During Travel Post #3

“San Francisco isn’t in the same country as Lakeside anymore than New Orleans is in the same country as New York or Miami is in the same country as Minneapolis.”
“Is that so?” said Shadow, mildly.
“Indeed it is. They may share certain cultural signifiers—money, a federal government, entertainment—it’s the same land, obviously—but the only things that give it the illusion of being one country are the greenback, The Tonight Show, and McDonald’s.”

-- Neil Gaiman, American Gods

So.  I found out what my problem with Ireland is.

I'm on the wrong side of the island.

Now, don't get me wrong. Dublin is a perfectly lovely place, once you get used to it. You do have to make the effort, but you can find history hiding in places -- or pubs, of course, all of them proclaiming that some famous writer or other once drank there. But it's like going to New Orleans and going, "Okay. Seen the Gulf Coast!"

 

Today, I went to the famous Cliffs of Moher. I took a tour that I'd selected specially because it included a hike up a Burren mountain.

Now, let me pause to say that I? Am not a nature girl. I do not take to camping, walking, or generally being outdoors very well. But I thought, What the hell? It says 'gentle mountain hike'. It'll be a charming little stone-lined path up the mountain.

GUYS, I CLIMBED A BLOODY MOUNTAIN. And I mean, climbed up, stepped over stones and through windy, well-trodden paths the width of your foot, with a hiking pole to support myself up and everything. I was red-faced and out of breath every time we stopped.

But I made it all the way up to the top.

The Burren is a part of Ireland that once was under water; then when the Ice Age came, the glaciers pushed all the soil off the land, leaving exposed limestone mountains. You can't grow anything in the soil because it's very thin and the limestone doesn't allow water to stay in the ground, but grass grows well there; so it's the picturesque farm country you see in postcards. As I was climbing over these massive limestone rocks, all I could think about was how the ancients thought rocks and fossils were the remains of giants and dragons.

I was walking through a graveyard, a gorgeous, blossoming necropolis.

At the very top there was a tree with bits of paper and string tied around it -- there was a legend concerning that type of tree (ash, I think) that if you tied something of yours around the tree you left the problem behind for the faeries to take care of.

Paper is biodegradable, so I don't feel too guilty for littering.

After the hike (HIKE PEOPLE, HIKE), we had tea and cake, then went to the Cliffs of Moher. The weather was, apparently, perfect -- sun-shine and little wind. The guide kept remarking how gorgeous the weather was and how lucky we were.

Now, the Cliffs? Breathtaking. Sheer rock faces that fall straight down into the sea, the water breaking over boulders and sea life just off the coast. Little white caps kept breaking out in the (blue, blue, deeply gorgeous sapphire blue) water, like dolphins surfacing. Or Selkies.

After that, we drove around the coast and into Galway. Which, actually, is in the general area where my great-great grandmother came from, way, way back in the day, so it had a bit of an extra-special meaning to me. We walked through the main street of Galway and then back again to meet our bus back to Dublin.

Today? That's the sort of day I was expecting in Ireland. If you're heading this way, the tour I took is MacCoole's Tours; you meet up early with Caroline in front of the TI on Suffolk Street, and she walks you to your bus and gives you a lovely little walking tour of Dublin and explains about where you'll be going. John is her cousin, who gives the hiking tour. They're both rather brilliant, too -- she's got a history degree and actually teaches in Dublin, and he's got an archaeology degree. And they feed you cake. Did I mention that? You can get cake or pie at the end of the hike. Hey, you climbed a freakin' mountain.  You've earned it.

It's well past one AM over here by now, but I had to get out and tell you even just a little bit about how magical my day was today. Tomorrow is my last full day -- shopping, anyone?

During Travel Post #2

NOTE #1: This post was written on August 20th; typed up and posted today, the 21st.

"Did you find adventure?" Dinadin asked.

"No," the man said grimly. "Nor does anyone else. Adventure is something that happens to someone else. When it's happening to you, it's only trouble."

|You found something better than adventure," Palomides said gravely. "You found wisdom."

