Swinging Wales... and Dublin

Weekend trip to Wales, and then Dublin.

Things learned from this U.K. excursion?

1) Welsh guys are quite attractive, in much the same way as the Polish farmers are. Only the Welsh have lots more tattooes and a cooler language, all of which I can totally dig.

2) You can lose your wallet on a bus in Dublin and reclaim it, fully intact, within the hour. I think that was an off-Dublin experience though because I got honked at by a rowdy car full of Irish men, and one lady I asked for directions was very alarmed that I was walking by myself and told me, "For God's sake, stay in the well-lit areas."

3) Andy Rourke may or may not take the first class section of the train from Stansted airport to Liverpool Street. (!)

Okay. There is no point really in even trying to describe Wales since it was ridiculously wonderful. I realized how lucky I am sometimes to have the opportunities that I do. Here is a nice little castle I saw in the town of Caernarfon:

And some sheep...

And a scenic view of a mountain path... hmmm... I stole a piece of coal from the train that took us up there...

I have decided that I want to live on a mountainside and change my name to Krista Plays with Squirrels. Of course, I probably won't do that.

But really, Wales was awesome. This girl Susan (who is studying abroad with me)and I ate ate fish and chips on a park bench facing the Snowdonia mountains, overlooking a lake. The town that our hotel was in, Llanberis, was this slightly eerie place that reminded me a bit of Spector from the movie Big Fish. Kids were running around, everyone seemed really friendly, and there were few streetlights. I can definitely see how all those Welsh legends came about in the dark.

My group took a train trip to the top of the mountains, where we got off and chilled out for an hour or so. There were so many sheep running around, and now I'm a little scared I tracked into London some strain of sheep disease on the bottom of my shoes (I ignored the airport sign requesting anyone who has been around animals to notify a worker...).

But maybe the strain of sheep-illism was tracked into Dublin first, which, quite frankly, doesn't seem too bad. Just kidding, of course. Really, Dublin was pretty all right, just sort of dirty and filled with people that made you watch your wallet. Or leave it on a bus... That's my main Dublin story.

We took a ferry from Holyhead, Wales to Dublin, Ireland and since my group was predominately filled with rather hesitant, um, pansies, that snubbed their noses at the hostel (which wasn't great, but really, it's a hostel, what do you expect?), I went out on my own for a while. I decided I would go to Marley Park and explore the Dublin mountains.

So I took a bus to Marley Park (it took 45 minutes to come, just throwing that out there...). And then the bus driver kind of raised his eyebrows at me when I accidentally said "pounds" instead of "Euros" (well well well, excuse me for making a mistake...). So when I was sitting on top of this double decker bus headed for Marley Park, I scoffed inwardly at his driving technique, which included nearly running over several pedestrians and inching past other buses. I set down my wallet and keys and map on the seat beside me... we arrived at the Marley Park stop an hour late... I grabbed my keys and my map.... Got off the bus...

The bus took off, and I tried to figure out where to go. As I started to look at my map, I realized my wallet was gone. And I clearly remembered setting it beside me. I looked down the road and the bus was stopping at a nearby stop. There was only one thing to do. I took off running after it. Yes, I'm rather humiliated at it, it was rather like that part in Spiderman where poor Peter is chasing after the school bus. And it was hopeless, too. Maybe I just imagined the bus driver speeding up...

So I want you to imagine for a moment, that you are in the outskirts of Dublin, with no wallet (in which contains every single Euro, pound, and dollar that you have, your debit card, your driver's license, your student I.D., your bus ticket, even your Saint Bernadette prayer card...), and you have no cell phone, no phone numbers, and only a map that does not cover the area you are in (and besides, it says as a footnote: Distances not "exactly" to scale)... And the bus where your wallet currently resides has just Mach 3-ed on further into the "seedier" part of Dublin.

I must admit, I shamefully burst into tears. I was like, Oh my God, I'm so stupid, I am the stupidest person alive! What the hell is wrong with me! I was very certain I would never see my wallet again. And what is there to do in this situation, except sit glumly at a busstop? I sat for a while and noticed a poster at the stop with the bus station's telephone number. I started asking people to borrow their cellphones.

Here is my first conversation, an assault upon a bicyclist:

Me: Excuse me sir! May I please borrow your cell, I mean "mobile" phone? See, I left my wallet on a bus, and the bus just took off, and it has my money and everything in it, but I found this number at the busstop... Please?

The Sir: [very carefully, eyes narrowing slightly] Sorry. I.... don't... speak English.

