Back in the Wilderness

New Hampshire is not all wilderness, despite prevailing beliefs. Once, when I told some teenagers on a playground in Upstate New York that I was from the "mythical land of New Hampshire," they told me that sounded like "some Narnia shit." Kudos to them for reading, I guess.

In any case, I'm back in New Hampshire. Before I even embarked on my final adventures with my parents, I had to bid farewell to Puzzle, the mouse that moved into my flat. But before leaving Europe for good, I was back in London for a final day. It gave me a chance to remember that for a semester I lived in a place that had sidewalks.

I said a last goodbye to the smear of yellow paint in the road near my old flat that looked like a mustache and spent the gray day taking my parents on a multi-mile march through the city. I won't be bothered to give a blow by blow of the sites I walked them by, though I will say that I discovered yet another London rhino in the theatre section of the V&A.

After two bag searches and my very first pat down (I'm glad to report my ticklish side did not come out as my new friend stroked my thighs), I boarded the plane bound for Boston. I won't lie to you and say that I'm really unpacked because the clothes I took out of suitcases are on a pile in the floor by my closet. But I've snuggled the shit out of my cats and driven my eggplant like van, Gertrude. I mowed the lawn with a bandana tied around my face like a bandit in order to try and stave off the allergies. I've gone to my old trivia night and written shamelessly flirtatious messages to Phil, the ultimate trivia host. I am readapting to home. I've said goodbye to London, so all that really remains to do - and do pardon me if this seems rather cliche - is say goodbye to you, dear reader. So, goodbye. I'll miss the way you smell just after midnight...

The Penultimate Post

I have returned (triumphantly) to London. With two new countries under my belt after a whirlwind five days on the continent, I think it is altogether a relief to say that this account shall be far from complete. A relief for you, dear reader, sure. But also for me.

London, Calais, Bruges, Brusells, De Hoge Veluwe, Amsterdam, Bruges(ish), De Panne, Calais, London.

That's the Sparknotes version. On a related note, I would like to point out that Sparknotes is full of procrastination tools as well as often unhelpful synopses. Did you notice how this Sparknotes tidbit is also a bit of procrastination from an unhelpful synopsis? Moving on.

I didn't know a great deal about Belgium before visiting. People told me to try the waffles. Well, good. The one thing I had heard of about Belgium was the one thing I should go do. The waffles were delicious, though. As was the white asparagus cooked in the Belgian style I ordered for dinner the first night without knowing what the were. (They put some scrambled eggs on top. Om fucking nom.)

But food aside, Belgium was delightful and gave me an opportunity to variously practice my French and just not know Felmmish. Bonjour. Je m'appelle Jessica. Je suis un mutoun. No, that is not a prank someone has played on me. I just like to tell people I am a sheep in other languages.

Bruges is a beautiful smaller city, known for its lace. It was hosting some sort of fair with carnival rides when we made our way through, but luckily towards the center, the buildings muffled the screams. (Good to note if you're planning a Belgian murder.)

In Brussels, though surely I could talk about things like the Grand Place, more waffles, and that odd little boy taking a piss, my favorite bit was the Comic Strip Museum. Spurred on by Belgian pride for Herge, the creator of the Tintin comics, the museum offers a brief history of comics, selections of original drawings, and short bios of some of the more famous comic artists, including Herge. Tintin and I have been dear friends for many years. I did not become a fan simply because of the newly released film, although it has given me reason to shout Tintin and point at various objects on my travels, where before when I did that it was simply to confuse metal enthusiasts. My family owns all the Tintin books, save Tintin in the Congo, which is, of course, the only Tintin book with a rhino.

After Brussels, Bernard, Sir, and I headed to the Netherlands to the country's largest national park, De Hoge Veluwe. (At this point it might be useful to mention that I call my parents Bernard and Sir. I am sure I once had complicated but somewhat sensible reasons for doing so, but they have long since vanished.) I wanted to go to De Hoge Veluwe for the nature and because the promise of hundreds of free white bicycles to ride around the park on made my little socialist heart leap. It leapt less when I discovered there was a fee to get in the park, bringing that capitalist drive right back.

This brings up to what I will hyperbolically call the most harrowing experience of my life.

Before going to the park, Bernard, Sir, and I had gone to a grocery store to get some focacia and salami to eat for lunch. After cycling through the diverse landscape of the park, we stopped by a big ass house near a lake to eat. Nearly as soon as we sat down, six ducks had us surrounded. Though not really menacing, their squawks made eating a test of wills. Every so often, Sir would lob a scrap of bread away from us and with a wild storm of wings, the ducks would converge on the bit of food. One of the ducks, a female according to Bernard, remained on the wall behind us for most of the meal, every once in a while one of the male mallards would fly after her and chase her away. Already nervous by having a duck behind me, it took a lot of my courage to focus on peeling another peppered salami slice away from the others and pressing it into my mouth with a hunk of focacia clutched in my hand. A mini-tornado erupted over my head and my hair lifted in great swirls. A small yelp slipped through my lips as the brown lady duck suddenly flew off the wall behind me, dipped over my head and took off across the lake.

Amsterdam was next on the agenda. Yes, I was in the red light district. No, I did not get a prostitute. No, I did not become a prostitute. In fact, we walked through it without my even realizing we had done. Sorry to disappoint.

On the way back to Calais, my parents and I stopped off in De Panne and had a walk along the beach. With sand clinging to my teeth after a spot of lunch, I was ready to wade into the water. I had wanted to go into the water in Dover on my class field trip weeks early as some of you may remember. But now, I stumbled into the water along the Belgian coast to make up for missing out on swimming in Dover.

Two crepes later and a train ride later, I was in London once more for my real farewell tour.

A Temporary Farewell

My official semester abroad ended in a whirlwind of "how much shit that we didn't see in the first 14/15ths of our time here can we see in a few days?" The forgotten London bucket lists from the beginning of the semester reemerged and semi-frenzied plans were made.

I spent some time on Wednesday at the Natural History Museum admiring dinosaur bones and identifying types of rhino. Did you know that there are five types of rhino? There are. I don't think I've mentioned that or my love of rhinos and my love of fun facts pertaining to rhinos despite the title of this travelogue. But I do love rhinos. Especially black rhinos. Which is why people really need to stop killing them under the misguided impression that their horns will serve as boner-boosters.

Thursday involved more markets and some other adventures, which I will come to later. Friday, the last day with my friends in London, we went to Harrods to not buy things and then to the Science Museum, where I had my walking monitored and learned (among other things) that I apparently think like a female. So, good for me.

I'm now in a hotel in Belgium, though. My parents came across the ocean to have a personal tour guide for London and a little extra exploring. Recounts of those adventures should be forthcoming. But for now, however, I return to Thursday night.

