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.

Jealous of Youth

08/13/08 update: Someone in a British accent left a message on my uncle's answering machine that he played while the kids were in the room. It was weirdly cryptic and basically only said, "This is the Agency calling, please return this call" and left a phone number. Layne said, "It's the CIA!" I'm starting to wonder myself... Who am I working for?



So I have this habit of kind of tweaking reality for my cousins to make things interesting for all of us. And due to this habit, they now believe not only that I am psychic, but also a secret agent.



The psychic thing's pretty true and has happened accidentally for ages, but I really freak them out when they think I can read their minds - and telepathy in others is a fear of my own, nonetheless. So when I told Layne I am psychic for the millionth time, she invariably said, "Prove it," and I told her I would read her mind (NB: reading minds is not directly related to psychic ability, but for entertainment purposes, I have been liberal with paranormal truth). She scrunched up her face and concentrated hard, and I guessed, "You're wondering, Is she really psychic?" Her eyes widened and she nodded. "Now you're wondering, Is she really, really, REALLY psychic?" She nodded again. "Now you think I am crazy and I'm freaking you out." She then said, "Oh my God, you really are psychic! Get away from me!" And I succeeded in freaking us both out.



But something I'm pretty sure isn't true is that I'm a secret agent. I don't really know how that came about but one day when they asked me how I could translate this Spanish sign, and it slipped out, "That's because I'm a secret agent." Now these kids want evidence, so they didn't believe me. Over the course of the summer, I have shown them my passport (which are now equipped with electronic devices and appropriately mention Homeland Security) and I went to the CIA website and left the window minimized at the bottom of the computer screen. Then I heard them whispering and speaking skeptically, but they half believe it. And I make sure not to convince them too much, I always say, "Maybe I am or maybe not. Do I seem like a secret agent?" And my reflexes are kind of fast sometimes (surprising I know, but I once saved one of the Polish kids from tumbling down into this hedge when he was running around on a sloping pyramidal garden). I also once caught a wobbling plate of food before it fell to the ground, and Cameron asked how I did that (the poor kid was probably thinking of Spiderman, he loves superheroes) and Layne said matter-of-factly, "Because she's a secret agent..."



And that's the warped sense of reality I feel every kid needs. They don't really believe, but they want to believe, and that's important.



And now I'm thinking the government really will be involved in this because of all the target words I've mentioned in this post. Homeland security, secret agent, CIA, passport. Ha.

Laura Ingalls

After a two and a half month relapse, I have returned. I figure I might not be in Poland, but I'm still taking care of kids. And I want to write about some of the funny things that have happened involving them because I need to concentrate on the good stuff lately.





For purposes of summary, the not so good stuff (not good at all), my close aunt Laurette- the mom I never had - died, and I came back here to help take care of my two little cousins who are only twelve and nine. I've been living with them since the beginning of June and watch them while my uncle is working. During this time, I've transformed from this college slacker (life slacker) into this modern-day housewife who happens to know nothing about housewifery. Among some of the lighter differences in my life are:

• an acquired fascination with Lifetime movies (fact: watching a preview for one, I actually said, "Oh my God!" aloud at the twists of plot and then looked around to see who heard)


• a detailed knowledge of every Disney character created since 2004 (I hum Miley Cyrus songs around the house)


• an invisible aura of pseudo-motherhood enveloping me (Seven random kids under the age of 12 gravitated towards me at a swimming pool and one of them called me, 'Mom')


• and today's topic of conversation following this list: Moderate cooking skills.

That's right. Half the brain of a kitchen project that once lit an omelet on fire, I have been forced to undertake the unthinkable task of cooking. It's been a slow process, but I have managed to move past the peanut butter sandwich stage and onto such grandeurs as tacos and chicken. Now, I'm not saying I am a good cook by any means, but the kids eat my food which I feel is an accomplishment. I almost shed a tear earlier when Cameron told me I cooked bacon to the exact crispiness he liked (Women Studies 101 echoed something about housewives' finding fulfillment in brainless tasks of an impersonal nature. But I created that bacon my friends, and it was like art. It meant something, something real).

So I've found myself enjoying cooking a little, and I like to make something the kids ask for.

And then Cameron wanted wings.

Which led my uncle to buy this five pound bag of raw whole chicken wings, and led me to almost vomit at the thought of touching raw and bloody chicken. After doing a little squeamish and immature dance of I'd-rather-do-anything-but-touch-this-chicken, I sucked it up and opened the bag. Thus I learned when they say "whole chicken wing", they mean it. It was disgusting, this huge featherless wing from a chicken with loose skin all hanging off it. Gross.

