Saturday, June 29
Ended up going out on the piss last night- that's the cool thing about hostels, there's always someone wanting to go out, and even if you're just vegging out in the tv room waiting for your brain to implode you can manage to get invited out. Ended up being a really big group. We hit two pubs, I ended up geting stuck with a half-full pint just as we were leaving both of them, and this probably had a lot to do with my staggering home at two am discussing the philosophical similarities between Neitze and Ayn Rand and the personal/economic/social ramifications of the practical application of aforesaid with a very nice Ozzie, and having serious difficulties with curbs, too. I made it home though. It was all cool.
The Ozzie turned out to be one of my roomates and I decided, after waking up, that I'd be staying another day. I still retain my spectacular luck with hangovers, the lack thereof, but I was really not feeling up to crawling onto a ferry, riding three hours, and taking a six-hour train. I'll go tomorrow. So he and I explored Dublin for most of the morning. It's a really cool town and not just because it's covered in pubs. We went all up and down the canal, found the local phallic monument and took pictures of it, drifted our way through a museum (student prices rock, and she didn't even ask to see ID), had lunch on him because I kept forgetting to stop at the ATM (I've paid him back now though), and discussed more philosophy, September 11th, the Internet, post-modernism... other stuff. I forget. Some of this was also, I have the nervous feeling, discussed in the pub last night, but that's okay. We had fun. I'd forgotten how cool it was to explore *with* someone.
On the way back to the hostel we stumbled across a gay pride parade, which was a hoot. Drag queens dancing to eighties music on floats. They looked like they were having fun, and we thought it was great, so everybody was happy. Took pictures. The front float was a great, well, I'll-let-you-guess-shaped balloony thing with 'Put On The Rubber!' written on it. Down the main street of Dublin, Ireland, no less. Good craic.
No idea what I'll do tonight. Hopefully nothing too energetic as I really, really must leave tomorrow... but who knows. And now, to watch crummy daytime tv and discuss commercialism in America.
The Ozzie turned out to be one of my roomates and I decided, after waking up, that I'd be staying another day. I still retain my spectacular luck with hangovers, the lack thereof, but I was really not feeling up to crawling onto a ferry, riding three hours, and taking a six-hour train. I'll go tomorrow. So he and I explored Dublin for most of the morning. It's a really cool town and not just because it's covered in pubs. We went all up and down the canal, found the local phallic monument and took pictures of it, drifted our way through a museum (student prices rock, and she didn't even ask to see ID), had lunch on him because I kept forgetting to stop at the ATM (I've paid him back now though), and discussed more philosophy, September 11th, the Internet, post-modernism... other stuff. I forget. Some of this was also, I have the nervous feeling, discussed in the pub last night, but that's okay. We had fun. I'd forgotten how cool it was to explore *with* someone.
On the way back to the hostel we stumbled across a gay pride parade, which was a hoot. Drag queens dancing to eighties music on floats. They looked like they were having fun, and we thought it was great, so everybody was happy. Took pictures. The front float was a great, well, I'll-let-you-guess-shaped balloony thing with 'Put On The Rubber!' written on it. Down the main street of Dublin, Ireland, no less. Good craic.
No idea what I'll do tonight. Hopefully nothing too energetic as I really, really must leave tomorrow... but who knows. And now, to watch crummy daytime tv and discuss commercialism in America.
Hell of a bus ride from Cork to Birr. I had the bright idea, when I got there, to spare the family I was staying with the trouble of picking me up by finding the place myself. Bad notion. After an hour I gave up and rung.
They were exceptionally nice folks who fed me, showed me around, let me stay the night, and generally tried to make me welcome in every way, but if I'd realized that they were already putting up the husband's brother's three kids while said brother was on holiday in Crete I never would have gone. The poor folks had three kids themselves, and with six under-twelves running around underfoot the last thing they needed was a hapless American wandering about trying to talk to them. I tried to make myself useful in every way I could, anyway; and the three new kids had come with an au par, so they weren't totally overworked. Just extremely overworked.
Good kids, though, all six, and a really lovely farm. The au par and I had some fun talking as well- she's my age, essentially doing what I'm doing, although obviously in a different area- and I think she was happy to have someone to talk to who wasn't an employer or dribbling and screaming, 'Jack took my toy! Jack took my toy!' The kids got my laptop for a while, an intensely popular move. The farm itself was very cool; on lease from the Birr Castle Demesne, right up against the castle gardens themselves, and very impressively well-run.
I left about one this afternoon (the kids were touchingly sad to see me go and wanted to know when I would come back, but rather spoiled it by requesting anxiously that I bring the laptop next time too) and had another massive bus ride to Dublin. Bad news- my friend in Peterburough won't be able to put me up; he's got work. This was a big disappointment to me because I've been trying to get up and see him for the entire five months I've been here. This was my last chance. We agreed, rather ruefully, that we were jinxed, and he said he'd take me out to dinner in London before I left.
Hard to believe that I'm leaving on *Tuesday*. Dammit, where did the month go?
They were exceptionally nice folks who fed me, showed me around, let me stay the night, and generally tried to make me welcome in every way, but if I'd realized that they were already putting up the husband's brother's three kids while said brother was on holiday in Crete I never would have gone. The poor folks had three kids themselves, and with six under-twelves running around underfoot the last thing they needed was a hapless American wandering about trying to talk to them. I tried to make myself useful in every way I could, anyway; and the three new kids had come with an au par, so they weren't totally overworked. Just extremely overworked.
Good kids, though, all six, and a really lovely farm. The au par and I had some fun talking as well- she's my age, essentially doing what I'm doing, although obviously in a different area- and I think she was happy to have someone to talk to who wasn't an employer or dribbling and screaming, 'Jack took my toy! Jack took my toy!' The kids got my laptop for a while, an intensely popular move. The farm itself was very cool; on lease from the Birr Castle Demesne, right up against the castle gardens themselves, and very impressively well-run.
I left about one this afternoon (the kids were touchingly sad to see me go and wanted to know when I would come back, but rather spoiled it by requesting anxiously that I bring the laptop next time too) and had another massive bus ride to Dublin. Bad news- my friend in Peterburough won't be able to put me up; he's got work. This was a big disappointment to me because I've been trying to get up and see him for the entire five months I've been here. This was my last chance. We agreed, rather ruefully, that we were jinxed, and he said he'd take me out to dinner in London before I left.
Hard to believe that I'm leaving on *Tuesday*. Dammit, where did the month go?
Thursday, June 27
Update, to get me more or less back on schedule:
Interesting people, the Irish. Make me think of a friend of mine back home- they'd suit him perfectly. His schedule, especially. Nobody really gets up or opens stores or so on before 10 am, and things quite often stay open till 11 pm. He'd love the music, too- there's always music everywhere. And the copious quantities of drink would probably suit his fancy... I went to Macroon for a bit, this afternoon, but the intriguing market I'd spotted yesterday had mysteriously vanished, so I wandered around a bit and went home. That was okay. I'd found a bookstore in the morning and managed to read, standing up, two comic book collections, and bought a third (Neil Gaiman, yeah.) I am rapidly becoming a comic addict, which is a shame, as they're an expensive habit; I've found another one I want to follow... they seem to catch my head somehow, and I end up drifting through a cloud for the rest of the day, which is why I liked the bus... it gave me time to just sit and think. I like doing that. It's difficult to do it in hostels, though- too many distractions, people look at you funny, and so on- and walking, which is my usual solution, wasn't sounding so good to my lower back. A bus was perfect. *Good* comics, and I've just had the strangest person pop up in my head, but s/he and I aren't really aquainted yet and so s/he's just going to have to drift around back there for a while. I've got a hell of an overload on people in my head right now.
Also found 'Myths and Magic: the Complete Fantasy Reference', which has stuff about, oh, magic and cultures and castles and all *kinds* of stuff- a real reference find. Cool. I've been browsing for an hour or two. Must stop soon, though. I'm seriously needing to work on the novel instead... in fact, I'm going to stop rambling now. For one thing, my head's still messed up with Sandman and comic book pictures, and I'm not making any sense. For another, I really *do* have work to do.
Interesting people, the Irish. Make me think of a friend of mine back home- they'd suit him perfectly. His schedule, especially. Nobody really gets up or opens stores or so on before 10 am, and things quite often stay open till 11 pm. He'd love the music, too- there's always music everywhere. And the copious quantities of drink would probably suit his fancy... I went to Macroon for a bit, this afternoon, but the intriguing market I'd spotted yesterday had mysteriously vanished, so I wandered around a bit and went home. That was okay. I'd found a bookstore in the morning and managed to read, standing up, two comic book collections, and bought a third (Neil Gaiman, yeah.) I am rapidly becoming a comic addict, which is a shame, as they're an expensive habit; I've found another one I want to follow... they seem to catch my head somehow, and I end up drifting through a cloud for the rest of the day, which is why I liked the bus... it gave me time to just sit and think. I like doing that. It's difficult to do it in hostels, though- too many distractions, people look at you funny, and so on- and walking, which is my usual solution, wasn't sounding so good to my lower back. A bus was perfect. *Good* comics, and I've just had the strangest person pop up in my head, but s/he and I aren't really aquainted yet and so s/he's just going to have to drift around back there for a while. I've got a hell of an overload on people in my head right now.
Also found 'Myths and Magic: the Complete Fantasy Reference', which has stuff about, oh, magic and cultures and castles and all *kinds* of stuff- a real reference find. Cool. I've been browsing for an hour or two. Must stop soon, though. I'm seriously needing to work on the novel instead... in fact, I'm going to stop rambling now. For one thing, my head's still messed up with Sandman and comic book pictures, and I'm not making any sense. For another, I really *do* have work to do.
Wednesday, June 26
Cork is fairly boring- at least the city. I wandered around for a few hours yesterday, but it's really a pretty big town, and highly industrial as well. Ah well. I could only get hold of one of my farmers, too, so that sucks: and the computers at the hostel are about a 100 years old, particularly the keyboards, so this won't be a very long post. I'm starting to panic, really. I leave, as my mother pointed out, next Tuesday- a week from, Jesus, yesterday. I want to see some farms. I want to visit my friend in Peterburough. I want to get my novel in final-critique state. I *have* to be back in London by Monday. My brain is starting to make 'pop, pop, fizz, fizz' noises. Such is life.
Strangely, my legs don't hurt from my slightly-over-twenty-mile hike on Monday, but my lower back does. Lower back? Okay. My body is not actually trying to make sense; it's just punishing me in as novel a way as possible.
Strangely, my legs don't hurt from my slightly-over-twenty-mile hike on Monday, but my lower back does. Lower back? Okay. My body is not actually trying to make sense; it's just punishing me in as novel a way as possible.