-- Gerald Morris; The Tale of Sir Dinadan

Ever built up an event or a holiday in your head? You had the whole thing planned out up there, didn't you? What route you'll take, or who will sit next to who at Thanksgiving dinner. You're imagining the conversations, probably. And it's amazing while it's up there, isn't it? Just perfect.

And then the day comes and -- well, you miss your exit. Your Uncle Rusty and Aunt Francine had a fight in the car on the way over, and their sniping spills over into the meal.

It's not ruined, per se. More like marred.

That's been Dublin for me so far.

Granted, I've only been here for...  about five hours so far, but it's been...

Well, let me try to explain.

If we were personifying cities: Bath would be the stately grandmother, proud of her history and eager to share her stories. London would be the middle-to-upper class older businessman, suit and hat and umbrella, confident and experienced and just a touch arrogant.  Cardiff would be the just out of university twenty-something, with a head full of knowledge that they can't wait to show off, young and confident while old in the same breath.

Dublin's the teenager who could care less about the museum, they just want to hit the gift shop.

Maybe it's because getting in was taxing -- travel tends to be, and missed stops and delayed planes make it worse -- but it's almost like Dublin's fighting its own history. This is the land of Wilde, of Joyce, of Swift, the proverbial literary land of milk and honey. All I see are shops and pubs.

There is an old joke about not being able to walk a block in Dublin without passing a pub. The answer, of course, is to go into every one. Then you haven't passed it.

Of course, my locale is vastly different here than it was in my other stops. London's digs were Te-Tiny (capitals needed)) but remote enough to be almost charming. Bath was a stately B&B. Cardiff was a renovated old house by the river. Here I'm in the Temple Bar district, the city's high street. I'm sure that if I had been in Picadilly or right off the Plass I'd have different opinions.

(I don't think Bath can get down the way the Romans used to do it.)

I think, maybe, it was the build-up. I'm Irish way back, and Eire is the homeland. I expected it to be home so much that when it wasn't, I got disappointed. And, maybe, just a touch homesick.

Tomorrow will be better. Rest and sleep will do wonders.

NOTE #2: As I wrote this, I sat in the Merchant's Arch Bar and Restaurant, eating a delicious Irish lamb stew, drinking a red lemonade and vodka, and listening to a live musician sing classic Irish songs as well as some modern covers. He did "Walkin' in Memphis" and honestly, it was just what I needed to hear.

Once is a Coincidence, Twice is a Pattern

"I've only got teabags, I'm afraid - but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?"

-- Remus Lupin; Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling

So Monday, with one more week to go, I came across a five pence coin in an innocuous roll of dimes while I was at work.  It was a sign. Even my job wants me to go on my vacation!

I have a very interesting relationship with superstitions.  For example, I don't believe that walking under a ladder or crossing a black cat is bad luck -- I do, however, throw salt over my shoulder, and knock on wood to ward off a jinx. I don't believe in ghosts, but if a friend of mine tells me they've seen one, I believe them.  I love collecting the little tidbits of cultural information into my mental filing cabinet, but I rarely use or believe any of them.

In short, like mythology, I love superstitions. Even if I think some of them are hilariously silly.

Everyone follows a few at times, even if we're just keeping with tradition. The old adage "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue" is said at least once at every single wedding in the Western world, lucky penny or silver sixpence in the shoe optional. Some ball players (and rabid fans) have to wear the exact same clothes -- underwear included -- or do certain things in the locker rooms and stands at every game in order to ensure a win.

Lots of airlines do not have row 13 on their flight.  The rows go from 12 to 14. I always want to make a scene about 13 being gone -- either throw a fit about 13 being my lucky number or demanding that someone send out a search party for the missing row. IT COULD BE LOST AND ALL ALONE AND SCARED AND CRYING FOR ITS MOMMY.  You see the same thing in high rise hotels. I can understand such a superstition in, say, Las Vegas, where Lady Luck is a fickle mistress, but to me, the whole thing is just silly. But the 13 superstition is strong in the padawans, so the bottom line is this: People think that 13 is unlucky (why is still a mystery lost to history, but most blame the Vikings or the Christians for triskaidekaphobia). Customers will not buy airline tickets or rent hotel rooms on those rows/floors, so the company has lost money. Making a silly acquiescence to keep the revenue up is a small price to pay.