And then he looked proud that he said this sentence in English. Coincidentally, his native language was Polish, but as my Polish is limited to "castle" and "dandelion," I thanked him in Polish - which probably bewildered him - and started walking up the looooong road, the direction from which I had originally come. I noticed some people standing across the road at a station, so I ran across four lanes of traffic and "sketchally" approached the group.

And goodness me, I met the nicest Slovakian man and ... two more Polish people. The guy let me use his phone, and I called the bus station, and talked to a very cheerful Irish man who asked why I had done something as crazy as lose a wallet. Thankfully, someone had turned in my wallet to the bus driver, and the bus was making its round again. So I could just get my wallet when the driver came back around.

So I had to face this driver again, but he turned out to be a nice fellow, and even let me ride the bus back for free since I didn't have cash. He probably saw my driver's license picture and thought anyone who takes pictures like that deserves some kind of break...

So how were the Dublin mountains? Who knows. But apparently 75% of the surrounding population is Polish.

Needless to say, I was relieved to get the hell out of Dublin. The Liffey River was pretty sweet though:

Que pasa?

So I'm in London these days.


How is it going? Fantastic. I have found my one true love in the form of a country.


Today marks exactly one week since I first came here. Seven days ago, I arrived jeg-lagged and excitable, landing in a hostel that was A) awesome, B) filled with lovely Australian boys (I wore one boy's wooden Dutch shoes, ooh la la), C) quite clean and D) once again, just awesome (free breakfast included, yeah!). After one pretty bizarre night in the hostel, I had to move into my school apartment in the Bloomsbury neighborhood, on Bedford Place.

The apartment is standard, but a lot of fun. We're situated in the academic neighborhood, and everything is conveniently in walking distance. I've been to lots of coffeeshops, bookstores, flower markets, and so on, encountering many interesting people along the way.

How are the English? Exactly like they are on American t.v. - only better. I've already recounted a certain airport story to a few people: When I first got into the Heathrow airport, I had lots of heavy luggage. I was in a rush since I had been held up at customs, so I piled all my bags onto a trolley and without looking, swung this cart around, laden with 100+ pounds of tacky earrings, nail polish, clothes, etc. Clearly at fault, I proceeded to accidentally bang into the shins of an unsuspecting middle-aged man, who, instead of cursing me like any born-and-bred American, looked horrified and said, "So sorry miss!" He then made sure I was okay before rushing off toward the Underground. I smiled because I knew I was in England then.

I had been warned about this peculiarity of the British (apologizing unnecessarily) in the required course reading, Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson. I have had to find out a few other British things on my own, however.

Which leads me to this entry's topic, Strange Recurring Phrases of the British.

Yesterday, I was sitting at a table, just outside a coffeeshop I like. It's the perfect place to people watch (Do you think Billy Idol would book a room in the National Hotel? I swear I thought he was leaning out of a window... I will check up on that later...). I was reading and writing a bit, when I noticed this dude lurking around in a red baseball cap. He looked over at me, and then he actually came over and out of the blue asked,

"Are you all right?"

"Um, yeah. Are you?" Why the hell was this guy asking me if I was okay? Do I look upset? I know I'm pale, but wow. I was totally weirded out because, how bad can things be when I'm reading and drinking a cup of tea? Things were wonderful! This guy offered no explanation for his inquiry and then began to comment on how he thought my handwriting was pretty, like a French person's. Eventually, he left and I just sort of shrugged off this weird incident.

Then today, I ventured way down to Norbury to meet a family who might want me to watch their children (who are adorable, by the way). I was walking down to the road the family lived on, when another random guy asked me if I was all right. "Yes, I'm fine!" Do I really look that much like a tourist? I know I'm wearing flared jeans over here, but honestly, I had neither my tube map nor Nikki's copy of the London A-Z book of maps out. I knew where I was going! I had eaten that morning! Everything was fine, fine, fine!

The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed, and when strange things arise, I utilize Google. Which is how I found out "Are you all right?" is the British equivalent of the American, "How are you doing?" Weirdness solved. I was being unknowingly rude to these poor people who were only being polite. And now I don't have to be the uncivil American anymore.

And that's quite all right with me.

Dan, wearing his wooden shoes (he apparently wore them through airport security... Australians, hmm...)

The hostel room. There were five other people in the room: Three Australians, a girl from Turkey, and a girl from Brazil.

