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!