Bookends

Exactly one year ago today, I stepped off a bus in Chaing Mai, Thailand with frazzled hair and sleepy eyes-- thanks to a satisfactory night's sleep I did not expect to get on a bus (I even slept through my travel companion locking himself in the bus bathroom and subsequently breaking down the door...yes, I am sad I missed that, too.) I spent New Year's Eve pouring a wish into a paper lantern and letting it drift off into the night sky, sparkling with thousands of other wish-laden lanterns. It would be very poetic if I could remember what that wish was, but I can't. I can't remember what my heart most desired at the time, or if it came true or not. But I remember a thousand other little (and big) things from that vacation: riding on the backs of elephants the next day, making dear new friends, stuffing myself with sticky rice and papaya salad and fish, and trying my hand at speaking Thai. I remember moments from Taiwan in the months that would follow: teaching restless students, traveling with roommates, seaside scenery and mountain hikes, disagreements that ended in verbal sparring matches, tears that ended in laughter, and pensive nights overlooking our bustling suburb.

What is it about the beginning of a new year that makes us look back on how we began the year that is now ending? Is it nostalgia? Is it a certain craving for concise summary? Is it to measure how we've changed? There's no doubt New Years provides a universal milestone on which to remember, and two neat bookends with which to shelve our years. I'm grateful for that, for the ability to mark the passage of time, and for the brief pause of New Years during which I have motivation to delve into old journals, photographs, and memories. And I'm grateful that, generally, I like what I re-discover.

But the fact is that life doesn't fit neatly into calendar years, or months, or even weeks. Life has a way of setting it's own boundaries, of collecting its own bookends--and they rarely match up with a significant change in date.

This is where I could segue into preaching about New Year's resolutions and the discipline they require to see fruition. Where I could speak of day-to-day choices that promote change through out the whole year, and not just the month that the New Year calls home. But, I think we've all had enough failed resolutions to feel that lesson keenly enough.

My point is that fresh years are exciting, and a milestone to celebrate, and I'd be a fool to say that everyday in a year should be so exciting or full of expectation. But I do want to point out the arbitrary nature of the calendar date and the change in a year number. This marker of the passage of time has little to do with the events in our lives, or our country, except where deliberate. And it has very little to do with the nature of the earth or changes within it. It does not define how our next year will play out, nor does it define the events, emotions or achievements of the past year.

Last New Years proved quite the epic excursion, one that I'm not sure I'll be able to top anytime soon. But I know other days will top riding elephants and lighting floating lanterns, even if they do not occur on the milestone of New Year's Eve or New Year's Day. Beginnings and endings do not often respect hard deadlines, and events don't have to fall on memorable dates to be memorable (but it is awesome when they do.)  And, some years, I'm simply grateful for the un-exotic, familiar way in which I ring in the New Year.

There are some years that ask questions,

and there are some that answer.

In the spirit of New Year's resolutions, I've decided to try something new. For some time I've been internally analyzing the affect of social media and constant connectivity on my persona, my being, my outlook.  And I can't quite do that effectively without qualitatively measuring what my life is like sans social media.  I'll be honest here, though, I've become so accustomed to it I don't dare delete it from my life entirely--I like knowing what's going on with long lost friends, I like seeing pictures and articles and anecdotes from those who meant something to me at some point in my life, and those who still do. But I don't like the comparison it breeds, the attention it demands, or the deterioration of communication that too often accompanies excessive usage. So, I'm going to try life without Facebook for a while. A couple months will do at first--I'm not promising to delete it forever, and I'm not convinced I can; there are many credible arguments concerning the positivity of social media. But I'd like to remember more what it's like to hear someone's voice on a phone, to meet over a meal or cup of something warm, to lend emotion and body language and tones to passages of text. So give me a call, knock on my door, or even send me a personalized text message. Indulge me in reverting back to times before so much technology ruled our social spheres, even if we did grow up on the cusp of an electronic boom.

Through the Culture Glass: America from Afar

Almost a year ago I left The United States without a concrete notion of what exactly I was looking for, but sustained by a strong will to simply go. I wasn't unhappy, I wasn't uncomfortable, but the life I lived that year was always supposed to be temporary.  There was something kinetic within me that I did not want to ignore.
There were many summer nights in 2014 that I sat on the stark landscape of the school roof in Taiwan and questioned my choice in leaving. But, while I wondered what I was missing in Indiana, I understood that wondering about Taiwan would have cut me much deeper.
Like any year abroad, I've lived through a multitude of lessons (but probably only absorbed a collection of them) and have amassed ideas, values, and opinions from people as well as places. What I didn't expect, though, was to learn so much about my own sentiments toward my home country. I didn't expect to unveil a deep, raw affection for a culture I thought was lacking acceptable amounts of authenticity. And I didn't expect to unearth a buried yearning for its repose. But I did. Among several other discoveries, too.

1. American culture is a fairly ego-centric culture. Now, before anyone gets up in arms, I have met more compassionate individuals than selfish, and I believe they can be found in abundance.  I'm not speaking of individuals. Our culture teaches and preaches independence, pride, and going your own way, all of which are valuable traits. But they breed an overall attitude of self-importance that conflicts with watchful accommodation of other people, groups, and entities. Taiwan abounds with familial and neighborly acquiescence, and actions towards others reveal a selfless dynamic originating from a desire to keep a person's reputation unsullied.  I'm not convinced I could live that way, but it's opened my eyes to the notion that we are the culture we consume, and that America's places a high premium on "self."

2. "Honesty" in the United States is a funny thing. This elusive virtue increasingly contains more gray areas in today's society.  I didn't need to leave America to know that. What I did learn from the placement of a Taiwanese lens over my face, however, was how subjective honesty is--not only to individuals, but within a people. If you're an American it's rude to call someone "large," or "fat," or "big." In Taiwan, it is simply a fact. It's not cruel or snarky, it simply remains an observation on someone's size, just as "thin," or "skinny," or "small" are all facts of measurement and not compliments. Taiwan owns some funny quirks in regards to honesty, too. Commenting on someone's recently dyed hair should always involve the adjectives "lighter" or "darker," not any hint of color. (Yes, I learned that one from personal experience.) So, honesty isn't really any less funny in Taiwan, but I never considered it a funny thing in America before now. Realizing first hand that it exists as a product of cultural practices and values proved eye-opening.

3. There is SO much to do in the USA. Popular ideology tells us that being "touristy" is frowned upon. This philosophy undoubtedly stems from valid reasoning and trying to suppress the overbearing tourist, but if being a long-term, light-treading tourist has taught me anything it's that getting out and seeing where you live is a great joy of life.  I used to believe exploration involved far away destinations and exotic places, and it can, but there remain vast amounts of my own home I have yet to experience.  I'm eager to return and discover corners of my home that I have yet to be acquainted with, and to augment my appreciation for the open spaces and hidden--or well-known--gems of the United States. Because there are an almost infinite amount between the coasts.