Music Tames the Savage Beast

The kids started school this week, so I've had to get them up at 6:30 each day. I wake up at 6:00 myself, which is just awful for me because I'm nocturnal. I mean, I really am. If I could sleep during the day, I'd just as soon stay up until 6:00 AM rather than wake up before the sun has risen. I try to adjust the best I can when I have to go to school or work, but I never feel fully myself unless I'm on a healthy schedule of staying up until 4:00 in the morning and waking up at 11:00 or so.

So I can't blame Layne for being cranky in the mornings. We normal people hate it (those bizarre bastards who actually enjoy waking up at 6:00 AM... that's just suicidal). But unfortunately, it's those bizarre bastards who rule the world, so the rest of us have to stumble out of bed with bleary eyes for three hours. And some of these bleary-eyed fellows, like my dear little cousin, get mean.

Yesterday morning, Layne did not want to get up. It took half an hour of attempts to finally get her to even open her eyes. Then she started yelling at me, "Why do you have to wake us up so early? You're stupid." Well, well, well. "Good morning, Layne, what do you want for breakfast?" "Shut up." Like she was possessed by some anti-morning demon, dressed in pajamas with her hair all matted in the back. Usually she reverts back to her friendly, nice self when her feet hit the floor, but she kept her mood all morning as we were getting ready, grumbling every second of the way.

She started eating cereal out of the box and refused any milk. Then she got mad at me because she didn't have any milk in her cereal. Then she didn't want to get dressed or brush her teeth... Finally, I got her out the door and into the car, running a few minutes late already. "Seatbelt," I said, as I started up the car. Of course, she rolled her eyes.

Then I flipped through the radio stations trying to find something good and maybe even... cheerful. The first song was something stupid, like that Bubbly song that I really, really hate, and I vetoed that. Then some people talking about boring stuff like frappaccinos at Starbucks or how bad french fries are for us yada yada yada. And then, I heard it. On the rock station I rarely listen to.


On the day I was born...


My hand paused on the radio dial. My and Layne's song. We sing it whenever we're on the highway and it comes on the radio. Was she in too bad a mood for Bad to the Bone?

... the nurses all gathered 'round...

I slowly turned in the driver's seat to look at Layne. She stared me dead in the face. After weighing the consequences, I dared to raise my eyebrows to let her know I was bad to the bone. She couldn't help it and started laughing, but she tried to be angry still. "What?"

And just like that, Layne's mood was cracked that morning. Just like all the other terrible things that come to an end.






When I walk the streets...
kings and queens step aside...

The Games

Cameron is obsessed with playing video games. He's been like this for years. He'll play them for hours and want you to watch him, play games with him, and buy him new games.

The whole game thing, I just don't understand. It's weird, and I can't say I like it that much. I mean, I think playing a game is okay for like five minutes, then I'm like, okay, this is actually kind of stupid. To me, it's like watching T.V., or pretty much doing anything for hours at a time. I get bored. And if you're one of those people still obsessed with games past the age of thirteen or something, it just gets kind of creepy.

But whatever. The point of it is, Cameron has reached game desperation at the age of 12 by trying to sell his stuff to get money for new game-related "things." His Nintendo DS broke somehow, and he's trying to get money to buy a new one. He just came up to me with this random cookie tin that he uses to put some of his cards in, and asked me, "Hey, uh, do you want this ... for three dollars?" "Um, no." "Okay, okay. You force me to raise my price to four dollars. Do you want it now?"

And now he's scavenging the house, looking for dropped quarters.

I took him and Layne to the library a couple of times because Layne likes to read. I asked him if he wanted any books, showing him some of the comic books. Cameron just gave me this look and said, "This is so lame. All these people here, in this place, to read." He couldn't comprehend an entire structure dedicated to the purpose of reading. And he kept looking around him like it totally freaked him out that people came to the library in mass numbers.

Haha.

Oh, kids.

The Midnight Chef

I like to eat (obviously, if you know me). I'm like a teenaged boy when it comes to food. And the older I get, the less I'm expected to eat, especially since I'm a female. So it always amazes me when I encounter someone with a food sense greater than my own. Cameron has the gift.


A while back, it was late at night and the kids were asleep, and I got hungry while watching T.V. (I know, very strenuous. You can't judge.) I started to make something quiet, a peanut butter sandwich, and as I took the peanut butter out of the cabinet, the cabinet's door made a small squeak. I turned my back to get some bread, and when I turned around again, Cameron was standing right there behind me, and I jumped.


"What are you doing?"
"I think I'll have a sandwich, too."
"... Uh, weren't you asleep, Cameron?"
"Yeah. But I heard the cabinet door open."