As a final farewell for the study group, we had a fancy pants dinner cruise on the Thames. Our professors repeatedly reminded us that there was a dress code that meant we couldn't wear jeans and trainers, so I was officially out of my element. That fact was confirmed even more when I discovered that I would have a palette cleanser between meals. I'd never had a palette cleanser before. Turns out they're delicious. But I suspect I won't be having another for quite some time.

All through the dinner and dancing though, I had my pair of beaten up sneakers in my purse. I was looking clean and polished enough that my history prof had to remark on my lack of ridiculous, monster-related headwear, but my sneakers weren't just a reminder that normally I traffic in being less than classy. Sure, sometimes I doff a top hat and parade around, but given the fact that my aforementioned lady brain comes with a lady body, top hats in my case are rarely seen as an acceptable high class fashion accessory. No, my sneakers had come along, not to serve as a humbling reminder of my casual wear, but to be thrown off a bridge.

Not to worry, they didn't go into the Thames. I didn't want them to wash up with any stray dead bodies that might still be hanging around. (Or, you know, pollute the river.) On one of the walking tours that I have forgotten many details from, Katy, my history professor, took us to Royal Festival Hall across the Hungerford Bridge. A near by public space that has become a skateboard park has contributed a mass of broken skateboards and worn down skateboard shoes to one of the cement supports rising out of the Thames. It has taken on a kind of public art status. I wanted my own shoes, skate shoes from the boys' department, to join their fellow cracked and leaking shoes on the cement circle in the middle of the river.

After the cruise, I made my way across Hungerford Bridge toward the shoe and skateboard cemetery with a few friends in tow. The dome of St. Paul's was glowing in the distance as I tied together the laces of the sneakers I had worn through from walking in London. They needed a eulogy before I cast them off to the cement below us. I once buried a pair of sneakers in the back yard but couldn't remember what words I had used to lay them to rest. When I burned a pair of lucky white and blue socks in a trash can in the cemetery at school I had murmured, "One sock, two sock, white and blue socks," as the flames engulfed the holey footwear. But my new old shoes needed words of their own.

"Dear shoes," I began rather dumbly, "you have been good to me. But London has not been good to you." With that, I flung my shoes off Hungerford Bridge to the eager cement below.

Though it kicked the shit out of my noble pair of sneakers, I will not hold a grudge against London. It has been quite okay to me. And after our adventures on the continent, my family is spending another day in London before I finally turn my new (and all ready ripping) shoes toward home.

The Purpose of Noses

Noses, though most notable perhaps for their role in the film The Fifth Sense, serve many functions in daily life. Example: Noses are like hats for mustaches. It would be weird to see a mustachioed individual (and here and shan't assume that mustaches should only be worn by men) without a nose. Picture Voldemort with a mustache. Weird, right?

Well, on Friday my friends, Tom and Jen, and I had planned a busy day of roaming about a few markets in London and going to the Tate Modern with Amy that evening to see what the art world is into these days. In the morning we headed off to Spitalfields Market first, which is open every day and has craft stalls, old records, and some clothing. It was relatively uneventful, save the mustache necklace I found that was a bit too gaudy for my taste. Between that and the mustache ring I found during my first week in London, I am led to believe that mustache fashion is very big right now. The strange looks I receive when I wear a mustache out on the streets of London seem to contradict that. Clearly, I just don't understand fashion.

After Spitalfields Market, we walked our frozen asses down to Borough Market, which you may rightly remember I already visited during my first few weeks here. We wandered around for a while collecting free samples, but ultimately wanted lunch. Small scraps of bread with various types of olive oil, slivers of cheese, and bits of brownie would not suffice given that we had already walked several miles.

As we started to look for lunch in earnest, the scent of warm cheese hit my nose.

Fun fact: I love cheese. Did you know there is a website called cheese.com? There is. I've visited it sporadically since the fifth grade. You can search cheese by texture! Amazing, I know. But anyway, I am a fan of almost any dairy product, particularly cheese.

"I think I smell raclette," I announced to Jen and Tom. They were unimpressed. I'm going to say it's probably because they don't know what raclette is, but perhaps they do not find sniffing out familiar cheese scents all that spectacular.

Moments later, I had proved my skill. There was a stall selling raclette cheese over potatoes with cornichons and pickled onions.

Look. Some onion people from the Tate Modern. I felt the need for  picture. There were so many words.

"It's the food of my people!" I yelped excitedly as I stared down the melting cheese.

Perhaps I should explain: raclette cheese is part of a delightful Swiss dish also called raclette. This joint name of dish and cheese often proves confusing when I try and explain the cheese phenomenon that is raclette to people.

"Oh, so there's a grill on the table and then you melt the cheese and put it on potatoes. Okay. But what kind of cheese?"

"Raclette cheese. That's the name of the cheese."

"So the cheese is raclette, too? I've never heard of that."

Well, no. It's not super well known. But it is delicious. Which is why I bounced into the queue as Tom and Jen went off to find their own lunches. I don't think they quite understood that I was excited in my nose's ability to sniff out particular types of cheese and in the prospect of eating raclette for lunch.

My nose proved less useful at the Tate Modern. There was an odd bit of art that was simply a large rectangular mirror on the wall. I did not go to look at it. Some woman was fixing her hair in front of it as her significant other stood behind her. So, I could have had my nose become part of art, but I didn't. Mostly because I don't see how that counts as art. Clearly, I understand art as much as fashion.

But I did enjoy the above onion people. They're from an artist called Marcel Dzama, who I actually enjoyed, mostly because he draws weird pictures. Like tree people!

After leaving the tree people behind, I discovered a side room at the Tate Modern that invites guests to draw various things on little scraps of paper with prompts. I choose their surrealist option, which asked me to draw something from my dreams. I once dreamed about an eggplant with chlamydia that was used to neuter pets, which I didn't know how to draw. So I just drew an eggplant with a face.

Yeah, I'm exhibiting my art in the Tate Modern. Not a big deal.

A few years ago, my family grew an eggplant in our garden that had a bump on it that looked vaguely like a nose. We put my mom's glasses on it and had a grand time. My eggplant drawing reminds me more of that than of chlamydia, which I guess is good. So here we find yet another (perhaps very obscure) purpose for noses: helping people not think about chlamydia.

New England Blood

I feel obligated to begin with an acknowledgment of time. Almost two weeks? Yeah. I hope you can move past my neglect, dear reader. If not, well, goodbye. I'll miss you like Captain Hook misses his right hand when it's time to take a leak.

So, the other adventure I promised? Well, what is now two weeks ago, we trundled off on another bus journey to Dover with a stop over in Canterbury on the way.

Canterbury, as any Chaucer fans or students of British literature will know, has a large cathedral. Oh, hoo-fucking-rah! If you are a faithful follower of my slightly sarcastic wanderings, then you will know that I have been to more churches than I can remember. The United Kingdom (and the rest of Europe) has a wealth of cathedrals, abbeys, and whatever else large buildings with stained glass may be called. And I was taken to another.

