supplemental material

In my post from Sunday I had hinted at a video from the weekend. As my exhaustion from the weekend maxed itself out today, I spent a good deal of time resting and doing activities from the comfort and warmth of my room. Here is one of those activities, which I hope you will enjoy. Behold The 4AM Prestwick Prance. Filmed on location in Glasgow Prestwick Airport by the lovely Tina. Enjoy!

tragic travels

I'm not even sure where to begin. I know where the post will end up, given that my vacation to Dublin has commenced, but the start of my travels are exhaustingly dramatic and full of detail that I'd be quick to regret with their omission. So... I begin with the journey to the train station. To set the scene I was traveling with four friends on the trip (Tina: Malta / Barbara: Argentina / Mirco: Germany). This is important to take not of because I'll be referring to specific individuals very much. Our plane from Glasgow was to leave at 7:30AM. Glasgow is approximately 45 minutes from Stirling, and thus getting a bus to the train and a train to the airport all before the gates closed at 7:00AM (including security checks) is something none of us cared to risk. Our other option was, therefore, to travel to the airport at night and stay there. So, we left our dorm around 9:00PM and headed to the school's bus stop. We knew from online that the final train to Glasgow ran at 9:30PM, so we HAD to make that connection. Unfortunately, I have inherited a bit of parent's terrible vacationing habits (Getting robbed in D.C., not talking to one another at the Ocean, being stuck in a desolate cabin with a frozen driveway, etc....), and while we made the train, it wasn't always certainty. You see, we didn't get a bus right away at the station, and once we got on the bus, it was 9:18. By the time the bus was in town, it was 9:26. We ran for the train station, which is two blocks from the bus stop and still had to buy our tickets. As an avid runner, I was quite a ways ahead of the others (with Tina trailing in the back with a full suitcase! Tina.. by the way... is about the size of Danny DeVito. Running isn't her strength). I was going to buy one ticket because if you buy as a group of four or five students, you will get 33% off the trip. I'm all for saving money, but none of the stations to buy tickets were open. I ran right to the man guarding the abandoned gates of Stirling Train Station (on the government's dime, no doubt) and asked for the group ticket. He began working with a hand-held ticket dispenser when the other three ran into the building. At the same time the train was pulling into the platform. It would stay for approximately 45 seconds before vanishing through the dusky night. I told the others to cross the overhead stairs and wait for me on the side of the tracks the train was stopped at. I knew I could run quickly once paying for the ticket. The man was taking his time and I urged that I HAD to make the train. He understood and was very kind but not to quick. He clearly had no idea what to do and wasn't able to process the group discount on his machine. So, with a look to the train, to me, then back at the train, he told me to run and take the train before we were shit out of luck. "But I don't have a ticket" I urged (possibly aggressively). He told me to just go. No other instruction. How thrilling. Now I, along with three friends, was sitting on a train illegally. No one checked the tickets as they occasionally do on the ScotRail, and once we arrived in Glasgow it took only ten minutes of begging, apologizing, and playing the foreigner card to get out of the station with the group discount. 

Out the double doors we went and were greeted by a row of taxis. Now, a bus to the airport runs regularly and costs 6P ($9.20) a person. The taxi, however, was only 5.5P ($8.50) a person since there were four of us. We took the taxi. We took the taxi and we got ourselves screwed like a... well... I won't elaborate. This taxi driver takes us to the airport. Glasgow International Airport. Yes, my friends, there are two airports in Glasgow. As we stepped out of the cab, the driver asked who we were flying with. We told him RyanAir (The United/Delta of Europe). He then told us we were at the wrong airport. RyanAir flies out of Glasgow Prestwick Airport. Now, here's my theory. The b***ard did this on purpose. Who the hell asks that question AFTER he drove us to the airport? Since it was 11:15PM by this point, we had only one option. Pay the taxi driver to take us to the other airport, that was inconveniently located 34 miles from the GIA. While I could hope and hope this bad luck would end soon, I am obliged to report otherwise. Though, in hindsight, it makes me laugh and dip my glasses down on the lower bridge of my nose while looking over the glass and saying "Really?" 