Tuesday, June 25
Well... not *exactly* the day I planned....
Started off well enough, except that I cheerfully took the wrong road out of town. I swear, I could get lost in my own back yard- well, technically my back yard is 70 acres of cutover land now covered in a maze of brush and bramble, so that doesn't count, but even if I had a *normal* backyard, I'd get lost in it. I'd invest in a compass but I've never been able to make the damn things work.
Anyway, I hiked about an hour in the wrong direction, then had to hike back, then had to hike an hour in the *right* direction to get myself into the national forest, but after that things were very cool. I hiked through the old Muckross estate first, and got to explore the old abbey, which was... weird. Very. Lovely old abandoned place, all these ancient, moss-covered trees in avenues up to it, surrounded by a graveyard, these long, half-ruined, dark corridors... I guess I'd say it was spooky, except that I wasn't in the least scared; it was just... haunting. Beautiful and sad. I felt like I was walking through some old book, like I should be walking quietly, not speaking, just looking. There was a great old tree growing from the centre of the abbey; the abbey was built around it... it took me a long time to shake the strangeness of the place.
I saw Muckross house from the outside, but they were charging admission and anyway I was beginning to be time-concious, so I had lunch at the shop (hadn't brought enough food) and moved on, past Torc Falls, up into the hills. Which were gorgeous. Ireland is a lovely friendly land; I was moving through miles and miles of unpopulated land, but it wasn't in the least scary, in the way bits of Scotland were. A... tamed isn't the right word; but a land that's been inhabited for so long that it's mellowed to humanity. It tolerates us. It's not tame, but it's friendly, gentle.
I hit the crossroads and decided to head down to Kenmare, rather than Black Valley as I'd intended, because I was getting seriously worried about my time and figured it'd be easier to catch a bus from Kenmare. Which was probably true, but I still had 2 hours of hiking to go at that point, and by the time I made it to Kenmare it was almost 8 pm. No buses. I thought about catching a taxi but I really didn't have that much cash, so I ended up hiking back along the main road to Killarney with my thumb out. It wasn't *nearly* so pleasant a hike as the park had been. There weren't many cars, and those that there were ignored me completely, except for one which I had neglected to glance at before I stuck my thumb out, just going on noise, which turned out to be a motorcycle. He stuck his thumb out at me too.
But no one else paid any attention to me, and I hiked for about an hour, watching the disappearing headlights of cars and thinking things like, 'If you're going to Killarney, you bastard, I hope you get boils,' and beginning to seriously calculate the time it'd take me to hike back, when somebody pulled over for me, a very nice Kiwi named Rob who was doing a road tour of Ireland. He'd racked up something like 1,300 km in the last week. Very nice guy: we chattered along about the state of the world and the beautiful scenery and hostels and he said, in the nicest possible way, that the next time I crawled into a car with a strange man along a deserted and rapidly darkening highway I ought to think about dropping hints about how I was expected somewhere at a certain time, or had friends waiting for me, or needed to make a call, or something along those lines. 'Even weirdos don't like to get caught,' he said. 'I mean, I admit you're game (I'd told him about sleeping on a park bench in Belfast) but I wouldn't take risks like that, especially if I was a girl.'
He was quite right, and although this time I was too busy saying things like, 'You're going to Killarney? Really? Oh thank you thank you,' I'll keep it in mind for next time. Sooner or later even my luck will run out.
And now I must find a post office- my luggage wouldn't respond even to being jumped on, so it's time for another shipment home. Strange to think I'll probably get back before it does.
Started off well enough, except that I cheerfully took the wrong road out of town. I swear, I could get lost in my own back yard- well, technically my back yard is 70 acres of cutover land now covered in a maze of brush and bramble, so that doesn't count, but even if I had a *normal* backyard, I'd get lost in it. I'd invest in a compass but I've never been able to make the damn things work.
Anyway, I hiked about an hour in the wrong direction, then had to hike back, then had to hike an hour in the *right* direction to get myself into the national forest, but after that things were very cool. I hiked through the old Muckross estate first, and got to explore the old abbey, which was... weird. Very. Lovely old abandoned place, all these ancient, moss-covered trees in avenues up to it, surrounded by a graveyard, these long, half-ruined, dark corridors... I guess I'd say it was spooky, except that I wasn't in the least scared; it was just... haunting. Beautiful and sad. I felt like I was walking through some old book, like I should be walking quietly, not speaking, just looking. There was a great old tree growing from the centre of the abbey; the abbey was built around it... it took me a long time to shake the strangeness of the place.
I saw Muckross house from the outside, but they were charging admission and anyway I was beginning to be time-concious, so I had lunch at the shop (hadn't brought enough food) and moved on, past Torc Falls, up into the hills. Which were gorgeous. Ireland is a lovely friendly land; I was moving through miles and miles of unpopulated land, but it wasn't in the least scary, in the way bits of Scotland were. A... tamed isn't the right word; but a land that's been inhabited for so long that it's mellowed to humanity. It tolerates us. It's not tame, but it's friendly, gentle.
I hit the crossroads and decided to head down to Kenmare, rather than Black Valley as I'd intended, because I was getting seriously worried about my time and figured it'd be easier to catch a bus from Kenmare. Which was probably true, but I still had 2 hours of hiking to go at that point, and by the time I made it to Kenmare it was almost 8 pm. No buses. I thought about catching a taxi but I really didn't have that much cash, so I ended up hiking back along the main road to Killarney with my thumb out. It wasn't *nearly* so pleasant a hike as the park had been. There weren't many cars, and those that there were ignored me completely, except for one which I had neglected to glance at before I stuck my thumb out, just going on noise, which turned out to be a motorcycle. He stuck his thumb out at me too.
But no one else paid any attention to me, and I hiked for about an hour, watching the disappearing headlights of cars and thinking things like, 'If you're going to Killarney, you bastard, I hope you get boils,' and beginning to seriously calculate the time it'd take me to hike back, when somebody pulled over for me, a very nice Kiwi named Rob who was doing a road tour of Ireland. He'd racked up something like 1,300 km in the last week. Very nice guy: we chattered along about the state of the world and the beautiful scenery and hostels and he said, in the nicest possible way, that the next time I crawled into a car with a strange man along a deserted and rapidly darkening highway I ought to think about dropping hints about how I was expected somewhere at a certain time, or had friends waiting for me, or needed to make a call, or something along those lines. 'Even weirdos don't like to get caught,' he said. 'I mean, I admit you're game (I'd told him about sleeping on a park bench in Belfast) but I wouldn't take risks like that, especially if I was a girl.'
He was quite right, and although this time I was too busy saying things like, 'You're going to Killarney? Really? Oh thank you thank you,' I'll keep it in mind for next time. Sooner or later even my luck will run out.
And now I must find a post office- my luggage wouldn't respond even to being jumped on, so it's time for another shipment home. Strange to think I'll probably get back before it does.
Sunday, June 23
In Killarney now. It's a very cool town- I'm actually going to end up staying a night longer than I planned, so as to be able to do a nice long walk tomorrow. I walked out to Ross Castle today, which was cool, although I'm starting to fall into a pattern with castles: go to castle, admire/explore castle, take picture of castle, admire/explore castle some more, get bored of castle because it's roughly the same as the last few hundred castles I've seen all over England and Scotland and Wales and now Ireland, leave. Really neat scenery on the way, though, and it *was* a cool castle, so no time is wasted, right?
My watch stopped yesterday. I applied the Give It A Good Thumping method of watch repair, more dangerous than usual because I was wearing it at the time, and it's working again, but I expect it's not long for the world. Damn. I go through more watches. Also have lost my power adapter and cannot use my computer, which sucks because I really want to do some work right now. Also can't use my phone in Ireland, apparently. So it is officially Technology Disillusionment Day for me....
I wanted to see a movie last night, and process of elimination made it John Q. When I say 'process of elimination' I mean me standing outside the cinema and thinking something like, 'well, I've already seen Spiderman, I'm still boycotting Episode II, both 'Thunderpants' and 'Unfaithful' are on my I'd-sooner-poke-both-eyes-out-with-a-sharpened-chopstick list, and Forty Days looks tacky. How 'bout the movie I've never heard of? It's got Denziel Washington in it.'
It ended up being far better than I deserved. The acting was impeccable, the plot was really good, and the sentimentality failed to choke me, which is unusual in any movie that has a kid in it. Also, the ending was realistic; Hollywood failed, unusually for it, to succumb to the temptation of either making things 'all better' or 'all horrible and icky and unrelievedly tragic and angst-ridden', but came up with something truly mixed- in other words, close to reality. There weren't any bad guys, either. I recommend it. I'm still thinking about it, which is always a good sign with movies. Previews: I must have been in a movie theatre from prehistory, because nobody's given them the message yet that the purpose of a cinema is to sell other movies to an audience, not to show a movie. There were only *two* previews and *no* commercials. Wow. One was for Spiderman (seen it) and the other for Minority Report. I am not sure I'll see that one. On the one hand, it looks like a nice rollercoaster and I don't mind rollercoasters, especially if I'm bored, and most especially if they're sci-fi. On the other hand, I have a deep and abiding suspicion of Spielburg, who tends to lay on the sentimentality in the same way a dieter on a midnight binge lays on the ice cream, and an even deeper and more abiding suspicion of Tom Cruise. The man is a Scientologist, after all, which suggests massive brain damage due to excessive application of alcohol, drugs, and/or money. Of course, this doesn't necessarily affect his acting, but the two 'Mission Impossible' movies tend to suggest that the brain damage is taking its toll.
Right. I'm planning a sixteen-mile hike tomorrow, and, if I don't wimp out or get rained out, I'll need my sleep.
My watch stopped yesterday. I applied the Give It A Good Thumping method of watch repair, more dangerous than usual because I was wearing it at the time, and it's working again, but I expect it's not long for the world. Damn. I go through more watches. Also have lost my power adapter and cannot use my computer, which sucks because I really want to do some work right now. Also can't use my phone in Ireland, apparently. So it is officially Technology Disillusionment Day for me....
I wanted to see a movie last night, and process of elimination made it John Q. When I say 'process of elimination' I mean me standing outside the cinema and thinking something like, 'well, I've already seen Spiderman, I'm still boycotting Episode II, both 'Thunderpants' and 'Unfaithful' are on my I'd-sooner-poke-both-eyes-out-with-a-sharpened-chopstick list, and Forty Days looks tacky. How 'bout the movie I've never heard of? It's got Denziel Washington in it.'
