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.

During Travel Post #1

NOTE: This post was written on Aug 19th, and typed up and posted today, Aug 21st.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.” 

-– Antoine de Saint Exupéry

I realize that I am not the stereotypical backpacker. That when people look at me they expect two pieces of rolling luggage to be trailing behind. And, in general, that's true. Backpackers here are younger, college kids or look like they might have a kukari tucked away in their bag. I'm...  somewhere in between. A middle-class traveller staying in cheap accommodations to stretch every dollar.

It's bizarre, actually. How normal this all feels. I could do this forever. And it's unbelievable because I know when I get home, I won't be able to put it into words. How at peace I feel. How hilarious it is to see the locals, especially in Lacock, who were almost amused at how charming we found the little hamlet when they were obviously as bored as I am at home. How it feels to be a stranger in a strange land, but not be scared in the slightest. How as I expected, I did miss some people, but it's more a fond remembrance than a longing, a pining (and yes, there is a difference) while, at the same time and for no fault of their own, I don't miss others. How all our misconceptions are wrong -- the only downright rude people I've met over here have been foreign, the food's amazing (and all fried), that it's possible to have efficient, clean public transportation (US, take note.)

How I'm finding a little more of myself each day. I'm finding inner and outer strength, that getting lost is just fine.

I'm writing this on the train to Cardiff, going down into the Welsh countryside, my ears popping. I love train travel. I get to sit back and watch the world fly by. This will sound corny, but it makes me feel like an adventurer. It reminds me of railroad men and the Wild West, the bravery and excitement and the unknown.

In the tunnel under the Bristol Channel, Wales and the future on the other side... And the light approaches...

The Road Goes Ever On And On...

"I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted."

--  Jack Kerouac; The Dharma Bums

So.

Tomorrow I take off. Less than 24 hours.  But before I go, I thought I'd let you all in on a bit of personal introspection.  Some aspect of blogging -- blogging like this, that is -- is more personal and diary-like anyway.  And this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime, could possibly change everything type of trips that you build up and put up on a pedestal. Honestly, I'd like to see if it is one of those life-changing trips.  So what better way to do that than to record who I was before my trip, and compare it to who I'll be in half a month.

I leave for this trip... Well.  I leave homeless, isolated physically from dear friends, and with a broken heart.  I leave inches, centimeters, from completely falling apart, and not caring if I even bother to put myself together again.  I leave physically, spiritually, emotionally drained. It's less painful to be empty.

That's what I leave as. Empty.

Tablua rasa, from the Latin. Blank slate. The philosophical ideal that we're all born a blank slate, an unscribed tablet, everyone equal.  Nurture over nature.

I hope and pray to powers I doubt even exist anymore that something good comes from this. I'm terrified that it won't the big dream that I'm making this out to be. I'm terrified that it will, and that I'll come home and be stuck.  I think I'd die if I got a taste of what could be but couldn't have.

So. I leave terrified, and empty, and broken, wanting things I don't have, don't know if I can have, or if I should even want them.

I leave with my Entire Life hooked over my shoulders. I could conceivably drop off the face of the planet as long as I have what I've got packed. Do you know how humbling it is to know that you have every belonging of importance packed away for easy transport?

Do you know how... freeing it is? Knowing you could just go on and on, 'down from the door where it begins'? Knowing that maybe, just maybe, you'll be brave enough to do that one day?

So this is me. Terrified, yes. Empty, yes. Broken, of course. That is default human condition.

But grateful. Grateful for the chance, the opportunity. Grateful for those who inspired me, who taught me how to be brave. Even if you don't know it.

I'm shutting everything off for the night.  At the latest, you'll all hear from me on the 31st, when I get back home.

If I decide to get back on the plane.

The road goes ever on and on.

With Two Weeks To Go...

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”
-- Mark Twain

When people find out you're traveling, they want to know all about it.  As I've been planning my trip, when I tell someone that I'm going alone, they have varying reactions.  The most common reaction I've gotten is some combination of staring and worrying for my safety.

"Are you crazy?!"

Well, short answer? Yes. But not the kind of crazy that you're thinking.