4. I love America. America is my home. I want to make one thing clear--I never hated America. I've always loved in it in some capacity, but living so completely separate from it for so long sheered away layers of disenchantment and exposed just how deep America is embedded in me. There exists a comfort within the boundaries of your home culture that I have yet to replicate in any other location. I've learned that culture is as cohesive and far-reaching as a water molecule.  It unites easily and leaves nothing untouched, and while the challenge of living with-out the confines of convention will always be worthwhile, I will welcome the ease and peace waiting for me when my plane touches down in New York in a few short weeks. I am an American, and no amount of wanderlust, not curiosity will ever change that.

That being said, this past year has seen Taiwan become my temporary home. I've earned a plethora of gray hairs here, enjoyed the unwavering friendship of too many kind souls, and grasped enough important knowledge about myself to dub it anything less than a benign home that my heart will miss. The children I had the privilege of teaching--whom I have come to regard simply as "my kids"-- are tiny lights that I will feel the absence of most keenly.  They will continue on in my memory as extraordinary examples of goodness, innocence, and mischief.

Coming home will be a transition, as it always is, but one that has already been rendered a bit easier by the attainment of an appealing new job, and choosing to return to a familiar place, with familiar faces (that I find myself more excited to see each passing day).  I've been admonished to prepare for a healthy dose of reverse-culture shock, but I'm having a hard time envisioning an arduous adjustment period to a concept so familiar to me. I will concede, however, that I didn't arrive in Taiwan expecting to learn about America.  So, perhaps it will only be during periods of reflection in America that I discover just how irrevocably a year in Taiwan changed me.

Life in Eden

When I was little I'd hear my parents reference distinct times in their lives, "back when I lived in..." "growing up I would..." "When I first moved to..." All these introductory phrases symbolized the specific, exclusionary chunks of time they separated their lives into.  And always, I couldn't wait for the day when I could sound as sophisticated and refer to clumps of months and years with similar phrases and that spark of fond remembrance.
I realized yesterday that I can do that now. And I do do it now. I've crossed into the usage of adult reminiscence without realizing it.  The child within me smiled at reaching her so-far-off goal, but the adult (yes, friends, it does exist) softly demanded that I address the bittersweetness of my realization: having different epochs in my life not only means I've been afforded an array of experiences, but I have taken leave of many places and people.  
"This too shall pass" has become my mantra through difficult trials, and a warning reminder during the blissful days. I believe that all good things come to an end. That sounds pessimistic. But it's true,  just as true as the fact that all difficulties pass.  And that is not to say that a new happiness and other hardships will not repeatedly appear, because they will, but circumstances in this transitory world have a habit of fleeing more than they do sticking around. Perhaps much of that reputation exists because of human choices, selfishness, and pride, but that's a tangent I'll devote another post to. (Probably not, but I could devote an entire post to it). 
Repeating that phrase to myself, however, never quite prepares me for the departing drives, or flights, or trains, during which I have ample time to reflect on my most recent past. The drive from Utah to Indiana a little over a year ago was quite wrenching; thankfully the drive from Indiana to Connecticut this week was less so, but still afforded me an excess of pensive moments. 
I thought about the lovely owners of a small, but bustling, breakfast and lunch joint that took a chance on a girl who's only bargaining chip was, "I just feel like I need to be here." I thought about the addition of a second job and the time and energy it ate up, but also the knowledge it came to impart.  I thought about coworkers who became--in both the worst and best senses of the word--family. I thought about late night talks and unrequited feelings and frustration. I pondered the difficulty of upholding my beliefs and the inner battle to adequately feed a famished and ravenous testimony. I remembered laughing fits and dance moves and good conversation. I thought of my personal downfalls and my quiet triumphs, and about sincere declarations of respect that touched me deeply. I dwelt upon midnight forays into bars and letting my walls down with a water glass in hand; I dwelt on where I fit in and with whom, and where I did not. (Those thoughts, as a practicing Mormon, have always surprised me. In an unexpectedly good way.)
I wrestled with of all these things and felt many, many emotions. But ultimately I felt gratitude, a great deal of gratitude.  Gratitude for the divine guidance that led me to people I will always care about, gratitude for those people and their outstanding caliber, and gratitude for growth.
Indiana was not what I expected, and I'm not sure I can say that it was what I needed, either, without projecting that all of my choices were the best ones possible--because they weren't. But that's the amazing thing about Heavenly Father, He took my flawed choices and turned them into experiences and circumstances that I could draw knowledge and wisdom from, and with that I do agree. I have left Indiana holding more knowledge than I entered with, and I'm satisfied with that take-away because I believe it was divinely steered. 
I don't know if I'm done with Indiana yet. (Three weeks ago I didn't know I'd be in Taiwan at the end of the month...so, honestly, how realistic can it be that I would know where I'll end up in six months?) But I will always associate it with my Rosie's family, and my Roadhouse crew, and the unforeseen friends who turned out to be the silver lining in what was a challenging year.  And my loving dad with whom I got to live out another year--which family circumstance bamboozled us of over half a decade ago.
I am beyond excited to set out on my newest adventure, I know it will be challenging, and fun, and filled with growth. I shall take it on with a smile as I tell people stories of "back when I lived in Indiana...", and one day I know I will perpetuate my Asian teaching experience with another smile as I explain to my family of "when I first moved to Taiwan..."

"Each person grows not only by her own talents and development of her inner beliefs,

 but also by what she receives from the persons around her."

 --Iris Haberli

Enjoy your fries with that.

My current profession isn't impressive; it is not glamorous, and it is not always fun--it's not even really my profession. I like to think I haven't discovered that yet, simply because I'd like to be so passionate about what I do that it's contagious, and I am not that passionate about setting plates of food in front of hungry people. Waitressing can often suck the energy out of me, it sucks the good mood from my bones, and it sure sucks up my time. I've come home tonight, more exhausted, more beat down, and more melancholy than I have in a while. Plates went out wrong, fries were cold, and my status as a woman seemingly demoted to that of a servant. But it happens. It's all part of the business, just as screw-ups and mishaps and bruised pride are all a part of life. And amidst all the shortcomings of the night I find myself softly declaring that I'm grateful for my waitressing jobs, because it's not all bad. Not by a long shot. 

I could sit here and write to you a list of conditions that those dining out should meet, as well as a list of condemnable atrocities I have witnessed. But I've resolved to make this less about what my job lacks and more about what it possesses, because as I sat at table 123, running sanitizer over my menus and filling salt shakers, I thought of what this year of serving in a restaurant has offered me. 

                     Everyday I get to meet a plethora of new people. I get to interact with, share a smile with, and assist those who sit at my tables and it may sound silly, but I like that. I like meeting new people, even if I am merely a means to an end: food. There is a responsibility attached to the knowledge that I can influence a couple's date night, or a family's celebration, and don't we all like to feel a little responsibility? It makes us feel important.