I turned my back to the kids (they're so young! So innocent! They don't have to touch raw chicken!) and after washing the chicken, picked up a big knife to, I quote from the bottle of wing sauce, "Remove the wing tips at the joint." And I encountered the problem of determing which part of the wing was the tip. Ha! I'm stupid, I know. But the whole raw, featherless thing threw me off. After careful consideration and a humbling Googling experience with graphic depictions of violence, I determined the part that was the tip was the part that I never found in the box of wings from Dominoes, the weird little, uh, tip thing. And Google also said to cut off the extra skin around the joints.

Keep in mind that while I eat like crazy, love horror movies, and love my cousins, the thought of touching not only a dead animal, but a featherless naked-looking chicken wing terrifies me. And snapping part of this animal off the other parts of him, then dissecting him at the joints revolted me. But, I'm a big adult now, so I took the butcher knife and kinda as least Jack Nicholson as possible hacked away at the poor chicken wings and snipped-snipped that skin the chickens never even got the chance to tone.

I was left with suitable split chicken wings and the feeling I was now less of a human being. I quietly cleaned the cutting board and counter, even scrubbed the stove in case half a molecule of raw chicken happened to quantum leap ten feet across the kitchen. Then I put the chicken in the refrigerator and went to be alone for a while. I didn't want the kids to see me like this...

Just kidding about the last part. But I swear I saw it in the kids' eyes, they don't want to grow up just yet and be responsible for sawing apart poor chickens.

And that's what I'm doing these days. London doesn't sound half-bad, eh?

'Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn

And something just came to me. The first night I was here, I went to sleep and woke up because the sun was shining all in my room. I looked outside and panicked because it looked like it was 11 o'clock AM and thought I had overslept. But when I checked the time, it was only 4:30 in the morning. I thought I must have set my clock ahead wrong, so I kept looking at the time and back at the sky... Think of this during that weird time where you're not sure if you're really awake or dreaming.

Then I had to accept that the sun rises at four in the morning here...

Thank God I have no sense of time anyway.

So... Where's the Microwave?

Due to unanticipated internet problems, I have not been able to write anything until now. I would have killed to write something about the bizarro world while I was in Copenhagen, but sadly, Chapel Hill's wireless is unfriendly to Europe.

First... flying is kind of surreal to me. I thought it would feel different from what it actually is, but no, it really does feel like you're lifted up and, well, chilling out in the sky for a little while. I wanted to throw up at one point, which I don't think the pregnant girl next to me would have appreciated, but that was only from Raleigh to D.C. Let's see. From D.C. to Copenhagen was the only memorable flight of the three; that's when things began to get European. I was on this huge plane with about a hundred people, 98 of whom were blond. And all these people who had been speaking accent-less English in the airport suddenly turned Norwegian on me. How was this woman beside me Swedish? And that family in front German? Even the flight attendants assumed I was Norwegian (the Swedish woman identified the language for me) and kept asking if I wanted "Tee-ah" (tea). The flight was eight hours across the Atlantic but I didn't have the window seat, so I just saw this cartoon image of the plane flying very slowly over southern Greenland for like five hours on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I was actually glad to be on the aisle since it was such a long flight. I kept getting up just to walk around or go to the bathroom (which are tiny... tiny... tiny... And scared me half to death when I flushed since it was so loud).

I slept for only an hour, but when I woke up, time had jumped from midnight to 6:00 AM, so it was kind of like my schedule at school ha. (Note to Elaine: "Jet-lag" is nothing more than a post-UL morning). And when I landed in Denmark an hour later, I had five hours to kill before my flight. There were a lot of stores in the airport (which is huge), so you think I would not have a problem being occupied for so long. But when you don't speak Danish, have no Danish money, and don't know a single person, regardless of whether you are officially in Europe for the first time, you can get bored. So I people-watched as I usually do and hoped no one could tell I was an American (so I would get neither robbed, abducted, bombed, or offended). I saw a middle-aged business woman fly by on a scooter which threw me off guard. I saw a few other people riding them, so I guess it's not as weird as it would be in the United States. Or maybe I'm clueless and people actually do fly by on scooters in crowded places in the U.S. People dressed kind of like they do at the Weaver Street Market. Nobody had old jeans or ---INTERRUPTION: I just looked out my bedroom window and saw a neighbor with a side part and small little black moustache --- ratty T-shirts. Just imagine a picture you've seen of a street filled with well-dressed Europeans, and insert Krista into it, then you have the idea. (Elf up...).

