sky. Yes, the cars here zoom around like little ants, and are just as likely to run over your foot (or all the rest of you) as said insect and with just as little regard for the fact that you are in the way. And yes, everyone rushes around and never gets anywhere because no one actually knows how to walk. But that is no reason to… Oh. Well alright, I suppose I can see why you’re grumpy. I mean, it’s not like you live in one of the most amazing cities on the planet, with fairly inexpensive access to almost *all* the *other* most amazing cities in the world, or anything. I apologize for almost raining on your grumpy parade.

But seriously, why the long, irritated faces? (And attitudes!) I don’t get it…

I am amused (with all the parts of me that aren’t dismayed) by the reality of the British tendency to be Oh So Politely Rude. For instance, the Man on the Train: One day, during the very first week of school, an older gentleman stepped off the train behind me and scolded me for defiling my book with orange highlighter. He turned to me and said, "Didn't your parents teach you to treat your books with respect?" I agreed that they had, and he then demanded to know why I was ruining my book by marking in it that way. "You could just mark the margins with pencil and then rub it out later,” he told me, and lamented, “I guess that’s just the way the world’s going now.” He was just so offended that I would permanently mar my book! Then he must have noticed the Pepperdine sweatshirt I was wearing, because he frowned a little and asked me if I was a student. I told him that I was, and he nodded and said, “Well, alright then.” Then he frowned a bit more, and walked away.

I’m really not sure whether that last statement means that my transgression is excused by my student status, or just that my student-ness explains my lack of respect for books… In any case, I spent the entirety of the conversation in a state of amused semi-shock. My mental response sort of went like this: Huh? Is he talking to me? Oh. Wha— Is he really…? I think I had a sort of half smile thing going too. Because this conversation is one that would never happen back home. The idea that a person has the right to step in and correct others for perceived mistakes is very un-American. It was very strange, and very funny, and has made me a little self-conscious about reading for school on the tube. Not that I don’t do it anyway!

Let’s see, what else…

I’ve mentioned before that people are much quieter and more subdued here. (Generally. I’ve seen a few obliviously loud people. And several loudly drunken people. And disruptive teenagers, it seems, are the same the world over. I’m talking to you, 15-year-olds making out in the seat across from me. Not only is that not polite public behavior, you’re really just too young. Stop it.) I recently had my first glimpse of why the English consider us obnoxiously loud. Three American girls, apparently studying for the year in London, got on the tube one afternoon, chatting and laughing in the usual way. My first reaction was a rush of affection for the sound of American accents. After several minutes, however, I noticed they were really the only thing you could hear. Whereas most conversations on the tube are hushed enough that, unless you’re sitting next to or across from someone, you can’t hear more than a murmuring sound, these girls were clearly audible throughout the entire car. And completely oblivious to it. It was sort of a revelation. “Oh!” I thought, “this is what it's like to be near me when I’m being loud!” ^_^ (Oops! Sorry everyone!)

Everyone queues here. Even when people are just walking down the sidewalk, or through the tube stations, they tend to line up, with everyone going one direction on one half of the sidewalk, and everyone going the other direction on the other half. It’s very odd. Also, no one here knows how to walk. Half the people rush around at crazy speeds, and the other half strolls. None of them can walk and do other things at the same time. If there’s a stroller or suitcase (or phone!) involved, forget it. This is a little frustrating for those of us walking behind them. Also, sometimes, people just walk, and shove other people out of the way. For instance, one evening, on the way home from school, there were maybe five people spread out on the sidewalk within several yards of each other. This thin-as-a-rail blond girl was barreling down the street coming towards us, with tons of room to maneuver between us, but instead she walked straight ahead, shouldered people out of her way, and demanded that we “Move!” Really?!

And now for the important stuff: Harry Potter, Part I:

I live in Harry Potter land!!! I got to go see Platform 9 ¾! A friend (who’s been here before) took me to see it after I mentioned that I had attempted, and failed, to find it on one of my previous trips through Kings Cross Station. There’s a bunch of construction going on at Kings Cross at the moment, so apparently they’ve moved it, and a nice policeman (who was hanging about looking quite bored) actually showed us where it’s been moved to. And we took pictures! Yay!

Venice, the City on an Island.

(Well, I know this is soooo late, but when the trip ended, school took off, and I just never had time to post this! So. Venice.)