                      It actually is fairly lucrative. Despite the sometimes inconceivable sum that a misguided bill-payer will pass off as a tip, I've made great money.  There are great tips, and there are terrible tips, and each often come along with great stories, but most tips are simply average. But average, when all accumulated, can certainly pay the bills. And on the occasions when I've taken the time to figure out an hourly wage from my wad of tips, I learn that--for an hourly, part-time job--I'm not doing half bad.

                     Stories. Boy, do I have stories. Perhaps this can coincide with meeting new people, but I always come away from a serving shift with at least one story to tell. So many types of people enter eating establishments that it's impossible not to encounter a couple nut jobs, a few entitled snobs, a hilarious comedian, or even a kindred spirit. The possibilities are endless, and therefore so are the stories and the memories. 

                     I've learned that more people are genuinely kind and friendly than aren't, and most do not understand the extra stresses they cause when they ask for obscene an amount of change, or when they order multiple drinks instead of one.  I like to think that I've learned the value of patience not only in a time-oriented sense, but in a personality and people kind of sense as well. In any job you must deal with the personalities of your co-workers, but only in the restaurant business must you deal with a personality and an appetite simultaneously, and it is not always pretty. 

In hindsight, I've had worse days. I've had days where my best lines, my fastest pace, and my every effort didn't turn out to be enough. But I've also had days where my jokes provoked a laugh, my poise and speed knocked a couple extra bucks my way,  my efforts resulted in conversation, and I was ultimately rewarded because of my hard work.  More often than not, I've dealt with a mixture of each scenario during a shift. The ebb and flow of these opposites constantly reminds me of the fleetingness of all emotions, of all circumstances, and of all occurrences. The sting of that bad tip will go away, just as the all money you made during a shift will inevitably slip through your hands, too. The lady who barked at you to refill her drink will walk out the front door in half an hour never to be seen by you again, and that glass you broke in your haste will be replaced by an identical one tomorrow.

So, to the passive aggressive woman who left me a short novel on the back her receipt this evening: Thank you. Thank you for explaining the reasoning behind your poor tip rather than simply leaving an unacceptable percentage and walking out (even if I could have fixed all your complaints had you simply voiced them as they occurred).  And to the four teenage gentlemen who pleasantly surprised me with their wit, kind manners, and humble generosity, thank you for reminding me that not all are as fault-finding as my dear pen-scratching lady a few tables over. 

Ultimately, each day is a coin toss for who will sit at my tables, who I will rub shoulders with, and how well we'll get along.  Some will be good, some will be bad, and each have the potential to be famously memorable or infamously memorable. Sometimes I will earn my tip, other times it will be a flat rate, handed to me regardless of my performance.  But always, it will be my attitude that sustains me, and I will seek to make it a good one.

Day 8: Favorite Color

I love colors. 
I love them so much, in fact, that I do not have a favorite one--I just can't choose. It changes on an [almost] daily basis. 
So, I thought a picture of my color-changing snowflakes would be appropriate. (Thanks Aunt Beth!!) I love that they are as fickle as I am in their choice of color; I could probably stare at them for hours.
I'm drawn to colorful things. Even the pens aisle at Staples reels me in effortlessly.
It's such a simple thing, really, but the presence of color in my life makes me happy. Don't get me wrong, I love 'I Love Lucy' reruns, and The Andy Griffith Show can only be watched in black and white--the absence of color in those situations is purely acceptable, required even. But I'm so grateful we don't see like that.
And I'm grateful that I'm surrounded by colors.
I'm grateful that I can paint my nails crazy colors (regardless of the fact that lasts only two days)
I'm grateful for my snowflakes.
I'm grateful for colorful flowers.
I'm grateful that colors add dimension and vibrancy to ordinary things in life.
I'm grateful that there are myriad shades of different colors.
I'm grateful for COLOR. 

"The purest and most thoughtful minds are those which love color the most."

~John Ruskin  

Day 7 (kind of): Funny Things

Yes, it has been several months since I began this endeavor.  No, I did not live up to the declaration that I would post something I'm grateful for everyday. 
 I'm turning over a new leaf, now.

These pictures make me grateful for several things: 

      ONE, that I had my camera out at this choice moment.

      TWO, that my roommate had the guts to give her boyfriend a purple-nurple.

      and THREE, that they still make me laugh--every. time.

Side-splitting laughter is my favorite, and if you can make me laugh- I mean REALLY laugh-then I'll hang around you forever.  Fortunately for my friends (or unfortunately...that's up for debate...), it's not too hard to accomplish. 

The old adage, "laughter is the best medicine," is one that I believe whole-heartedly.  Nothing can change a mood or lighten a burden quite like a laugh can, and as a wise woman who spoke at BYU once said, "If you can laugh at it, you can live with it." Laughter, especially when shared with someone else, morphs into a unifying force that can conquer the troubles heaped upon us; laughter isn't only a bodily action, but a facilitator of attitude change.

So, I am so grateful for the funny moments in my life that ground me, and bring me back to reality when I  blow circumstances out of proportion. 

 I'm grateful for the attitude boost they provide, and the perspective they offer during hard times.

But most of all, I'm grateful for the people that provide such funny moments for me, intentional or not.  They have no idea how much strength I derive from them.

 

Day 6: Books

I've always loved books.
I've always loved the smell of books, and the calming effect it seems to have on me. (Go smell one before you judge me, please)
I've always loved getting lost in a story and escaping for a little while.
But since coming to college books have taken on a new meaning and played a different role in my life.  Not only are college books expensive, but the material they teach seems to suck time and stamp out all possibility of me reading the books I, myself, choose.  I don't read for fun as often as I used to, or as often as I would like anymore, and perhaps that has increased my gratitude for books and novels and authors who painstakingly and diligently sit down to write them--gosh knows I never could. 
It may sound silly, but books have gotten me through some rough patches in my life.  They've allowed me to outrun, whether for good or for bad, my own problems, if only for a short amount of time, and let me exist in a different world.
So, thank you, books.
I do still enjoy reading my textbooks most of the time--particularly since I'm taking more classes for my major this semester--they provide great insights and tidbits of info that I love finding out about.  BUT I'll always love the tales and escapades more (and biographies...I've recently discovered my fondness of them).

"FEW THINGS LEAVE A DEEPER MARK ON A READER THAN THE FIRST BOOK THAT FINDS ITS WAY INTO HIS HEART.  THOSE FIRST IMAGES, THE ECHO OF THE WORDS WE THINK WE HAVE LEFT BEHIND, ACCOMPANY US THROUGH OUR LIVES AND SCULPT A PLACE IN OUR MEMORY, TO WHICH, SOONER OR LATER-NO MATTER HOW MANY BOOKS WE READ, HOW MANY WORLDS WE DISCOVER, OR HOW MUCH WE LEARN OR FORGET-WE WILL RETURN."

