Vacaciones, Por Fin.

Good eve, ladies and gents, boys and girls, johns and janes, nuns and monks, I have returned to my piso (apartment in Spain) at long last after a week of walking, speaking English, being flashed, thoroughly not enjoying my first beer, being bewildered by the beauty of England's countryside, developing a large foot bruise, and experiencing the general flavors of Dublin, Oxford, and London.

In hindsight, apparently London's flavor includes a hearty cough. I didn't go to school today. María took my temperature with my armpit and made me gargle something which I ended up spitting all over the mirror after it triggered my gag reflex.

Anyway, detailed below is a day by day account, and I warn you, it is not for the faint-hearted or time-weary blog traveler, as it is bound to be extremely long.

Maybe you should read it in chunks. With a cup of coffee.

On Saturday after my obligatory period of being lost on the way to the airport bus stop, Kelsey and I wheeled our way to the airport and winged our way to Dublin, Ireland. As we flew in over the island, my worries left me and I became certain that I was going to enjoy myself. After two months in the dry, somewhat grass-less climate of Andalusia, I felt excessively giddy at the sight of the herds of woolly sheep bounding across their pastures in the rolling hills dotted with clusters of vibrantly-colored deciduous forest. All I needed was a blanket, a cat, and a fire.

Ireland is Wisconsin on steroids.

After standing around and sniffing wondrously at the autumn breeze like intrigued hound dogs for a while, Kelsey and I found a bus to take us into the city where we promptly found ourselves lost and headed in the opposite direction of the hostel. Luckily, I have no shame as I am often lost, and I unabashedly asked a kindly gent who pointed us in the correct direction. We soon found ourselves standing at the mouth of a sketchy, dark, cobble-stoned alleyway where, somewhat unfortunately, there hung a banner: "Litton Lane Hostel". Home. We walked in through the chiming door, peered wearily at the penis cartoon and the pierced, but smiling girl behind the counter and began our check-in as we listened to some slightly psychedelic hard-rock in the background. Then I lugged my entirely impractical, almost necessary 15 kilo luggage up the stairs and walked into our room, where Silent Woman was sleeping. Silent Woman was snoring and none-too-pleased to be disturbed, so Kelsey and I headed out into the brisk air and onto St. Steven's Green, which may be the most beautiful park in the western hemisphere.

My objectivity may be clouded by the presence of the first ducks I had seen since Wisconsin.

After I cooed like an idiot at water fowl for a sufficient amount of time, Kelsey and I headed back to Litton Lane and once more entered our hostel room, now occupied by Tania Lili, an inquisitive 21-year-old from Mexico City. Later I would meet Yanna from Germany, Miriam from Sardinia, Angry Sleeping Woman from Barcelona, and Francine from Brazil. For now though, Tania, Kelsey, and I headed toward the cobble-stoned Temple Bar neighborhood (decked out for Halloween), sat down at a Pub and drank our respective Irish pints o' Guinness.

Not a good first beer to have, my friends.

Then we went to bed. And it was so, the first day.

Sunday arrived soon enough, and while God was taking his Sabbath, Kelsey and I headed in a general direction toward Kilmainham Gaol, a name I can only spell because I retained the ticked stub. If memory serves, we only managed to lose our way 2 or 3 times and we arrived a great deal later than anticipated, but we arrived nonetheless and took a tour of this Irish jail which was used to house lots o' Irish prisoners, especially executees (like that?) from the Easter Uprising. It was not as interesting as we had been told it would be. Then again, we were tired from getting lost 2 or 3 times. We did, however, get to hear an authentic Irish woman refer to the potato famine, so perhaps that in-and-of-itself was worth the 5€.

Not that the potato famine is something to be excited about.

We then set out to find lunch, excited to be able to eat whenever we wanted. We made sure to pass the Guinness plant on our way home, which, by the way, emits a gag-worthy (and I mean gag-worthy) vomit-ish smell, and of course, we managed to get lost (only once) on the way home. When we finally found our neighborhood, we wound up eating at the same time I would have eaten in Spain. Foiled.

We decided we wanted to revisit St. Steven's Green as the previous day's visit had been cut very short by the park's closing. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, whilst on our merry way, the merry day decided to rain. We ran into Starbucks, apparent haven for all dry ground seekers, and sat down with a hot cup of coffee. We were talking, minding our business well enough, considering melting a white chocolate truffle in our mugs, when three Israeli men sat next to us and inquired as to what there was to see in Dublin. It was then that Kelsey and I realized that the answer to their question was, "Not much." So instead of doing anything, we all watched the rain together and, before parting ways, decided to meet up again to go to a pub later that night.

In the interim, the rain stopped and Kelsey and I walked to St. Steven's Green, where, as appears to be my theme crime in Europe, I was flashed. I managed to give a safe thumbs down to my would be assailant, warned a family to tarry in their visit to that area of the park, and found a police officer (there were a lot of children in that park) who confusedly thought I was a Norwegian...with a Spanish phone number...from the United states.