I woke up this morning, and had no voice! (I will now pause and allow all you who know me well to have your moment of laughter.) I mean, I could still talk, but only quietly, and it kinda hurts. Not the best for traveling around foreign cities, especially ones that are likely to be crowded with tourists. Oh well!

After that discovery, we made our way to the train station. As we were staying in Mestre, on the mainland, and not Venice proper, we hopped on a train for the ten minute train ride across the (canal? Channel? Sea? What’s between the island Venice is on and mainland Italy? I’m not really up on my Venetian/Italian geography) way to Venice.

Venice is like…a Disney movie. Or a little toy village. It looks like someone made a life-size model of the perfect cartoon city. It’s beautiful! And also very touristy (at least the part we were in). It was also quite small. The streets are narrow and wind in and out between buildings and over canals (no straight lines to be found anywhere) and it still only took an hour to cross from one end to the other. There were no cars in this part of Venice (although there is a road onto the island; the train runs parallel to it for a bit, but they seem to stay out of the main part of the city. Or at least, out of the tourist part), and the water is so so blue! It’s beautiful!

One thing Venice is not is cool. There was some hope that Venice might provide a break from the heat we experienced in Rome, and indeed it was a bit cooler, but alas! it was still quite hot! I even managed to get a little sunburned, and there was at least one instance of dunking my head under a fountain to cool off in the middle of the afternoon.

Anyway, back to the tourists: they were everywhere! Crowds of them. We were supposed to meet the missionary girls (whom we met on the train the previous evening) at San Marco’s Square at noon. (Which we failed to do—we were running late, and then it took ages to get across the city. Although we never would have found them even had we been on time. San Marco’s was packed!) At first I was wondering how we were going to manage that, since the only straight path from the train station to the Square is water taxi, which costs something like €16 (too expensive!). But it turned out that all we had to do was follow the crowd. There were signs occasionally too, but we never really had to look at them. For the most part, the stream of people ahead of us lead us right where we wanted to go.

And all along the way there were little shops and kiosks everywhere selling everything from fresh fruits and vegetables (which we were so grateful for! This whole trip, it seems, has been bread, bread, bread. We looked for fruit everywhere and we keep failing to find any. And here is Venice, the answer to my prayers. I bought three or four huge apples!), to murano glass, to porcelain masks. So many masks! I never knew that those pretty porcelain masks people sometimes hang on their wall originally came from Venice. Most of them were pretty simple and inexpensive, but a few shops we passed had these huge, elaborate masks on display that were just beautiful!

There were also a lot of large, elaborately decorated religious buildings. The weird thing is that the city is so closely packed together, and the buildings are so tall (the city has expanded upward, not outward. The disadvantage of building on an island, I suppose), that these beautiful religious buildings would seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere. We’d be walking along, and turn a corner, and all of a sudden there would be this gorgeous church with all these carvings and columns and spires.

We also saw a lot of gondolas. Which was way cool. The artsmanship that goes into one of these boats is just incredible. Each one is perfectly polished and decorated with gold metalwork, with fancy rugs or pillows over the seats. I had hoped to ride one, but they’re way expensive, so I just looked at them (and took pictures of them) and then kept right on walking.

I finally got to try Italian pasta! I have been told time and again not to expect much from Italian food in Italy, because it is so different from Americanized Italian food. But actually, I didn’t think there was too much of a difference. I debated for awhile about whether to order fettuccini (one of my favorite Italian dishes back home), or an alfredo noodle dish. I went with the alfredo (because I like it better than tomato sauce, which is what came on the fettuccini dishes) , while Yvette ordered the fettuccini. Weirdly, the fettuccini noodles were super wide and had crinkly edges, while my plain noodles looked just like those American restaurants call fettuccini. It tasted a bit different (the cheeses are way better over there, but it was a bit strong in that sauce), but I really liked it.

I will say that I have never seen ham used the way Italians use it. They put slices of super thinly cut ham on top of my noodles, which was odd. I had also had ham on my pizza in Rome, and had expected small pieces like we have on Hawaiian pizza, but instead got big squares in that same thinly cut, almost transparent manner. Still, it tasted good.

We ended our time in Venice by sitting on the steps of the train station and listening to a very charming man from Chile sing and play the guitar while his female companion played the bongo drums. It was a nice way to relax and cool down before heading back to the hotel to pack and prepare for our flight back to London.