-CARLOS RUIZ ZAFON

Day 5: The Morning Sky

I've always loved mornings, but let's get something straight before I go any further: I'm really not a morning person.  I really only ever get up "early" when I must, and when given the opportunity, I'll usually always sleep in.  I just WISH I was a morning person.  
I don't know what it is about the morning, maybe it's the promise of 24 more hours to do and be whatever you want in, maybe it's the notion that you can make that day exactly what you want to, but something about the morning sky reflects that, for me.
The sun shines a little differently in the morning, as if its trying to infuse the hope of the day into the very objects it shines upon. So, along with my gratitude towards the morning sky and the hope it brings, I'm going to make a resolution--get up earlier. See that morning sky that I love so much more often.
The sky alight with the morning sun is exhilarating and a bit inspiring--it seems to breathe life into my lungs, and to motivate me to be active and verb-like during the day, alerting me of the possibilities each hour can hold, and the feeling of accomplishment that could be my companion once the sun sets.
Too often I think that I do not have enough time in my day, until that one day when I do manage to get up early. I realize the productiveness that seems to shadow me through the morning hours is a great gift when compared to the small price of rolling out of my warm bed a bit sooner than desired.
So here's to the morning and the sky that keeps watch overhead--it is a natural beauty I will never tire of viewing.

Day 4: Leaves

Unfortunately there aren't any vibrant fall leaves this time of year, because that's the state in which I appreciate them the most.
I don't know a soul who doesn't enjoy the colorful leaves of Autumn, or watching kids jump into a pile of them as a reward for the raking they've done. They are by far their most majestic when their array of colors replaces the uniform green of the summer, and I've been spoiled by the unrivaled New England fall for all my life.
It's the change of leaves with every season, though, that I've come to realize my gratitude for.  Without the repetitious slow fade from an unfurling bud to the brown crinkles that float to the winter ground, I'd get increasingly bored of my surroundings.  I love the fluidity of nature, the never-ending changes that promote a constancy all the same, and the way it so symbolically mirrors life.
I love that I live, and have always lived, in a place that has all four seasons; I can't imagine permanently relocating anywhere else.  I'm a four season kind of girl, any less will not suffice.
I'm grateful for the inkling of life that leaves promise in the spring, the shade they provide in the summer, the scenes they create in the fall, and the renewal they foreshadow during winter--I'm just grateful for leaves.

Day 3: Happiness

Finding happiness.  Isn't that the never-ending journey that every human being embarks upon in their lifetime?  Some start when they are young, some older, some find they need to be redirected every once in a while, or a lot, but we all seek it.  
I've come to learn, mostly from the wonderful examples I am blessed to call friends and family, that the illusive "happiness" really is just that--a never ending JOURNEY. True happiness comes in the small joys along the way--like winning five bucks on a scratch off.  True happiness is our willingness to appreciate and notice the small rarities, or the everyday happenings, as precious gifts.  The error of over-looking these is all too common, and I'm grateful that I have been taught--and shown--how and why to love the little things. 
There are so many quotes I've jotted down about happiness, I could smother you with them. But I think I'll settle for this simple one:

WHILE IN THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS ONE SHOULD STOP, AND BE HAPPY

I'm grateful that, right now, I'm happy.

Day 2: Smiles

I would like to point out the fact that smiles, I believe, are underrated.
Not the forced grin that graces everyone's face when someone behind the camera yells "cheese," but the real deal. 
What better medicine is there than provoking the corners of a kid's mouth to turn up and hear a giggle escape? Or how about that smile that lights up someone's face when you see them for the first time in too long a time? Even the smile from a perfect stranger promotes a sense of human togetherness--it may not be the full fledged smile that crinkles the eyes, but it's warm, and comforting. 
So, I am grateful for smiles.
There is a framed poem in my room, one of it's stanzas saying:

...the hug can break the language barrier

and make your travels so much merrier...

I'd argue that the smile is even more advantageous.  Hugs are great, too. I love hugs. But a smile is so much easier to pull out.  Everyone--race, culture, language aside--understands a simple smile.  It is happiness, laughter, enjoyment, friendship, well-wishes...any or all of the above, and more. The expression of a smile is limitless, but always, if it is sincere, it means well to whomever it is bestowed upon.  And I'm grateful for the fact that I can smile at someone, and they'll know just what I mean.

Day 1: Favorite Food

I'm grateful for grilled cheese and tomato soup.
I'm grateful for the rainy days that make it that much more delicious.
I'm grateful that my Daddy can make it quite unlike anybody else can.
I'm grateful for those ingenious people who decided to put bread and cheese together, slap some butter on it, and throw it in a pan.
But most of all I'm grateful for the simple fact that I HAVE food.  Not in the cliche "clean-your-plate-because-there-are-starving-kids-in-Africa-who-would-kill-for-your-scraps" kind of way, but with the very real knowledge that some people cannot feed themselves or their families grilled cheese and soup without wondering where their next meal will come from.
And it's so great that something so elementary and necessary to our life as humans--eating to obtain critical nutrients and energy--can be so enjoyable.  We NEED food, so it doesn't necessarily have to taste good for us to eat it--but it does (hopefully).  We NEED food, so it doesn't have to be a cheery social affair in order for us to partake--but it often is.  And I'm thankful for all that, and the happy memories that accompany those simple gifts.

Gratitude

I hate to admit it, but, recently, I've fallen into the time-waster that is Pinterest. Yes, it wastes my time. Yes, it's pretty much pointless, other than the fact that it makes me happy--so I'm desperately holding onto the idea that it is not completely worthy of all the eye-rolls it gets, since it does bring a smile to my face.

BUT

Combined with the fact that I received an AWESOME new camera from my wonderful mother for Christmas/my birthday, I am embarking upon something of an adventure--a photo challenge.  I may be attempting the impossible here, requiring a post everyday for an entire month; I don't have the best track record. But, I really think I can do this one.

It's a photo challenge focusing (ha!) on gratitude.  I realize that I missed the month of thanksgiving by about 2 months, but there is never an inopportune time to be grateful, right?  And what better way to kick off the new year than by reminding yourself of all the myriad reasons to be thankful in this crazy life?  Maybe then gratitude can weave itself into the fabric of my 2012 right from the very beginning.

There is so much to be thankful for, which sounds quite trite, I understand, but it is a truth that applies to all, everyday, everywhere.  Gratitude is a perspective, an outlook, an attitude; it's not what is in your life, but how you choose to view what is in your life--I hope this mini-endeavor will help open my eyes to all the small--or colossal--aspects of my life that I often gaze over as I catapult headlong towards more trivial things.

