ireland shmireland

C and I have decided that green is our colour.

And that there's no point studying abroad if you can't have an enviable weekend trip to some enviable destination in enviable company to do enviable things.

Or at least, that's how I see it.

"And this also," said Marlowe suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth."

Oh, the Thames, that "interminable waterway" stretching it's length across England to "the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth." Great it may be, but muddy and swollen and angry it also is a large majority of the time. Or so trusty sources (me that is) will tell you.

Despite my previous poor experience with mud and running and England all mixed together, I managed to convince D to follow the Thames path with me from Oxford to Abingdon, a good eight mile run that winds along the side of the river. Picturesque? Quite. Gorgeous? Nothing less. A good pub meal in Abingdon and a bus ride later and we are back in Oxytown, plastered in mud up to our knees (the nice older couple sitting next to us at the pub looked as if they were torn between being overwhelmingly impressed with our athletic feat and absolutely horrified at our barbaric mud sliding conquests- ultimately hard to tell because we couldn't understand anything they said to us) and maybe just a bit more capable of understanding this river than before.

if the price is right

A (Very) Brief Guide of Free Things to Do in London:

1. Walk around Camden; sit on a motorcycle chair; consider getting multiple face piercings; visit the markets; chat with the tea stall man about tea; stare at other tourists; feel self-consciously un-tatttooed


2. Go to the Tyburn Convent; stay for mass; chat with the nuns; take a tour of the crypt; make friends with Mother Esther; be impressed with Emma's knowledge of the martyrs; become disillusioned upon learning that Emma actually doesn't know anything about the martyrs


3. See The Royal Shakespeare Company performance of Dunsinane (not lying, it was free); eavesdrop on conversations about the war in Afghanistan during intermission; keep accidentally saying "Macbeth" inside the theatre despite Emma's warning nudges; discuss how Lady Macbeth's hair person did a super amazing job; consider dying hair red; realize that Emma is a natural red head and so can never compare; abandon red hair scheme in lieu of moving to Scotland

dairy foods are gouda for you

Haggling is not really my thing. Unless it involves cheese. Especially if that cheese is locally made British cheeses. It's also not a bad thing if said cheeses are located next to lots of fresh fruits and veg. Then I guess I can handle a little bit of haggling.

In other words, discovering the farmer's market on Gloucester Green has changed my life. I shudder to think of my previously avocado-less, cheddar-barren existence. That was a sad, sad existence.

The other recent life-changing dairy related event in my life was the organic round of brie that C brought from her trip to the Cotswolds. WHO KNEW THE BRITISH COULD MAKE BRIE SO WELL?

you still sound american

A Short Dialogue That Has Been Rather Loosely Paraphrased:

Me (American) to C (another American): Did you have a lovely dinner?

C: Woah, that just sounded so British!

M (a British person): No, that did not. That was so American. If you were British you would have asked "How was dinner?" and then the other person would have answered, "Oh, it was lovely."

L (another British person): Agreed. That sounded so American.

universal wanderers

Varekai means "wherever" in the Romany language of the gypsies, a wherever that is possible anywhere and everywhere to anyone who is constantly moving from one place to another. L and I recently went into London to see the Cirque du Soleil performance by this name at the Royal Albert Theater (which was in itself otherworldly) and the themes of wandering and foreignness seemed especially true to me as I continue to live in a county that has now become both still strange and familiar. The show takes place in a world called Varekai deep within a forest at the summit of a volcano, a world inhabited by fantastical and absurd creatures. Into this world falls a solitary young man with wings who suddenly finds himself stranded and must now learn to rediscover life. Cirque calls their show a true tribute to those with the nomadic soul and to the passion of those whose travels lead them along the path to Varekai, a claim that is quite rightly made.