I did not know this until I started looking into this post, but it's supposed to be bad luck to start a trip on Friday. Maybe that explains my trouble getting to California three weeks ago? Do curses work if you don't know about them?

Some people think this harkens back to the Vikings and Christians again. Thanks, guys!  Friday was supposed to have been Frigg's day -- Frigg, the wife of Odin (or Woden), got her own day too. (Wednesday was Woden's day, if you didn't know) When Christianity swept through the world, Frigg became a devil and, like Halloween, Friday became bad luck. Unless you work weekdays. Then Friday's a godsend come quitting time.

But when does a tradition become a superstition, or conversely when does a superstition become a tradition?  It's a fine line.

For example, my mother always changes the beds in the entire house before she goes on a trip. She says it's because she likes coming home and sleeping on clean sheets, but it's become a sort of travel tradition in my family. I know it's something I do, clean up a bit before going on a trip because it's nice coming home to a nice, clean room.  From what I've read, some people have to clean. Others have to have a certain piece of jewelry on, or have a lucky penny in their pocket.

Personally, I think it's a bit of a Jedi mind-trick we give ourselves, like -- well, like wearing racy knickers: You feel sexy, so you act sexy. When you have on a lucky necklace, or lucky earrings, or have a lucky coin on you, you feel lucky and confident and like nothing can strike you down.  If you don't have that special talisman and are keenly aware of it, every little bump is a terrible blow. 

Does anyone else have any travel superstitions or lucky charms they travel with? Come on, confess your deepest neurosises to the class, children!

And yes, I'm going to be leaving Monday with my lucky 5p. We'll be fine.

Getting Closer To Take-Off

“When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money.”

-- Susan Heller 

So yesterday, 6/16, I realized two things:

One, that I would be landing in London in exactly 60 days.

Two, that I would only be landing with my passport, my wallet, an Oyster card, my British Museum card, and about 300 pounds.

Since The Great Fire of 2011, I have pretty much no clothing and absolutely no luggage.  Now, I'd been putting off buying things for my travels, but I figured that by now I'd have most of it bought.  The one big purchase I did make, my backpack to take with me instead of hauling a rolling suitcase all across southern England and Ireland, is ruined; due to the metal struts in the interior framing, the cleaning company won't touch it, and I can't exactly run it through the washer.

So I let the madcap buying of travel necessities begin today while things were slow at work.

Allow me to say the following: As a stereotypical member of the female population, I do have a weakness for shopping. Especially online shopping.  I'm not all that big a fan of schlepping out to stores and trying on outfit after outfit (conditioning, I believe, from other people continuously throwing items over the door and going, "Just try this one on, just try this last one on..." there is no last item. it's a lie), so if I can sit on my ass and have them bring the goods to me, I'm all for it.

As a member of the human species, I'm not all that keen on having to pay for it all.

But needs must, of course.  I spent all day on various travel sites, ordering luggage, checking for adapters, and looking for travel knick-knacks.  Let me share some of the...  strangest ones I've come across.  They seem to fall into two categories, camping or hotels.

* Homeopathic Cure-Alls

I am a good old-fashioned skeptic when it comes to homeopathy.  Some of it, I believe, really does work.  Some of it, I believe, only works because we think it works. Mind over matter and all that. So I am skeptical of jet lag, motion sickness pills and wristbands, and (my personal favorite) hangover cures, I get skeptical.  But if it actually works -- or tricks your mind into it -- I'm all for it. Especially that hangover cure.

* Drinking and Traveling

Speaking of imbibing liquor, it seems that quite a few people like to do it on the go.  My three favorite items I've found are a collapsible shotglass (which I get the feeling I may need for Dublin...), packable wine glasses and packable martini glasses.  I adore it, I really do.  It's a real pity that the 3-1-1 rule is now in effect, because the plastic wine bottle would have made the flight over to the UK just oh so much easier.

*Necessities

The problem with toiletries is that they don't exactly travel well nowadays: toothpaste busting in your checked baggage is terrible, but you can't exactly bring it in your carry-on (thanks, you stupid terrorists).  But necessity is the mother of invention, and you now have toothpaste tablets if you have access to a sink, and waterless toothbrushes (complete with toothpaste) if you don't.  I have personal misgivings about the waterless version.