I have to say that while I am sad to be leaving Italy, which has completely captured my heart (well, Rome has, anyway. If it didn’t already own it before), but it will be nice to find a place to settle for the next week before moving into the residence hall for the semester. All this traveling is tiring!

Goodbye, Italia!

Rome: The Short Continuation

Waking up this morning was so sad, because for the first time on this trip, Yvette and I found a room with a lovely soft bed. We’re still waiting to find a place with equally lovely, fluffy pillows; they’ve all been very flat so far.

We spent our morning doing house-keeping: buying tickets to Venice, arranging a place to stay, etc. We ended up buying plane tickets from Venice to London on Sunday, because trains are even more expensive! After that we needed to buy some luggage: me because my shoulder is going to fall off if I keep having to cart that duffel around, and Yvette because her bag exceeds the weight limit of the airline. Once all that was done, we could finally go sight-seeing!

Today’s tour was of the Vatican Museum/Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s Basilica. I have never been in a museum so hot! Saw a lot of mostly unimpressive sculptures (although I did learn that the Roman’s painted all their statutes, and that, instead of the empty eyes they always seem to have, they actually inserted glass or crystal eyes to bring the statues to life. Saw an example and was so impressed. It completely changes the look!), some weird things, heard a lot about the popes, and then , the main event: The Sistine Chapel. So beautiful! I’ve seen pictures, but really, there are just no words. I was very disappointed that I couldn’t take any pictures in there, but it’s not allowed.

The rest of our day consisted of running back to the hotel, grabbing our stuff, and booking it for the train station for the trip to Venice. We had some difficulty, because the ticket guy, when we bought our tickets, told us we could sit anywhere, but the train was actually a sleeper train to Munich. We asked where we should sit, and the train employee said the last five cars. But most of those were sleepers too! So we asked the guy on the 3rd to last car, and he said the last car. We finally got to that car, with 10 minutes until the train was supposed to leave, and sat in two seats in the a compartment in the middle…which two women then came and told us were there assigned seats. There are assigned seats on this train?! Eventually, a nice guy explained to us that our “sit anywhere” tickets mean that we actually got the jump seats that fold out of the wall in the aisle. Uncomfortable! By the time the train, an hour late, finally took off, I had a migraine. And it is noisy sitting in the aisle. After about an hour and a half, we moved into an empty compartment, figuring we’d move if we needed to, but we were tired of being in the aisle while there were still seats available.

At the next stop, 3 really nice girls who are missionaries in Moldova (on vacation) joined us in our compartment, and we spent the rest of the trip keeping each other entertained. Since all five of us got off in Mestre-Venice, we made plans to possibly meet in San Marco’s Square the tomorrow to go in together for a gondola ride (because they are rumored to be quite steep). So tomorrow: Venice, and maybe gondolas!

My Heart Belongs to Rome…

Sleeper trains are a pain in the backside! There’s not much space when you cram 6 people into one tiny car in 6 tiny bunk beds. Yvette and I were fortunate enough to be assigned the top bunks, so at least we had enough room to sit up, but it was quite stuffy. Also, we kept waking up every time the train stopped. It was one of those automatic things, like when the car stops at the end of a long trip and the lack of movement wakes sleeping passengers. Only we still had hours and hours left to go. And people (*cough*males*cough*) apparently have more difficulty…erm…hitting the target, so to speak, when the floor is moving beneath them, because the bathrooms got really gross really fast.

The problem with this (at least when you are particular about hygiene) is that in most of Europe, apparently, use of public restrooms costs about 3 Euros. (Oh America, with your free toilets every which way, I do so miss you!!! ) This is especially problematic when you don’t have any Euros on you! So it was a pretty high priority for us to find a place to stay (and thereby get access to a bathroom) as soon as we got off the train.

We found a quaint little hotel, with free wifi (finally!!!), and got ourselves situated. We were then ready to go play tourist. The receptionist guy was particularly helpful, giving us a walking map and telling us what our options were within a ten minute walk of the hotel. Because it is my lifelong dream to see it, and because it was so so so close, the coloseum was our choice. (meaning I casually said, “the coloseum’s pretty close.” And Yvette said, “yeah, we can do that” and I said “you’re so my best friend!” I might have thrown a little happy dance in there somewhere too.) But before we could go sightseeing, we had to find food.