My professor recommended finding some steps that it is possible to see where the stones have been worn away by the knees of crawling pilgrims. As there was no scavenger hunt provided by the Canterbury Cathedral, I decided to keep my eyes open. My friends and I found them and confirmed they were in fact the steps with one of the cathedral staff.

The stairs found, we descending into the crypt. There were no photos allowed and - even more unfortunately - no talking. I had a giggle fit. I am occasionally prone to them, often at inconvenient times. On a bus to Scotland for example, during a study session, and, every once in a while, in the middle of a class. This particular fit was brought on after my friend, Tom, and I opened a door which turned out to lead outside where a turkey (or something) was pecking around. When I returned to tell my other friends of the turkey sighting, I was simply overcome with emotion. I don't know. But I clapped my hands over my mouth and tried frantically to keep the giggles in as we wandered around the basement. I pulled myself together enough by the time we entered their room of Jewels to notice that a particularly ornate scepter had been crafted by someone named Jes.

After the cathedral, the professors were heading off to some monastery. I was not. My friends and I found lunch and then a bargain store with toys. My friend Amy became the proud parent of two aliens (Ortos and Diplam, I believe) in goo, while I left with some glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs. Canterbury concluded, giggles contained, and the bus boarded, I distracted myself on the drive to Dover with my new dinosaur toys.

I had one goal in Dover: to swim. I had emailed my professor the night before our trip and asked her if she thought there would be a place to swim. I told her that cold water invigorates the hearty New Englander in me. My professor didn't know, but I had packed my swim suit and was ready to plunge into the cold coastal waters.

The plan was to visit Dover Castle and then make our way to the cliffs. We got hopelessly lost. My professor has told us multiple times that she is no tour guide. Up to that point, she hadn't found the need to prove it to us.

We went the wrong way round the castle to an entrance that seemed to be closed. We tried scrambling up what appeared at first to be a path up the hill to the castle, but turned out to be slippery clay with nettles off the side. Met with failure, we wandered along a path in the woods, trying to find the entrance. After a classmate and one of my professor's daughters struggled up another steep incline to no avail, we decided there was nothing for it but to turn back. We walked past the bus parking lot along the road. The castle entrance was just around the corner.

By the time my professor had bought us our tickets, we only had around an hour and a half left. The beach and the cliffs were far away. I stumbled over to an elevated platform where the wind threatened to tear the flesh off my face and gazed down at the water.

I consoled myself by going on tour of the tunnels used to help evacuate mainland Europe in the first weeks of World War II, which were admittedly cool. But not cold like the water I had so wanted to swim in to remind my body what it means to have New England blood.

Stones and Scavenger Hunting

No, the zombies haven't come. I'm still alive, but it has come to the point in the semester when professors everywhere say, "Oh, so those students of mine... they probably need an assignment or two before the semester is over." So I've been doing a bit of that. Which means I haven't yet written about my visit to Stonehenge and Salisbury, even though I've gone on an adventure since then. I'm keeping my other adventure a mystery for now. They say mysterious women are more alluring. Here's to hoping.

So last weekend, we set off from London Saturday morning and headed to Stonehenge. Last semester I took a course called Astronomy and Culture and we studied Stonehenge a fair amount. On certain days of the year, the sun and moon rise over some of the stones when viewed from other stones. Most notably, the sun rises over the heel stone, which is a huge stone set apart from the rest, on the summer solstice. At the end of the term, my professor gave us an "Astronomy and Culture Bucket List" that included going to Stonehenge. Check.

On a related note, I emailed my astronomy professor before heading out to Stonehenge to update him on my bucket list progress. He answered with congratulations and post script saying that I could use my super hero cape (yeah, bitches, I have a super hero cape that I wear around, often to classes when I have exams) to fly across the ocean to the Inca Trial to get that check on my bucket list done too. I'm getting quite the reputation apparently.

As you might be able to tell from the above picture, it was cold, wet, and blustery at Stonehenge, so it was a relief to pile back on the bus and head to Salisbury even if it did mean I could not go try to frolic with the sheep in a nearby field. I was not sure why we were going to Salisbury, except that I supposed it was a town close enough to Stonehenge that we would not have spent hours on a bus just to turn around and go back.

We arrived in Salisbury and were instructed that after lunch, we would be going to the Salisbury Cathedral. I was less than enthused. I have lost count of how many different incarnations of churches I have been in. They all meld together after a while. And though there are occasionally stained glass depictions of Jesus being circumcised with what appears to be a banana, I have acquired so many pictures of vaulted ceilings I could wall paper my room with them.

But there we were, being handed brochures about the cathedral. Underneath the map of the cathedral printed on the inside of the brochure, the words "A monkey, cricket, and cat?" appeared in boldfaced print. Reading further, I discovered that in various places of the cathedral the figures of those animals were hidden. There were brief hints in the brochure, so I set out on my own "I Spy: Salisbury Edition."

The monkey was by far the hardest to find, because as you can tell from this picture, it's just a weird little ball. From the brochure, I was expecting to find a full sized monkey statue peering down at me. Alas! The disappointing monkey was not enough to dissuade me from looking for the cricket, though.

The cricket was much less unsatisfactory. This regal creature adorned the armrest at one end of some fancy pews. While most of the other armrests had pictures of dragons and dogs with angry faces, this slightly crazed cricket stole the show. I like to imagine that if I were a cricket, I would look as cool as this one.

Yeah, that's the cat. It's apparently graffiti that was carved into the stone a few centuries ago by someone that didn't know what cats look like. The cricket still won.

After finding the cat, I learned that Salisbury Cathedral is home to one of the four copies of the Magna Carta that England has kicking around, so I went to admire that before we finished up at the cathedral, got some ice cream, and headed back home to London. As I was getting off the bus, my professor told me she was sorry I didn't get to meet any sheep. Like I said, I'm getting quite the reputation.

"Someday," I answered wistfully. "Someday."

When the Zombies Come

Well, when the zombies come we're probably all doomed actually. I am sure there are a few people who appropriately prepared to battle the swarms of undead, but I am not among them. And I spend a fair amount of time in graveyards and other such places that would be dangerous to be caught if the zombie apocalypse began.  I live on the edge - what can I say?

I spent a lot of my childhood in graveyards. It was not an easy adjustment for a kid deeply enthralled in the world of superstition. While not a true believer, I resented being dragged to various cemeteries across the state of Connecticut by my aunt and mother. The dissatisfaction was rooted in boredom that came with tracking down the headstones of long dead relatives more than an investment in the idea that if I didn't hold my breath while passing (or walking through) a cemetery, ghosts would come after me and devour my soul. But since then, I have developed a fondness for cemeteries. And not in a creepy Ed Gein (almost serial killer, actual gravedigger, and skilled craftsman in the medium of human flesh) way. No, most of my current affection for cemeteries probably comes from visiting my best friend, Maeve, and her family in West Bumfuck, New York, where visiting the graveyard is one of the few things to do. That and the playground, but I already had an affection for those.