January 2012 is fast approaching, so before this year ends and next year begins, I thought I'd make a short list of the things I'm most grateful in 2011:


MY FAMILY--we aren't your typical Mormon family, and I've finally come to appreciate that fact. I like    being different, I like the perspective it gives me, and I love the members of my family, and I wouldn't have them if my family was what I once thought I wanted it to be.
MY FRIENDS--These wonderful people make my everyday something more than I could make it myself.  They help me to catch a glimpse of my own worth by loving, and sometimes even participating, in my insanity.
MY ROOMMATES--They fall under my 'friends' category, however, I believe they deserve their own special thanks. These girls have provided me with an uplifting, happy, and fun place to call home.  Without them, it would simply be an empty shell.
MY HAIR- I know, it sounds odd, but since my (somewhat misguided) decision to chop it all off, I've realized how much I love it.  It drives me nuts, and it's hard to take care of, but I miss it, and am grateful to have thick locks.
BYU--Cliche. But I'm thankful for school not because of my education (though I am thankful for that, too), but because of the person it's allowed me to become, and the amount of growing into my own skin that I've done this past year there. 

Days Like These, You Wanna Make 'Em Last

I have no more exciting European stories to tell, no more escapades and gallivants around olden towns and British countrysides.  I have only the mere fact that it is now 2 o'clock in the morning and I cannot sleep--a rare occurrence for me.  I love sleep.  And it quite aggravates me that I cannot seem to slip into it now. So, I will blog. (Maybe I would get more blogging done if I found that sleep evaded me more often...)

I am home now.  Safe and sound in my childhood room which I recently decorated with pictures from this past year, to make it feel more lived in because the only person that has been in here for the past six months is our lovely cleaning lady and my cousin's girlfriend.  Whom I am sure is also lovely, I just did not get the opportunity to meet her. I'm enjoying being home again.  It's always great to return to family and my roots, but I miss BYU.  I wrote a post about a month ago about my wonderful life in Provo, UT...but my computer, being the astounding piece of modern technology that it is, deleted it.  And I lacked the discipline to rewrite it. I apologize to whomever may be reading this, and to myself, too (for I would have enjoyed it as a memory), for not writing it over again. I should have, because it very much encompassed my life in Provo, the warm sentiments that I came to feel towards it, and the friends and adventures I stumbled upon.  I did more, I saw more, I felt more, and I enjoyed every second of my Spring term.  Well, maybe minus the moments of dread when I realized I forgot an assignment that was due in an hour ('morning-of' assignments happened more often than I'd like to admit).  But it was all so worth it.  I learned a great deal in school, but also about myself. And I finally spread my wings far enough to know I can fly on my own--as trite as that may sound.  I actually did not want to leave Provo this time around, a sentiment I was quite unfamiliar with.  I found an unexpected home there. A place that I loved, and felt loved in, somewhere that I was content and happy--an occurrence I had given up expecting.  I believed I was doomed to be a homebody for the remainder of my college career.
It was no accident that my friend convinced me stay Spring term with her.  It was no accident that I ended up living where I did.  And it was no accident that I had the wonderful roommates I ended up with.  I don't believe in coincidences, but even if I did, this would be far too much to call a coincidence.  I needed this Spring term almost as much as my credits did. 
But now that I am home I am excited to have a job again--very excited.  My bank account has been dwindling much too fast for my liking.  And I am excited to catch up with old friends and family that it seems I haven't seen in ages.  Come August however, I have a feeling I will be more than ready to get back to Provo...(sorry Mummy).  But until then...

BRING ON THE SUMMER.

Switching Playgrounds

So.  I am back in good 'ole Provo, Utah now, far, far away from my metropolitan home in the heart of London.  And I miss it.  I AM enjoying being back, with friends that I dearly missed on my sojourn--BUT nothing will ever replace the space London has claimed in my heart.  It will always be my city, no matter how many people live there, how many people come and go.  And I will forever share it with those who I traveled and grew with, who shared 27 Palace Court with me.
If I were to go through all the things I miss about London, you wouldn't want to read this, believe me.  So I'll shorten it down to a few essentials, a small ode, if you will.
                     ...the tube.  The musty, dusty, Underground that always got me from point A to point B, that went on strike too much and always rerouted my already 45 minute commute to church every Sunday. I miss you.
                     ...Hyde Park.  Whoever thought I would actually miss, I mean legitimately miss, waking up and two hours before 9 o'clock class to run.  Congratulations, Hyde Park.  You did the impossible. And by doing so have made it terribly boring and monotonous to now run on the track every day.  So, thanks, I think.  Anyway, I miss you.
                   ...Westminster Bridge.  I never imagined being so attached to a bridge.  A big piece of metal spanning the world famous Thames, a mere convenience to get from Westminster to South Bank, right? Wrong.  I could argue with you that it is the most beautiful place in London, despite the garbage that litters the bank directly in front of the old county courthouse.  The breeze off the muddied water the blows your hair around, Big Ben, gonging down at you every hour on the hour, the Houses of Parliament majestically demanding your eye, dominating the river side with its presence. Jubilee Gardens and the London Eye on the opposite side of the River Thames, bustling with people and booths.  The traffic rushing by, red double deckers and black taxi cabs, all on the wrong side of the road. I miss you.

                 ...Tesco gummy worms.  There have never been, and never will be anything like the gummy snakes you can buy at Tesco.  period.
                 ...Trafalgar Square.  The National Gallery was my second home during my months in London, and I spent an ample amount of time riding the Northern Line to Charing Cross and popping out above ground on the square, the Gallery looming above me, and the fountains flanking the monument lightly misting my face and clothes.  The paintings always waited patiently for me to discover them inside, allowing me to stare in awe as I compared them to my textbook prints.  (to which there really is no comparison, by the way.)

                ...plays.  What am I going to do all semester without £25 tickets to see the best shows around?  Wicked, Phantom, Les Miserables, even the small, two man ones like The Woman in Black (by far the scariest play I have EVER seen)  That fairly cheap, delightful source of entertainment is greatly missed, though I must say, I can't wait for some Divine Comedy tech shows to happen...free and  hilarious.
Mostly, I just miss London.  I miss being surrounded by its captivating hubbub and never ending streets and shops.  I miss walking down the sidewalk and being asked directions to Portabello Road or the nearest Underground stop, and the best part was that I knew.  I knew where these people wanted to go and how to get them there because I lived there, right there, in London.  It was my, by playground, and I miss roaming around in it every day.
But I am back in Provo.  And while the small college town cannot even be compared to the complex city that is London, the company can.  I love being surrounded by my friends that I reluctantly left behind when I began my European excursion, and I love adding to them an assortment of others that I met half way across the world.  I'll miss Europe, and London, and the family unit that came together there, but I look forward to my future years at BYU...and, of course, a return to my English stomping ground one day.






We'll always have London.

Oh, But to be a Galway Girl

Finals week has arrived.  How do I know?  There remains a mountain of assignments piled high on my figurative desk (I don't actually have one here, which only escalates the stress of the homework situation) and no matter how I type and how I write, it just doesn't seem to be getting. any. smaller. I have three papers left to write, a presentation to help plan, and two poems to memorize.  I've already done two days worth of work, this is just the left overs.  So indulge me as I transport myself back to the  damp street of Dublin and the Temple Bar area, and reminisce the weekend I never wanted to end.