The thing to understand here is that Yvette and I had been so stressed and busy on this trip up until this point, that we hadn’t been very hungry. We were averaging about 1 “meal” a day (usually a sandwich) supplemented by a lot of water , a little chocolate, and some snack bars. By the time we got settled in Rome and relaxed, we were starving. So off we went to see if all the stories we’d heard about Italian food was true. We found a little restaurant not far from our hotel (not difficult to find) that wasn’t terribly expensive (pretty difficult) and also allowed us to sit down (in combination with previous quality, extremely difficult). Yvette ordered the lasagna, and I ordered a pizza, because I’d heard they were amazing in Italy. Both were actually extremely good, despite the very oily quality of the lasagna, and the extremely thin (think tortilla) crust of my pizza. Also, the restaurant was really cute.

Then it was off to play tourist. The walk was not terribly exciting, although we decided we like the architecture here in Rome almost as much as that in Paris, and we both love the feel of the city. The weather here is HOT! right now, so we were sort of eyeing the gilato longingly as we went, but passed it by like good little tourists who are poor, and lack the correct form of currency anyway.

The first sight of the coloseum was…unexpected. We turned a corner, thinking we still had quite a walk ahead of us, and there it was. I…might have jumped around a bit. I might have been a little bit in love with Rome even before (like, years before) I ever stepped foot on Roman soil. So I might have been a little excited. Pictures may have been taken. Then we…walked for awhile. We were just planning to buy tickets to get inside and then look around a bit, but when we got there, there was a tour being offered for something like four Euros more (a piece) than the normal ticket price and, as they also accepted both pounds and dollars (which we did have), and were including a tour of the nearby palatine hill, we were all over that.
Our tour guide, who was Roman, was determined to convince us that the Romans weren’t all bad, despite the horrible things that took place in the coloseum. He pointed out the brilliance of the architecture, the niches in the walls where the posts holding up the cloth used as sun protection for spectators used to be mounted, the fact that there was always free food for all spectators (even the poor ones), and that the only people killed were those condemned to die anyway. Personally, I didn’t feel any better about their method of granting that death, nor the bloodthirsty way the entire culture was obsessed with watching it, but it was interesting to hear the facts and stories from a completely new perspective. And I did learn a few things I hadn’t heard before, like the fact that the Romans chose the plays and stories they reenacted in the coloseum for a reason: each one was specifically tailored to the crime committed by the person being executed. For example, a favorite for the execution of Christians was a reenactment of the punishment of Prometheus (the god who gave fire to humans) because he committed the ultimate betrayal against the other gods and was punished by them. The Romans thought it was fitting that Christians, who committed the ultimate betrayal of refusing to worship Caesar, should be similarly punished.

The building itself is amazing. When you first come into the coloseum, you step right into the spot where the emperor’s box used to be, which I thought was interesting. They’ve placed a cross there to commemorate all the Christians who were killed in the coloseum (I found its placement extremely ironic). A lot of the upper levels are missing due to an earthquake back in the day, but they have reconstructed part of the floor and left the rest of the underground chambers exposed so that you can see what it looked like underneath. They also let you look at it from two different levels, so you can see the underground stuff more clearly.

Anyway, after the coloseum, we had a few minutes wait until our tour of the palatine hill was to start. I snagged a water bottle, and Yvette got a chocolate gilato that she said was just horrible. She ate it anyway (because it was HOT!) and we spent the next few minutes fending off vendors trying to sell us scarves, fans, necklaces and parasols. It was a little difficult because they pretend not to understand English very well until someone actually buys something from one of them, and then, all of a sudden: clarity!

Palatine hill was very different. For one thing, I had never heard of it before, so everything I was seeing and hearing was brand new. Supposedly, this hill was where Romulus founded the city of Rome and built his house. The hill then became the “place to live” for Roman nobility. After that, Emperor Domitian, brother and successor of Emperor Titus, bought all the land there, tore down all the houses, and built his palace and gardens. We got to see the ruins of his private stadium, the second story of his private rooms, his banquet hall, and his throne room. Apparently he was so paranoid about assassins that he had the marble in the public areas of his palace polished to a reflective shine so he could see someone coming up behind him (ironically, it was his wife who killed him later). The tour guide also taught us a bit about the different types of marble used in ancient Rome (one of which, the porphyry, the emperor’s marble, existed only in one vein in the Egyptian desert and was exhausted by the Roman emperors and now no longer exists outside of Roman relics. This marble is so hard that it would take 1 hour today to cut 3 centimeters into it with a diamond cutter), and how it was attached to the walls (which is why so many Roman ruins, including the coloseum, have giant holes in the walls all over—they used to be covered in marble held to the walls by nails and concrete).