Rediscovering life is definitely true of all traveling. I'm going to loosely paraphrase Mr. Bate when I say that whenever we go somewhere new it simultaneously threatens who we are and encourages us to rediscover ourselves in a new way. A comparatively banal example of this (what isn't banal after the image of winged men falling into forests filled with extraordinary creatures? I now rue the day I didn't beg my parents to send my to circus school) is my newly developed taste for ethnic food. A rather large part of British cuisine is composed of a large variety of ethnic foods, mostly Indian, but many other varieties of well. Thank goodness, otherwise we'd be stuck with nothing but bangers and mash and other variations of my now least favourite vegetable. Last night C and I went out for Lebanese food, and to my pleasant surprise I recently found out that my new favourite restaurant in London is a Pakistani one that E took me to way out in the East End.

As a blonde and a redhead, E and I were extremely conspicuous in a neighborhood of almost entirely dark haired residents as we tried to find our way through a new section of the city until we eventually had to stop and ask for directions. Inside the restaurant, we were each one of the very few women who didn't cover their hair and while our waiters were incredibly nice (maybe too nice? It took us about ten minutes to order our food because we learned so much about our waiter in the meantime, and then he kept coming back to tell us about all the places he'd been. Very interesting until E went to the restroom and I found myself cornered into a long discussion all by myself) we couldn't help noticing how much we stood out. I mean, the place was a definite winner. We've already got plans to go back.

It's all about rediscovery.

it doesn't always rain in London

I went to visit E at Queen Mary's yesterday and to my delight was offered these lovely panoramic views of the east end- perhaps most interestingly, including the construction sites for the 2012 Olympics. E came to visit me first at Oxford for her share of the cobblestone streets and narrow roads (quite a contrast from the view above), and we had quite a lovely time "bumming around." According to E, taking the train to Oxford was a piece of cake- she had only to search for the train that all of the professor-looking types were boarding.

navigating the unnavigable

For a lengthy and completely accurate account (including bits I can't really narrate since I wasn't actually present at the time) of the story I'm about to touch on see C's post. Really, it's a bloody good story, so go on and read it. I really wish you would.


First off, sheep poo is smelly. You can take my word for it because I have a first hand account of traversing open fields surrounded (and I mean this literally) by hundreds of sheep. D almost collided head on with one that was running down a hill as he was running up it. Quite unsettling. But how did we end up in said fields surrounded by said sheep? Well, D, C, L, and I decided to go off in search of adventure in the peak district national park.

This was our first "great idea."

We caught a train (well, in fact first we missed a train and then bought tickets for the next one) Friday night up to Derby (pronounced DARby), and as the train was extremely crowded we got to ride up north standing up in the compartment between cars where the toilets are. (Un)fortunately, we were not alone and shared our close quarters with a bunch of raucous and rowdy guys who were enjoying themselves drinking and using excessive expletives. This is where we learned that America is the land of Barbecues and Bikinis. Oh, and Disney World.


Without any further complications, mishaps, or difficulties, we managed to reach our hostel, the East Midlands Guesthouse, for the night in Derby (remember, NOT like a horse derby) and check in. The guy gave us a key to the front door warning us of a past "accident" about the complicated process entailed in getting in and out of said door that was enough to prevent us from endeavoring any further outings for the night. There was also free tea and TVs in our rooms.

Next day, we were awake bright and early to begin our adventure into the PEAK DISTRICT. With the aid of the first of many helpful hikers we were to meet throughout our trip, we managed to catch the transpeak bus up to Bakewell, home of the original Bakewell pudding (don't worry, I'd never heard of it before either). The Warren will be happy to know that unlike the deep-fried Mars Bars in Edinburgh, I actually ate one of these puddings before the day was out and can attest to its right to fame.

Upon reaching Bakewell, we decided to hit up the visitor center and purchase maps for hikes before embarking on our journies. D and I opted for trail running, while C and L decided to hike, but we both ended up picking the same 8 mile hike up to Chatsworth Park. The hike was GORGEOUS and took hikers through fields, "woody bits," golf courses (Davis and I ducked as we popped out into one field only to see a man swing his club and yell "FORE!" at us), mud, mud, mud, sheep pastures, estates, and mud. Our directions were written like a scavenger hunt including instructions such as "the path where the grass is greener than the rest," "the steeple a quarter of a mile away," and over stiles and past "ancient barrows." Yeah, we didn't know what an "ancient barrow" was either.