I know I've already mentioned (if briefly) my adventure to the big ass cemetery in France that's name is eluding me at the moment. But this weekend, our professor took the very few of us who were interested to Highgate Cemetery. It was opened (if you can call it that - I've never seen a "Grand Opening!" banner above the gate to a graveyard) in 1839 because they had run out of room to bury people within the heart of London. Highgate became quite the fashionable place to be buried. If there's one thing I strive for in death, it's to be fashionable.

It has become quite overgrown. Oh, what the fancy Victorians would think if they saw their graves now! They probably would be pleased to know that visitors must pay to enter the cemetery, though. In the West Cemetery, visitors must be on a tour. There is no wandering. I was also informed by my professor that I could not be weird in the cemetery. Of special note, she told me I should not make sheep noises. I am pleased to report that I succeeded rather admirably at keeping my animal impressions to a minimum.

After a tour of the West Cemetery, we went down to the East Cemetery. Go figure. It had a separate entrance fee. Because why wouldn't it? We were still in London after all. This interesting bit of capitalism makes knowing that Karl Marx is buried in the East Cemetery all the more special. Apparently his grave didn't used to be super impressive, but a few years ago the North Koreans paid to have a crazy ass monument put up.

Now, I don't want to be buried when I die because a) I don't want to become a zombie and b) I don't want to be made into a lampshade by someone like the aforementioned Ed Gein. But if I did want to be buried, I really don't think I would be happy with anything less than a giant bust of my own face on the top of it.

This weekend, I also tried to go to the Oxford/Cambridge goat race. Yes, I meant to write goat. Boat races of fancy-pants rich boys do not interest me as much as speedy goats, but by the time my friend and I had conquered the partial line closures and delays on the Tube, the goat race was over. I did get to see the goats, make friends with a cat, and snap a great picture of a cock.

Then, if I hadn't put myself in zombie danger enough this week, on Wednesday we got a super special tour of St. Paul's because one of the higher-ups there apparently used to teach for the London Colgate study groups. Our stickers even said "supertour," so we were pretty fancy. Our supertour didn't include that many extra stops, but we got to see Christopher Wren's model of St. Paul's, the mathematical staircase, and a small trampoline that they keep hidden upstairs.  I don't know why. We also climbed to the top of the dome, where I managed to take a few pictures before my camera battery died.

Then we descended to the crypt, so I could again tempt fate. Fun fact: Lord Nelson is not a zombie. Yet.

Winston Churchill's Silk Pyjamas

Today we're time traveling, dear reader. Given that we've been traveling already, I hope this isn't too much of a shock, but if you need to rest for a few minutes or put on a pot of tea to calm your nerves, I completely understand. I'll just be here waiting for you to stop being such a pussy little bitch.

We're not time traveling to the 1940s, however, as I suspect you may have guessed given the title of this post.

We needn't go nearly that far. No, just set your DeLorean for early 2010 and we'll be off.

I was a freshman at Colgate, and I'd signed up for a course called War and the Holocaust in Europe. Most of the history classes I'd taken in high school were U.S. history and ambitiously claimed that we'd make it close to present day after beginning with colonial underpinnings. The farthest we ever seemed to get was the Civil War. Maybe Reconstruction, if we were lucky. So I signed up for different history.

Snatches of information from the class have remained with me, though the dates I was forced to memorize have not. I have kept one fact in my memory quite clearly. It was probably the most trivial fact that I could have stored away from all the information presented to me in lectures and readings, but I delight in quirky information.

Winston Churchill liked to wear silk pajamas.

His love of cigars is well documented and his habit of eating well has been recorded widely by historians and witnessed in his girth. But silk pajamas? It's the kind of fact I would make up. I have been known to spread rumors about friends of mine dating former press secretaries, dining with literary giants, and being involved in the assassinations of heads of state. But this is a fact that was printed in a nonfiction book that I had to read for War and the Holocaust in Europe.

John Lukacs, a historian with a professed fondness for Winston Churchill, taught me of Churchill's love of silk pajamas. Apparently Churchill was wearing silk pajamas on the morning of May 10th as Hitler began his invasions of Holland and Belgium.

I was incredulous when I first read about Churchill's pajama habits. Not because I didn't believe Winston would wear silk pajamas. I had never really thought about his bedtime attire before. I don't often think about what world leaders wear to bed. Perhaps I ought to. But I digress. I was incredulous because I was not sure how Lukacs had happened upon the information of what Churchill was wearing on the morning of May 10th, 1940 when he sat down to breakfast. Somehow that seemed like the kind of thing that wouldn't be recorded as war broke out in earnest across Europe.

But I have seen Winston's silk pajamas.

Perhaps it is now fitting for us to come out of time travel mode. This week, my history class visited the Churchill War Rooms and the attached Churchill Museum. Wandering among the artifacts of Churchill's life I stumbled upon his nap time togs. I was delighted and disappointed by my find.

I was standing in front of the pajamas that I had long regarded as a historical myth comparable to Columbus being the first to spin the idea of the world being round - if slightly less widespread. I had found the abominable snowman. But I still felt cheated. Winston's silk pajamas were, as you can see, white, plain, and conservative. In all the time I had imagined Churchill in his pajamas, which is probably more often than I should admit, I had not pictured his silk pajamas looking so boring. I wanted them to be red, shiny, and a little bit sexy.

But as the placard explained, the folded white shirt in front of me had been Churchill's nightshirt. I take some solace in the fact that even if Winston did not dress nightly in shiny, red silk, he at least could feel the breeze flowing in through the bottom of his nightshirt.

And Then There Were Sheep

I don't know if you've noticed, but I've become more sporadic with tales of my adventures. I wish I could say it's because I have been fighting pirates, flying planes around the world, and fitting hippos with tuxedos, but I have not been not. No, I have been distracted by much less exciting things: homework and course selection for next year. But I return to the interblogs with a vaguely complete account of the pirateless, planeless, and hippoless exploring I've done.

This weekend, my entire study group was carted off to the Lake District and Scotland via bus piloted by the slightly odd and slightly annoying Terry. I variously chose to call him Terrence and TerrBear, though he was not particularly aware of his nicknames just as he was not particularly aware that most of his commentary on the VAT refund and highway naming habits was unnecessary.

We set out Thursday and arrived in Grasmere. As it was late and I had eaten half a chunk of fish that had been all but injected with oil, exploring beyond the walls of the hotel was not on my agenda.

The next day we were off to Dove Cottage to see if we could be as inspired by daffodils as William Wordsworth. Wordsworth has never been my favorite romantic poet. I'm more of a fan of Percy Bysshe Shelley, mostly because he was such a fan of the ladies. But I will take this opportunity to instruct any of you that have not seen MC Nutz rapping "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" to youtube that shit. I hope it doesn't spoil any of the mystery when I tell you that MC Nutz is a rapping squirrel.