From the top of the hill we were also able to see the ruins of several temples, including Romulus (not the founder of Rome but the other), the vestal virgins (who had more rights than any other women in Rome; they were allowed to own land, make wills, ride in chariots, pardon condemned men they met on the street, and other unheard of privileges), and Julius Caesar (people still bring flowers to his temple). We were also able to see the Via Sacra, ancient Rome’s main street (I walked it!), marked by the Arch of Titus (built to commemorate the sacking of Jerusalem in 70 A.D.) and the Arch of Septimus Severus. This is the path of the Roman Triumph, where the army’s victory parades took place (they began in the coloseum, went under the arch of Titus to the Arch of Septimus Severus and from there to the former Roman bank/mint, where the spoils of war were then deposited.

After our tours, we went looking for a place to eat dinner. It was sevenish, the sun was already going down, and apparently Rome closes down early because 2/3s of the shops and diners we’d passed in the afternoon were now closed. We did find a nice outdoor restaurant and ordered rice with some kind of cream sauce and scampi (thinking, rice = healthy and scampi = protein). While we waited, some guy came by with an accordion and totally serenaded the customers eating there. I had this “Lady and the Tramp” flashback, it was such an Italian stereotype. The food, unfortunately, was not nearly so great this time around. For one thing, there was this giant clawed thing in my rice, with antennae and broken legs scattered throughout (gross!). The fact that there was very little shrimp meat in that monster meant that there was nothing to make up for the gross factor either. The rice itself was kind of weird too, so to make up for it, we ordered gilato. We wanted chocolate, but our waiter, who spoke at least 3 languages (English, Italian and Japanese) and had refused to let us order fruit salad earlier in the meal, brought us these giant dishes of 3 types of gilato, including chocolate. The strawberry flavor was so not my favorite, but the lemon was good, and the chocolate was fabulous.


Overall, we really love Rome. Tomorrow we plan to go see the Vatican and St. Peter’s Basilica, just as soon as we’ve run a few errands (read: figured out how to get to Venice, and then how to get to London, without paying through the nose. Train tickets are suddenly impossible to find!) We’re excited about that tour, especially the Sistine Chapel, but we’re also looking forward to our trip to Venice. I’ll be sad to leave Rome, but Venice will be wonderful too (the plan there is to sit, relax, take time off, drink some coffee, maybe take a gondola ride, and enjoy our final day of non-law school freedom, so I can’t say I’m disappointed about it).

French Lessons: Truths and Misconceptions

Paris and I have a love/hate relationship. I absolutely love the language. It was amazing to walk around and listen to people speak French all day long. It’s such a beautiful, liquid language. The downside, of course, is that I hardly understand more than two or three phrases, and people kept speaking it at me. I learned an interesting lesson here though. I have been told on previous occasions that the French hate Americans. This may well be true, I have no proof one way or the other. But it is true that they don’t particularly like to speak English unless you try to speak French first. What I have discovered, however, is that a simple “Bonjour” followed by “Parles vous Engles?” is generally enough. It earns you a smile and a helpful demeanor, whereas assuming they speak English, or even asking if they do in English, will earn you a scowl, or at least an attitude of “I will only go so far to help you out.” I would like to point out to you, hotel personnel, that we all know you speak English, and furthermore, it’s sort of your job, but whatever, Mr. Grumpypants receptionist. Anyway, thanks Mom, for the minor French lessons. I never thought that one phrase would be enough, but it was essential to our survival the last 24 hours.

Like its language, Paris is beautiful! I have never seen such gorgeous architecture anywhere. Everything was unique and pretty, even in the not-so-nice part of town. We should know, because, while the nice british train station lady kindly booked us a hotel room just a ten minute walk from the train station, she didn’t warn us that the hotel was in a shady part of town. It was admittedly nerve wracking to walk, in the dark, after midnight, through a mostly-silent-except-for-the-bars Paris, talking softly so as not to advertise the foreigner thing, while trying to follow a very general map in the dark to our somewhat grungy hotel. We did find it, and in doing so, figured out the Parisian street signs are mostly posted on the corners of buildings, rather than streets. Go figure.