I knew our long awaited Thanksgiving trip would be a happy adventure the moment my friend hopped into the right side of the cab taking us to the airport, and failed to realize the steering wheel in front of her for several moments--oh yea, they drive on the left in Britain.
We arrived in at the Dublin International Airport late on a cold and windy Wednesday night, in response to which I layered my T-shirt, hoodie, jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves on my body, and set out for the city--a group of seven, rather loud, American girls.
Our foreign-ness was only emphasized when a the poor man sitting in the bus seat behind us was kind enough to interject between our quarrel of whether this was our bus stop or not--he assured us it was (rather sarcastically, I might add.  You mean you didn't enjoy our excited banter and mispronunciation of Irish street names for a half hour?)  It was only when we had exited the bus that we looked up to stare straight into a significantly sized sign with name of our hostel on it that would have been easily seen from any bus window.

That night we walked into Gogarty's Pub, not knowing yet that it would become "our" pub, and a place we would frequent every night while in Dublin.  I even own a commemorative shirt because we spent so much time there. The live Irish folk music entertained us for quite some time, and we became known among the band as "The Girls," soberly cheering and singing, taking videos and pictures more than any other wasted person in the pub.  I felt so Irish that night, as if the Ireland I had envisioned my whole life had been placed, in real life, directly in front of me, and I could feel it, touch it, participate in it.  It was a happy night.             And this man gave me quite the fright when he suddenly appeared next to me.                                                               Thanksgiving dinner, though the only part that felt Thanksgiving about it was an expression of thanks from each person for something in their life, was held at the Hard Rock Cafe.  It was the first time I had ever had to pay for my Thanksgiving dinner, and my first away from home.  While I missed America, and a wide spread celebration of the holiday, I missed my family and friends that I would have spent it with more; I missed what I am most thankful for--good company and strong, loving arms of the family that supports me.

 A Dublin Thanksgiving was not without its perks, however.  When no one else celebrates your holiday, and you are quite the minority, it gives beautiful, young, guitar-playing Irish men a chance to pay you special attention to you, and sing a song in honor of Thanksgiving.  November 24, 2010 at Farrington's Bar will forever be cataloged in my mind as the night I exploited the Thanksgiving holiday to no end, as well as my American heritage; he played Johnny Cash, to remind us of home on Thanksgiving, and I loved every minute of it, especially the Irish brogue coming through the lyrics. 

The whole of my Ireland trip was defined by the homey dynamic of the small, pretty city divided by the River Liffey, and the cold, brisk air. There was even a little snowfall on our last day to see us off.  There was also a massive protest on our last day in the fair city of Dublin, clogging the whole of O'Connell Street, where our airport shuttle was to pick us up.  We were prepared, though.  We saved plenty of time to travel to the airport, sought information on where the bus was diverted to, and arrived at what we assumed was the correct bus stop, only to wait for half an hour for a bus that never showed up, and, according to one of the several taxi drivers that stopped to try and offer us a ride to the airport, it wouldn't be stopping there for another couple hours; no buses could get up there because of the closed O'Connell Street.  Now, here's where my New York state of mind comes into play.  The cab driver was adamant about the bus not stopping there, about it's inability to transfer us to the airport to catch our flight--but I was skeptical.  He was just saying that to get us to pay him to take us to the airport.  But when he told us he'd take us for four Euros each, my idea faltered a little bit.  Then, when he lowered his price even farther, telling those of us that had no Euro currency left he'd take whatever we could give him because the airport was on his way home, I was convinced if we got into the van all seven of us would end up in sex trade, never to see the streets of London again. 

Against my better judgment, we all piled into the taxi, only to be at the airport 20 minutes later, having had pleasant chatter with Dublin native, and four Euros for the poorer.  Irish people are so NICE and so friendly! But I do stand by my theory that I really would have been sold into the human trafficking business had I gotten into a cab under the same circumstances in NYC.

Sadly, Ireland had to end, and I returned to London, faced with a week full of tiring work--though at least the recent snowfall has been a beautiful happiness to experience!  There's nothing quite like snow coming down in the city...

Ireland is a mere memory now, something I will forever keep tucked away in my heart to pull out when I need a pick me up.  I'll never remember trudging through the slushy streets, the morning after the snowfall, finding Marion Square, home to the Oscar Wilde statue, cover in a blanket of fresh, unadulterated snow, nor the memories I shared with the dear girls I journeyed with--without them I wouldn't have had half the amount of fun I can fondly reminisce on now.

I will go back to Ireland one day.  It is my mother-land, the place I hail from, and I am proud of it.  I felt at home there, in Dublin, like I belonged in that city, like it offered me the opportunity to blend in and stand out at the same time.  And the next time I go, I will explore the countryside, I will find that B&B, run in a couple's home, with two rooms and home cooked meals, out in the boonies of the green hills.  Maybe I'll even find that man with the Irish brogue...or maybe I'll just cast myself as the part of Amy Adams in Leap Year--that might be easier.  Either way--I'll be back to Ireland, I'm sure of it.  It's nestled itself into a place to close too my heart not to be.

When It's Cold Outside, Show the World the Warmth of Your Smile

The chilly winter months in London have finally approached, and I've welcomed it in with a cup of hot chocolate and a walk across Westminster Bridge and down the River Thames, accompanied by my favorite scarf (though my jacket didn't quite make it...at least I was in long sleeves?).  I love winter, there's something about the way the sun shines differently, the bare trees casting shadows in its wake, across sidewalks and streets.  And then, of course, there's the Christmas lights that decorate Oxford and Regents Street, the Christmas displays of Liberty and Hamleys, and the set up for the Hyde Park Winter Festival that I ran by this morning. Yes, Christmas is very much in the air down in the shopping district on November 17, but we must forgive them (Mom!), the absence of Thanksgiving warrants an early celebration.
The cold, however, hasn't hampered my spirits, and I feel more at home here in London than ever.  The past week had brought with its arrival annoyances, agitations, and complaints, even a drama scene, and led me to a conclusion I think I have known for sometime--thirty six girls should NEVER live in one house together.  Our gender is simply not conducive to long stays under the same roof, seeing the same people, every. single. day.  But, for me, at least, there is no grievance that a solitary day in London cannot fix, no complaint that it cannot erase, no anger that it cannot calm.  So, that is exactly what I did.  I spent a day in Westminster, gazing at Big Ben, walking the Thames, letting my thoughts run wild.  Then I tacked on another day, calling upon the National Gallery and its array of Impressionist paintings (nothing can capture my attention like a Monet, or a Sisley, even a Constable here and there).  And to top off my self-declared mental health day, I browsed in second hand book shops on Charing Cross Road--and bought me some books.  Since then I have had no thoughts of accidentally knocking someone down the stairs, instigating a verbal brawl in the kitchen, or stuffing my dirty socks in someone's mouth; sometimes all I require to run efficiently and pleasantly is some alone time.