Later that night, after scraping our visual memories with a pumice stone, Kelsey and I walked to temple bar, ate cheaply (and were miraculously identified as Americans by our accents according to the sleuth behind the fastfood counter), saw the Ghostbusters, 3 out of 4 Teletubbies and many, many women who must have been very, very cold, and headed into a lively pub, hell-bent on talking to strangers. As I walked up to the bar to round up a couple of ciders, I was immediately successful, as two 40-somethings struck up an awkward, somewhat one-sided conversation, which included an unwelcome joke insinuating that my boyfriend was cheating on me (seriously, why do people think that joke is funny?).

"You've a boyfriend here?"
"I've a boyfriend in the United States."
"Is that really the same?"
"It is to me."
"Ahh, so you trust him while you're away?"
"Sure do."
"I wouldn't, Bahahahaha!"

Hilarious.

They were nice anyway. Kelsey and I managed a narrow escape, settled near a ledge and soon discovered the wonders of body language. We were facing each other, talking, when I suggested we turn out slightly to give the impression that we were open to discussion. We did, and immediately were approached by Peter from Belgium and my friend, Gavin from Wales who is 27 and divorced with 5 kids and one on the way. After a lengthy ex-wife discussion, Gavin insistently predicted that I will be married to Tyler and have a "little girl" within two years' time.

We bid adieu to our happily buzzed acquaintances, and headed over to meet the Israelis (Matin, Moses, and Roi), getting lost (sensing a theme?), but fortunately running into them on the way. A Gingerbread man, a Chicken, a Gorilla, and more cold women later, we were at another pub, drinking Coronas (I know, I know, Mexican water) and discussing Jewish culture, families, significant others, studies, and anything else under the sun. All in all, it was a very nice night, and Kelsey and I slept soundly.

I never did get a buzz. But there was morning, and there was evening, the second day, my favorite day of the trip.

The third day, Monday entailed an early wake-up call, and getting lost on the way to the bus stop, as a marathon had changed the city around. We caught a bus to the Dublin airport, an avión to London Stansted, a bus to London Victoria, and then a bus to Oxford, where we arrived two hours ahead of schedule, and I with no way to contact or find my Amanda. After about a half-hour, I was kicked into the cold by the closing coffee shop in which I had found refuge and chai tea. After about an hour, and several numb fingers later, Kelsey having left with her host, I struck up a conversation with a nice, elderly English woman named Rose. And after two hours, I began to wonder where Amanda was. She arrived at 7:40, 40 minutes after I had expected to see her, 2 hours and 45 minutes after I had arrived in Oxford, and directly after I had sent one worrisome text to Ty and directly after I had made one worrisome call to my Mom wondering what on earth I was going to do. There had been a little miscommunication betwixt Amanda and I. Still feel bad about that. But the wait just made me all the more relieved to see her.

Amanda and I hurried onto my intended hosts (half because it was late, half because it was real cold and we wanted central heating real bad), the Kinghorns. Upon entering, we found that a very timid, but very nice Mrs. Kinghorn expected me to be in by 10:30 or 11:00 in order for her to unlock the door and let me into the house. Amanda and I exchanged a few meaningful glances, thanked Mrs. Kinghorn, and skedaddled on back to Amanda's house, Crick, at which point I began discussing finding a hostel after all, as the likelihood of me getting to bed at 11:00 on any given night was slim to none. That night, and the following nights, I ended up sleeping at Crick, unwittingly inciting a great deal of discomfort that I will not go into here. In hindsight, I should have just found a hostel. But there I was, the third day

After a night of speaking Spanish in my sleep, Tuesday morning arrived, and I took my sweet time waking up to greet it. Eventually, I found the ganas to get up and get on with it, and headed out the door to meet Kelsey. We wandered for a while, ate a couple of sorely missed pastries, and then met Amanda at the biggest bookstore in England (it would be in Oxford). We three set out to tea at some sort of function with Amanda's school on Frewin Court (love the name) that I still don't quite understand. What I did understand perfectly was the smorgasbord of pastries (donuts, cream puffs with fudge frosting, cheese puffs without fudge frosting, and God's gracious gift to humanity: bonafee) which all too quickly and happily jumped into my mouth, down my esophagus, and into my eagerly waiting tum-tum.

As I digested, Amanda and I took a turn in the parks where some friendly ducks greeted me by the creek, expecting food. Finding I had none, my company was quickly ignored, but the memory of ducks spotting me and then eagerly waddling toward me is still a slice of a dream come true.

We then went to an impactful evensong (getting lost on the way, or at least turned around) at Christ Church Cathedral. I had been so long since I had been able to worship in my own language. I needed it.

That night, however, in order to reverse any positive evensong effects, it was necessary for Kelsey, Amanda, Stephanie, and I to doll ourselves up and go Euroclubbing at the Bridge, a trendy night spot in Oxford. It was everything I had ever imagined: like an 8th grade dance with alcohol. There were smoky, multi-colored lights, eardrum blastin' beats, a beer-soaked dance floor, short skirts, and stiletto heals, one of which stomped my stiletto-clad foot in a particularly painful moment and only yesterday did I pay enough attention to my poor foot to notice what must have previously been a huge, dark bruise. Oh yes, it was everything I hoped it would be, and I enjoyed myself, though I don't know that I need to repeat the experience. And there was morning and evening. The third day.