It was a lot of fun, but you really do feel awkward when you are the foreigner. At least, I do. It's exciting but then also, you have no idea how to do some very simple things. For instance, in the airport I had to go through Passport Control. Keep in my mind I have no idea about all the technicalities involving flying to another country, I just knew I had to have a passport. So I didn't know what I was supposed to do with it or anything. So when someone directed me to the Passport Control box I kind of creeped up to the window and prayed to God the guy spoke English.

"So, um, yeah, is this where I go to ... show my passport?"
"Okay."

I showed him my passport, he stamped a page. I stood there expecting him to say something like, "What are your reasons for travelling? Have you anything to declare?" (What that last one means, I have no idea, but it appeared in my Polish phrasebook).

When he didn't, I realized I should probably go around the stand, but when I did it looked like a big glass window blocking the way. I tried to go around to the other side, but the guy gave me a weird look and kind of glanced at the "window." I went a little closer to this "window" before I realized it was an automatic door that looked different from any other one I had seen. I just sort of quickly walked through and hoped no one saw. Then, when I went to the bathroom, I couldn't figure out how to flush the toilet for the longest time (yes, this is the second time I am mentioning bathrooms). There were these two little metal button things and finally I pushed one and walked out, ashamed. Copenhagen ate me alive...

I changed some money at the airport which I hear you're not supposed to do and got some Polish zlotych and a few Danish coins with some holes in them (oh the sweet earrings!...). I was paranoid about leaving anything unattended (for good reason, I'm sure), so I was lugging my laptop, purse, and a very heavy black duffel bag throughout the airport for five hours. I got creeped out because this dude kept looking at the duffel bag pointedly and then to me, and I saw him maybe four times while walking around. (No, I am not giving the Copenhagen drug exchange symbol by taking out a piece of gum from my purse. You have the wrong girl with the wrong black duffel bag!) But it was pretty awesome, the whole experience of being surrounded by pale people who looked like me, with funny eyes and weird bone structure.

By the time I was on my last flight, I was exhausted. I had consumed probably eight Red Bulls in three days (which is just gross) without eating very much, and had slept about five hours in those three days. I fell asleep as we were taking off (how I managed to fall asleep knowing I could die on that airplane, I don't know) and woke up as we were landing. And getting off the plane, I somehow managed to feel no compulsion to get my luggage that had travelled below the airplane for twelve hours off the belt until I had passed through the Doors of No Return and saw Ms. P.

Ooops and a great first impression. She had to explain to some huge Danish guard wearing fatigues (and looked as though he should be named Ivan) that I am a stupid American and somehow managed to not get my checked luggage. It was all the Red Bulls and lack of sleep! Really! So I was personally escorted back through these gates by "Ivan" and with no dignity left, stood for ten minutes watching luggage go by until my embarrassingly bright neon yellow tags showed up. Then he asked to see my "Pish-pid" (five minutes later: oooh! Passport!) and I could leave. No lost luggage, but the self-respect just hasn't come back.

And those have been the most complicated parts of my adventure so far, but it's all been fun. The family is really nice and the kids are adorable. They are just like those British children you see in the movies, only Polish. They don't watch much T.V. and like traditional things, which I like to see. Lots of knights and swords and castles (Kasper has a map of Sherwood Forest on his wall) and they ride bikes. The youngest, Marcel, is four and is just learning to read Polish, and goes around for hours sounding out words letter by letter, and then saying the whole word. He'll read an entire book this way. They are learning some English words, and I am trying to learn Polish. They laugh when I try to say Polish words... "Truskafka." They don't understand that we don't have three different ways of pronouncing the "ch" sound in English. I tried to teach Cecylia the word "bear" but she could only manage "Brrrr!" I forget that I haven't had a real conversation with them. It's a lot easier than it seems, somehow.

And God, the Sound of Music connections. Carrie, you would love it all. The kids called me and their parents into the living room for a little performance after a meal, and Kasper started beating on this huge drum and Cecylia and Marcel had a choreographed dance routine to go along with it. Not to mention I had this fleeting urge to become a nun when we were picking up the kids from kindergarten (the equivalent of our preschool), and there was the nicest young nun who worked there. I thought for a moment that I too might like to rid myself of this material world and don the robes of the church, but I realized 1) I'm not Christian, 2) I (really) like the Smiths, and 3) this really was getting to be a little too much like the Sound of Music, which I don't even like. So for now, I am still the American au pair.