So we arrived at Prestwick Airport. And WOOOOO. What a dump it is. We arrived right before midnight, so we were able to get inside to stay the night. This airport (which none of you have likely entered nor will ever enter in your life... all for the best!) was something else. For beginners, their motto/tagline was 'Pure Dead Brilliant.' I repeat: 'Pure DEAD Brilliant.' You're an airport for goodness's sake. Why would someone ever think that was a good idea to put the word 'DEAD' into an airport's tagline. I was beside myself. The other issue I had with the phrase was that it makes NO SENSE. It is literally three adjectives. You can't do that. You need a noun. Did they mean Brilliance? Think about this for a second. It's like having a grocery store with a tagline: "Fresh colorful tasty." And where are the commas? I swear. It was too much. In addition to an unforgettable slogan, Glasgow Prestwick's claim to fame is that it was the only place in the UK that Elvis Presley had ever stepped foot. He was flying one time and his plane had to stop for more gas. The airport took this story as liberty to decorate with garish, amateur, larger-than-life wall paintings of 'The King.' 

I know... so much exposition, barely any action (and you thought this post would be about Dublin. HA! Dublin is still a sleepless night, trumpet fanfare, and immigration hold-up away). When we begin exploring the airport we right away found where we would sleep. There was a long, red bench that had been comfortably upholstered. There were two students approximately the same age as the four us already on the bench, but there was enough room for more of us. We sat down and set up shop. The two boys were speaking only in French and occasionally glancing towards us all while laughing and continuing their French after doing so. I had the wise idea to begin speaking Spanish to Barbara so they couldn't understand us. Chances are people understand English and so Spanish was the only way I could play this mind came. I tell Barbara what I'm doing and why in Spanish when suddenly one of the boys (Geoffroy) chimed in with his impeccable Spanish. It just so happened he spoke fluently in French and Spanish and dabbled in Japanese. However, he spoke no English. Barbara also speaks fluent French and Spanish as well as English, so the two of them hit it off right away. Both boys had been studying in art school but were out traveling Scotland for the whiskey. They were both enthusiasts. We all passed a bit of time by scrolling through our phones (I didn't take my phone with me. I didn't want to be distracted by it) and playing solitaire (I did take cards!). Soon Barbara and Mirco went to sleep. Neither Tina or I could rest so we wrecked havoc on the empty airport. We took many videos (some may pop up later) that included running up the down escalator and down the up and running through the ribboned queue lines for baggage drop off. Once we settled down, we decided it would be interesting to try and talk with Geoffroy. Though he spoke only several English words ('I don't understand' and 'asshole' among other profanities), Tina and I wanted to have a conversation. So, we sat down and from 2:30-4:00AM and drew pictures, used an iPhone translator (only for an hour - the time allotted for Tina's 5P contribution to the airport internet provider), and forged ourselves through a multitude of topics. 

By 4:30 I was able to sleep a bit. I hadn't been feeling well for several nights previous, and my stuffed nose was causing problems, but I knew not trying to rest might kill me. I "slept" for an hour and was wide awake drinking boiling water and a mushroom/cheddar croissant from Starbucks. We eventually went to security where, once again, the trip provided comedic bliss. Tina (my closest friend here and a dispositional similarity to Kristin Wiig's Aunt Linda impersonation on SNL), being from Malta, has never dealt with strict security. As part of the European Union (EU), she has never followed too strict of guidelines for flying. I was the first to go through security and cleared without beeping. Had I been in the USA I'm sure they would have had something to complain about, but the more lax guidelines let me through. Tina, however, was stopped and padded down. I could not stop laughing. She was cursing in Maltese, which I understood, but the security guard had no idea. After being grabbed from every side, the problem was discovered to be a hair pin she had in her hair. She was required to remove it, which didn't thrill her in the least. The good news was that it was finally time to board the plane.

RyanAir has rather spacious planes (Boeing 737), and Tina and I were able to have our own undisturbed row. Mirco and Barbara (who are dating and were the cause of most of the trip's irritation) sat a row ahead and on the opposite side of the plane. The entire way slept since the seats were much more comfortable than those available in the airport. The ride, however, was a quick 32 minutes. What's worse is when a plane lands on time, RyanAir finds it necessary to blare a trumpet fanfare through the speakers and announce that it has, once again, made it's scheduled landing. 10 minutes fast even! I didn't care when we got there. I didn't need to be scared shitless from the fanfare. As we were exiting the plane (no portal thing. You actually step down the plane's steps onto the runway... just like the President!) I was growing rather giddy over our the misfortune thus far. It was too easy to laugh about it. Mainly because it was pouring down rain as we walked the 50 meters from the plane to the dry inside of the Dublin airport . 