Every time I've had to fly, I've gone alone.  I've usually had someone waiting for me at the terminal -- I flew to Wisconsion and Seattle to visit an ex a few times, I had friends meeting me in San Diego and Riverside, while I didn't have anyone at the airport for me in Vegas last June I met up with people later, and when I went to Washington DC in high school, I had a group meeting me at the airport.  And yes, there actually is safety in numbers -- it's not a cliche if it's true.

However, the nice thing about this whole info-tech age we're living in?  I'll be connected.  I'm bringing my Kindle-turned-Hitchkhiker's Guide that accesses email and wikipedia and social media, and Starbucks are all international and offer free wifi.  My new phone is a 3G smartphone, so I'll be able to be contacted (even though I know the roaming fees would kill me).  I picked out places to stay in that are highly recommended, and most have security on-site (the little B&B I'm staying at in Bath has no security, but the owners live on-site).  My family has traveled extensively and despite what they think, I actually do listen to them from time to time and have picked up tips here and there on what to do, how to behave, where to stay and when to listen to that little voice in your head when it says not to go down that dark side street.

I'm going to London, not to Giza.  Sure, there's a chance that something could happen; there's a chance something could happen to me while I'm here in my hometown, or when I'm in New Orleans for a weekend.

I'm not stupid.  Not completely, at any rate.

View of Balboa Park from the Skyfari in the San Diego Zoo, June 2009

Another reaction I get a lot is "Oh, you won't have as much fun if you go alone."

Allow me to respond with a resounding bullshit.

Would I like to go with a travel buddy?  You bet.  I'd love to be able to wander through the British Museum with my parents and grandmother and aunts and uncles; have a pint at a pub with my brother and cousins; go see Much Ado with my geeky, theater-going friends (you know who you are!); share a breathtaking, panoramic sunset view on the London Eye with a partner.  But the timing, the cost, the lack of travel partner able to afford or get the time to go...  It doesn't work out like that.

I know there will be moments when I see something and say, "Oh, I wish [insert name here] could see this!"  I think that's part of traveling, of going away.  Absence and the heart and all that.

The thing about going somewhere with someone else is both a pro and a con.  It's a pro because no two people are exactly alike, they don't have the same likes and dislikes, you do things you wouldn't think to do.  One of my favorite day excursions I've ever taken was when I went to the aforementioned wedding in June, and it came up completely at random; I'm on my way to the airport, a family friend said to me, "Oh, you should try to get out of the city and go to Hoover Dam if you have the time."  The idea hadn't even crossed my mind, honestly.  I ended up renting a car and driving down to the Dam, then around Lake Mead for the day.

Yes, I didn't do the whole Vegas strip thing -- In fact, the only time I went down the main drag was when three of my fellow bridesmaids and one of the groomsmen went to the Charthouse for dinner the day after the wedding.  Quite a few people have scoffed at hearing that.

I like to think that I found more of myself out in the sand and heat and desert scrub than I would have found losing my money in some casino.  And now I have a reason to go back; to do the casino crawl.

In the funniest twists of fate, I'm actually going to be meeting up with an old friend while I'm over there -- she's an army wife, currently living in Germany, and she booked her Much Ado tickets for the same weekend I did! I think we'll probably do something ultra-geeky together, like hit up the Doctor Who Experience or something.

Lake Mead, taken on the Nevada/Arizona state line on top of Hoover Dam, June 2010

One across-the-board reaction I've gotten from everyone, however, is, well, jealousy.  Some of it's not real jealousy; maybe more envy, want, desire.  But some are jealous, and seem actually, honestly offended  that I'm going.


I know I'm not explaining it very well.  Let me try again.


There's a difference between saying "Damn!" because you're impressed and "Damn!" because you're mad, or in pain.  It's the inflection, the tone, the context of the conversation.  You see this often with swear words -- take something as simple as "shut up".  If you're telling a friend about a crazy event, and they're sitting there going, "Oh my God, shut up", you know to keep going because they just don't believe what you're saying.  If you're giving your opinion on a topic and someone says, "Oh, just shut up", you get mad because they're insulting you, they don't want to hear what you have to say.