So, this is where the fog really descended. Our Tufts in Oxford Adviser had actually warned us before our trip about the quick fogs in the Peak District. Apparently, the army sends recruits to the area for basic training and they end up having to be rescued all the time. Davis and I got stumped searching for those "ancient barrows" for close to two hours, back tracking to a cottage that we knew we had passed an hour ago, until we were able to find enough hikers to find our way back to Bakewell through the muddiest downhill stretch of woods imaginable. We made a pact to eat at the first restaurant we found in town, as it was close to 2:30pm and we'd been out running in cold, mist, and mud for four hours at this point (a promise which we kept and to our delight discovered a wonderful tea room where we stuffed ourselves shamelessly). C and L were still making their way back to town, but they had cell service and all seemed to be going well.

But the fog only seemed to be getting worse. Shortly after finishing our meal, we received a phone call from C declaring that she and L were LOST. They were only about a mile away from town but were going in circles. They were going to look for other hikers but they hadn't seen anyone for the past hour. D and I noticed that it was now past three and going to get dark soon. We decided to go to the visitor centre and find a better map in case C and L found some sort of landmark that we could them locate them by. We hadn't been there for two minutes when we heard reception talking to "two lost girls" not from the area who were walking in circles somewhere. Our first thoughts were about how this must be a regular occurrence until we heard the receptionist advise the girls to call Mountain Rescue because it would be dark soon and then it would get really cold. This is when we realized that they were talking to C and L.

I'll fast forward here a bit through all the awful suspense (heightened by impending darkness, frantic phone calls, and the prospect of missing more trains and finding another place to stay) to the conclusion. After talking to Mountain Rescue and trying to locate themselves, C and L managed to find two seasoned hikers who rescued them and walked them back to Bakewell. At this time, they had been wandering in circles for several hours and added even more mileage to their trip, but made it back safe and sound. We even managed to catch our train on time and arrive back at Oxford, muddy, worn, and with huge smiles on our faces. Crazy trip? You betcha. Do it again? In a heartbeat.

But we'll use better maps next time.

A(us)ten

The sun is shining outside my window. Despite all appearances, this is not an everyday comment. In light of what the weather's been for the past month or so I would venture to say that this is actually a very rare observation indeed. Think rain. Think damp. Think chill. Think lots and lots and lots of reasons to drink tea. Oh, English weather.

The sunshine though is promising, particularly for today since I am currently preparing for a weekend trip with three other adventurers (I haven't yet decided in my mind if they get to be the Musketeers and I D'artagnan, or if I'd rather be one of the other three and shove the role of the hot-headed youth onto someone else) to the Peak District. If the fact that this area is home to the famous Lyme House, where Colin Firth quite brilliantly dashed into a lake in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, isn't enough for you, it's also the site of all of Beatrix Potter's inspiration for her stories.

I'll be sure to keep my eyes open for any rabbits in blue velvet coats.

what I still haven't learned

So, every time that I think I'm getting the gist of things I get thrown off again. I mean I can throw around words like "dodgy" and "keen" just as well as any self-respecting British person, and, in my completely non-biased personal opinion, I think sometimes even better. However, it is not my fault that there are two names for the most mundane things. Take, for instance, THE ZUCCHINI. Just the other day I was trying to use one of those self check-out devices (which always make me feel inferior as it belts out PLEASE SEEK ASSISTANCE every time you swipe something incorrectly) and I was trying to weigh THE ZUCCHINI but there was no entry under "Z" for vegetables. Panic. Self-Doubt. Am I actually holding a zucchini? Do zucchinis actually exist? A large line of very grouchy and unapproachable people kept glaring at me the whole time I was having my zucchini crisis wondering why I was so inept at the machine. Fortunately I was shopping with my much more savvy Lea Michele look-alike friend who was able to inform me that THE ZUCCHINI was actually A COURGETTE. Can it get any worse? Clearly I'm no icicle on anyone's beard.

You are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard - Twelfth Night (3.2.26-28)

OH WAIT did I not mention that I went and saw the Royal Shakespeare Company Performance of Twelfth Night in London last Friday? Yes, yes I did. And you thought I was just spouting Shakespeare to show off. Well, actually, I guess I still am.