The travels were almost over. We just had to get our passports stamped and move on to our hostel. Since Barbara and I are from the Americas, we were sent to a different line than Mirco and Tina who, as members of the EU, don't get passports stamped but rather just looked over as they walk through a quick line with no questions asked. Our line, approximately fifteen people long, was congested at the front with a woman who took 20 minutes (and likely longer before we had arrived in the line) with the officer stamping the books. If each person was going to take this much time I was going to go crazy. Fortunately everyone else moved through quickly. Barbara was ahead of me and was asked several questions before getting her passport stamped for a three-day ONLY vacation. I walked up after her, the man looked at my passport, asked if I was on vacation, and stamped my book with a large, green stamp that gave me permission to stay in Ireland for 90 days. WIN! As we were walking out of the airport into the receptacle of tourists I saw exactly what was causing the hold up in the line a bit earlier. The woman holding everyone else was immigrating. Needless to say, it's a PROCESS. Boxes upon boxes and luggage beside luggage sat at an immigration counter. I'll just say it right now. That's certainly not a process that I ever wish to go through. 

So that was just the beginning. An adventure and journey in it's own. I thought it was quite necessary (and hopefully entertaining) to ease into the trip and what was to come. Because believe me... there is much more to write about. However, I will have to post the rest at latter time. I expect to have Part 2 of the trip up on Wednesday and Part 3 (Yes, 3 Parts this time!!!) on Friday. Until then!

Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.
                    - Paul Theroux

educational update

Math has always been my strongest subject, and recently it has become my favorite. I must say that I haven't taken a math class since my senior year of high school. Three entire years have gone by and I haven't once been forced to work on a math assignment. Why then is it recently my favorite subject? Because there is one characteristic of math that separates it from all others. POWERPOINTS. Powerpoints are the devil. They're very 2000 and, frankly, are the most offensive forms of communicating valuable information. They're lackluster. They're indolent. They're inane. Yeah, you could argue they have some educational value but let's face it, if there's nothing in the presentation that pops out of the ordinary, students (or any audience of a powerpoint) get bored. What's this have to do with math? Math rarely uses powerpoints. It's much easier for a math professor/teacher to do so by showing the process (i.e. writing it on a board and not saving it as a computer file for years to come). In addition (and the reason I bring the subject up at all), math - with both the subject as a whole and with powerpoints - has no room for error. Decimals cannot be misplaced, spacing cannot be altered, and there are, overall, less errors. Errors in math are errors with the result. Most other subjects (history, English, foreign languages, business, science, fine art studies) can make errors that don't distract... at least that's what a professor thinks.

I start with this for a simple reason. I have class currently called Digital Media & Culture. This course has two parts: A lecture (50+ students )and a seminar (small group of 12 students). I love the seminar. Each week is a debate and discussion on whatever topic we are currently studying (or supposed to be studying. We tend to get off topic!). I look forward to the seminar each week. The lecture, on the other hand, is a waste of my time. I have not come to that conclusion with ease, as I try to find the good out of each situation regardless of my first impression. This lecture, however, has failed at offering beneficial instruction or ideology to contemplate. My professor's weekly powerpoint is a constant, white background with a small 'artsy' wisp running along the top each slide. How original! (I joke) the 30+ slides contain fragment after fragment and bullet point after bullet point. Most punctuation is completely absent, and pictures are rarely organized cohesively. What's worse is that nothing from the powerpoint is material that can't be found in the required course reading (I've learned that 'required' here is the US equivalent of 'optional'). So for 50 minutes each week I could waste my time listening to the mousy ramblings of 'media enthusiast' or I can read the chapter, which will take 20 minutes tops. Since I've bought the book, I will choose to read. I have only skipped one lecture, but there are likely few others I will attend. This past week there were 8 students in the lecture theatre. A space that holds around 300 students. 8 (out of the 60 that take the class) showed up and sat near the back: myself included (I normally sit closer to the front but last Tuesday I was running late and hadn't showered before heading to class). 

This brings me to an opinion/observation that I am sad to report. The educational value of my studies in the United Kingdom (strictly educational. This doesn't include personal development) is far less than 1) I expected and 2) Than my studies in good ol' Berea, OH. There's an extreme lack of investment and the passion of professors is so pitiful that I often wish they would tape and listen to themselves ramble. That's precisely what a lot of it is: Rambling. I of course don't intend for this to sound like one large complaint. I am still learning much, especially from my Experimental Cinema course. I just wish I were being challenged a bit more academically. 