Anyway, hotel, check. No wi-fi in the hotel though, and no lift, so it was an adventure getting Yvette’s luggage up 2 flights of stairs to our room. (Getting it down the next morning was almost more of a challenge; she ended up sort of sliding it down on it’s front.)

There was also no real shower in our hotel room. Instead there was one of those bathtub with the showerhead attached to a hose type deals. The idea is to sit in the tub, and use the showerhead, but neither of us was really comfortable sitting in that thing all considering, so what to do? Yvette showered first, and I’m not sure what went on, but the bathroom was pretty much drenched by the time it was my turn, which was hysterical. With that in mind, I decided kneeling in the tub was the proper solution, so there was this whole squatting and balancing aspect thrown in that was extra challenging, and I felt very accomplished when I finally figured out the best way to make it work and only got the bathroom a little wet. (By the way, Europe, what’s up with the strange pastel green bathrooms? Floor, walls, sink, tub…I’m surprised the towels aren’t green!)

After leaving our hotel (which looked much friendlier in the daylight, and the day receptionist was much nicer too), we spent the day applying our knowledge of London’s underground to Paris’s, and (after a to die for it was so delicious breakfast of chocolate croissants) took a trip to the Louvre for the afternoon. We waited in a gigantic line for about 45 minutes to get in, but it was worth it. That museum is huge, and we only had a couple of hours, so obviously we couldn’t see everything. We parked ourselves in the Greek and Roman sculpture section and got to see Michelangelo’s Dying Slave, Venus de Milo, and Eros and Psyche. There were also a couple of statutes of Athena and Ares that I recognized from art books and was excited to see. We took a side trip to peek at the Mona Lisa, because she was right there, but as we could see her just fine from the side of the room (smaller than you’d think and behind two or three layers of glass at the end of a long line) we waved and moved on—let the tourists with more time spend an hour waiting for a close up.

Then it was back to the hotel to pick up our luggage, and a couple of train hops to the station where we were to catch our ride to Italy. The more you ride the underground, I’ve discovered, the easier it gets. Paris was even easier to understand than London’s (maybe because we had a good map) although it has many sublevels, which can make navigation a little difficult. And of course, all the signs are in French. Really though, the language barrier wasn’t as awful as I was expecting. I was really nervous about spending a day in France, but it really wasn’t too bad. And the lady who helped us book our train to Italy was amazing (we seem to be getting lucky with the train people). She spoke English beautifully, and gave us a few French lessons while she was looking up ticket and hotel prices (and laughed a little at the ensuing mispronunciation). She also gave us directions to the train station from which our overnight train would be leaving, and went and got a map out of her purse for us to use when we had no idea which stations she was talking about. The lady who directed us to the Louvre was not so helpful, but she didn’t speak much English, so that was part of it.

The one bad part of our Paris underground experience involved a very old, very small lift, Yvette’s giant suitcase, and the door’s refusal to open. There was a panicky moment in which the help button got us an automated response (in French) followed by many French people walking by the lift’s glass doors, which we were banging on, and refusing to even really look at us. Then a nice old lady, who didn’t speak a lick of English but who seemed somewhat amused by our plight in addition to being sympathetic, stood outside the door and used made up sign language to try to help us figure out how to fix the lift. When that didn’t work, she and her cane toddled over to the information desk and reported our problem, and within 5 minutes, a train station official came over with a walkie talkie to help us. The old lady left at that point (Yvette and I calling out “Merci!” through the tiny gap in the door), and the official, also amused by our situation, assured us we’d be out in a moment. And we were. Of course, we still had the problem of Yvette’s luggage, but we weren’t risking the lift again, so we just carried it up the stairs.

And now, here we are, even more tired than yesterday, but happy with our day (although I now want to chop my shoulders off, they hurt so much) and although I enjoyed Paris, I am happy to be leaving and excited about Italy tomorrow. We still have to figure out how this whole sleeper train thing works (how do we make these seats into beds?! The pictures aren’t very helpful!). Also, the train guy took all our tickets and passports and hasn’t given them back yet, which is somewhat nerve-wracking. But I got to eat super yummy French bread in France, and tomorrow I get to see the coloseum, so who cares? ^_^

P.S. I totally came down with a cold yesterday and cannot stop sneezing! Holly, I’m blaming you!