It ended up being far better than I deserved. The acting was impeccable, the plot was really good, and the sentimentality failed to choke me, which is unusual in any movie that has a kid in it. Also, the ending was realistic; Hollywood failed, unusually for it, to succumb to the temptation of either making things 'all better' or 'all horrible and icky and unrelievedly tragic and angst-ridden', but came up with something truly mixed- in other words, close to reality. There weren't any bad guys, either. I recommend it. I'm still thinking about it, which is always a good sign with movies. Previews: I must have been in a movie theatre from prehistory, because nobody's given them the message yet that the purpose of a cinema is to sell other movies to an audience, not to show a movie. There were only *two* previews and *no* commercials. Wow. One was for Spiderman (seen it) and the other for Minority Report. I am not sure I'll see that one. On the one hand, it looks like a nice rollercoaster and I don't mind rollercoasters, especially if I'm bored, and most especially if they're sci-fi. On the other hand, I have a deep and abiding suspicion of Spielburg, who tends to lay on the sentimentality in the same way a dieter on a midnight binge lays on the ice cream, and an even deeper and more abiding suspicion of Tom Cruise. The man is a Scientologist, after all, which suggests massive brain damage due to excessive application of alcohol, drugs, and/or money. Of course, this doesn't necessarily affect his acting, but the two 'Mission Impossible' movies tend to suggest that the brain damage is taking its toll.
Right. I'm planning a sixteen-mile hike tomorrow, and, if I don't wimp out or get rained out, I'll need my sleep.
Saturday, June 22
I ended up going pubbing by myself last night, and it was cool. I hopped through a couple of pubs before ending up in a nightclub called Boo Radley's at midnight, which would have been worth it just for the name, but was *also* a very cool club and *also* had some decent music. Unfortunately, nobody was dancing. I waffled for a few moments and then gave up and went out and started dancing by myself. I knew I was letting myself in for it, but the music was *good* and I thought, what the hell, God knows when anybody'll hit the floor.
Just as well I did- I ended up dancing by myself for an entire hour before the floor really started to warm up. It wasn't bad. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, although the first half of my personal geas (which decrees that I will hear either 'Uptown Girl' or 'Bootylicious' whenever I go out on the piss) was fufilled when 'Bootylicious' came on. I really can't decide which of these songs I hate the worst. On the one hand, 'Uptown Girl' is utterly undancible and musically insepid. On the other, 'Bootylicious' irritates me more lyric-wise and its claim to musicability is mainly based on the fact that they stole the opening riff from my favorite Stevie Nix song and play it on continual loop throughout the damned song. Hard choice.
(The second half of the geas, decreeing that I will hear Bryan Adams's 'Summer of '69' whenever I go out on the piss, was fufilled at an earlier pub, but that wasn't so bad.)
On the downside, I collected a half-dozen or so tentative attempts to proposition me, one attempt at grabbing my ass (accompanied by a very embarrassed grin- I suspect a bet or dare was involved, so it was really pretty funny), and two serious hits. The first danced up to me and tried to put his arms around my waist. When I grabbed his wrists to push him away he transferred to my hands, pulled me in close, and started trying to dance me into the corner. After the third time I disintangled myself and said, 'Please don't', very firmly, he took the hint and went away. The second got me just as I was leaving at 2 am, wanting to know my name, whether I had been paid to dance like that (??), and whether I would kiss him. I explained, in order, that my name was Kat, no, I just really, really liked dancing and didn't care if it was by myself (he didn't seem to quite understand this one), and no, very sorry, but I really wasn't into that sort of thing. He didn't seem to quite get that one either, but eventually I was able to extract myself and go home.
I should explain:
I like dancing. Actually, this doesn't quite cover how I feel about dancing: my idea of a good night out is to hit a dance floor and dance until my legs start sending urgent screaming messages to my brain. Actually, that's my idea of a *great* night out. Other people are pretty much optional. I like having an audience okay, because, let's face it, it's really fun to feel like people are watching you and you're sexy, but the dance is the main thing.
I also like guys. Really, I do. They're cool people. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be an attitude shared by my fellow dancers. If they aren't looking for a one-night stand, they're either incredibly pissy to any guy who dares look at them or hit on them or they have a predator attitude. As one girl I met in NZ put it, 'I'd really like to just pick some random guy up, make out with him all over the dance floor, and then disappear and drop him on his ass.' Which she proceeded to do, to my consternation.
I *like* guys. I don't like being a bitch to them. But they assume, with some justification, that if I'm not being an incredible bitch then I'm looking for a one-night stand, which I'm not. I can't do one-night stands. Not won't, although the idea doesn't appeal: can't. My body does not like the touch of strangers. And it's not easy to explain this when you're speaking to a horny male in an extremely loud nightclub when you're both slightly tipsy and neither one of you can hear very well, so I usually just end up saying 'No,' with a worried smile a lot.
Sooner or later I'm going to have to work out this little paradox, but not right now....
As an epologue, I snuck into my hostel bed with the due caution and consideration necessary at 2 am, which effort was completely wasted when some other party-goers came in at 4 am, turned all the lights on, clumped over to their beds and started throwing things around and chattering at each other in French. At 4:15, thorougly irritated, I got up, crawled out of my top bunk, stalked over to the light switch and turned it off as pointedly as I could.
By 4:20 I was really annoyed. Everyone in the room was awake; I could hear people tossing and turning all around me, coughing pointedly, sighing, and occasionally hissing 'shut up!', but the French girls were too engrossed in chattering and giggling in their beds to notice.
At 4:23 I sat up and said, 'Excuse me. There are twelve people in this room who are *not holding a conversation. All of them are now awake. *Shut up or take it outside.*'
There was a short silence, and then one of them said, 'We're very sorry...' well, they ought to be. I lay back down. Blissful, wonderful, *silence*.
Just as well I did- I ended up dancing by myself for an entire hour before the floor really started to warm up. It wasn't bad. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, although the first half of my personal geas (which decrees that I will hear either 'Uptown Girl' or 'Bootylicious' whenever I go out on the piss) was fufilled when 'Bootylicious' came on. I really can't decide which of these songs I hate the worst. On the one hand, 'Uptown Girl' is utterly undancible and musically insepid. On the other, 'Bootylicious' irritates me more lyric-wise and its claim to musicability is mainly based on the fact that they stole the opening riff from my favorite Stevie Nix song and play it on continual loop throughout the damned song. Hard choice.
(The second half of the geas, decreeing that I will hear Bryan Adams's 'Summer of '69' whenever I go out on the piss, was fufilled at an earlier pub, but that wasn't so bad.)
On the downside, I collected a half-dozen or so tentative attempts to proposition me, one attempt at grabbing my ass (accompanied by a very embarrassed grin- I suspect a bet or dare was involved, so it was really pretty funny), and two serious hits. The first danced up to me and tried to put his arms around my waist. When I grabbed his wrists to push him away he transferred to my hands, pulled me in close, and started trying to dance me into the corner. After the third time I disintangled myself and said, 'Please don't', very firmly, he took the hint and went away. The second got me just as I was leaving at 2 am, wanting to know my name, whether I had been paid to dance like that (??), and whether I would kiss him. I explained, in order, that my name was Kat, no, I just really, really liked dancing and didn't care if it was by myself (he didn't seem to quite understand this one), and no, very sorry, but I really wasn't into that sort of thing. He didn't seem to quite get that one either, but eventually I was able to extract myself and go home.
I should explain:
I like dancing. Actually, this doesn't quite cover how I feel about dancing: my idea of a good night out is to hit a dance floor and dance until my legs start sending urgent screaming messages to my brain. Actually, that's my idea of a *great* night out. Other people are pretty much optional. I like having an audience okay, because, let's face it, it's really fun to feel like people are watching you and you're sexy, but the dance is the main thing.
I also like guys. Really, I do. They're cool people. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be an attitude shared by my fellow dancers. If they aren't looking for a one-night stand, they're either incredibly pissy to any guy who dares look at them or hit on them or they have a predator attitude. As one girl I met in NZ put it, 'I'd really like to just pick some random guy up, make out with him all over the dance floor, and then disappear and drop him on his ass.' Which she proceeded to do, to my consternation.
I *like* guys. I don't like being a bitch to them. But they assume, with some justification, that if I'm not being an incredible bitch then I'm looking for a one-night stand, which I'm not. I can't do one-night stands. Not won't, although the idea doesn't appeal: can't. My body does not like the touch of strangers. And it's not easy to explain this when you're speaking to a horny male in an extremely loud nightclub when you're both slightly tipsy and neither one of you can hear very well, so I usually just end up saying 'No,' with a worried smile a lot.
Sooner or later I'm going to have to work out this little paradox, but not right now....
As an epologue, I snuck into my hostel bed with the due caution and consideration necessary at 2 am, which effort was completely wasted when some other party-goers came in at 4 am, turned all the lights on, clumped over to their beds and started throwing things around and chattering at each other in French. At 4:15, thorougly irritated, I got up, crawled out of my top bunk, stalked over to the light switch and turned it off as pointedly as I could.
By 4:20 I was really annoyed. Everyone in the room was awake; I could hear people tossing and turning all around me, coughing pointedly, sighing, and occasionally hissing 'shut up!', but the French girls were too engrossed in chattering and giggling in their beds to notice.
At 4:23 I sat up and said, 'Excuse me. There are twelve people in this room who are *not holding a conversation. All of them are now awake. *Shut up or take it outside.*'
There was a short silence, and then one of them said, 'We're very sorry...' well, they ought to be. I lay back down. Blissful, wonderful, *silence*.
Friday, June 21
It's pissing down in Galway. I've been wandering about, basically hanging about, visiting bookstores, swearing I will not visit any more bookstores, visiting more bookstores... I think I'll probably have to ship another bag home; my suitcase is getting seriously out of hand.
On a side note, I'm finding the whole tourist culture more and more amusing. I've always been pretty embarrassed about being an American, because Americans are *so* annoying, but it's slowly penetrating my attention that they're not the only ones. Americans are annoying, yes, but at least they don't take as many pictures as the bloody Japanese. And they're not quite as boisterously loud as the Australians. Germans? No one likes the Germans, and don't even talk about the French, and the Scotch-Irish guy I talked to on the train a few days back added the English to the list of tourists to be hated- and, frankly, I have to agree. They seem to invade Scotland and Ireland on a regular basis and nobody, but nobody, likes them.
(My employer's wife had a rugby t-shirt: 'The Welsh support two teams: Wales... and whoever's playing England.' This is a remarkably widespread attitude. The English have done amazing things for national unity- whenever they show up, everybody stops hating everybody else and make friends, so as to more perfectly hate the English.)
About the only largish group of tourists that don't seem to have made major enemies with the tour-ees are the Canadians, which is also what people most often mistake me for. ('But you can't be American!' one of my Kiwi aquaintances once said. 'You're polite!') So not too many complaints there.