So yesterday I decided to finally visit Stirling Castle, which is conveniently located in town. I'll did pay to go in, which I struggled with but it's irrelevant now. I truly believe, as I have argued time and time again, that the most thrilling and worth-while sights in the world will never cost a dime to see (Except Versailles. I'd pay to tour in a heartbeat). The castle, once home to James I, and most famously Mary Queen of Scots (only for a bit, given her tendencies to run away from wherever she was) was beautiful. The gardens were quaint and well-kept but the inside was almost pitted out. Mostly just the 'skeleton' of the castle was to be seen with many rooms just recently opened and restored by decree of HRM Elizabeth II. There was very little furniture/furnishing, which was sad, but some portions were pretty amazing. We went into one room where a woman was talking about her work of making tapestries. The entire room was the home of one large loom which she had accomplished about 6 or 7 inches of the massive tapestry commissioned by the Scotland. It was very interesting to hear her talk about the differences she must incorporate, including actual gold-coated yarn. Who'd have thunk it! 

Now, in news unrelated to Scotland, I have confirmed my summer plans, which is super exciting for me. After too many stressful Skype interviews complicated with schedule differences due to the 5-hour time difference, I will be working at Weston Playhouse Theatre Company in Vermont. Yes, this is where I worked last summer, but now I won't be an intern (on an intern's pay) and I have a better title! I will be Assistant Stage Manager for the musical Next To Normal, as well as the classic drama To Kill A Mockingbird. I'm very excited, as I get to work with Broadway designers, directors, and actors for both shows. One step closer to what I've always wanted to do.

This coming week I will be traveling to Dublin, Ireland, so you can expect some more pictures soon (or a video if I have time to waste).

What would be ugly in a garden constitutes beauty in a mountain
                                 -Victor Hugo

the weather

Don't know why, there's no sun up in the sky, Scottish weather. Keeps rainin' all the time. Now picture this, a Scot, a real-big, burly, Scottish man singing (or woman) singing Stormy Weather at the local pub I've discussed during karaoke night. I've never seen it, but from the jumbled images coming into focus in my head, it sounds like a Scottish must!

Scotland is synonymous with rain (and sometimes Haggis). If you were lying on the couch of a new therapist who was trying to get an understanding of your mind through word association games, you'd likely answer 'rain' to the word Scotland. Though in all honesty, the weather is quite different then some would suspect. My first day here I went to buy an umbrella. I had a feeling I would need it a lot, but I was very mistaken. I have yet to use the umbrella, which irks me just a bit since I don't plan to bring it home with me. Sure, it rains. Not a lot. And as I've come to realize, the weather pattern is very consistent from one day to the next. In the morning the sun shines brightly through the faded, blue blinders of my room. My hopes for the day are as high as the residents who live directly under me (What a thrill it is each night to have to shut my window to avoid shot-gunning while writing papers), though I don't expect the sun to stay for long. By the time I've gotten ready for the day, the sky is covered with clouds but still no sign of rain. I will note, once a week it's raining in the morning. This, however, is the exception and is a good sign because the rest of the day will be filled with sunny skies. 

But for all the days that start sunny, I know not to wear my nice shoes. It's bound to drizzle eventually.

When it finally 'rains' each day (at least 6 days of the week have at least one spurt of rain), it's a sign for better weather. The rain will subside within an hour's time normally to make way for a crystal-clear sky during the hours of the sunset. As for the temperature, we are approaching 10/11 degrees for the coming week (about 49-51 Fahrenheit) with expected rain. While I have quickly become a fan of the daily rain and its cleansing qualities, the temperature has been a bit of a nuisance. It's as if I'm stuck in a never-ending season only to be described as a mix of winter and spring without the benefits of either. Snow doesn't stay, and the rain is never warm. Don't get me wrong, I love the weather dearly, but I'd love to run a day or two without a hat. I've never been a big hat person. 

Before I get to 'The Goods' of this post, I should also mention that following the weather forecast online here is one of the stupidest wastes of time. The cute little icon will change at least three times each day, from sun to rain and back to sun, often with a cloud icon in at one point. My advice... don't ever let the pre-conceived notions of Scottish weather stop you from visiting. You won't need those swamp boots like you probably thought you did. Some water-proof shoes would suit you just fine. 

Since this past week and this coming week are both essay weeks for me (long essays due on tedious topics of artistic aesthetic and disputing 'realness') I will stop writing and share some photos. No quote this week, though. 