Two nights ago I checked off another play on my list of the "Must-sees While in London," and probably my favorite one, too: Wicked.  Oh, I really don't think my fingers can fly fast enough, or efficiently enough, over my keyboard to express how ecstatic it made me.  I had forgotten how much I loved it, because, really, I do LOVE it!  The voices and acting can elicit no harsh critique from me, and the storyline, well, the storyline has always been fantastic.  "Defying Gravity" still gave me goosebumps, the sensation spreading from the tips of my fingers to its shivery culmination, complete with wide eyes and a smirk on my face.  If only I could sing, and act, and didn't suffer from stage fright, I would be Elphaba, if I could, green skin and all.
Yesterday we all spent the day in Cambridge, walking the narrow streets, trying to make ourselves blend in with the infinitely superior students of the colleges, and failing miserably as we jumped in front of bikes (yes, I did almost get myself run over) to get pictures of everything we could lay our greedy eyes on.  The salesmen on the streets took full advantage of our boisterous displays, successfully selling us a boat ride along the Cam--which is called 'punting', apparently.  Despite my fears, I did not fall in the icy cold water getting in or out of the shallow, small boat; I did manage to get my hand bitten by a mallard duck, though.  Quite feisty, they are.
And today, I finally have a funny tube story, worthy of a re-telling.  The Imperial War Museum is a required site for my Great War and Modernism class, and is just a little walk away from a Bakerloo line tube station.  So, today, two of us procrastinating types (it was assigned well over a month ago) set out to visit it.  We sat on the tube, waiting for our stop, chatting and discussing, apparently oblivious to everything else around us, because soon I hear a surprised, "oh, is this our stop?!"--sure enough, it was.  My friend and I darted towards the doors just as the bell signaling their closing began to sound.  I slipped through the sliding doors, and turned to face Anne, laughing at our close call. But she was not next to me like I planned. I turned back just in time to see her sheepish grin peer out at me from the shut door, and my "Run, Anne!" was of no use. I doubled over laughing at our division--it was only a small door that separated her from where she needed to be, and I could have touched her from where I was standing, but the train pulled out of the station, and I watched Anne wave me goodbye from the window, both of us convulsing in what looked like unexplained laughter to those around us.

The days are going by fast now, each week flying faster than the previous, but I have discovered I am not heartbroken to see them go.  I fill them generously with outings and memories of London and friends that will last me a lifetime, and while I do sometimes get caught up in the syndrome of, "there's still so much left to do!" I don't wish for any of it back, or even more time.  The time I have left is sufficient, and I know that by the time December 8th rolls around, I will be ready to be see my family, ready to go home.  After all, as much as I love England, America is my home.  America is where my heartstrings are tied to, it is where I belong, it is what I love.

Long Words & Longer Days

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.  Yes. That is a word. The longest Welsh word, in fact, and is the name of a town in northern Wales, or Cymru--that's the Welsh name for Wales.  It now tops the former longest word I knew, Humuhumunukunukuapua'a, the name of Hawaii's state fish. Though, I'm not sure I could actually pronounce the Welsh word if asked to.  I take that back, I know I can't.  But I'll gladly tell you the name of the Hawaiian fish.  
Our two day trip to Wales was chock full of sites and places to see, and learning experiences, as made obvious by my new found foreign vocabulary (which is not very extensive, let me assure you). Perhaps my favorite visit in Wales was the tour of Big Pit Mine, a mine still classified as a working one, though it has not seen any extracting machinery since 1980, and the only activity down in the tunnels are tours of eager and awed people, like myself.  
The gray clouds hung heavily in the air as we stepped off the coach to enter the visitors' center of the mine, and sprinkled droplets of rain on us, but I soon forgot the foul weather as I waited in line to suit up in proper mining attire.  The temperature dropped, walking into what I assume was an old sheet-metal inspired shanty for wagons of coal, and the workers plopped a hardhat on my head, attached a headlamp to it (which I had too much fun with), and cinched a leather belt around my waist, holding about 10 pounds of emergency necessities--my headlamp battery, and an oxygen filter...just in case.  The lift descended down into the tunnels, and it got darker and darker, our headlamps the only things warding off the encroaching blindness.  Stepping out into the tunnels overhead light hit my eyes once more, as there was a small station and man waiting to let my group, and our guide, out of the cramped lift.  But the light was only momentary, because as soon as we began to walk, the light faded into the distance behind us, and fast--the rest of the time our paths were lit only by the small flashlights situated on our helmets.  With 18 people the level of light was bearable, even better than was I had anticipated...but if it was only you? If one worker were alone? How eerie and dim the light would be. Our tour guide, whom we affectionately nick-named Gollum after a rather humorous run in with another of his fellow tour guides,  had us all turn of our headlamps at one point, and the darkness was so black that I quite literally couldn't see the hand in front of my face.  As we walked around the slippery and dank paths the ceilings would get lower and lower, until I had to bend almost in half to prevent a smack to the head and the migraine that would result.  
I could go on and on about the mine, the damp smell and slick, muddied floors, often housing a partially covered piece of railway metal, the horror stories of children working, of people dying, the stables that housed horses who never saw daylight, the unrivaled camaraderie between the men....but I'll fast forward to the next stop...St Fagan's, also known as Welsh World, an outdoor museum that incorporates everything you would ever want to know about the history of the and that is Wales...and more.  Recreated villages, old castle sites, beautiful scenery--you name it.
Friday was our church history site day, and a day to remember.  The very sites where our church began, where so many faithful people made choices that continue to influence lives today--where people like you and me wrote a history that is dear to my heart, and to whom I owe the person I am.  Whether by blood or heritage, they are my ancestors.  I was touched to no end by the scenes presented to me that day, and it's not one that I will soon forget.
Saturday, back in London, I spent the day traversing the areas of Covent Garden, Leicester Square, and Piccadilly Circus, spent way too much money, and made more memories to last me a lifetime.  Sometimes it's just wonderful to take a day and do nothing productive, to go where ever your feet lead you, even if it is away from the tube station. Buy a meal that is too expensive and spend it talking good talks with friends, take the time to walk the streets and drink in the atmosphere that pulses through London.  Then top it off with a fantastic Halloween party, complete with costumes, cob webs, sugar cookies, and doughnuts on a string.

 ...especially when you have two essays due on Monday. 

Paint Me a Birmingham

I have recently come to the realization that I have been severely lacking in my blog posts in October.  For those of you who really do follow my escapades closely, I apologize.  Though I think I am rather flattering myself to believe that is many of you. Anyway, my neglect has not been intentional, but simply stems from a draining, but lovely busyness of the past week and a half. 