The hostel I'm staying in is nice, but the room sucks- a fourteen-bed'er, which is a bit too much company for me. Also I want to recharge my computer's battery, which I drained waiting for the bus in the bus station in Belfast, and I'm not thrilled about leaving it laying around in a room full of 13 other girls, none of whom I know, with a door that doesn't lock and is as a matter of fact tied open for most of the day. Decisions, decisions. Hoping to make a friend so's I can go out on the piss tonight- I could always go myself, I suppose, but there's something intensely pathetic about drinking alone, and if you're a single girl it tends to draw the wolves.
On a side note, I'm finding the whole tourist culture more and more amusing. I've always been pretty embarrassed about being an American, because Americans are *so* annoying, but it's slowly penetrating my attention that they're not the only ones. Americans are annoying, yes, but at least they don't take as many pictures as the bloody Japanese. And they're not quite as boisterously loud as the Australians. Germans? No one likes the Germans, and don't even talk about the French, and the Scotch-Irish guy I talked to on the train a few days back added the English to the list of tourists to be hated- and, frankly, I have to agree. They seem to invade Scotland and Ireland on a regular basis and nobody, but nobody, likes them.
(My employer's wife had a rugby t-shirt: 'The Welsh support two teams: Wales... and whoever's playing England.' This is a remarkably widespread attitude. The English have done amazing things for national unity- whenever they show up, everybody stops hating everybody else and make friends, so as to more perfectly hate the English.)
About the only largish group of tourists that don't seem to have made major enemies with the tour-ees are the Canadians, which is also what people most often mistake me for. ('But you can't be American!' one of my Kiwi aquaintances once said. 'You're polite!') So not too many complaints there.
The hostel I'm staying in is nice, but the room sucks- a fourteen-bed'er, which is a bit too much company for me. Also I want to recharge my computer's battery, which I drained waiting for the bus in the bus station in Belfast, and I'm not thrilled about leaving it laying around in a room full of 13 other girls, none of whom I know, with a door that doesn't lock and is as a matter of fact tied open for most of the day. Decisions, decisions. Hoping to make a friend so's I can go out on the piss tonight- I could always go myself, I suppose, but there's something intensely pathetic about drinking alone, and if you're a single girl it tends to draw the wolves.
Thursday, June 20
Went and saw Spiderman yesterday. Quite enjoyed it. It wasn't mindbending or anything, but it was a good story, and really, that's enough. In the end I'd much rather be entertained than be fed tons of morality and Life Changing Wisdom via a story that falls flat- and I'm more likely to take something away, too. In related news, still boycotting the new Star Wars.
Previews: I'd like to see Monsters Inc- actually I've been planning on seeing it for a while, but the 'Guess What, It's On Video!' preview reinforced me. Spirit and Scooby Doo officially go on the list of 'Movies I Will Not See, By Being In the Next County With My Hands Over My Ears Singing "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" At Full Volume If Necessary'. MIB II looks cool, although it's pretty hard to tell whether it's going to be a funny movie or a crap movie with a lot of good one-liners from the preview. But I like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, and I enjoyed the last one, so I'll give it a go.
Managed to overcome my hatred of walking into a decent resturaunt by myself (don't ask for an explaination. I just do. I don't know why) and had a very nice meal last night. Then went to bed. A real bed! Not a park bench! I slept very, very well indeed.
Today was a seven-hour bus ride to Galway, quite exceptionally dull. I met a really nice Canadian guy on the bus, but I seem to have lost him. Pity. I was looking forward to having someone to go to the pub with.
Previews: I'd like to see Monsters Inc- actually I've been planning on seeing it for a while, but the 'Guess What, It's On Video!' preview reinforced me. Spirit and Scooby Doo officially go on the list of 'Movies I Will Not See, By Being In the Next County With My Hands Over My Ears Singing "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" At Full Volume If Necessary'. MIB II looks cool, although it's pretty hard to tell whether it's going to be a funny movie or a crap movie with a lot of good one-liners from the preview. But I like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, and I enjoyed the last one, so I'll give it a go.
Managed to overcome my hatred of walking into a decent resturaunt by myself (don't ask for an explaination. I just do. I don't know why) and had a very nice meal last night. Then went to bed. A real bed! Not a park bench! I slept very, very well indeed.
Today was a seven-hour bus ride to Galway, quite exceptionally dull. I met a really nice Canadian guy on the bus, but I seem to have lost him. Pity. I was looking forward to having someone to go to the pub with.
Wednesday, June 19
Urg.
Got stranded in Armidale for a day because the wind was too bad for the ferry to run- Armidale being one of the world's most boring places. On the bright side, I found a *really cool* jigsaw puzzle. It was called 'Street Music', artist's name now forgotten, but very cool anyway, only I am no longer allowed to look at cool pictures because my mind insisted on coming up with stories for the faces and I now have the histories, names, families, and tribulations of twelve dancing Victorian-era children stuck in my head. Dammit. I really don't understand people who complain that they never have enough story ideas- I've been looking for the off-tap for *years*.
Had a very cool talk with a transposed Irishman on the way down... unfortunately the rest of the day was less cool. I had to scramble thourgh Glasgow, doing none of the research I was hoping to do, which was a Bad Thing as it turns out my guidebook had no info on Northern Ireland and my cellphone, predictably since I needed the damned thing, died. Oh, well, I thought, there'll be some brochures at the ferry terminal, right? (Wrong. Also, the only reason I caught the ferry was because it was a half-hour late, so I was a bit rushed through the terminal anyway.) Oh, well, I thought, some on the ferry for *sure*. (Wrong.) Oh well, I thought, I'll have some time to poke around and find a place to stay in Belfast.
Wrong. The ferry was an hour late; I got in at ten o'clock, and this turned out to be the only city I've come across in Britain where one is not practically tripping over youth hostels and B&Bs. The few I found were sticking up 'No Vacancy' signs as I came up the drive. The only- and I do mean the only- place I managed to find with a vacancy was someplace called the Europa Hotel, and it looked like, even if they actually let me *in*, I'd be spending a week's travel funds on a single night's lodging in there.
By this point I'd been wandering for two hours. (And had stumbled across a place with lots of flags which I thought might be a hostel but turned out to be something called the United Freedom Fighters. I retreated in haste.) My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My knee hurt (I had, of course, had to rush to catch the ferry back at Armidale, taken a shortcut across a beach, and slipped on some seaweed; think I've bruised a tendon.) My back very, very, very much hurt, since I had my own personal Old Man of the Sea in backpack form to accompany me on my travels. I gave up, picked out a well-lit park bench, and settled in for the night.
So- a night on a park bench in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Definately not something to write the parents home about. I tried not to think about how insanely dangerous the whole thing was- in fact, I'm *still* trying not to think about that; it gives me the shakes. But nobody bothered me. The hardest bit was trying to get any sleep at all. I was too tired to read, but not quite tired enough to be comfortable on a cold, narrow, unpleasant park bench on a busy street. I've never regretted my height so much in my life- no matter what position I tried (and believe me, I went through most of them) there seemed to be too much of me, both for the park bench and for my limited supply of warm clothes, it being a tad chill at night out there.
About five am, just as I had given up on sleeping, a local girl asked me if I was all right and if I wanted a rolly, in that order.
"No thanks," I said, "I don't smoke. I'm just sort of crashing here."
"Have you been here all night?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" she demanded incredulously.
"Yes," I said firmly.
We talked for about an hour- she was a very nice girl. I gather that Ireland's no longer a competetor for the World Cup, which is a shame. They lost out to Spain on penalties. "Grown men were crying in pubs," she informed me gravely. "In front of other men! It was so wonderful. Except it wasn't wonderful, of course, because Ireland lost."
I told her there weren't any pubs in America. She had serious trouble with the concept.
When six am rolled around I went off and checked into the YHA for the next night, dropped off the Old Man of the Sea, and went off to find some food- had I mentioned that I managed to get on the ferry with no cash, only cards, which they do not of course take on ferries? I had eaten nothing but a few mouthfuls of porridge at Armisdale and the last crumbs of my groceries on the train for the last twenty-four hours. I was *hungry*. In fact, I'm still hungry, but I'm having to pace myself or I'll give myself a bellyache. I gather than I can get back into the hostel and claim a bed at one, which I am seriously looking forward to. To sleep, perchance to dream- I am drifting around town more asleep than awake right now, stumbling my way across pedestrian crossings, to the annoyance of the cars.
Read Louise Cooper's, what was it 'Lady of the Snow', in the public library, to kill time somewhere warm and friendly and carless. Quite good.
Got stranded in Armidale for a day because the wind was too bad for the ferry to run- Armidale being one of the world's most boring places. On the bright side, I found a *really cool* jigsaw puzzle. It was called 'Street Music', artist's name now forgotten, but very cool anyway, only I am no longer allowed to look at cool pictures because my mind insisted on coming up with stories for the faces and I now have the histories, names, families, and tribulations of twelve dancing Victorian-era children stuck in my head. Dammit. I really don't understand people who complain that they never have enough story ideas- I've been looking for the off-tap for *years*.
Had a very cool talk with a transposed Irishman on the way down... unfortunately the rest of the day was less cool. I had to scramble thourgh Glasgow, doing none of the research I was hoping to do, which was a Bad Thing as it turns out my guidebook had no info on Northern Ireland and my cellphone, predictably since I needed the damned thing, died. Oh, well, I thought, there'll be some brochures at the ferry terminal, right? (Wrong. Also, the only reason I caught the ferry was because it was a half-hour late, so I was a bit rushed through the terminal anyway.) Oh, well, I thought, some on the ferry for *sure*. (Wrong.) Oh well, I thought, I'll have some time to poke around and find a place to stay in Belfast.
Wrong. The ferry was an hour late; I got in at ten o'clock, and this turned out to be the only city I've come across in Britain where one is not practically tripping over youth hostels and B&Bs. The few I found were sticking up 'No Vacancy' signs as I came up the drive. The only- and I do mean the only- place I managed to find with a vacancy was someplace called the Europa Hotel, and it looked like, even if they actually let me *in*, I'd be spending a week's travel funds on a single night's lodging in there.
By this point I'd been wandering for two hours. (And had stumbled across a place with lots of flags which I thought might be a hostel but turned out to be something called the United Freedom Fighters. I retreated in haste.) My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My knee hurt (I had, of course, had to rush to catch the ferry back at Armidale, taken a shortcut across a beach, and slipped on some seaweed; think I've bruised a tendon.) My back very, very, very much hurt, since I had my own personal Old Man of the Sea in backpack form to accompany me on my travels. I gave up, picked out a well-lit park bench, and settled in for the night.