OH!!! And I almost forgot the most important topic I was going to cover. So before the pictures, I must must must share the stories of The Baroness's passing last week. I don't think I talked about it in my last post, but I did pay tribute with a Thatcher quote on my picture. I'm not quite sure if there's a USA equivalent to Thatcher's polarization throughout The United Kingdom. As I'm sure the stories have reached American soil, they can't even begin to describe the craziness. Forgive me if this story is already known to you, but the BBC's weekly Top 40 songs (based on top sales) this week included 'Ding Dong The Witch is Dead' (Sadly, not the Barbra Streisand version :( ) The 75 year-old song has sold over 400,000 mp3 files, making it one of the week's Top 40. The BBC, however, is only allowing for 5 seconds of the song to be heard on the radio, given it's reason behind the rise of popularity (something that I'm fairly certain would never happen in The United States, given our freer media.) In addition, one of my seminar courses broke out into argument on the subject of Tweets that read, "Condolences to my British friends for the 1980s" (@tejucole), "Nope. She's not here" (@DianaInHeaven), and "What a terrible shame - that it wasn't 87 years earlier" (@mrmarksteel).  Regardless, it's very heated here. Just yesterday the United States Embassy in London issued a watch for potential riots, violence, and other demonstrations. I'm certain all will be fine, but I thought it a notable story. 

Now, onto the pictures! (Ignore some of Roy Liechtenstein-esque photo-filters. For some reason there are a several.)

There's no filter on this picutre. It's a restaurant in Edinburgh that I walked past
while exploring all the city has to offer. 

I had six hours to explore Edinburgh while waiting for the Megabus to depart for London.
So, I stopped at this cafe and did some school work.
 Some of the best soup I've ever had (besides Goulash).

Even the mannequins in The U.K. have more class than the average United States citizen.
The mustaches are so sophisticated!  

Her Royal Majesty's home.

Victoria Memorial right across from Buckingham Palace.
Arguably more beautiful than the Palace itself. 

The Gielgud Theatre, home of The Audience.

Trafalgar Square is stunning and a remarkable commemoration of Britain's victory in the Napoleonic Battle of Trafalgar. Seen here is one of London's many aquatic-themed statues alluding to The greatness of The British Navy 

I'm not quite sure the name of this building, but it was stunning nonetheless. To get here, one walks through an arch that leads to an empty courtyard. The building connects almost 360 degrees.

This is inside the Gielgud Theatre. The lobbies of all the theatres are terribly small and crowded, as are the actual theatres. However, it makes for a much more intimate experience.

This is Borough Market, an endless journey into the world of food. I went to an exotic food station here, where I tried a kangaroo burger (which was unimaginably delectable.)
They also had python, camel, and ostrich as other options.

No explanation needed.

This was taken right outside the Westminster Subway Line. Speaking of the subways... the easiest system to comprehend. The basically say have flash screens letting you know where the current stop is, the next stop will be, and what you'll find there.

While I may have been too cheap to go in, I did take a picture! The Mother Queen, Her Royal Majesty, and most recently William & Kate were all married in this Abbey.
 (Not going in may be one of my mistakes of the trip, but I'm confident that one day I will be back)

Written on the wall opposite of The Globe Theatre.

Millenium Bridge is an impressive architectural structure used only for walkers to cross The Thames.

The Globe Theatre

The line to get your picture with this was like a Ceder Point queue. 

This was the box Cherish and I sat in for Peter & Alice. We were quite close to Dame Dench.

A table at the ice bar!

I've always loved chewing ice. Some will argue that's iron deficiency while others claim sexual frustration. Regardless, I chomped away at my glass after finishing my drink.

London at night!

This store, located on Portobello Road, had the walls made of sewing machines.
And yes, they were all real. 

I stopped at this restaurant one day not knowing anything about it. It just looked nice.
The food was ambrosial and the system to pay was sweet. When you ordered at the counter, you just swiped this card they give you. Then when you leave, you take your card up and pay for whatever you swiped. It made lines go quicker and no one had to wait for a cheque. 

Loris, from tea. He was a gem.

Cherish, Theo and I sitting in front of the Thames.

It has already caught on in some major cities (NYC, in particular) but should be more available.
They're rented bikes with stands every couple blocks. The bike cannot be taken apart and are practically indestructible.

A real goose. I was in shock. I don't think I had ever seen one before. Not those silly, Canadian ones.

Tea and me.

The fanciest.

From left to right: Rufaro (Cherish's brother), Theo (Cherish's best friend), Cherish, and me.
This is still at tea. 