Speaking of water access versus waterless, there's the ever-accessible baby wipes for adults if you need a quick touch-up (you all know my personal opinions on running water and my being able to get to it) or soap sheets and instant washcloths.  I've actually used soap sheets before, they actually work very well; and I've always loved those little instant washcloths.  They always remind me of those sponge dinosaur caplets you played with when you were little, the ones you'd drop into the bath and watch an orange T-Rex sponge pop open.

I'd like to mention the pop up hairbrush at this moment.  This works if you have virtually no hair. The moment you pull it through a thick batch of hair, the brush curls in on itself.  Just bite the bullet and buy an actual hairbrush.

I also came across some tan towels.  Yes, tan towels.  Disposable wipes with self-tanner on them.  I'll let that sink in.  Although, having never given in to the desire to make myself turn inhuman shades of orange, I imagine it helps provide a more even tan, but I'll let you lot figure that out.

Now, this is going to get a little...  bizarre.  As I said, some of these things are geared for when you don't have access to water -- or, indeed, a bathroom.  There is, of course, the standard disposable camping toilet, but there's also...

Well, I don't quite know how to describe it.  Basically, it's a device that allows women to use a urinal should there be no access to a sit-down toilet, or use the restroom standing up should there be no toilet whatsover. The one I've linked you to is my favorite of the two varieties offered, the reusable one (yes, there is also a disposable version).  I realize that this item is probably extremely useful in certain situations, but the reusable one cracks me up -- how do you wash it if there's no running water?

There's also disposable underwear (the link's super sexy, guys, you should totally click it) and disposable socks, neither of which is particularly disposable, since you can wash and wear them a few times before throwing them away.

This, of course, is merely what I discovered after one day of searching on one single website.  Do you have any weird/interesting/bizarre travel items you'd like to share with the class?

The Great Fire of 2011, or Why the Month of May is FIRED

“If you are going through hell, keep going.” 

-- Winston Churchill 

Keep Calm And Carry On, motivational poster by an unnamed British civil servant, 1939, in the event of a German takeover of England, rediscovered in 2000 in a used bookstore
Now Panic and Freak Out, parody motivational poster by artist Olly Moss, circa 2009

Allow me to introduce a new word into your vocabulary:  Hurrication (v.) -- when one evacuates their place of residence for a hurricane and ends up staying in a hotel or with extended family for an unspecified amount of time.

There are trips that no one intends to take.

Natural disasters are...  vicious.  Sometimes -- floods, hurricanes -- you get warning. Other times -- tornadoes -- you're lucky to make it out with shoes on.

On May 2 at 9:25, we were having a terrible thunderstorm.  I know it was 9:25, because Mom and I were watching Law and Order: LA, and while they hadn't quite caught the criminal yet, they were really, really close.  Lightning struck a tree in the yard across the street, and when the current grounded, it went into a water main and into three houses.  The house the tree belongs to lost their ice maker in their fridge. The house next to us lost a TV and a fan.

In ours, it made nearly everything plugged in spark out. The desktop, I am not kidding you, let off a five-foot arc of bright blue electricity when the screen blew out, from its position on the former kitchen table to halfway across the living room, three feet high and even with the middle of the fireplace.  The TV in my mother's room died, while our big screen up front just got really snowy.

It also set the hot water heater on fire.

Mom had been in the back, laying down and watching TV; she got up to come finish up the episode up front with me.  Thank God she did.  We started smelling smoke, and I naturally assumed that it was the desktop and started unplugging it.

And then the smoke alarm in the hallway started going off.

Now our hot water heater resided in our laundry room, a little closet-sized room in the middle of our hallway.  Fire in a small, contained space caught fast.  The next thing I know, my mother's yelling for me to call 911.

This is going to sound awful, but I laughed.  I really did.  I couldn't see the room, just a little bit of smoke.  I honestly thought she was overreacting -- which really isn't all that much of a stretch if you know her.  She tends to get a little bit jumpy every now and again, bless her.  It's probably a good thing that she did.  I had been on my laptop at the time, so I snagged that, threw on some sandals and called the fire department.  Mom grabbed our purses and her gradebook (she's a teacher, it's almost the end of the year...  that would have been a terrible thing to lose).