Tired and sweaty, Amanda, Kelsey, and I returned to Crick, where I promptly cuddled up in my blankets and slept quite, quite well. Wednesday woke me with the promise of cream tea. It was delicious and I can almost taste that creamy biscuit-y scone now, but unfortunately, Kelsey misunderstood our meeting place and waited for a half-hour before giving up and wandering about until I found her and treated her to tea for her efforts. The waitress did not remember me. Later that night, after an improvised, succulent dinner, Amanda and I went to see a ballet, The Snow Queen, performed by the English National Ballet. It was beautiful and impressive and so warm that I caved to concessions and paid the equivalent of $5 for a dinky cup of ice cream. Strawberry ice cream....mmmm. It was good. The fourth day.

One lost glove, one night of comfortable sleep, and a train later, Amanda and I were setting out to enjoy Thursday in London. Following a great deal of effort and Underground transportation, we lugged my things to my hostel, and met a patiently waiting Ross two hours later than intended. We did not, however, get lost. We ate an amazingly delicious meal of Tandoori Indian food and then navigated our way to the theater where we watched Spamalot in London's West End, enjoying such ditties as "You Won't Succeed on Broadway (If You Don't Have Any Jews)". On our way back to my hostel, we decided to pick up some ice cream, which we then enjoyed on the tube, which is always very warm. This ice cream, however, did not cost the equivalent of $5.

It was, in fact, from McDonald's, but I felt no shame, as a £1 McFlurry is, in reality, a $2 McFlurry.

I then walked up the quiet stairs to my hostel room. Due to limited space and arrangement options, I had had to pay for a double room, but was the only person sleeping there. Totally worth it. I slept so well that fifth day.

Friday arrived soon enough, and after having done a tolerable job of avoiding sight-seeing, I joined Kelsey, and a few other friends we had met in London, in a jaunt to the Tower of London, where we had a fantastic Yeoman/Beefeater guide who informed me that I was a regular Elizabeth I and where I almost bought the do-it-yourself paper executioner's model kit that allows you to cut off the paper victim's head.

After seeing all the sights I could see there, there were other sights to be seen that I didn't particularly care to see, including: the Globe Theater, St. Paul's Cathedral (where Mary Poppins herself sang "feed the birds" and where there is now a sign insisting that one oughtn't do such a thing for the sake of public health and building conservation), Abbey Road, and Trafalgar Square.

Perhaps I should clarify that it's not that I had no interest in these places. I just am not a sight-see...er. I would prefer to stay in one place and soak it in, as sometimes sight-seeing becomes a mad dash at navigating the Underground in an effort to cram in every historical marker on the map.

I ended up wandering off somewhere near the West End and meeting everyone later.

Once we all returned to the Hostel (Journey's Waterloo), there was much relaxing and melting into sofas to be done. My ankles and knees experienced a good deal of discomfort after 9-12 hours of daily walking and so I plopped down on a chair and was soaking in the nothingness that I was doing as I watched a British sitcom apparently aimed at reinforcing the stereotype that Americans are imbeciles with no known functioning logic, when I struck up a conversation with Robert from England who told me that my hair color only exists in Scotland and that, therefore, I must be Scottish, an idea that differs only slightly from the general sentiment in America which dictates that, due to my hair color, I must be Irish.

So ha, we aren't so different, are we, British people? Eat that. Eat that on the seventh day.

Then I went to bed and became ill.

Illness, however, could not stop Saturday's arrival. By now, Ireland seemed like a time buried in the past. Yet there we were just 8 days later and there was only one more item on our agenda before heading home: A picnic on the green of Hyde Park consisting of...McDonald's...because none of us had money anymore.

After eating and making fun of pigeons and seagulls like we were the top of 6th grade's social food chain, we set off to the airport in hopes that we could rest our tired bones during the three hour flight. Alas, I had all too soon forgotten that a Spanish plane is not much like any other plane one can experience. Whereas a plane full of British people is generally quiet and relaxed, a Spanish plane is talkative and disruptive and generally filled with lots of gestures and loud voices. As, unlike the majority of western Europe, Spaniards generally do not speak English, whenever the pilot or flight attendants made an effort to say something, the noise in the cabin would undergo a dramatic crescendo, maintaining the volume for some time afterward.

But the flight finally ended, we descended the stairs into the warm Andalusian air and sauntered Spanishly into the airport where the 60-year-old Spanish passport officer did his civic duty in informing me that I am "muy guapa" and I had a surprise waiting for me just the other side of the exit doors, where Ellen was standing with a bouquet of flowers on behalf of Tyler, celebrating our 1 year anniversary. Go ahead and say it, I'll wait: Awww.

And then I coger-ed the bus back into Seville that eighth day, learning along the way that the metro system had changed during vacation. Oh dear.

But I made it back, and had a great vacation, and all is well, except for me, of course. I'm sick.

But there is good news for those of you who have actually made it this far. My recounting of my adventure within my adventure is finished.

I hope all is well! I look forward to hearing from you brave blog readers!