 Last week was our program trip up to the north of England, and it was there I discovered that my impressions and beliefs of the north have been incorrect.The words "Northern England" always incited a picture of sprawling fields, natural beauty, and everything lush and green, everything desirable and wanted in a rural and wilderness-inspired setting.  But, driving on our mustard yellow coach through the narrow roads of northern industrial towns, lined with remnants and sites of former cotton mills and factories, I realized how wrong my vision was.  The homes and public buildings still standing from the age of the industrial revolution are permanently blackened from the constant out pouring of soot and ash, forever marked with the legacy of darker days.  

On a lighter note, I learned the south of England was more of the countryside, picturesque world I had imagined in the north, though the north definitely contained its fair share of beautiful views, rolling hills dotted with white and black sheep, plots separated by old rock walls--breathtaking.  I got a perfect view of this standing atop the ancient wall that separated the Roman Empire from Scotland back in the day.  Hadrian's Wall, the official name of the old Roman camp, was constructed atop one such hill, enabling a person to see for miles and miles.  Not all the way to Scotland though, I found, because the boarder between the countries 

has since moved. 

Before we stopped at Hadrian's Wall on the way to the lake district, however, we spent two nights in York, where I made some of my fondest memories.  We had a full day to ourselves after our tour of York Minster, a rare and unusual gem that we took full advantage of. Museums and little tourist treasure abound in York, like the Shambles shopping district, which a considerable amount of time was spent in.  Thankfully, I did not spent a considerable amount of money, but there were a considerable amount of pictures taken in the Shambles, where there is a row of houses on each side of the street, leaning toward one another almost enough to shake hands across the topmost windows.

Our museum excursions took us into several exhibits, my favorite being the recreated Victorian street, complete with horse and buggy, flickering lamp posts, and overhead lights that faded the scene from day to nighttime. The Jorvick Center, on the other hand, was another ordeal entirely.  The museum-turned-ride is famous for it's recreated Norman town, and the modern day buggy that carries you around it, narrating the stories of each scene and hut, and the persons in them.  The most memorable part of our journey through the Viking civilization came at the very end--the recreated scene of a grown man in the outhouse, his upper torso clearly visible to us museum goers, as well as the look of utter pain etched into his plastic face.  Yes, I assure you, that actually happened, and the constipated man still sits there--never relinquished from his uncomfortable condition. Poor, unfortunate soul.

Our last night in York ended with a Ghost Walk through its streets, with a surprisingly friendly old man.  The cold and crisp autumn air was a delight wot walk through, and filled my lungs with a freshness that only the fall can give.  The old cobble stoned streets and encroaching brick homes lended themselves nicely to the telling of eerie ghost sitings and supposed hauntings, but even the ideal conditions and the deserted, dark streets couldn't pique my fear, but rather I was full of giggles and silliness the entire time--something that good company tends to bring out in me.

There is so much more to tell, hiking in the Lake District and reading Wordsworth while looking out upon the scene that inspired many of his works, disgusting hostel food, and goosebump inducing views--even more from the following weekend back in London and the subsequent days that followed.  But there is not enough time, at least not right now.  Our early departure tomorrow morning, to head down to Portsmouth and Brighton, demands hours of sleep, more hours than I can give, and I am short on hours in my day already. 

So much to do, so little time.

A Local in a Picturesque England

I've made a discovery. Nothing quite has the ability to thrill and also quiet me in reverent awe like the picturesque gardens of England.  Kew Gardens, grounds that have been painstakingly manicured and cared for since the time of King George III, were amazing, even in the infamous, windy, London rain.  I conveniently spent most of my time in the sheltered greenhouses full of exotic plants and trees, and it was wonderful and inciting to learn and observe such natural beauties--especially with my gardening professor as a personal tour guide.  But even the conservatories, tree-top walk, and long windy paths of Kew can't compare to Stourhead.  The landscape at Stourhead are unbelievably...picturesque, I guess, is the word I would use to describe it.  They are my whole imagination wrapped up in an amazingly, heart-achingly beautiful scene, and I did not want to leave.  The central pond, which is more like a small lake, boasts grottoes and old stone temples in every corner, partly shaded by the yellowing leaves of 100 year old trees.  Everywhere you look in picture worthy, and I felt like I couldn't snap enough frames fast enough to capture the pleasure the scenery bestowed upon my heart.  Though, now, looking back at my pictures I realize I do, indeed, have quite enough, probably enough to supply each and every one of my friends and family members with slightly different copies of some part of the view--you should know I have quite an extensive extended family.  Stourhead also gets to boast its role in Hollywood and the part it plays in the newest rendition of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as the site of the first proposal of Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth Bennett.  Surprisingly, this was not the highlight of my visit to Stourhead, and I did not participate in the sad exploitation of the few males on our program to reenact the proposal scene with all but a few of the 36 girls.  Instead I got the chance to walk the paths around the lake, climb up to Apollo Temple, which is where Darcy proposed, and visit the arched bridge that Keira Knightly runs across as a means of getting to the temple that she is so completely blindsided  by Matthew Macfadyen on.  I did, of course, have to take pictures at all of these places, but I really was relishing the scene rather than the film history.  It was only grudgingly that I left, unwilling to miss the bus and find my own way back home.  I would have given anything to be able to sit atop the hill that the Apollo Temple resided on and read my book overlooking the serene, wind rippled lake flanked by the changing trees of fall.
Yesterday after classes I went on another excursion, though this time around the city of London, and not the green fields of the English countryside.  Over a little north of Oxford street, the mecca of all things shopping (at least to my knowledge so far), is an exhibit called the Wallace Collection.  It houses mostly Rococo art, and is an old family collection that is now open to the lucky public.  I enjoyed going through the rooms of the antique house that is nicer than my own at home, because I really do like the French Rococo artists...especially Fragonard.  I enjoy the wispy, painted landscapes and soft features and fancy dresses of the women, and also the satirical air subtlety portrayed in some of the works, like The Swing.  That has to be one of my favorites.  As much as I enjoyed the art, however, I enjoyed just roaming around the surrounding area afterword more.  My friend and I wandered somewhat aimlessly, not knowing exactly where the public gardens were that we had previously spotted on a map in passing.  The wandering and finding new streets and exploring without specific directions on where to go was liberating to me, and made me wonder why it had taken my almost a month to do it.  It wasn't the fear of getting lost because if you can find a tube station--which you undoubtedly will run into one at some point, the blaring signs are, for the most part, hard to miss--you are never really lost. (you are also never really lost if you carry a map with you...which I usually do). Perhaps it was the lack of time.  There is just so much to do and so much to see that I know it will be impossible to accomplish everything even in my three and a half month stay, and school work doesn't make that feat any easier.
Eventually we did stumble upon the park--a very small one compared to the massive Hyde and Kensington we are used to, but charming and quaint just the same. I realized on our little jaunt that I need to do more of the random walking and finding--it's how you get to know a place, it's how you start and end the journey of transforming from a tourist into a local, and I want to be a local by the time I leave, dangit!