So- a night on a park bench in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Definately not something to write the parents home about. I tried not to think about how insanely dangerous the whole thing was- in fact, I'm *still* trying not to think about that; it gives me the shakes. But nobody bothered me. The hardest bit was trying to get any sleep at all. I was too tired to read, but not quite tired enough to be comfortable on a cold, narrow, unpleasant park bench on a busy street. I've never regretted my height so much in my life- no matter what position I tried (and believe me, I went through most of them) there seemed to be too much of me, both for the park bench and for my limited supply of warm clothes, it being a tad chill at night out there.
About five am, just as I had given up on sleeping, a local girl asked me if I was all right and if I wanted a rolly, in that order.
"No thanks," I said, "I don't smoke. I'm just sort of crashing here."
"Have you been here all night?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" she demanded incredulously.
"Yes," I said firmly.
We talked for about an hour- she was a very nice girl. I gather that Ireland's no longer a competetor for the World Cup, which is a shame. They lost out to Spain on penalties. "Grown men were crying in pubs," she informed me gravely. "In front of other men! It was so wonderful. Except it wasn't wonderful, of course, because Ireland lost."
I told her there weren't any pubs in America. She had serious trouble with the concept.
When six am rolled around I went off and checked into the YHA for the next night, dropped off the Old Man of the Sea, and went off to find some food- had I mentioned that I managed to get on the ferry with no cash, only cards, which they do not of course take on ferries? I had eaten nothing but a few mouthfuls of porridge at Armisdale and the last crumbs of my groceries on the train for the last twenty-four hours. I was *hungry*. In fact, I'm still hungry, but I'm having to pace myself or I'll give myself a bellyache. I gather than I can get back into the hostel and claim a bed at one, which I am seriously looking forward to. To sleep, perchance to dream- I am drifting around town more asleep than awake right now, stumbling my way across pedestrian crossings, to the annoyance of the cars.
Read Louise Cooper's, what was it 'Lady of the Snow', in the public library, to kill time somewhere warm and friendly and carless. Quite good.
Monday, June 17
I finally got around to adding commenting to the site, on the off chance anybody's reading it.
(Mental note to self: template ugly: change it....)
Rung my parents last night. Mom's really looking forward to me and bro being home. Things are not so good there, by the sound of it. Of course, the plumbing's still out, as it has been since January, and they're still quasi-living at the dairy where there's actual running water; but on top of that the drought is getting really serious. Dad's spending over $200 a day just to keep the cows fed. We're on night grazing only, Mom says, and we'll be out of that soon- nothing's growing. There was another load of hay arriving as I rang. They're trying to sound cheerful about it, but it sounds like, well, hell there.
At least I remembered to wish him happy Father's Day.
Rang the bro after that, but was cut off by his battery running down, as par for course. Bro needs to charge that thing more often or think up a better excuse to stop listening to his sister babble.
Attempted to go to bed, but was interrupted. If, perchance, you think it's a great idea to neck in the second-floor bathroom in Portree Independent Hostel, *do* keep these things in mind:
a) There is a room right next door. People may be attempting to sleep.
b) The walls are very, very thin. Leaning the girl of the necking partnership up against the wall adjoining aforesaid next-door room is probably not real bright.
c) It is the only bathroom on the floor. You will not be making yourself popular, especially if you choose the time when most people are getting ready to shower and go to bed.
d) This is the Isle of Skye, for God's sake. It doesn't get dark or cold until 11 pm, and there are hundreds of marvelously scenic woods, glens, hills, beaches, and sheep pastures just screaming for an amorous couple to enjoy themselves in privacy. Hell, even the sheep would probably leave you alone.
e) If you've got an annoying laugh, just forget the whole thing.
Went and hung out in the kitchen for a while, until it was safe. People and their bloody hormones, that's all *I* have to say.
Very windy this morning- not along the 'damn, my hairdo,' lines of windy either, more along the 'whoops, they'll have to repave the street after this, was that a girl carrying a large sheet of cardboard doing a Mary Poppin imitation I just saw?' lines. The wind is so strong that the ocean is coming to visit, giving a good impression of rain squalls if you don't notice that the sky is perfectly blue and the rain is salty. I'm killing time, waiting for a bus down to Armadale and the ferry. The Guidebook of Evil has been left for some other unsuspecting hiker to get lost with- in fact, I can see someone picking it up right now....
(Mental note to self: template ugly: change it....)
Rung my parents last night. Mom's really looking forward to me and bro being home. Things are not so good there, by the sound of it. Of course, the plumbing's still out, as it has been since January, and they're still quasi-living at the dairy where there's actual running water; but on top of that the drought is getting really serious. Dad's spending over $200 a day just to keep the cows fed. We're on night grazing only, Mom says, and we'll be out of that soon- nothing's growing. There was another load of hay arriving as I rang. They're trying to sound cheerful about it, but it sounds like, well, hell there.
At least I remembered to wish him happy Father's Day.
Rang the bro after that, but was cut off by his battery running down, as par for course. Bro needs to charge that thing more often or think up a better excuse to stop listening to his sister babble.
Attempted to go to bed, but was interrupted. If, perchance, you think it's a great idea to neck in the second-floor bathroom in Portree Independent Hostel, *do* keep these things in mind:
a) There is a room right next door. People may be attempting to sleep.
b) The walls are very, very thin. Leaning the girl of the necking partnership up against the wall adjoining aforesaid next-door room is probably not real bright.
c) It is the only bathroom on the floor. You will not be making yourself popular, especially if you choose the time when most people are getting ready to shower and go to bed.
d) This is the Isle of Skye, for God's sake. It doesn't get dark or cold until 11 pm, and there are hundreds of marvelously scenic woods, glens, hills, beaches, and sheep pastures just screaming for an amorous couple to enjoy themselves in privacy. Hell, even the sheep would probably leave you alone.
e) If you've got an annoying laugh, just forget the whole thing.
Went and hung out in the kitchen for a while, until it was safe. People and their bloody hormones, that's all *I* have to say.
Very windy this morning- not along the 'damn, my hairdo,' lines of windy either, more along the 'whoops, they'll have to repave the street after this, was that a girl carrying a large sheet of cardboard doing a Mary Poppin imitation I just saw?' lines. The wind is so strong that the ocean is coming to visit, giving a good impression of rain squalls if you don't notice that the sky is perfectly blue and the rain is salty. I'm killing time, waiting for a bus down to Armadale and the ferry. The Guidebook of Evil has been left for some other unsuspecting hiker to get lost with- in fact, I can see someone picking it up right now....
Sunday, June 16
The showers here are clearly possessed by Satan. They are not only of the evil, push-button-get-water variety I have encountered only in Scotland, but they randomly shoot cold or scalding hot water over you at frequent intervals. I don't know why, but it's very, very annoying. I have also realized that, in addition to the thoroughly mysterious disappearance of my alarm clock back in Kyleakin, my soap has more understandably been left in the shower stall. Add that to my hairbrush and comb getting left in the castle, and the earrings I managed to leave in Edinburgh, and I'm building up quite the trail.
The weather's been pretty decent, so I wandered around a bit... found a very interesting book on witches, which I've read. Rather sad. I was wondering if anything like that could happen today, in modern-day America, and then realized that yes, it already has... only we called it McCarthyism, and instead of being branded a witch, you were being branded a Communist. Luckily, you didn't get burned at the stake, but the social consequences- the outcast's status- were much the same. Something very similar is happening right now to anyone unlucky enough to be a Muslim, and from what I've heard we were only one precarious step away from the return of blacklisting over the Afganistan situation. Some things, I suppose, never change.That is truly depressing.
On the other hand, we *aren't* burning anybody, at least not commonly. So maybe there's hope for humanity after all.
On a totally unrelated note, on a different walk (doing a lot of walking and thinking today) I was thinking about an invention of my own, the suburban 'cult of boredom.' Now, as mentioned before, I'm fond of boredom. It's been quite a novelty in my life- even in early childhood, to be seen idle for too long was to be assigned a task; long periods of idleness are something that's come only with age, only since I've been old enough to regulate my own life. And even then it's got its limits. The most bored I've ever been was in my year in New Zealand. It was, quite literally, the first time in my life I haven't had a *job*. There was school, of course, but I wasn't very happy with my classes, and although they were something to do they weren't something I could wrap my mind around- bored even when working; truly a new thing for me. I spent a certain amount of time putzing around on the net and reading books and going for long walks and so on, but in the end I couldn't stand it any more. I created myself a job. I wrote a novel. And then I was happy- mostly, anyway, although of course there were days I didn't want to do it and so on; but, in general, happy.
What bothers me is that most of the people I know are from the suburbs, and most of them (all of the people around me in NZ, for example) spend their *entire lives* in this situation, without apparently being bothered by it. I find this a very alien thing. I was discussing this with my friend from Indiana and her friend who was studying at Cambridge a few weeks back. I don't think I really got across what I was trying to say. It reminds me, somewhat, of the Jane Austen novels I'm so fond of, in which the characters seem to have nothing to do but ride around, looking at things, or visiting each other, or writing letters to each other, or gossiping about each other... in one of my English classes we read some stuff by Florence Nightingale. Interesting woman. For several years of her life she essentially faked illness to keep people from giving her things to do... because Florence was a very, very active sort of woman, and it drove her mad; because the things they wanted her to do weren't real. She was expected to do needlework (endless reams of the stuff, by her frustrated account) and visiting, and silly useless little paintings; and keep up correspondences with people she didn't like and had nothing to say to; and attend parties where nothing of substance was ever said or done; and in the meantime anything she *wanted* to do (which at this point seems to have consisted of writing spirited letters to influential people about various issues she was interested in) was supposed to be put aside for these 'duties' of her empty, endless social life.
It seems- to me, an outsider, at least- that the average resident of the suburbs is stuck in this same round of make-work turned into social 'necessity'. Most of the jobs people seem to work are both interchangable and unnecessary; they take up time, but not effort; they do not in any way define the people that work them. People use up time in various inventive ways, from the Internet (newsgroups, listserves, websites, chatlines, blogs- oh, count the ways!) to exercising in gyms, mowing their lawns, tinkering with their cars, playing golf- and, yes, a lot of it has postive results; exercise is good for you, and God knows I'm not one to complain about the 'net, I've gotten enough good from my life putzing around on it- but, in the end, is it *really* worth the amount of time and obsession people pour into these things, or any of the countless other things they find to define themselves by? Does enough real good come out of it- or is it just a way of making the time pass?
Using up time- that's the really alien one, to me. I'm guilty enough, from time to time, of the sin of procrastination, but only when I've got something to procrastinate. The concept of Procrastination Without End is... bizarre.
