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.