King’s Cross Station is not what I expected…and neither is anything else.

So far this trip has been…intense.

Yvette and I left San Francisco at 11:45 p.m. Sunday evening. I slept off and on during the three hour flight to Chicago, where we arrived at 5:45 a.m. Chicago time. We had a three hour layover in which we had a baggage snafu and ended up having to go through security again ( O’Hare uses the new x-ray machines, so I have that creepy experience under my belt now *shudder*) and we were on our way to London.

Customs was surprisingly painless. A five minute conversation with the customs agent, and I had my first stamp in my passport. We snagged a shuttle to the hotel (it was 11:30 London time at this point, and I had been up for a total of 30 hours), checked-in, and were in bed by one.

The plan was to fall into bed and sleep for 7 hours. But then neither of us slept very well. We ended up getting up at four in the morning and rearranging our bags, something we’d planned to do in the morning, while brainstorming plans for Tuesday. Then we went back to sleep, and got up with just enough time to check out at noon. We spent the rest of the day figuring out the public transit system.

FYI, the buses in London don’t stop unless you flag them down; hovering at the bus stop is not enough. I don’t know how many buses we missed figuring that out, and then forgetting we were supposed to do it. Also, the bus drivers are crazy! I have never before seen buses driven the way I saw buses driven today. However, we found the bus drivers to be some of the nicest, most patient and kindly helpful people we encountered today. Not once did we encounter an impatient or dismissive attitude, which was not the case at the airport and several of the train stations. And considering the number of “we’re trying to do such and such, how should we…” questions we asked today, we’ve definitely taken a wide enough sample of the London population to know.

I think the quiet is getting to me though. Londoners get on a bus and sit silently. They get on a train and sit silently. Train stations are loud—because large groups of people walk and their steps echo. It’s…weird. I am proud of myself, because I only started to get a little loud twice today. Go me!

Now, London observations:

Expensive! (Although I did find this little corner market, where I got 5 apples for 1 pound. I was pretty impressed with that)
Very fast paced. People rush, rush, rush everywhere.

The hotel guy will laugh at you when you have 6 bags that need to be retrieved from the hotel’s storage in the back. He will, however, try to hide it in a politely English way, and will refuse your help when you offer it. He will then carry out your two duffle bags in one hand, which will both irritate you and make you want to hire him to carry your luggage for always, because *you* certainly can’t do that, and your arms are still sore from carrying them to the hotel from the airport last night. You will also feel the need to explain to the incredulously amused hotel personnel that no, you are not silly over-packing Americans, but rather, Americans studying abroad for four months who packed accordingly but are in “where do we live for the next two weeks” limbo. You will refrain, however, because the hotel people really do not care, and are determined to be amused (which is better than irritated).

Starbucks is, comfortingly, the same worldwide, right down to the upbeat music (it was reggae today). And a chocolate frappucino is identical, whether you order it at the Starbucks in the CA grocery store, or the London train station. Also, there were people there who didn’t have accents (meaning Americans! The first we’ve met since arrival) and that was nice to hear too. The sandwiches, however, are not the same, no matter how the description makes them sound so. It wasn’t’ exactly gross, because there wasn’t much taste to it, but wasn’t really an enjoyable experience either.

Hello McDonald’s. I see you through the window, and I recognize your familiar golden arches, but why do you look so hoity-toity and upper crust today? I shall have to investigate your interior at a future date and discover whether you are equally blue-blooded on the inside here in London. (Note: the apparently universal reaction of children to the sight of that yellow M: “Mum! McDonald’s! It’s McDonald’s! Can we go?” Admittedly, it’s even more adorable in an English accent)

I was right. London makes me miss Portland. I started out the day in a tee shirt, with my wet hair pulled back. But it was overcast and breezy, with a light (occasional) spatter of rain. Within 15 minutes, my hair was down (still wet, but now warm) under a wool hat (thanks Mom!) and my sweatshirt was on. (I heart you Portland!)

King’s Cross Station is…not what I expected. I mean, Harry Potter paints a certain picture and the reality is nothing like it. For one thing, it’s huge. I mean huge!!! It stretches on forever. And I have never seen so many people in one place outside of a stadium. It’s like a river: streams of people moving through underground tunnels, little streams branching off and new streams merging, and at the end, when you reach the station proper, the river flows out into the ocean of people coming, going, buying tickets, eating, and waiting for trains.