And most of the 'civilized' world is currently involved in it. Someone, somewhere, is laughing about that.
The weather's been pretty decent, so I wandered around a bit... found a very interesting book on witches, which I've read. Rather sad. I was wondering if anything like that could happen today, in modern-day America, and then realized that yes, it already has... only we called it McCarthyism, and instead of being branded a witch, you were being branded a Communist. Luckily, you didn't get burned at the stake, but the social consequences- the outcast's status- were much the same. Something very similar is happening right now to anyone unlucky enough to be a Muslim, and from what I've heard we were only one precarious step away from the return of blacklisting over the Afganistan situation. Some things, I suppose, never change.That is truly depressing.
On the other hand, we *aren't* burning anybody, at least not commonly. So maybe there's hope for humanity after all.
On a totally unrelated note, on a different walk (doing a lot of walking and thinking today) I was thinking about an invention of my own, the suburban 'cult of boredom.' Now, as mentioned before, I'm fond of boredom. It's been quite a novelty in my life- even in early childhood, to be seen idle for too long was to be assigned a task; long periods of idleness are something that's come only with age, only since I've been old enough to regulate my own life. And even then it's got its limits. The most bored I've ever been was in my year in New Zealand. It was, quite literally, the first time in my life I haven't had a *job*. There was school, of course, but I wasn't very happy with my classes, and although they were something to do they weren't something I could wrap my mind around- bored even when working; truly a new thing for me. I spent a certain amount of time putzing around on the net and reading books and going for long walks and so on, but in the end I couldn't stand it any more. I created myself a job. I wrote a novel. And then I was happy- mostly, anyway, although of course there were days I didn't want to do it and so on; but, in general, happy.
What bothers me is that most of the people I know are from the suburbs, and most of them (all of the people around me in NZ, for example) spend their *entire lives* in this situation, without apparently being bothered by it. I find this a very alien thing. I was discussing this with my friend from Indiana and her friend who was studying at Cambridge a few weeks back. I don't think I really got across what I was trying to say. It reminds me, somewhat, of the Jane Austen novels I'm so fond of, in which the characters seem to have nothing to do but ride around, looking at things, or visiting each other, or writing letters to each other, or gossiping about each other... in one of my English classes we read some stuff by Florence Nightingale. Interesting woman. For several years of her life she essentially faked illness to keep people from giving her things to do... because Florence was a very, very active sort of woman, and it drove her mad; because the things they wanted her to do weren't real. She was expected to do needlework (endless reams of the stuff, by her frustrated account) and visiting, and silly useless little paintings; and keep up correspondences with people she didn't like and had nothing to say to; and attend parties where nothing of substance was ever said or done; and in the meantime anything she *wanted* to do (which at this point seems to have consisted of writing spirited letters to influential people about various issues she was interested in) was supposed to be put aside for these 'duties' of her empty, endless social life.
It seems- to me, an outsider, at least- that the average resident of the suburbs is stuck in this same round of make-work turned into social 'necessity'. Most of the jobs people seem to work are both interchangable and unnecessary; they take up time, but not effort; they do not in any way define the people that work them. People use up time in various inventive ways, from the Internet (newsgroups, listserves, websites, chatlines, blogs- oh, count the ways!) to exercising in gyms, mowing their lawns, tinkering with their cars, playing golf- and, yes, a lot of it has postive results; exercise is good for you, and God knows I'm not one to complain about the 'net, I've gotten enough good from my life putzing around on it- but, in the end, is it *really* worth the amount of time and obsession people pour into these things, or any of the countless other things they find to define themselves by? Does enough real good come out of it- or is it just a way of making the time pass?
Using up time- that's the really alien one, to me. I'm guilty enough, from time to time, of the sin of procrastination, but only when I've got something to procrastinate. The concept of Procrastination Without End is... bizarre.
And most of the 'civilized' world is currently involved in it. Someone, somewhere, is laughing about that.
Saturday, June 15
Update: My Legs Hurt.
To expand, I did get hiking, a distinctly mixed experience. My guidebook turned out to be a waste of a perfectly good £3. The directions were abysmal, the maps worse. The walk they said was going to take me four hours barely took one, since I missed a badly-described turn, so I decided to do another walk which I'd been interested in. Unfortunately, I had to hike four miles to get to the hike. I got picked up and given a ride on the way in, but still, I thought I'd probably end up taking as much time to *get* to the walk as I did *on* the walk.
Boy, was I wrong.
It looked like a simple enough hill (famous last words) but it turned out to be a lot more complicated. Scotland is, as far as I know, the sole possessor of folding hills. They're like maps, or stuff-sack tents, or something; they *look* tiny, but once you actually get into the middle of the thing you've got more map, or tent, or hill, than you know what to do with. Also, detours are dangerous. You get halfway through what *looked* like a shortcut and realize that, not only is getting where you were going a lot more complicated (if not impossible) than you were expecting, but you now can't seem to find where you came from, either.
I took several detours of this sort. I did make the summit- well, that was the easy bit- on my own, but then stupidly decided to revert to the guidebook and take its suggested route down, which was supposed to be a lot more scenic. It was. You always see more scenery when you're lost. The guidebook was, of course, no help whatsoever, and I ended up stumbling along a seemingly endless line of cliffs with no way down and no way back. Did eventually find a scramble that wasn't too hair-raising- there was a sheep track down it, although I decided about half-way down that sheep were mad. Then I slogged through some really, really cool scenery, for a really, really long time. Then I ended up crawling along a narrow track with sheer mountain to one side and a fairly steep drop into the ocean on the other. From time to time I would pass the carcass of a sheep that hadn't been sure-footed enough, which was not exactly confidence-building.
On the brighter side, it *was* gorgeous weather for most of the afternoon, and I really did enjoy myself for most of the time I wasn't being scared out of my wits. A good hike, overall.
Some very nice people gave me a lift from the mountain to the hostel, which was grand. Unfortunately, either the hostel staff hadn't seen the label on my food, or some unprincipled person hadn't cared, because it was all gone; I had to go emergency shopping... I was actually hungry enough to eat canned spagetti from Safeway. I am so ashamed.
To expand, I did get hiking, a distinctly mixed experience. My guidebook turned out to be a waste of a perfectly good £3. The directions were abysmal, the maps worse. The walk they said was going to take me four hours barely took one, since I missed a badly-described turn, so I decided to do another walk which I'd been interested in. Unfortunately, I had to hike four miles to get to the hike. I got picked up and given a ride on the way in, but still, I thought I'd probably end up taking as much time to *get* to the walk as I did *on* the walk.
Boy, was I wrong.
It looked like a simple enough hill (famous last words) but it turned out to be a lot more complicated. Scotland is, as far as I know, the sole possessor of folding hills. They're like maps, or stuff-sack tents, or something; they *look* tiny, but once you actually get into the middle of the thing you've got more map, or tent, or hill, than you know what to do with. Also, detours are dangerous. You get halfway through what *looked* like a shortcut and realize that, not only is getting where you were going a lot more complicated (if not impossible) than you were expecting, but you now can't seem to find where you came from, either.
I took several detours of this sort. I did make the summit- well, that was the easy bit- on my own, but then stupidly decided to revert to the guidebook and take its suggested route down, which was supposed to be a lot more scenic. It was. You always see more scenery when you're lost. The guidebook was, of course, no help whatsoever, and I ended up stumbling along a seemingly endless line of cliffs with no way down and no way back. Did eventually find a scramble that wasn't too hair-raising- there was a sheep track down it, although I decided about half-way down that sheep were mad. Then I slogged through some really, really cool scenery, for a really, really long time. Then I ended up crawling along a narrow track with sheer mountain to one side and a fairly steep drop into the ocean on the other. From time to time I would pass the carcass of a sheep that hadn't been sure-footed enough, which was not exactly confidence-building.
On the brighter side, it *was* gorgeous weather for most of the afternoon, and I really did enjoy myself for most of the time I wasn't being scared out of my wits. A good hike, overall.
Some very nice people gave me a lift from the mountain to the hostel, which was grand. Unfortunately, either the hostel staff hadn't seen the label on my food, or some unprincipled person hadn't cared, because it was all gone; I had to go emergency shopping... I was actually hungry enough to eat canned spagetti from Safeway. I am so ashamed.
And here I am again. I've decided to stay in Portree for the weekend; my guidebook warns that transportation on Skye vanished during the weekend, and since this is the largest town on the island, well, if I'm going to be stuck somewhere it might as well be here.
The rain appears to have let up a bit, which is good, since I need a day off from the novel and there's absolutely nothing else to do here. Not even a cinema. I watched 'A Fish Called Wanda' on the hostel tv, but that was pretty much the highlight of the evening. Did my laundry... there was a very cute two-year old in the laundry, and we kept each other amused for a bit, but basically it's dullsville around here. If it continues not raining for the next five or ten minutes, I will go hiking.
I'm enjoying it, though. I have nothing wrong with boredom. Boredom, in my experience, is what happens once things stop going wrong. Boredom is *grand*.
And if things get *too* bad, well, I see the hostel has a copy of War and Peace. That should eat my weekend quickly enough.
Alright, it's still not raining. Hiking it is.
The rain appears to have let up a bit, which is good, since I need a day off from the novel and there's absolutely nothing else to do here. Not even a cinema. I watched 'A Fish Called Wanda' on the hostel tv, but that was pretty much the highlight of the evening. Did my laundry... there was a very cute two-year old in the laundry, and we kept each other amused for a bit, but basically it's dullsville around here. If it continues not raining for the next five or ten minutes, I will go hiking.
I'm enjoying it, though. I have nothing wrong with boredom. Boredom, in my experience, is what happens once things stop going wrong. Boredom is *grand*.
And if things get *too* bad, well, I see the hostel has a copy of War and Peace. That should eat my weekend quickly enough.
Alright, it's still not raining. Hiking it is.
Friday, June 14
Well, I'm on the only internet access terminal on the Isle of Skye, and it's pissing down. Actually, I tell a lie- there was one in Kyleakin, but it was in a Fish & Chips shop that opened rather vaguely, so I didn't get a swing at it. Going into withdrawal....
Lovely place, though. I went for a walk yesterday, or more accurately a slosh, as for some reason it's damp here even on top of the hills. I rapidly discovered that anything remotely resembling a path had metamorphized itself into something closely resembling a bog, and so ended up wading hip-deep through the heather and sliding down a hillside that was simply *insane*. It was the sort of thing I talked other people out of. I had a look at it when I hit the bottom and had to stop for a good case of the shakes. Stupid, stupid, *stupid*.