Mom is, by this time, hysterical.  And I'm actually starting to get that way because there's all this smoke pouring out of the house.  Monday is traditionally my father's poker night.  It's me and Mom and a fire.

So my mother does the sensible thing and calls my father, yells that the house is on fire.  Then hangs up.

She then proceeds to call one of our neighbors, Ms. T.  Her husband Mr. T (who is not black, but he does kick ass) and her two high-school aged sons come running over to help.

By this time Mom is seriously flipping, and she remembers that our next door neighbor is a volunteer firefighter.  She sends me over -- she is refusing to leave the house -- and I said to the person who opened the door, and I quote, "Can we have some help, please? Our house is on fire and my mother's losing her mind."  Our neighbors have been giving us headaches throughout the years, especially since the two sons have acquired strays that live with them now and they can get rowdy on occasion, but bless them, all of them came running out with fire extinguishers to help us.

The Ts and our neighbors probably saved most of our house by doing that.  They didn't manage to put it out before the smoke completely drove them out, but they got it under control long enough for the fire departments to show up.

Did I say departments?  Yes.  Four of them.  We had four trucks from four different cities/districts/areas show up in under 10 minutes from the time I called 911.  The first two that turned up were the volunteer departments.

One of the girls next door came up and put her arms around my mother and prayed with us, which didn't really do anything for me, but it made my mother feel better.  We bundled her up and the two of us walked across the street to Ms. T with one of the boys.

Ms. T, by they way, has the most adorable granddaughter. Her mother was a friend of mine when we were younger, and the baby is the spitting image of her mother at that age.  She was sort of exactly what was needed, because she looks up at me and goes, "What happened?"

Me: "There was a fire, baby girl."

Her eyes got even wider.  "Is everyone okay?!"

Me: "Yes, honey.  The firemen are doing very good jobs and putting the fire out."

Deep sigh of relief.  "Okay.  Wanna play Barbies?"

Yes.  I actually did.

The paramedics turned up and listened to all of our lungs because we'd been exposed to smoke, but Mom was the only one who was wheezing, so we got to have a trip in an ambulance.  It's 10 by this time, and I'm just realizing that holy crap, I have work the next day.  I played a little phone tag and managed to score my manger's phone number, explained the situation, and told her I was very sorry but I wouldn't be in.

The paramedic told me that I was the most apologetic fire victim he'd ever heard.

Mom was fine -- it, of course, took us two hours for the doctors to figure that out -- and in the meantime I managed to talk to Midassa and her darling partner Walkabout Man, both of who made me laugh at a time when I dearly needed it.  I was in the middle of posting a story when the lightning struck, so they teased me mercilessly about angering the gods with my mad writing skillz.  My vote is that I've attracted the attention of a trickster god.  I would so be one of their favored, don't you think?

So... Yeah.  Since then, we've been living in a hotel.  A month on a fold-out couch is not good.  My hips and back will never be the same.  But next week, we get to move into a new rent house, which is about five minutes away from our house.  We'll be able to keep track of everything while we're rebuilding.

Insurance is taking care of a lot of stuff. Most of our stuff, actually.  They've been really stellar.

The bookshelves in our living room.  The fire -- or at least heat from it -- spread through our attic and out the vents.  The paint (and the wood paneling under it) bubbled up from the heat.

We lost a lot of things in our attic.  Pretty much everything over eight feet got heat damaged and is going to be lost.  A lot of heirlooms are gone, but we keep finding little treasures here and there; pictures, baby clothes.  Mom found a St. Francis cross she'd bought when she was a student in Italy and blessed by Pope John Paul II after his coronation that was perfectly fine, while the lamp two feet away was completely burnt out.  I freely admit that Faith and I have been at odds for years, but it makes her happy and I can't begrudge her that right now.

After something like this, everything you can save is precious.  You go through your life, piece by piece, and decide what you want and what you don't, what you can save and what you can't.  I love this, but I can't save it.  I hate this, but it's all I have left.