If you want to go to Italy from London, King’s Cross is apparently not where you go (so no trying to figure out where platform 9 ¾ is today. Maybe next time…). You want St. Pancras International, next door. Although King’s Cross is where you store you r extra luggage when you are going away on a train and don’t want to take it with you. A very nice man will even come around the counter and lift it onto the conveyor belt for you when you’re so tired (and hungry because you haven’t eaten all day) that he can apparently tell you weren’t sure how you were going to manage it. He will then ask you about explosives and whether you have any in there, and send you on your way.

And getting from the underground to King’s Cross isn’t particularly easy. At the airport, you go down the stairs, through the gate, and down another flight of stairs to the appropriate stop. At King’s Cross, there are all these different levels and walkways you have to take to get from the underground stop to the actual station, and lifts every which way. We had to go up three or four levels, and find the right tunnels in between the right lifts…Good thing I can read a map!

But eventually we found the right station, and got tickets to…Paris! One must go to Paris before one can go to Italy. Unfortunately, it was too late to take a sleeper train from Paris to Italy tonight, so we will be staying overnight in Paris, making a short trip to Notre Dame and the Louvre tomorrow, and then hopping on a train overnight to Italy! Two days in Rome, 1 in Venice (Pompeii’s been put on the backburner due to its southernmost location, and time constraints). And the lady at the train station was amazing too. We were concerned about finding a place to stay because we will be getting into Paris at 11:45 pm, and you can’t make reservations at the train station, but she bent the rules for us and got us a decently priced hotel room 10 minutes (by foot) from the train station and equally close to both out tourist destinations tomorrow. She even told us which train to arrange from Paris to Italy. With those stressors eliminated, maybe we’ll even get a chance to eat more than half a sandwich each tomorrow too! ^_^

So current status:

I am a bit hungry. I can’t go 5 minutes without yawning. I am admittedly stressed and my shoulders are screaming after spending my day lugging ten hundred pounds of luggage all over London. (The ten hundred pounds is an exaggeration, the all over London isn’t.) I really miss my family.

But I am this close (holding fingers an inch apart) to being in Italy. That is amazing! And Paris, for all I don’t know the language, should be a lot of fun too. Plus, my travel buddy is totally fun, really good at planning things out, and keeps offering me chocolate. So far, this trip is looking pretty good!

Coffee (Or, the Addiction School has Forced Upon Me)

Sunday I finished a box of coffee. Sunday was the first day of the fourth week of the semester. What does this mean? It means I am addicted to my worst enemy. Yes, that’s right, worst enemy.

Coffee and I have a love/hate relationship. Because I really hate the stuff. It’s bitter! The only way you can get it to be not-bitter is to pour a ton of cream and/or sugar and/or chocolate and/or syrups in it. Unless it’s chock-full of calorie-high sweetness, coffee tastes gross.

But! Coffee is full of caffeine. Glorious, wonderous, keep-me-awake (sort of) caffeine. In undergrad, I learned to hate soda by drinking too much of the bubbly caffeinated stuff in an attempt to stay awake without drinking … the Dreaded Coffee! It didn’t work well. (The cursed med-resistance strikes again!) So, this summer, while contemplating law school, I decided to do it: make myself like coffee.

I quickly discovered it’s impossible.

Instant is disgusting! Brewed coffee is gross. Brewed coffee with cream and sugar and a squirt or two of French Vanilla syrup is bearable. Starbucks coffee has a funky/burnt aftertaste. Even my beloved Coffee People, maker of the best hot chocolate in downtown Portland, let me down.

So. Only extra sugary additions make coffee drinkable. But I don’t really want to drink all that sugar! Alas, these days I’m tired a lot. And you have to, you know, actually pay attention in law school (go figure). So…coffee I must drink.

Fortunately, my dear beloved brother started selling instant coffee this summer. Now all my previous experiences with instant coffee were of the horror story variety. This instant coffee is bearable. Even good, for coffee. At least there’s no funky aftertaste. (Starbucks, you fail!!!) So I drink it. And I don’t look at what’s in it, because I think I probably don’t want to know.

But I still don’t appreciate craving it. Especially not enough that I finish a nearly-full box in three weeks. That’s almost a cup a day!

This is what law school has reduced me to: an addiction to the very thing I most love to hate.