Some points of interest about Poland might be that the roads are terrifying. I am going to have to learn to drive stick-shift (my worst nightmare) and all the roads are very, very narrow, with only one lane. People pass all the time, there are never cars in a row. People pass even when you are on a country road and there is oncoming traffic. And they slam on their brakes. I am more scared of being on these roads than riding an airplane... And I will have the joy of transporting children via this deathtrap. Lord.

Umm.. and I walked around the large city of Poznan yesterday for a few hours, which was really nice. There are a lot of cafes, pubs, museums... It's the biggest city I've been to, and there were so many people. But the roads are crazy there, too. Mr. P pulled over to drop me off and was talking about where to meet him when we heard this ringing sound. I looked up and there was this huge train face-to-face like five feet from the front of the car. It just came out of no where. Then Mr. P. moved a few inches over and the train inched ahead. Then it went flying by... It was just like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter. I looked outside my window and there were people looking out the bus window just a foot or two away. It was crazy. I almost stepped out in front of another train later, walking around.

I wish I could at least speak enough Polish to have a conversation with a stranger so I could make some friends... There are only so many ways you can go about randomly speaking English to people without being weird. I don't want to not try things because I'm too scared, but I couldn't even tell what the shops were from the outside so it was hard to tell whether I should go in the buildings (they are all converted old buildings, some of them palaces/castles). So I would take my chances on whether a place was a bookstore, a gym, or an erotic store (yes, an erotic store, but that store had its name in English too, thank God). I ate spaghetti and bought a drink from a little window store (I paid with 10 zlotych and got all coins back... I stood waiting for some more change in bills until I looked down and realized there are such things as 5 zlotych coins...). I sat by a fountain and nearly got attacked by black pigeon things which were being terrorized by this two-year-old boy. Then, just a few minutes before I was supposed to be picked up, it started raining, so I asked these two guys standing outside a backdoor to a theater (it was the only close place with an awning) if it was okay if I stood under there while I waited for my ride. One spoke very good English, so I found out these guys were Polish dancers on a smoke break who were putting on a performance called The Dance of the Bat or something. They invited me backstage but unfortunately I had to leave, otherwise I would have had yet another typically me odd encounter. I guess meeting Polish dancers for the Dance of the Bat performance is odd in itself, so we will leave it at that.

And I am kind of tired of typing and trying to remember things so maybe later another weird thing will come to mind.

P.S. - Thank you Jenny and Laura for your letters... I read them between my prayers to God to not let me die on an airplane. I will send postcards as soon as I found out how to buy stamps.

Ron the Customer Service Guy

Okay, this little blog about Poland has to start somewhere. I originally planned to begin it on the airplane once I left RDU, but I think I have found a more appropriate starting place. I guess it's kind of pathetic I haven't even left the U.S. yet and I'm already trying to find something interesting to talk about. But this interesting thing happens to be about a person so I think that makes it okay; this is the story of a customer service representative for United Airlines named Ron.

Elaine laughs about the random people I somehow end up talking to, and I suppose this is a good example of what she means. I don't know why, I guess it's because I'm bored all the time, but I end up talking to people I don't know for quite a while sometimes.

Today's interesting person came about through my paranoia. Planning a big trip by myself kind of provokes this paranoia. I get scared I'm forgetting some big detail or I start worrying that I'm not understanding English the way someone intended. So when I started checking carry-on baggage requirements and read that I can carry a bag with the dimensions up to 9 x 14 x 22 inches "or" with combined dimensions that do not exceed 45 inches, I was confused. Does that mean I couldn't carry a bag with a side 23 inches long? Even if the other sides are shorter than 9 and 14 inches? I've got this black duffel bag I got from some Quiz Bowl thing (shh) that is longer than 22 inches but all the dimensions add up to less than 45 inches.

So the voice in my head said I'd better call. I did and was connected to an "agent" after failing miserably at communicating with Robot Man (Robot Man kept apologizing - "My mistake" - when he couldn't understand my Sanford accent as I said my flight confirmation number).

Agent: [bored voice... the one that telemarketer has on T.V. shows where he talks real slow and sarcastically] This is Ron Somethingsomething... What can I do for you? [in his head, You, the moron who can't even communicate with Robot Man...]

Me: Um, like, see, I had this question. About carry on baggage dimensions. [my wonderful way of explaining myself]

Ron: Combined dimensions, 45 inches.

Me: Yes. I saw some other dimensions...

Ron: 62 inches for checked baggage.

Me: Something else. Like... 9 inches or something. What I mean is, can I have a bag that's longer than 22 inches? Like... 23 inches?