We also got two inches of water in the house.  Remember when I said that the electrical current came up through the water pipes?  So it was like Heaven and Hell fighting for our souls, heavenly fire and the Kracken, the seas boiling.  All that was missing was a demon with a tire iron.

 A picture taken from the source of the fire. Yes, that is sunlight coming through my roof.

Despite all that damage, though, most of our stuff is merely smoke damaged.  Merely being relative, of course.  Porcelain, white clothing, pine wood, it soaked up all that smell; but  apparently they can get the smell out of books and DVDs (almost all of mine were saved due to clothes that weren't in the closet hanging over my books and moving my DVDs into a new bookshelf; I lost a few books I was in the middle of reading, but that's easily replaced).  Stuff I personally lost was mostly tech, and honestly needed upgrading anyway.

I was honestly okay with everything -- someone has to be the stable one -- until I found out that we're going to level the house.

Right now, the structure is good, even with holes in the roof and my bedroom window knocked out to allow water and smoke out of the residence.  Four contractors have come through and said no matter how much money we put into the house, without leveling it we will be limited on what we can get back in resell because there will always be a question of structural integrity.

So...  I'm homeless.

Home will never, ever be the same again. Sure, we'll rebuild, and quite a bit will be put back the way it was -- we really had a gorgeous house -- but...  It won't be Home.  It won't be familiar.  Midassa says I should pretend like I slipped through a different universe, that the Doctor made everything just a little different.  Trust me; I wish I was traveling.

I wish that my heart wasn't breaking.

I wish I didn't feel like I was homeless.  I've had friends who've had it a lot worse than me in the past couple of years -- the economy has been highly unforgiving to many people I know.  I just feel so helpless and alone, and I feel terrible for feeling this way.  I'm alive.  I have my family.  I have most of my stuff.  Home is what you make of it, blah blah blah.

I. Am. Homeless.

I was fine until I heard that.

The current view out of my bedroom window.

It does get better.  It's been about a week since my parents decided to level everything, and I'm not so shattered anymore.  It'll be much better once we're in the rent house.  I'll have a decent night's sleep, for one, and that always makes everything better.  We're doing mattress shopping this long weekend; I'm going to go find the biggest, comfiest one I can.

And damn the expense.  Insurance is paying for it, anyway.

Charting the Course

“Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.”
-- Paul Theroux

Someone, somewhere, has said that planning a trip is half the fun of traveling.  It was that, or party planning, or wedding planning...  Something like that.  I'm not sure who or where or what was being planned that was half the fun of the event, but I can say this, with absolute certainty:

These people?  Are full of crap.

Planning is torture, especially for someone as impulsive and flighty as I can be.

At this point, I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't explain the whole impulsive process that's taking me overseas.  Those of you who don't know how nerdy I can be, strap in.  It's about to get real.

So I'm a big Doctor Who fan.  Please don't run away, I promise not to go on and on about it (at the moment).  Anyway, one of the actors who played the Doctor, David Tennant, is also well known in the UK for being a Shakespearean actor.  He's actually a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company based out of Stratford-Upon-Avon, and he starred in Hamlet a few years ago with Sir Patrick Stewart, who played the evil King Claudius (better known in the States as Picard from Star Trek or Xavier from X-Men).  I've seen the movie adaption the BBC made due to the popularity of the run, and if you're theatrically inclined, I highly recommend it, if only for the To Be Or Not To Be soliloquy and Claudius' prayer scene.

But I'm getting off on a tangent.  I apologize, I do that from time to time.

For Christmas this year, I decided to gift myself with a passport.  I had multiple reasons behind this move: One, it never hurts to have another form of ID.  Two, my mother and grandmother went to Ireland last year, and I want to be ready if I get a phone call from my grandmother going, "Ireland, next June!"  Three, a passport is good for ten years.  If I get one, I'll use it before it expires.

Traveling overseas, for me, has never been a question of if but of when.

Two weeks after I applied for my passport, I found out that Tennant was doing a production of Much Ado About Nothing with his former Doctor Who costar, Catherine Tate.  Tate is a comedienne who is better known in the UK because of The Catherine Tate Show, and she's honestly one of the funniest people on the planet.