It was a pretty little valley, though. I ate lunch there, and found a more sane way out, and went back. Then hiked across the Skye Bridge, a contriversial monster as it allows road access to the Isle, destroying a lot of the tourist business that had grown up around the ferries, *and* charges a ridiculous toll. It's not a very popular piece of engineering. As there were no ATMs, grocery stores, or pharmacies on my side of the water, though, I didn't complain too much.
Now I'm in Portree, which is the island's capital and a bit more cosmopolitan, damp but cheerful. Don't know what I'll do. Work, probably- Anagenesis is really taking off these days, to my joy. The castle was good for it. I left without seeing a single ghost, incidentally, although apparently I was sleeping in the wing where the old Duchess sometimes appears. Interesting girl- her husbands, all three of them, showed a remarkable tendency for hunting accidents... due to this her second husband, the Duke's, family was not very partial to her and demanded she build her castle (stipulated in the marriage contract) off their lands. She built it right across the lake from them, bare inches from the divide, and built a three-sided clock tower with the non-clock side towards them so she didn't have to give them the time of day.
One wonders what she thinks, walking around and seeing a bunch of backpackers sleeping where her sitting room used to be.
God knows when I'll post again.
Lovely place, though. I went for a walk yesterday, or more accurately a slosh, as for some reason it's damp here even on top of the hills. I rapidly discovered that anything remotely resembling a path had metamorphized itself into something closely resembling a bog, and so ended up wading hip-deep through the heather and sliding down a hillside that was simply *insane*. It was the sort of thing I talked other people out of. I had a look at it when I hit the bottom and had to stop for a good case of the shakes. Stupid, stupid, *stupid*.
It was a pretty little valley, though. I ate lunch there, and found a more sane way out, and went back. Then hiked across the Skye Bridge, a contriversial monster as it allows road access to the Isle, destroying a lot of the tourist business that had grown up around the ferries, *and* charges a ridiculous toll. It's not a very popular piece of engineering. As there were no ATMs, grocery stores, or pharmacies on my side of the water, though, I didn't complain too much.
Now I'm in Portree, which is the island's capital and a bit more cosmopolitan, damp but cheerful. Don't know what I'll do. Work, probably- Anagenesis is really taking off these days, to my joy. The castle was good for it. I left without seeing a single ghost, incidentally, although apparently I was sleeping in the wing where the old Duchess sometimes appears. Interesting girl- her husbands, all three of them, showed a remarkable tendency for hunting accidents... due to this her second husband, the Duke's, family was not very partial to her and demanded she build her castle (stipulated in the marriage contract) off their lands. She built it right across the lake from them, bare inches from the divide, and built a three-sided clock tower with the non-clock side towards them so she didn't have to give them the time of day.
One wonders what she thinks, walking around and seeing a bunch of backpackers sleeping where her sitting room used to be.
God knows when I'll post again.
Tuesday, June 11
Very little going on these days- it's been raining and I've been exhausted, so mostly I'm just hanging around the castle, making a nuisance of myself for the cleaning staff. The good news is that I have *finally* broken my writer's block and gotten a revise done on Chapter Nine of Anagenesis that I can live with. Actually, that I'm pretty happy with. The bad news is that now Chapter Ten needs rewriting from scratch. I have the nasty feeling that these last four chapters are going to be just as much like pulling teeth as Nine was.
I do like it here, though. What a great place to work!
I do like it here, though. What a great place to work!
Sunday, June 09
There are, in spite of all the benifits, a few annoying things about sleeping in youth hostels. One is the showers... this particular hostel, along with the one in Edinburgh, had adopted the method of using a shower where you had to push a button every twenty seconds to keep the water coming. Also, you couldn't adjust the heat. All right, so I spent less time in the shower, but it was annoying and we *still* ran out of hot water in Edinburgh. Hopefully that will be different here.
Another thing is the possibility you'll end up with a roomate who snores. I got next to no sleep last night.
'Here' is a castle in upper Scotland which was donated by a rich Norwegian lord at the end of one of the world wars to the Youth Hostel Association. He donated, not only the castle, but all the *artwork* in the castle. I walked in lugging my scruffy backpack and nearly walked right into a Greek statue. This place is *seriously* cool- sweeping staircases and wood panelling and statues and original paintings on the walls... and all for £13 a night.
There's also supposed to be a ghost. Well, as long as she doesn't snore....
Another thing is the possibility you'll end up with a roomate who snores. I got next to no sleep last night.
'Here' is a castle in upper Scotland which was donated by a rich Norwegian lord at the end of one of the world wars to the Youth Hostel Association. He donated, not only the castle, but all the *artwork* in the castle. I walked in lugging my scruffy backpack and nearly walked right into a Greek statue. This place is *seriously* cool- sweeping staircases and wood panelling and statues and original paintings on the walls... and all for £13 a night.
There's also supposed to be a ghost. Well, as long as she doesn't snore....
Saturday, June 08
Went for a walk today. It was incredible... the Scottish Highlands are indescribably beautiful. And I was in the 'unspectacular' section. Lovely.
My guidebook and I had a few issues- mainly regarding unmentioned forks in the road- but in the end I ended up liking it because it told me all the names of the places I was passing. Names are important, especially when they are strange and lovely ones- felt like I was walking through a Tolkien novel. Like so:
Unlovely bit hiking down the verge of a highway to get to the start of the path. We'll skip that bit.
Then I turned up a driveway marked for Lynwilg and then up another marked for Alltnacriche. I went through a wooded glen, through a gate, and up with moorlands to one side and Allt Dubh (allt being a little brook or stream) down to the other. After a few miles Allt Dubh veered away and I was climbing my way up a steep moorland ridge for an hour or so. I passed two cairns of stones that had been placed at the highest point and went down the other side. Now I was surrouded by heather and gorse and wooly maggots. All right. I really hate sheep, but these were pretty okay sheep. They could ignore me, I didn't have to chase them through any gates, everybody was happy.
It was about noon by now so I stopped for lunch beside Allt Ghiuthais (bread, cheese, grapes. I eat light when I hike. Oh, and lots of water.) Then it was over the river Dulnain on a wooden bridge and past the abandoned cottage at Caggan, and along the river for a few more miles until the cottage at Dalnahaitnach, when I turned left up a steep ridge past a monument to some guy who was, apparently, very good with his bow, and kept off many cattle stealers. Hurrah for him. Then across a long stretch of moorland and over Allt an Aonaich via a little footbridge, past the cottage at Insharn, and up another hill with moorland to my right and conifer trees to my left; and then down through woodland to the bridge over the river Dulnan at Sluggan, which was a remarkable thing, all stone covered with grass and moss, lovely and old in the sunlight; and then, to the road, and up the road to my quasi-destination- Carrbridge.
In this time I saw three people on bicicles, one empty truck, and the cottages. That was about it for human contact.
The end was somewhat dreary, in the way ends are. I needed to get back to Aviemore, where I was staying, and, enthusiasm for hiking aside, I wasn't keen on going back the way I'd come, seeing as it was now half past four and it had been a nineteen-mile hike. Enough, I felt, was enough. Civilization is even better appreciated when you come back to it, especially if your feet hurt. And so on.
My guidebook claimed that there was public transport. They forgot to add 'if you're bloody lucky.' The trains only ran twice a day, at nine or at seven. Buses were supposed to stop at the post office. They didn't. Well, they passed the post office, to be sure, but only at high speeds and thumbing their noses. They were too high-class to actually stop. I only saw one stop, and it was going the wrong way.
So there I was, a litre of water drinker, stuck in a one-horse down with a half-litre bladder and no public toilet in sight. At six I gave up and went back to the train station (with a detour through some conveniently secluded woods.) I was quite early for the seven o'clock, which turned out to be a good thing, as the seven o'clock was fifeteen minutes early herself, and also on the wrong side of the station.
I wonder what I'll do tomorrow?
My guidebook and I had a few issues- mainly regarding unmentioned forks in the road- but in the end I ended up liking it because it told me all the names of the places I was passing. Names are important, especially when they are strange and lovely ones- felt like I was walking through a Tolkien novel. Like so:
Unlovely bit hiking down the verge of a highway to get to the start of the path. We'll skip that bit.
Then I turned up a driveway marked for Lynwilg and then up another marked for Alltnacriche. I went through a wooded glen, through a gate, and up with moorlands to one side and Allt Dubh (allt being a little brook or stream) down to the other. After a few miles Allt Dubh veered away and I was climbing my way up a steep moorland ridge for an hour or so. I passed two cairns of stones that had been placed at the highest point and went down the other side. Now I was surrouded by heather and gorse and wooly maggots. All right. I really hate sheep, but these were pretty okay sheep. They could ignore me, I didn't have to chase them through any gates, everybody was happy.
It was about noon by now so I stopped for lunch beside Allt Ghiuthais (bread, cheese, grapes. I eat light when I hike. Oh, and lots of water.) Then it was over the river Dulnain on a wooden bridge and past the abandoned cottage at Caggan, and along the river for a few more miles until the cottage at Dalnahaitnach, when I turned left up a steep ridge past a monument to some guy who was, apparently, very good with his bow, and kept off many cattle stealers. Hurrah for him. Then across a long stretch of moorland and over Allt an Aonaich via a little footbridge, past the cottage at Insharn, and up another hill with moorland to my right and conifer trees to my left; and then down through woodland to the bridge over the river Dulnan at Sluggan, which was a remarkable thing, all stone covered with grass and moss, lovely and old in the sunlight; and then, to the road, and up the road to my quasi-destination- Carrbridge.
In this time I saw three people on bicicles, one empty truck, and the cottages. That was about it for human contact.
The end was somewhat dreary, in the way ends are. I needed to get back to Aviemore, where I was staying, and, enthusiasm for hiking aside, I wasn't keen on going back the way I'd come, seeing as it was now half past four and it had been a nineteen-mile hike. Enough, I felt, was enough. Civilization is even better appreciated when you come back to it, especially if your feet hurt. And so on.
My guidebook claimed that there was public transport. They forgot to add 'if you're bloody lucky.' The trains only ran twice a day, at nine or at seven. Buses were supposed to stop at the post office. They didn't. Well, they passed the post office, to be sure, but only at high speeds and thumbing their noses. They were too high-class to actually stop. I only saw one stop, and it was going the wrong way.
So there I was, a litre of water drinker, stuck in a one-horse down with a half-litre bladder and no public toilet in sight. At six I gave up and went back to the train station (with a detour through some conveniently secluded woods.) I was quite early for the seven o'clock, which turned out to be a good thing, as the seven o'clock was fifeteen minutes early herself, and also on the wrong side of the station.
I wonder what I'll do tomorrow?