Ron: They're not going to make you check luggage because of an inch. [What he means: "They're not airline Nazis"] Is there anything else I can do for you?

Me: Oh.

Ron: Yeah.

Me: Oh. Well, I wasn't sure how strict they were. See, I've never flown before. I just wanted to make sure... Because this is my first time travelling... [Then comes my habit of rambling, trying to make explanations for my stupidity which just gets me into more trouble all the time]

Ron: Really? Where are you going?

Me: [surprised... Ron is expressing genuine interest in my future? How nice of Ron!] Poland.

Ron: Poland? [in a supposed to be Polish accent... more like Italian] Po polsku!

Me: [completely thrown off by this total change in attitude. But someone who does an accent right off, I respect that. No worrying about seeming weird. And suddenly it was like we were long lost friends...] You speak Polish?

Ron: No.

Me: Me neither.

Ron: What are you doing in Poland? Just going... on a whim?

Me: I'm going to be an au pair.

Ron: [laughs] How many kids do you have to take care of?

Me: Three.

Ron: [snickers] Have you had Polish food?

Me: Um, I've had pierogi.

Ron: [the Italian accent again] Pierogi! What flavors?

Me: Potato and sauerkraut.

Ron: The best kind. [a customer service representative who knows his pierogi... that's qualified!] So you're going to be sitting around... eating pierogi. Where are you flying out from?

Me: RDU.

Ron: I have a daughter who went to State.

Me: I go to Carolina.

Ron: Do you play sports?

Me: No. [haha... haha]

Ron: Well, you can be the pierogi queen instead.

Me: Excuse me?

Ron: You know, like that little Japanese girl who eats all the hot dogs. You think it'd be one of those big men who wins the competition. But it's the little Japanese girl. And so you can be the pierogi queen. Come back with a tiara and sash...

Me: Well, okay... [in head, "Don't they record these customer service things? What will his boss say when he hears this dude talking about pierogi?"]

Ron: Yeah, have you thought about asking the family if they "need" anything?

Me: ... What? ... [in head, Okay, this is sounding weird. What does he mean? Sex, drugs? Oh God Krista, this is what you get for talking to random people!]

Ron: You know, if they "need" anything ... like blue jeans.

Me: ... What? ... [Blue jeans...?]

Ron: Yeah. They're like a commodity. You can sell them for like $500 over there.

Me: Really? [now I really wonder what his boss would say]

Ron: Oh yeah. Let me tell you about this time I went to Germany. The wall was still up. Checkpoint Charlie. You could get from one side to the other, but you had a time limit. You stay out for longer than that time limit, they send out a search party. Now, I was trying to get back in, but this customs guy who looked at my passport kept saying something to me, PLAYbuh?. I just wanted to get back in but he kept asking me, PLAYbuh? PLAYbuh? Finally I get back and the people I'm working for ask if I had any trouble getting back in. I say, "No, just this guy kept saying PLAYbuh and I don't know what he meant." "Oh, that's just Franz. He was trying to see if you had a Playboy. If you would have had one, it'd have been like gold." See? So pack up your Jordache's. Write that down, remember to ask if the family needs anything.

Me: Wow. That's a good idea... [imagining me the au pair trying to hint at the Piskorcies... Do you need anything? Like... blue jeans?]

Ron: Do you plan on drinking over there?

Me: Well, not when I'm watching the kids. [Note to Carrie - I hope you understand that now]

Ron: Eh, just load 'em up with a few shooters, they'll be fine. Just kidding. Ahem. Just don't let the Polish talk you into drinking some of the vodka, like [long list of Polish drinks I know nothing about]. Just don't let let them talk you into it.

Me: You seem to know a lot about that.

Ron: [fondly] Yes, I do know a lot about that. What'd you say your name was again?

Me: Krista. And yours was... ?

Ron: I'm Ron. Well, Krista, I hope you have a fun trip. When you're taking a shot with the Polish, remember me back here.

Me: Yes, I will say, "This is for Ron."

Ron: Ah, yes. You do that. Good night, Krista.

Me: Have a good night, Ron.



I checked the time on my phone when I hung up. I talked to this guy I don't know for over 20 minutes. I don't even talk to my brethren for that long sometimes.

And so I see this conversation as the real beginning of my trip to Poland. Ron the Customer Service Guy symbolizes all my hopes and dreams for a memorable future. So when I'm chowing down on pierogi or throwing back a shot, it's all for Ron, the bored father from Chicago - yes, I also learned he's from Chicago.