And he proceeds to take the butter knife from me and makes himself a sandwich, eats it in two seconds, and then goes back to sleep.



You have to love a kid like that. And he's not even thirteen. Makes me feel a little better about my appetite.

This Robot on the Playground Told Me...

Something I forgot to add:





Layne asked me where all the trash goes.


"You know, the trash people take it to the landfill..."
"No, I mean, what happens when the landfill is full?"

[uncomfortable, embarrassing moment]

"Well, you see, they kinda dig another hole."
"Okay, but what happens to all that trash in the other one?"
"Nothing. It sort of just, well, sits there."
"Forever?"
"Well, some of it is biodegradable..."


[Damn you, Wall-E!!!! The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, Tooth-Fairy, sex questions I expect. Pollution? Political platforms? Embarrassment for the human race? Geez, man. The kid's not even ten. I'd sooner tell her the difference between boys and girls than that the planet's gonna die soon.]

Laughter in the Time of Danger...

So I've been noting some of the differences between kids and adults (even if the kids swear I'm not an adult yet myself, and I usually have to agree). One thing I've noticed is that by the time you're an adult, you're expected to have moved past laughing at slapstick comedy and people falling down. You're supposed to make sure someone who gets hurt is okay before you laugh hesitantly and delicately "with" him, and then quickly change the subject. Kids, however, get to laugh guilt-free at all the things we adults wish we could publicly laugh at: someone with weird eyebrows, toilet paper on the shoe, the fake-blonde woman who trips down the stairs in the mall...

This all comes to mind because the other night, it was about two o'clock in the morning, and I was in a really bad mood. The kids couldn't fall asleep and kept keeping me up, too and a lot of boring adult crap had happened earlier that day so I just wanted the day to be over. The kids and I had been camping out in the den on the couches, but since they were giggling, I went to sleep on the couch in the living room, adjacent to the den. It was one of those moments when I had just relaxed enough to start having those crazy half-awake/half-asleep thoughts and was beginning to drift off when, out of nowhere, the kids' black cat Shadow jumps from the floor onto my arm, then onto my neck, digging its claws into me, then proceeds to jump over the back of the couch and haul ass into another room. In my head I was like: You motherf****** cat! You just ripped out my f****** jugular vein! After all those times I've refilled your motherf****** cat bowl! See if I ever do that again you damn cat!!!

Of course, I can't yell out those things anymore, so I just yelled, "You ... stupid (the only acceptable word I could find) cat!" And the kids came over to see what I was yelling about and why I was sitting up. "Your cat just tried to kill me..." They both nodded and didn't say anything, turning their faces away from me so I couldn't see they were starting to laugh and trying to hide it by biting their lips. I huffed and went to sleep in Layne's room (after examining my scratches to determine it looks not only like I am a self-mutilator, but that Jack the Ripper got a hold of me as well). As I heard the kids laughing through the wall, I had to laugh, too because it was pretty funny. Something about a cat named Shadow leaping onto my neck in the middle of the night and then tearing down the hall not to be seen again, all for no apparent reason, has to make me laugh. And that's what I get for my bad moods anyway. One day when I have some time I'm going to write a kids' story with a character in it who is me when I'm in a bad mood... she's going to be like the Trunchbull. I guess I'm not that bad, but I always feel guilty when I'm not completely understanding with kids. They will have that look in their eye that says, How can you yell at us when you are one of us? You know you want to eat this cake before dinner, too!


And I am reminded of a time completely unrelated to all of this, when my older brother and sister planted a banana peel in the hall, waiting for me to walk by and trip on it. I was probably eleven or something, still in that hazy daze that lasted until I was about fourteen, when I would trip over everything because I hadn't learned to balance the crazy dreaming world in my head with the harsh reality of sharp objects in the material world. There was a joke that I once tripped over a penny. Anyway. I was walking along, probably thinking of this "really cool" book on aliens or something, when I slipped on something, my feet flew out from under me, and the back of my head hit the floor. I got up from my near-concussion and saw that I was lying near... a banana peel. Even a spacey girl like myself had to rub her head and think, WTF? Did I really just slip on a banana peel? Where did that even come from? ---NOTE: I am laughing really hard by myself right now because I am remembering how weirded out I was by the fact that there was a banana peel lying in the middle of the hallway--- Before I could think too long about it, my brother and sister came out from behind their hiding place, laughing hysterically. And begging me not to tell our parents.


That was also pretty funny. When you think, or don't think, about it.