So. Two of my favorite actors, in my favorite Shakespeare play.  And did I mention that they're playing Beatrice and Benedick, the two best characters ever written?

Confession time: I want to be Beatrice if when I grow up.  Okay, actually I want to be Emma Thompson, who played Beatrice in Kenneth Branagh's adaption, but that's an unattainable dream; I'll settle for being the fictitious, sharp-tongued little shrew.

When I found it out, I announced at dinner, "Going to London this summer!"  My family thought it was a joke; and to be honest, I was only joking at first.

Then I started actually looking into it, and could afford to go.

So now here I am, with a plane ticket and a play ticket and a vague idea with what I want to do while I'm over there.

Taking a break after the first day of Comic Con, June 2009, San Diego, California (I believe we were at The Blarney Stone Pub, and I was well over the age of 21)

I'll admit it:  When I bought the ticket, the parental units were not pleased.  But I knew Mom, at least, was on board when she looked at me and said, "Got us an appointment to go see a travel agent!"

That's right.  Us.

The agent...  Well.  Not to knock the South, but sometimes getting all dressed up for work doesn't seem to cross some people's minds down here.  Mom and I hit up the agency when, apparently, all the agents were out conducting field research; there were -- maybe -- two people in the entire office, and neither of them were dressed in what you'd expect an agent to be wearing.  I have never been to a travel agency personally, but I've peeked through windows on occasion and I've seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, so I was expecting...  Business casual.  Possibly a suit and tie.  At the very least, a clean pair of jeans or khakis and a polo.  Something that makes you look professional, or at least trustworthy with someone's travel itinerary.

What I got was a gray tee-shirt and cotton shorts.  Actual shorts, not British it's-really-underwear shorts.

He was friendly enough -- teased me a little about going to London, mostly because he lived in France for a few years and that mutual French/English hatred is dying a long, hard, slow death.  I admitted to wanting to go to Dublin, and he rolled his eyes in that typical tourist sort of way.  I'm sure everyone who goes to London who has even a distant relation to anything Irish feels the pull when you're that close to the homeland.  He conducted a quick-spot interview, asked what hotels I had looked at, places I'd like to go, et cetera.  I mostly have NO CLUE as to what I'm going to be doing, but I pretty much know how long I'm going to stay at one place before moving to another, and I have plenty of room to change my mind and spend another day at one place if I just fall absolutely in love.

"Well, it sounds like you don't want a lot of structure," he said, my mother nodding along in agreement next to him, "and it pretty much sounds like you've figured out what you want.  But what I'm going to do is give you some itineraries.  Read over 'em, get some ideas, and if you find an actual tour that you'd like to go on, let me know and we'll book it."

And then, and then, and then.  He dropped the f-bomb.

Now, given the chance and pushed in just the right direction, I can swear like the proverbial sailor.  Most of my writing is littered with cuss words.  What can I say?  I work blue.  More and more, I find myself biting my tongue in public, around children...  At work....

Because it's not.

Bleeding.

Appropriate.

Anyway.

He got up from behind his desk and started listing the tour companies he had information on, and when he listed one, said -- and I quote, "I'll be happy to have that one off my hands, it's as heavy as a f*@#ing Bible," as he walked out the door.

Mom and I are sitting next to each other on the couch.  I can't quite bring myself to look over at her, because I know, I know, I know the look that is painted across her face -- that wide-eyed, gobsmacked, My-Ears-Must-Be-Broken-Because-There-Is-No-Way-You-Actually-Just-Said-That expression.

In emoticons, it looks like this:  O__________O

I meanwhile, decide to focus on the small desk clock, a red London phone booth with a clock face set in it.  Because I know if I look over, I'm going to bust out laughing.

Like this:   XD

"... Did he just say f*@#?"

"Yes.  Yes, he did."

"Good thing your grandmother's not here.  She really hates the f*@# word."

We then proceeded to spend the rest of the time while he was getting the f*@#ing brochures feeling the plants in his office to see if they were real or not.

I am pleased to announce that he'd opted for the economical, easy-to-maintain silk ivy in a pot of moss, so no poor potted plants are subjected to profanity on a daily basis.