The ice bar.

act II

Tea at Harrods is the normal thing to do (so I hear) for those who wish to experience a classier British tradition. Unfortunately, the tearoom at Harrods is under construction, and so tea had to be had different establishment: A four-star hotel/bar/tearoom/restaurant in the 5^th Avenue equivalent of London.  Greeted at the door by a man in coat tails and a top hat, we entered into the atrium that I couldn’t even begin to describe. We walked through the bar with the faint sounds of Betty Buckley’s Memory in the background and entered the tearoom. Betty was the first sign that this was going to be incomparable to all of London. This was going to be an event. Once we arrived in the tearoom, the waiter pulled each of our chairs out for us to sit in, took our napkins and set them on our laps. We were to do none of that. I’ll skip the details of our tea conversation, but we laughed a great deal trying to decide what one discusses during tea. Everything about the tea was marvelous, and when our waiter (who’s name was Loris) came back, we were still laughing from all the extremeness of the event. He laughed with us a bit and told us, “Life is too short and too sad not to laugh.” I couldn’t have said it better myself, Loris. *For any of you care to check this place out, CLICK HERE for the website. A bit down the road I should be able to post some pictures we took. Oh… and before I move onto the next portion of the day, I have to at least mention the toilets (they don’t use the word restroom, which I find disturbing.)  Anyway, there were leather couches and chairs in the bathroom as well as a natural hand-soap selection and moisturizer. As for paper towels and obnoxiously loud and inefficient hand-drying machines (Yep, those ones that expose every human being’s impatience) there were none. You were to dry your hands with one of the 100 or so neatly rolled, hand towels aligning the sidewall and then dispose of it in the woven basket next to the sink. I would have spent a good deal of my day in the restroom, but there were places to go and things sights to see.

Once we left we headed to Oxford street for a bit of shopping. None of us had the intention to actually shop, as Oxford Street is more for, let’s say, those in the 1%. So instead of going into the top shops, we settled for shopping center with Prada, Burberry, Louis Vuitton, and other over-priced, desperately-drooled-over, designer clothing. We looked and didn’t dare touch the merchandise. After not too long we decided to sight see a bit more. Now, one thing I’m certain has been clear from my posts is my cheapness. I’m very money conscious, and I find it ridiculous to pay to get into a building: especially a church. Westminster Abbey cost 16£ to enter. I was appalled, so I didn’t go in. I did see it, though! That has to count for something. I did, however, go into St. Margaret’s Church, which is right next to Westminster. I very nice church, it is the final resting place of Sir Walter Raleigh, who’s epitaph read, “Should you reflect on his errors, Remember his many virtues, And that he was mortal.” A lesson relevant for more than just Raleigh’s tombstone. We traveled all around the city, walking by Shakespeare’s Globe on the way to the Tate Modern Museum, which was closed (I got to go Friday, though so it’s all good!). Cherish and I then split from the other two to go see DAME Judi Dench in Peter & Alice, a play about the two young, now grown (clearly, since Judi’s not getting any younger), children who inspired the books Peter Pan  and Alice Through The Looking Glass, respectively.  The play was beautifully painful and joylessly enticing. I know that doesn’t make the play sound any good, but it was worth every pence! Cherish and I sat in the box seats, so we were within fifteen feet of the stage, which was remarkable. Dame Dench’s acting was impeccable, but the best acting came not from the Dame but rather, Ben Whishaw (Q in Skyfall). However, by the end of the play I was confronted with the most emotional inquiring, which my mind still wonders to each day. At what moment do we stop being children? Is it a moment or a process?

Enough of that!

After the play traveled to an Icebar by IceHotel. For 40 minutes, we went into a room made 100% of ice and partied with our iced drinks and frozen fingers. I’ll be posting pictures soon. It was one of those experiences I’m thrilled I did but will never do again. Too cold for my taste.

My final day in London started nice and early with a 7:30AM alarm. This may not sound early for all you teachers out there, but for this college student who has class starting at 1:00PM each day, 7:30 is EARLY! I did this because I desperately wanted to see one more show: The hottest ticket in town. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time was recently transferred from The National Theatre, and the current production is the only one in London with a 5 star review from every newspaper. Fortunately I got a ticket after waiting for 2 hours, but I had many hours until the show. So, I traveled a bit more. My two main destination was Portobello Road, but on the journey I stopped at a great number of stores including a record store where every record was 10 pence (I bought a Shirley Bassey LP!) and a store of all vintage clothing and items. I took a video of this place because it was wickedly exciting. Nothing was older than 1970, and though I didn’t purchase anything, it was quite a treat just to walk through the atmospheric shop and explore decades I never experienced first hand.