Some friends and I headed into the village of Grasmere after Dove Cottage and stopped by Wordsworth's grave. Funnily enough, his is not the fancy one with the sheep carving. That's his daughter Dorothy's grave. She was, by all accounts, his favorite child. At least try and hide it a little, Will. Come on.

We had lunch in Grasmere and then got on the bus to head towards Helvellyn for a bit of a hike. Helvellyn has been made vaguely famous by various writers and painters (including Wordsworth) but we didn't have enough time to climb it, so we settled for climbing up to Red Tarn where we could get a view of the peak. On the way up, I spotted a lone sheep wandering the mountainside. I desperately wanted it to be my friend. She had other ideas and kept running away. I did get to see her stop and take a piss though, so I like to believe that makes us pretty close to friends. It's not love until you've seen someone pee, I always say.

Red Tarn offered us the opportunity to cool off our feet, though most of my classmates thought the water was too cold. As a native of the New Hampshire seacoast, I begged to differ and gratefully waded into the tarn before joining a few classmates who had enough energy to hike up one more ridge. It was definitely worth the extra climb for the staggering views.

We descended the mountain to meet an impatient Terry and climbed back on the bus for Edinburgh.

Saturday was spent wandering around Edinburgh. We began the day together on a bus tour, but soon got off to visit Edinburgh Castle. From the castle, I set out with my friend Amy to wander around Edinburgh. We found an awesome toy store and a market to have lunch in. In the afternoon we hopped back on the bus tour for a while until we came to the Museum of Childhood. The museum isn't huge but did manage to gather together the world's largest collection of creepy dolls.

This doll haunts my dreams.

Amy and I hiked up Calton Hill later in the afternoon to visit some of the monuments. After meeting a couple who asked to take a picture of them for Vogue, puzzling over a group of people dressed in red that appeared to be doing some sort of adventure yoga, and sharing an orange, Amy and I went to the Royal Botanical Gardens and then headed back to the hotel to meet our friends for dinner. I am proud to say that I did try a spot of haggis. It's not terrible but not terribly delicious either.

Sunday was mostly spent on a bus, trying to ignore Terry breathing into his microphone while I was trying to read, but we made it back to London in time to attend trivia. I am proud to state that though my team came in last as usual, I was able to earn us a point by knowing that the act of putting jewels and glitter on one's vagina is called Vajazzling. Because every once in a while my awkward knowledge just has to pay off.

Hello, London

I have been riding the struggle bus all day on how to start an assignment for my travel writing class, so I have decided to write this instead. Dear reader, you are a procrastination tool. I'm just using you. I know it hurts right now, but you'll heal in time. I hope. Either that or I'll be leaving a trail of broken hearts in my wake. Oh, well.

This weekend, I re-explored London. I set myself a goal after spring break to go to some more of the places in London that I hadn't been yet, but with a cold and a voice that cracked so viciously it would have felt at home in a puberty video, I didn't get too much wandering done during the week. My knock-off NyQuil and I did spend a lot of quality time together, though. This weekend, however, I sounded almost normal and my dear friend from school, Casey, was visiting, so we struck out on the streets of London.

We began with an egg hunt. It's the Diamond Jubilee in London, you see, and there are giant eggs scattered throughout a few different parts of London. I like to imagine the queen, disguised as the Easter bunny, hopping throughout the city at night with a basket full of eggs half her size. I am sure that is not how the eggs are hidden, but don't ruin the mysticism of Easter for the children.

In any case, we started out at Covent Garden, which, despite its proximity to my flat, I had never visited. There were about twenty eggs hidden there, according to the egg map I had printed off, but as we wandered in and out of the Piazza, we only located about a dozen. But we managed to find the most important egg: the dinosaur one.

They even put a ceratopsian dinosaur on it. Because that is the coolest kind. Ever.

We continued our egg hunt in Trafalgar Square, where we found two eggs before seeing Big Ben's clock tower in the distance. I led Casey there to take in more of the conventional attractions of London. After a bit of a tour of that area, we made our way back to my flat, stopping to check out a few more eggs on the way.

Saturday I had yet another optional field trip to Cambridge. Oh, the pomp! Oh, the silly rules about grass! Sure, they've churned out more nobel prize winners than any other institution as I was reminded of at least three times on my visit, but when will they figure out that grass is meant to be walked on? By everyone. Not just the fancy people with fur lined degree robes.

I am sure I am not the first person to say such things. Or surreptitiously step on the grass. I know, it's not as bad ass as peeing on a McCain Palin campaign sign, but it's just as irresistible. When people tell me not to touch things, it makes me want to touch them even more. Which brings us a bit ahead in chronology to the British Museum.

It was my third visit to the British Museum because it's monstrous. I still haven't seen everything in it. But they just have ancient relics hanging around with nothing to stop me from touching them except signs that say I shouldn't. There I have resisted because the British Museum has more legitimate reasons for me not touching their old, pilfered possessions. Half the statues are already missing penises. The museum is protecting the few phalluses they have left from dicks like me.

All penises and grass prohibitions aside, Cambridge was beautiful - mostly because of the weather, which actually hung around all weekend. I was able to give Casey tours of London on foot Friday and Sunday without a coat. Sunday we went to Harrods to marvel at the ridiculous shit rich people waste their money on, stopped by Buckingham Palace, which I had not been to yet, and made our way the aforementioned British Museum before Casey had to catch her bus back to Wales.

I came out of this weekend with my sense of London geography reaffirmed and a pair of sneakers that have finally been broken down by all the walking. I take comfort in the fact that one of their final adventures before being lost to the ravages of travel was stepping on the grass at Cambridge: one last taste of victory.

The Fatherland

I occasionally find the smell of cow shit welcoming. Now, if I had a choice between manure and pies or cow excrement and dryer sheets, I would choose the latter in both cases. I'm not entirely deranged. Maybe it has to do with some of my favorite people living in places that are often rife with the odor of methane, but as I rode through Switzerland with my family and the faint whiff of farming feces would drift by, I found myself, though I wouldn't say filling my lungs with the pungent smell, at least letting the scent tickle through me.

I began my adventures in the fatherland, very early Wednesday morning without any traces of cow smell in the air. My night bus pulled into Zurich at five in the morning. I was somewhat alert despite being kept awake for the last hour of the ride by two passengers behind me who thought it was a good time to have a conversation in Slovak. I disagreed. After an hour of passive aggressively moaning at the people behind me, I got off the bus in an empty Zurich.

Early morning confirmation that I was, in fact, in Switzerland

After wandering around for a few hours waiting for things to open, I stumbled into a Starbucks for the free wifi and an extremely expensive hot chocolate. Normally, my visiting such a place would not be of note. Certainly there are things to be said about my half successful attempts at Swiss German. I shall not say them. Instead I will focus on the fact that when I told them my name was Jes so they could write it on my cup, I was later handed a hot chocolate with a Jes with only one s. I gave them no indication of how I spell my name. The Swiss just get me, man.