So when you, person I do not know -- or at least not that well -- look at me and say in a nasty, nasily voice, "Well, must be nice!" when I say that I'm going on my trip?  Why, yes.  Yes it is.  I'll bring you back pictures.  Yes, this is a hell of a luxury.  I'm well aware of this.  Bringing up children and bills does not make me feel guilty, nor does it make your life mean more than mine.  It makes you look petty and, well, jealous.

So, you know, shut up.  You're supposed to do all this stuff when you're young, anyway.

Entrance to the San Diego Zoo, June 2009

I've also been told that I should See America First, with that backwards undercurrent of patriotic fervor that insinuates that I don't love my country because I'd like to go Elsewhere.  I have seen America -- I've stood on the shores of the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Gulf of Mexico, and I've crossed over into Canada for about 30 minutes.  Granted, I haven't seen all of the middle part, but I'm working on it.

I'm prefering to think of myself as an abassador!  Not to brag too much on myself, but I'm fairly intelligent, well-read, well-adjusted for the most part. Polite, friendly, outgoing, go-with-the-flow...  We as Americans NEED that image.  Going overseas and bitching about getting a full English breakfast in a restaurant in London a) makes you look like a dumbass and b) makes us all look dumb. It's like going to your friend's house and bitching because they don't have your sheets on their beds. Why the hell did you bother leaving home in the first place?


Honestly, in all, I'm rather glad I'm going to be traveling by myself. I get downright cranky when I'm trying to make trains and airplanes, and I don't like people seeing me when I'm like that -- at least, not people I know. I'm going to be doing what I want, when I want to. That sounds like a great vacation, does it not?

I just wish justifying and explaining it wasn't such a chore!

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?

Jigsaw Travel

"Kilometers are shorter than miles. Save gas, take your next trip in kilometers."

-- George Carlin

So, that post I made about planning travel sucking big time?  Now that I've actually bitten the bullet, made plans -- and most importantly, paid for it all -- everything's much better.

Here's the itinerary -- and yes, I'm putting it out INTO THE WORLD so all the Brit friends who want to can schedule to meet me, and so my parents and grandmother and friends and extended family will know what I'm up to:

• Fly out on the 15th of August, land on the 16th
• Staying in London through the 17th of August
• Bath the 18th of August
• Cardiff the 19th of August
• Dublin the 20st of August through the 24th of August
• London again, the 25th of August through the 30th of August
• Sleep like the dead on the 31st
• Back to the grindstone on the 1st of September

Accommodations are booked -- have been safely vetted and come highly recommended by travel experts, tour books, travel websites, and (most importantly) by people I know who've stayed there.  Most major transport is booked, too, aside from trains (which can only be booked up to 3 months in advance).

Now that I have the framework structured, I get to hyperventilate about what I want to do when I'm at these places.  I've managed to schedule some days of downtime (London and Dublin, mostly) so I can do a "what do I want to do today?" meander about town.  I'll have plenty of options, since everyone and their grandmother whose gone to Europe has opinions on what's good to do, where to go, what to eat.  And for my birthday, my parents bought me a membership to the British Museum -- no lines, in free to the special exhibits, discounts in the restaurants and gift shops, and a members-only lounge.  The hotel I'm staying at in London is on the same block as the museum.  I'm going every. Bloody. Day.  That much I do know.

Meanwhile, my trip to Bath is rather structured:  Stonehenge tour in the afternoon, then a walking tour (the mayor's office puts it on for free, how cool is that?), and the Roman bath museum before getting on the train to Cardiff the next afternoon.  In Dublin and London's second leg, I'm going to be planning a day trip to the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland and a day in Stratford-Upon-Avon.  What days those trips will be on, though, I don't know yet.

In many ways, travel planning is like doing a jigsaw puzzle.  Most people find it easier to find all the end pieces and put together the picture frame before filling in the middle picture.  I guess that makes the play the bottom right corner?

Things, I'm sure, will firm up more as I get closer to travel day.  These things always do.  It's just bizarre to look up and realize that yes, I really do have only 4 months to go until I leave.  It makes me all nervous and excited and ill and thrilled at the same time.  It's a feeling remarkably similar to dread, actually, except that it makes me fidgety and flighty instead of morose.

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.