Portobello Road, as any who have been to London will attest to, is one of the most difficult places to find. For how well-known the daily street market is, the two subway transfers and countless road-turns would make the journey difficult for anyone without a map and sense of general direction. Once on the right path, it became clear which way the market was. A street where the riches of ages are stowed. Anything and everything a chap can unload is sold off the barrow in Portobello Road. A pen used by Shelley! A new Boticellli! Even the sniper that clipped old King Edward’s cigars! (Thanks, Sherman Brothers.) I spent hours sifting through the treasures of the market, which stretched close to ten blocks. A good lot was terribly expensive, as there were solid-gold pocket watches, ceramic pieces from the Dark Ages (Middle Ages, or Medieval Times, whichever classification you prefer to use for 500-1500 A.D.) *SIDE NOTE: The different names for those years reminds me of what one of my ‘acquaintances’ (I use that term lightly) said when discussing The Civil War a couple weeks ago. She had corrected me by saying, ‘You mean the War of Northern Aggression.’ I was shocked. I guess it all depends on how you look at it. That’s beside the point though. The treasures to be found at the market are indescribable.  I was seconds away from buying an authentic Burberry coat for 60£, but decided against it because I barely have room in my suitcase for the things I’ve already collected here.

The night came rather quickly and it was time for my final show in London. One I was most looking forward to. The piece, based off the best-selling novel of the same name, is a first-person approach to Asperger’s Syndrome and the struggle of the condition not only from Christopher, the one with the syndrome, but also from his neighbors, parents, teachers, and anyone he encounters. The show was very touching and was a true theatrical experience. The design of the stage was the most fascinating concept I have ever seen. Millions of lights encased the story in a blank box illuminated and illustrated not by the typical set piece but by lights representing houses, trains, escalators, and subway platforms. It was a brilliant show, and I won a button for having a name that is a prime number! (Give each letter of your name an alphabet value: A=1 B=2, the count up all the numbers of your first and last name) My name = 137, so I now have an orange button with a white, hand-drawn smile face representing a pivotal part in the show’s story.

I didn’t care to stay out much later than the ending of the show (it was 2 hours and 40 minutes), so I headed back to my hostel and packed for my departure in the wee hours of morning.

The drive back to Stirling was remarkable. After stopping first in New Castle, England to drop all but three of the bus’s occupants, I was able to have my own seat where I could prop my feet up. The sun was shining for the first time since leaving Scotland, as if it was a warm welcoming back home. I had missed Scotland greatly. It’s greenness, it’s polite rain, and it’s pacificity. The bus drove alongside the Eastern shore board, and for the remaining three hours I saw some of the most gorgeous sights. Cliffs galore with drops of more than 100 meters and islands of only a mountain (I know, it sounds weird but they’re real. Dunbar if you car to look it up on Google maps). There were even several castles along the way.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t too sad to be out of London. It was a nice city, but it wasn’t for me. Scotland has effortlessly made its way into my heart and will stay that way. I’ll take a green mountain to a skyscraper any day.

To me, concusses seems to be the processes of abandoning all beliefs, principles, values, and policies.
                                                       -Margaret Thatcher

act I

A good tourist knows how to read a map. A better tourist knows how to fold it up quickly. The best will never be seen with a map and will look very similar to the locals. Yes, London would not be the same as it is without its millions of tourists, buses, and pigeons, but that’s no excuse for us, the tourists, to forget common decencies when in a foreign area. After three full days in Her Royal Majesty’s hometown, I’m more than thrilled to admit (or brag) that I was stopped three times on the street to be asked directions. That, my faithful readers, is a good tourist if I do say so myself.

Beginning with my actual act of traveling may be a bit boring to some, but I can hardly find reason to discuss a journey if I don’t first discuss how it all began. Because let’s be honest. Our mood on a trip is completely dependent upon on those painfully long journeys. That’s precisely what mine was. Painfully long. I normally sleep like a baby, but when it comes to sitting up and sleeping, I cannot physically do that. So, on planes (like the one to Scotland and the one I’m dreading back to the states) and buses I’m at a major loss. The first part of the trip was not too terrible. I had met two girls from The United States were both studying in Paris. We talked about for a bit and I called it quits to try and at least close my eyes on the overnight bus ride. We left at 10PM. The bus was scheduled to arrive at 7:30AM.  The journey went quickly to hell once we stopped to get more people in England (I can’t remember where. It was 3:40 in the morning, so I was a bit unaware of my surroundings). I had had my own seat up to this point, but now the bus was going to be full. In walks a very proper young woman close to 6’ and very well dressed. She headed towards the seat next to mine and right before stashing her designer bag into the cabin overheard, continued to walk once she saw a window seat in the back. I was devastated, but not as much as when two tawdry women (British rubbish as some would say) sat one beside me and one in front. 3:40 AM. Loud, brassy, ceaselessly-chattering, woman.