The rest of the day included a visit to the Landesmuseum, which is the Swiss National Museum, and a bit of a tour of the city from my cousin, the filmmaking monk. At the end of day, he took me to the train station so I could make my way to Ruswil, where I was staying with my aunt and uncle. Armed with mental images of the maps my uncle had sent me, I arrived in Ruswil without much difficulty. With a belly full of raclette, I gratefully fell into bed to catch up on sleep after my night bus adventures.

The next day, I went to Luzern with my aunt and uncle. We wandered around the old city, went to an old church, and had a snack on a cafe/boat called with Wilhelm Tell. We also went to see the Lion of Luzern, which I distinctly remember being very excited to see when I went Switzerland when I was twelve.

As almost anything one reads about the lion will tell you, Mark Twain described my dear lion friend as "the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world." Unfortunately, Twain wrote that in A Tramp Abroad and not in Innocents Abroad, which I have to read for one of my classes. This sad fact means I likely can't use the lion to sidetrack us from discussion. Pshaw!

My final day in Switzerland, we went to Bern. I had a visit with some more of my family that spoke English, with the exception of my cousin's ten month old son, who could not speak. I am not usually a fan of the midgets, what with their crying and pooping and generally not being as in control of themselves as cats while still being less cute, but I will concede that my cousin's kid was actually pretty cute. Not like my cat, or anything, but okay.

After a lunch of Alpen Macaroni, which is one of my all time favorites, I went into Bern with my aunt and uncle. We went to the parliament building and then went to hang out with the bears. By which I mean we watched them romp in their hillside enclosure. Stephen Colbert has taught me of the dangers of bears, no matter what my mother thinks about how cute they are.

Saturday morning I flew back to London from Switzerland with probably more chocolate than I should have. Fun fact: the Swiss eat more chocolate per capita than any other peoples. So really, the lumps of chocolate I just consumed while writing this was just me doing my part for the fatherland.

What a Difference a "K" Makes

My brain is currently thinking mostly in nonsense words. Most of the time when I imagine myself speaking in a different language and I run out of words, my mind switches into Spanish and fills out my thoughts that way. But now, on this overnight bus from Bratislava to Zurich, my mind can't even manage that. Perhaps it the overload of hearing Slovak while mentally practicing my Swiss German, but I have begun formulating nonsensical syllables instead of real thoughts.

But yes, that mythical time known spring break has begun. In fact, at this point it's nearly half over. Rather than head to Ibiza or some other popular beach destination where I could flash my tits at foreigners, last Friday at around three in the morning I began my journey to Slovakia. I almost ended up at the wrong airport in London (Stansted instead of Luton) and almost ended up at the wrong town in Slovakia (Stiavnicka instead of Stiavnica) but by some fucked up happenstance, four buses and one plane later I met my friend Andy at the bus stop in Banska Stiavnica, Slovakia.

Now, as I fill myself on food and drink of indeterminable ingredients and awkwardly apologize to the passenger behind me for not being able to speak Slovak as he tries to engage me in conversation, I have found the time to at least begin updating my blog without the aid of internet. I have also found the time to write incredibly long sentences.

Stiavnica is beautiful in an odd sort of way. Perhaps the flatness of London and the overwhelming wash of gray there has colored my perception of other places, but the hillsides and jumbles of pastel houses along with the glorious woods that occasionally lined the roadside seemed incredible. From different places in Stiavnica you can see both New Castle (built in the late Middle Ages to protect the town from Turkish raids) on the hillside and the skewed cement housing build by the Soviets. Rather than attempt a complete account of my adventures there, I've selected a few (hopefully) more interesting moments to capture my time there.

New Castle

Saturday, Andy and I were in a neighboring town at a cafe with Andy's friend Norbert Sr., who has very strong if not altogether clear political beliefs that apparently include high opinions of both Glenn Beck and the United States in the late nineties. Go figure. While sipping away at my green tea, I learned that the day before there had been a rash of political violence in Bratislava. I was suddenly glad that I had at least found the right buses from the airport to the bus station and hadn't ended up near parliament the day before. I continued to drift in and out of focus on the conversation, and I was especially jarred out of it when the strains of “Sexy and I Know It” started washing out of the speakers over the restaurant.

Sunday, Andy gave me a more complete tour of Stiavnica than he had managed to give me Friday night after I arrived. There are a lot of clock towers that look strikingly similar in the center of Stiavnica, but Andy pointed out one in particular.

“It's quarter to three. What's wrong with that clock?” Andy asked as we looked up at it.

“Uh, well the hands are kind of shaped like penises,” I replied, true to form. “But I wouldn't say that's something that's wrong with it necessarily...”

12:27 beneath the cock clock.

Andy smiled and said he'd noticed that first too but led me away to continue our tour. I'd apparently get a better view of the clock once we were by Old Castle.

“Okay, it's ten after three now,” Andy said. “What's wrong with it?”

I couldn't figure it out. The hands were pointing at the Roman numeral three and the Roman numeral two. I shrugged and gave up. The minute hand and the hour hand are apparently switched, with the short arm for minutes and the long hours. The story goes that the master clock maker had been drunk when it was time to assemble the clock, so his slightly less drunk apprentice was put in charge and messed it up.

Monday morning, as Andy had to teach, I was unleashed on the streets alone with only my stupefied smile as a means of communication. After a vaguely awkward encounter with a supermarket clerk when trying to buy a nutella filled croissant, I made my way up to New Castle. After several windy minutes up by the old structure, I headed back down into town and wandered around the campus of the Mining and Forestry Academy, which was the first technical university and is now wonderfully overgrown.

After Andy got out of school, he began cooking a Czech goulash for dinner, and we headed out to a tea house. The tea house has 150 kinds of tea (we counted) and also offers hookah for those who are so inclined. Andy and I each settled for some tea and drank our respective pots of it as some boys at a table nearby struggled with their water pipe. Something may have been wrong with it, but, and I think this is far more likely given their giggly nature, something may have also been wrong with them.

That about brings us up to today, especially given how long this entry has already become in my word document. With this update at least vaguely taken care of, I can turn my attention to trying to practice a bit more Swiss German. Or – and this is more likely – I can doze off while trying to ignore what appears to be a dubbed movie about snakes, warriors, and Angelina Jolie.

Lovespoons!

Yn llawen a wnaf kydymdeithon ohonawch.

I don't remember many Welsh words from the class I took last year. We weren't learning it to speak it, and I have had little occasion to use it. Rarely do I find myself in social situations when it would be appropriate or useful to yell "pack of dogs" or "table" in Middle Welsh. But the above phrase, while it merely looks like a deranged string of typos, essentially means "I make companions of you in gladness." It's not much more useful than the other words I have retained, but does provide for a nicer opening than a random Welsh phrase related to stag hunting or conquest.

In any case, my class went on yet another optional but paid for day trip on Friday, this time to Cardiff, Wales, hence the rather lengthy discussion of Welsh vocabulary that preceded this. When we got off the train, I heard one of my classmates say, "Okay, this definitely isn't English," as she looked around at the signs. Of course, the signs all had English translations on them, so the vaguely harried tone I sensed in her voice was probably an overreaction.

We began our day at Cardiff Castle, which is the product of several different time periods and peoples. To the original Roman fort, the Normans and the Earl of Bute added a keep and a Victorian mansion respectively.

The normal keep part. For any Brice watchers out there, you can just make out my professor climbing the steps.

In World War II, part of the outer wall of the castle was used as a public air raid shelter. It's now eerily dark and filled with cobwebs along with a few reconstructed scenes from life in the tunnel. Apparently posters of carrots were very popular in air raid shelters because there were several posters featuring this lovely fellow, who was desperate to dance and be eaten.

After the castle, we wandered out into Cardiff to markets and stalls near the castle. And I discovered lovespoons.

I love spoons. I have several dear friends that are wooden spoons. Felipe, my first wooden spoon friend, spent many years slung through a loop on the shoulder strap of my backpack helping me collect strange looks. I also love spooning. Hell, I invented a game called the spoon olympics, which is three events of pure spooning fun. How could I not love lovespoons?

Lovespoonery has only been traced back to the seventeenth century, but was believed to begin before that. Men would carve spoons with designs to give to women they sought to woo. The designs the suitor chose to carve were meant to symbolize different things. As one might expect hearts symbolize love. Bells are for marriage. And, perhaps most appropriately, links of a chain are meant to show how many children a couple has together. Womp.

The lovespoons weren't only meant to show love and whatnot through the symbols, but were also a way suitors could show the fathers of eligible young women that he was a skilled craftsman and could provide for a family. Now, I don't need anyone to prove their craftsmenship to me through spoon carving, but I do firmly believe that spoons are the surest way to a woman's heart.

They're also useful for eating soup.

Louvring It Up

Yeah, I know. And I'm not going to apologize for that pun. I don't think puns are the kind of thing a person should apologize for. I like to think my physics teacher from high school would be proud of moments like these. By which I mean moments I revel in the terrible corniness of my own puns, not moments in which I am unapologetic. But I digress.

"So, France?" you say? "Yes!" I would reply. I have now been to France. Paris - if we're being specific, which I will be for now.

Thursday night, three friends and I headed off to Victoria Station to catch an overnight coach to Paris. Armed with sleeping pills, an eye mask, and Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me podcasts, I was ready to pass out for the duration of the bus ride. My body and the border agents had different ideas. After waking up at the border to hand over my passport and drag my backpack through a scanner, I drifted in and out of drug induced sleep for the rest of the bus ride. Consequently, when we arrived in Paris before 7 am the next morning, I was not in the most navigation ready state for the walk to the 20 euro a night hotel we had booked. It was 5.2 kilometers away, but I had scribbled down directions before leaving Paris and we had a few hours to kill before we could check in, so walking was fine with me.

After some vague confusion, struggles to communicate, and a drawn out breakfast in a random cafe, we made it to the hotel. My friends took a short nap while I pored over a map of Paris and did some homework. Around 11, everyone who had fallen asleep was shaken awake and we ventured out to the streets of Paris.

The first day, we hit the Louvre and the Carrousel du Louvre. I don't know a whole lot about art and won't pretend to. We saw the Mona Lisa, which was crowded and smaller than expected, and then I spent the rest of my time in the museum wandering around taking pictures of art I thought was funny. Funny paintings? Pshaw! Well, art snobs, tell me this isn't funny:

I have more examples should any skeptics remain.

After the Louvre, we were pretty exhausted but found a place to have dinner. We ordered some escargot to share, and I excitedly ordered some sort of sandwich with raclette cheese on top of it.

"It's the food of my people!" I proclaimed to the table at large. I was met mostly with strange looks, as I so often am in life.

Fairly beat, we made our way back to the hotel.

On day two, feet still sore from the exhaustive walking of the day before, we set off to cross more things off the list of "must-dos" that I had gotten from a co-worker who is a retired French teacher as well as simply amazing. We made it to Notre Dame, Musee D'Orsay, Champs Elysee, Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower with sandwiches and crepes eaten along the way.

I haven't the energy to write about everything in detail (particularly because I am procrastinating homework right now) but I doubt that anyone would have the energy to read all of that anyway. Right? Right.

The Musee D'Orsay, however, warrants a bit of dwelling on. It's a museum of modern art. Again, I spent most of my time looking for vaguely amusing pictures or things I've read about for various classes. The Musee D'Orsay used to be a train station, though, and after World War II prisoner of war, victims of Nazism, and concentration camp survivors would return to France via that train station. I was more interested in seeing the building for that reason than the art - given that I had already seen swaths of it the day before. The only reminder of its past, besides the interior architecture, was a plaque outside that we nearly walked past.

I was surprisingly adept at translating the sign for my friends. I don't speak the French, but the amount of cognates and the repetition certainly helped. I could give you my shoddy translation now, but it falls apart at the end and shoving it through a shitty translator would probably build character. For you. Not for me. You're welcome.

The final morning in Paris, two of my friends and I went to a big ass cemetery, the Pére Lachaise Cemetery. It's sprawling and home to a lot of formerly famous people that now have the potential to be famous zombies. Good luck to them and good luck to the Parisians at surviving that. My main focus for visiting the cemetery, besides liking cemeteries in general, was to see Oscar Wilde's grave. I may be writing more on that later. We shall see if I find the time and energy. Or if the zombie apocalypse comes. That would probably limit my ability to carry out many of my daily functions, let alone blog updating.

For now, I must conclude this rambling, bullet point of a blog entry and try to return my focus to the homework I have been putting off. So, I'll leave you with one of my favorite Oscar Wilde quotes: "Life is far too important a thing to ever talk seriously about it."

Decor Tips

My lack of posting may lead you, dear reader, to believe that I have been kidnapped or that I have been leading a woefully boring life. The first, I can say with certitude, is not true. The second may or may not be true.

Last weekend, we took a trip to Hampton Court. It was Henry VIII's favorite hangout before the toll of constant remarriage caught up to him. Honestly, I don't see why he felt the need to divorce all his wives. If he was already fighting the church over divorce, why not just take it to polygamy? The palace certainly has rooms enough for all his lady friends. It also has a delightful shrubbery maze where he could hide his wives if he got angry at them. I imagine that would be more comfortable than getting beheaded. The maze wasn't actually built until the 17th century, but that's where my friends and I headed first.

The rain was threatening to fall as we entered the maze and started to come down a little bit as we wandered through the hedges. The maze was not terribly confusing until the exit, which was labeled as an exit only for the elderly and infirm but was actually an exit for everyone. The maze was hazardous, however. By which I mean there were children in it. Regardless of the rogue midgets, we made it to the center successfully and back out of the maze.