When we arrived in London, I agreed to walk around for the day with the two girls I had met (one was actually from Ohio and goes to Case Western). This turned out to be another tragedy of my trip. I guess England - not being successfully invaded since 1066 - goes even further than ruining militaries but also visitors’ aspirations. We first get off the bus and head to the station. There I had the privilege to pee for 30p. Yes, England charges for toilet use. For that much money I also changed my clothes, making me look a bit more like a Londoner. The three of us headed off, and I quickly realized we wouldn’t be traveling together for long. They were constant complainers. Always looking at the rubbish on the ground rather than the luxury of a blue sky. We walked first to Buckingham Palace, which was practically unoccupied outside. It was a Wednesday morning, which was fortunate. There are rarely tourists about on Wednesdays. We took some pictures, which included them urging me to get one posing in front of the Palace. I laughed at the absurdity of such an idea. It’s not my home. Why would I take picture in front of it?

We began walking towards the West End so I could get in line to get tickets to a show that evening. After only a block, the complaints from the two (due to frigid weather) were too much for me to handle. We went our separate ways at Piccadilly Street. I then headed to get tickets. My trip was now on the upswing. After buying standing room tickets for the matinee showing of The Audience for only 10£. I headed in search for my hostel to drop off my bags. Once I exited the station that I knew was correct, I felt like the world was rewarding me for my dismal traveling. As I emerged from the London subways (designed more similarly to Washington D.C.’s than to New York’s) the hostel I was to be staying at was right across the street. I went upstairs and entered splendid room. I had never been in a hostel before, so I was quite hesitant about the experience. I had always heard horror stories of computers being stolen, people being assaulted, and various other awful stories. None of these things happened to me. No one really talked to one another (many people slept at different hours of the day likely because of jetlag), but that’s fine because I was rarely there anyways. 

I headed back into town and still had a bit of time to spare before the show, so I explored Trafalgar Square. It was simply stunning, and will likely show up in my next video montage, whenever that may be. I headed to the Adelphi Theatre, which is a bit of a walk from all the others to check if there were tickets available this week to The Bodyguard (based on the movie, which was originally intended for Steve McQueen and Barbra Streisand. Luckily they both turned the role down. Can you imagine how awful that would have been? Barbra in the role of a submissive woman, who NEEDS a man? No mega-star break for Whitney Houston?). As I walked into the theatre to inquire about tickets, it just so happened that they had one front-row seat available for 25£. I took it. I knew I may be completely worn out for the show, given I hadn’t slept the night before and that I was going to be standing for 2 hours and 20 minutes for The Audience, but I didn’t care. It was all for the love of theatre.

Now, here’s when I could go into great detail about the shows I saw, but I’m sure many of you could care less. Rather, a general overview of my thoughts would be more appreciated. While I feel discussing it in any condescended manner seems unfair to the show, I will do it this once. So first, The Audience. This show is about the weekly, private meetings between Her Royal Majesty and The Prime Minister. While constructing a play out of conversation unknown, I was expecting an overly fabricated story. Instead, for two and a half hours I stood in the back of a theatre mesmerized by the story of a queen who was constantly confronted by her childhood self who yearned only to ride bikes with friends, live in Scotland, and that her parents would have a son, thus freeing her from the thrown. Words can’t even do justice to the production. It has replaced my best theatrical experience of all time, Follies, which was quite a high standard. Helen Mirren (Oscar winner for The Queen) plays HRM in the show, and does so with a precision actors can only hope to achieve.

Later in the night I saw The Bodyguard, which starred Heather Headley (Tony Award winner for Aida). The show, though weak on the writing, was thoroughly entertaining and kept me awake the entire time. Granted, I was in the front row right next to the speakers, but hearing all the classic Whitney Houston songs was brilliant. Slightly heartbreaking, but a bit mundanely so.

On Thursday I was meeting up with a friend with whom I became acquainted back at Baldwin Wallace. Cherish studied at BW and lives in London, so when I traveled there, I wanted to make sure we met up. Before doing so, I traveled some on my own to Platform 9 ¾, Parliament, and several other places that are escaping my mind (I’m typing this on the bus-ride back to Scotland. Fortunately, my seat neighbor is much better. In fact, this whole bus is rather kind and well behaved. The girls next to me are a bit giddy because just last night they were seeing One Direction. By seeing of course I mean watching the concert, buying the bag, reading the embellished programs and taking it as far as learning choreography from their music videos which they are rehearsing as I type. No joke.) I digress. When Cherish and I met up, my day became one I’ll remember forever. But you'll have to wait until Wednesday to hear.

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
                            -Alfred Lord Tennyson