We spent a good chunk of the afternoon wandering through the rooms of the palace. I made notes for just how to decorate when I become a trophy wife. I've decided to get a giant four poster canopy bed. I have however decided I will not make intricate wall designs entirely out of weapons. Nothing says "Welcome to the palace!" like an array of guns on the wall.

With most of the open rooms explored, we ventured back onto the grounds to explore the gardens despite the rain. While looking for a way to the cafe for a snack and something warm to drink, we found the world's longest grape vine. It's true. They have the plaque from the guys at Guinness on the window. It was less impressive than it might sound. Perhaps if there had been grapes...

With that, I must conclude this hasty update. My friends and I are off to Paris for the weekend. We're meeting a few minutes to make sure we have all the required things for travel. Passports and snacks, you know, the important stuff.

Misnomers

It has come to my attention over the past week or so that the name of this blog is not entirely accurate. There are rhinos in London. In fact, there's one in my flat - albeit a small stuffed rhino from my pen pal - but even beyond the walls of my room, London is apparently teeming with rhinos. It's a bit odd, given they are so close to extinction. But my discovery of the various rhinos of London brings us back to my weekend with Andy, which I have promised to recount.

In a weekend full of adventure, Andy and I saw The Importance of Being Earnest (though my close personal friendship with Oscar Wilde did not earn us free seats), adventured to Greenwich to meet Andy's friend Norbert (where I met a Dane and bonded with him over our shared enthusiasm for Jon Stewart and our shared incredulity for Newt Gingrich's moon base plans), and went to Camden Market in search of leather pants for Andy. We also went to a trivia night Sunday night with some of my other friends. We were warned that there wouldn't be any American questions. Not a problem. I just needed my trivia fix. Away from Phil, the king of New Hampshire trivia nights, I was suffering from a spot of separation anxiety. Also, my useless knowledge was going to waste. So we settled in for a few hours of trivia. I startled everyone in my group - and the room, for that matter - by getting an obscure British pop culture question correct. It didn't help us. We came in last.

"There's no shame in coming in last," the host told us. We weren't ashamed anyways, but have vowed to brush up on British trivia.

But what of the rhinos? They didn't ask me how many kinds of rhinos there are (five) at trivia. The rhinos were discovered after our afternoon with Oscar Wilde.

Wandering back in the direction of my flat, Andy and I happened upon a gentlemen's club: The Spearmint Rhino. I've learned from the internet that such gentlemen's clubs also exist in the United States. But standing across the street from the Spearmint Rhino, I was confronted with the sad realization that I had misnamed my blog and that I probably could not hang out at the Spearmint Rhino. The fake mustaches back in my flat could only do so much for me.

But there are rhinos in London. There might be more, too. I haven't been to the London Zoo yet, but if it's worth its salt, there will be at least one kind of rhino. And he will be named Bertram. It just seems like a good name for a rhino. No matter what his name may be, I was left with the knowledge that a strip club had made a liar out of me like it had probably done for so many before me, although in a slightly different sense, one assumes.

Solace came to me on Wednesday. Our history of London walking tour led us from the monument of the Great Fire of London around to St. Paul's. On the way, Katy led us down a street called Threadneedle Street.

"What kind of business do you think was on this street?" she asked.

"Tailors?" someone in my class said.

"No."

"Prostitution?" I offered.

It was. Katy told us it was originally called Gropecunt Street, but as sensibilities changed they altered the name. Apparently vague innuendo is more acceptable in street names than clarity. Either way, I think the City of London and I can both chalk the names up to creative license.

Really?

I feel woefully behind again, but I suppose that is to be suspected after the whirlwind of a weekend I had. I suppose the only place to begin is with sense of excitement I woke up with on Friday morning. We were going to see Mike's (my theatre professor) play in Bury St. Edmund a few hours to the north, and my dear and graduated friend, Andy, was coming to stay for the weekend.

After a two hour bus ride to Bury St. Edmunds, our professors told us we had a few hours to explore and find dinner before they expected us back at the theatre to see Stagefright. But once we stepped off the bus, the Bury St. Edmund's chamber of commerce and the towering facade of an old stone church that were beckoning to us were immediately forced from our minds. Two older women, wearing navy blue cardigans emblazoned with the Theatre Royal logo emerged from the theatre and would not let us leave. We were ushered inside the theatre for a tour.

Once inside, our tour guides revealed themselves to be Marian and Joan and the most patronizing tour guides the world has ever known.

"Does anyone know anything about theatre?"

"Have you heard of our theatre before?"

"Has anyone heard of any theatres in England?"

Yes, no, yes. But we were stunned into silence. I, for one, didn't know what we were doing here. I don't think any of us really did. But Marian pressed on.

"I've heard of your Broadway, you know," she said. Yes, but that itself isn't a theater. Would it count if I said the West End? And sure, I could have offered her the Globe or the Old Vic where we had seen our first play of the semester, but I didn't want to talk to Marian. In the back of the room, I could see my professor rolling her eyes.

Finally, someone suggested the Globe.

"Ah yes, and what is the Globe famous for?"

Really? Really?


"Shakespeare," a somewhat less incredulous classmate of mine called out.

It was downhill from there. Joan and Marian broke us into two groups. I was stuck with Marian, who first led us around the building, encouraging us to imagine that we were members of the upper class in the early 19th century. Now, I'm all for pretending, but not when Marian is the one giving me the prompts. I'm all for taking tours of theatres, too, but this one assumed that I was an idiot.

After telling us the clouds painted on the ceiling could actually rain because the theatre was, in fact, equipped with fire sprinklers, Marian led us onto the stage. One explanation of "upstaging" later, Marian was about to lead us onto the front of the stage, which was already cluttered with all the props and scenery for that evening's performance. Strongly doubting that this was really supposed to be part of the tour, I fell in line. The other tour group, which was already finishing and was out in the house with Joan, called out to us and told us not to go on the stage. That we weren't supposed to. That it was already ready for the show. That we could break something and screw over the actors for their performance that evening. No shit, Marian.

Unabashed, Marian backed off the stage, but led us downstairs. We stumbled into the green room, where the actors, the illusionist, the stagehands, and Mike were gathered. We definitely weren't supposed to be there either. Marian was about to tell us more about the green room when Mike stopped her.

"These guys actually are a bit short on time and have to get dinner so they can get back here and see the show."

Once safely outside and away from Marian, Mike turned to us.

"I am so sorry," he said. "I had no idea they were going to do that."

The rest of the weekend was considerably better. Mike's show was a delightful mix of comedy and suspense and when the coach returned us to London that night, Andy was waiting for me across the street from my flat. He promised adventures that were sure to be more exciting than the hour and a half condescending tour I had just been on. A recount of those adventures is forthcoming.