Friday, June 07
Dad will be so proud of me- I actually went out last night! To a *pub*! (My parents, incidentally, have spent the last twenty-one years fighting statements like 'but I just want to stay in and read!' and 'But I don't like alcohol!' and 'Look, socializing with other members of the human race is really overrated, okay?' They cheer loudly at me over the phone when I do things other kids get grounded for.)
Went out, at any rate, with the other kids from my room, which was quite a crowd (the rooms sleep eight.) We followed it up with a visit to a dance club, which was fun, except that a) it was eighties night and b)in spite of it being eighties night, they still played 'Uptown Girl' twice. The world is not safe from that damned song. Oh well, at least I didn't have to hear 'Bootylicious.' We stayed till three, I collected the obligitory number of passes (it's rather weird. I suppose I'd be rather insulted or dissapointed if I didn't get hit on in a pub, despite the fact that I have exactly zip interest in accepting any proposals and that when I do get hit on, I am embarrassed and annoyed and generally find it very tedious. Someday me and my ego are going to sit down and have a long talk.) At three one of the girls was getting very seriously backed into a corner by some guy who didn't know what 'no' meant and we had to leave, which is pretty much how I end up leaving all pubs. Then stood around talking with said girl in the bathroom for a further hour. (A lot of guys have asked what is with girls and bathrooms. I don't know. I just seem to gravitate into long, serious conversations in them. Sorry, guys, I know this is as alien to you as the entire 'seat-down' controversy.)
Woke up the next morning at ten to ten, which would have been fine if I wasn't supposed to be checking out at ten. Packed very quickly. Luckily 'I was out on the piss last night' provokes tolerant smiles around here.... the rest of the day was, well, pretty horrible really; one of those travel-and-money nightmares that crops up from time to time. I sorted it eventually.
Now I'm off to Aviemore to do a day hike. Fun! Excitement! Sleep! (Yes, for once, I actually did make reservations.)
Went out, at any rate, with the other kids from my room, which was quite a crowd (the rooms sleep eight.) We followed it up with a visit to a dance club, which was fun, except that a) it was eighties night and b)in spite of it being eighties night, they still played 'Uptown Girl' twice. The world is not safe from that damned song. Oh well, at least I didn't have to hear 'Bootylicious.' We stayed till three, I collected the obligitory number of passes (it's rather weird. I suppose I'd be rather insulted or dissapointed if I didn't get hit on in a pub, despite the fact that I have exactly zip interest in accepting any proposals and that when I do get hit on, I am embarrassed and annoyed and generally find it very tedious. Someday me and my ego are going to sit down and have a long talk.) At three one of the girls was getting very seriously backed into a corner by some guy who didn't know what 'no' meant and we had to leave, which is pretty much how I end up leaving all pubs. Then stood around talking with said girl in the bathroom for a further hour. (A lot of guys have asked what is with girls and bathrooms. I don't know. I just seem to gravitate into long, serious conversations in them. Sorry, guys, I know this is as alien to you as the entire 'seat-down' controversy.)
Woke up the next morning at ten to ten, which would have been fine if I wasn't supposed to be checking out at ten. Packed very quickly. Luckily 'I was out on the piss last night' provokes tolerant smiles around here.... the rest of the day was, well, pretty horrible really; one of those travel-and-money nightmares that crops up from time to time. I sorted it eventually.
Now I'm off to Aviemore to do a day hike. Fun! Excitement! Sleep! (Yes, for once, I actually did make reservations.)
Wednesday, June 05
Stopped by a grocery store on the way to the hostel for supper... and they had *milk*! And not just any milk, either. *Real* milk, from *Jerseys*! It was a proper color- yellow- and everything. None of this white, watery Holstein milk, or, worse yet, that abdomination they market under the label of 'skim milk'. Ah, skim milk- a worthless, nutritionally valueless, chalk-and-water flavored byproduct of the butter and ice-cream making industries which the milk companies, by dint of clever marketing, have passed off on the consumer as 'healthy', meaning they can not only sell the stuff but charge almost the same as real milk for it!
Amazing, really.
I drank a quart of my *real* milk with half a pound of strawberries for dinner. It was good.
I also slept like a rock. Not sleeping (aside from uneasy catnaps) for two days will do that, I suppose... feel actually rested for the first time in, well, in a long time. I'm trying to get a lot of gift shopping out of the way here so I can ship this stash of gifts that is swelling my luggage home and have it get there before I get back. Sightseeing... I will leave to tomorrow. I am sightsee'd out.
Beginning to miss cows. I went and bought a couple of cow postcards, but it's just not the same.
Amazing, really.
I drank a quart of my *real* milk with half a pound of strawberries for dinner. It was good.
I also slept like a rock. Not sleeping (aside from uneasy catnaps) for two days will do that, I suppose... feel actually rested for the first time in, well, in a long time. I'm trying to get a lot of gift shopping out of the way here so I can ship this stash of gifts that is swelling my luggage home and have it get there before I get back. Sightseeing... I will leave to tomorrow. I am sightsee'd out.
Beginning to miss cows. I went and bought a couple of cow postcards, but it's just not the same.
Tuesday, June 04
I went to see the Tower after all, once I realized that Bank Holiday means that everybody takes the chance to get the fuck out of London. It was still really crowded, mostly with people taking their photos standing in front of important things. This phenomonon puzzles me. I mean, famous things, okay, sure, but who wants to see a photo book of yourself? ('And here's me blocking the view to the Bloody Tower, and here I am in front of the walls, and here I am hugging a Beefeater, and here's me in front of a really interesting window, only you can't see the window, of course, since I'm standing in front of it....')
The place was depressingly short on real information, i.e. information I can use for my writing project, but I dodged tourists and did my best. I got a real feel for the place, anyway, which always helps. Went looking in the shops afterwards and ended up, as always, in the kids' section... why is it that the only *real* information shows up as kids' literature? Are we adults supposed to have grown out of this 'being interested' silliness, that they supply us with an endless realm of overpriced booklets on the Crown Jewels (which I skipped, incidentally; history aside, they're only pretty rocks, and the queue was incredible) and annoying, smug, information-devoid hardbacks on the Kings and Queens of England, but not a whit of real literature? Must we be confined to buying things with titles like 'A Page's Diary'? It's bloody embarassing, you know, when you're twenty-one. But oh well. There was a *lot* of info in it, and if I ever get back on writing 'A Proper Knight' it will be invaluable.
Disaster struck an hour or so after my escape from the Tower in the form of the friend I was planning on staying with phoning me up, having only just gotten my message, and saying he was terribly, horribly sorry, but he was in a tent in Scotland right now, and on vacation, and there was absolutely no way, and he was really sorry, and so on.
'Oh, it's fine,' I said innocently. 'I'll just find a place to stay.'
Wrong.
It's the Queen's Birthday. The entire population of England is on the move, as I found out when I tried to make reservations. Finally, right before my phone died, I hit a YMCA in Newcastle-on-Tyne that had one room, but refused to hold it for me (apparently they'd been burned on people not showing up before) but, hell, it was the best I had. I hopped a train (train passes are wonderful) but when I got there the YMCA was not answering its phone... I walked. Couldn't find the YMCA. Did find a ton of places with 'No Vacancies' signs.
Finally, after a certain amount of embarrassing histronics to which, fortunately, I was the only witness, I returned to the train station and rode the trains for as long as I could, on the basis that at least they were warm and I *did* have a free pass. They kicked me off the train at 1:30 in a place called Doncaster, where they then kicked me out of the train station, and I failed to sleep on a park bench. It was bloody cold, too. Why they don't pad those things I don't know.
The actual failing-to-sleep-on-park-bench bit wasn't as bad as the being-scared bit, as it turned out, and I did manage to finish Scott's 'Waverly' and to start, *and* finish, Yamatin's 'We.' Also froze. Finally, at 5:00, they let the little band of train refugees (me, some tipsy gypsy spirit born a century too late who persistantly assured me he wasn't 'freaky' or anything and tried to give me cigarettes, and two American kids who had flown in late only to discover that, due to the Queen's Birthday, all the Beaureu de Change's were closed and they couldn't get any English money) back into the warm, and we all got on trains again. Meant to go to York, but slept through the stop and thought, oh, well, what the hell, I'll go to Edenburough instead.
I'm glad I did. First off, I got a room within the first five minutes, which was a great relief. Second, Edenburough (which I strongly suspect I am misspelling, but never mind) is gorgous: big, but not like London. It is incredible to me what being out of London does for me; it's like a continual stress, a weight on my mind, has vanished... I don't do crowds well. Edinburgh (have spotted a sign) is *much* better. Wandered around, hiding in the library (a haunt of mine when I'm lost and rattled), crusing the shops, falling asleep at random intervals. Warm. Happy. Good.
Hopefully this visitation of Travel Hell will be the worst I have to endure for a while.
The place was depressingly short on real information, i.e. information I can use for my writing project, but I dodged tourists and did my best. I got a real feel for the place, anyway, which always helps. Went looking in the shops afterwards and ended up, as always, in the kids' section... why is it that the only *real* information shows up as kids' literature? Are we adults supposed to have grown out of this 'being interested' silliness, that they supply us with an endless realm of overpriced booklets on the Crown Jewels (which I skipped, incidentally; history aside, they're only pretty rocks, and the queue was incredible) and annoying, smug, information-devoid hardbacks on the Kings and Queens of England, but not a whit of real literature? Must we be confined to buying things with titles like 'A Page's Diary'? It's bloody embarassing, you know, when you're twenty-one. But oh well. There was a *lot* of info in it, and if I ever get back on writing 'A Proper Knight' it will be invaluable.
Disaster struck an hour or so after my escape from the Tower in the form of the friend I was planning on staying with phoning me up, having only just gotten my message, and saying he was terribly, horribly sorry, but he was in a tent in Scotland right now, and on vacation, and there was absolutely no way, and he was really sorry, and so on.
'Oh, it's fine,' I said innocently. 'I'll just find a place to stay.'
Wrong.
It's the Queen's Birthday. The entire population of England is on the move, as I found out when I tried to make reservations. Finally, right before my phone died, I hit a YMCA in Newcastle-on-Tyne that had one room, but refused to hold it for me (apparently they'd been burned on people not showing up before) but, hell, it was the best I had. I hopped a train (train passes are wonderful) but when I got there the YMCA was not answering its phone... I walked. Couldn't find the YMCA. Did find a ton of places with 'No Vacancies' signs.
Finally, after a certain amount of embarrassing histronics to which, fortunately, I was the only witness, I returned to the train station and rode the trains for as long as I could, on the basis that at least they were warm and I *did* have a free pass. They kicked me off the train at 1:30 in a place called Doncaster, where they then kicked me out of the train station, and I failed to sleep on a park bench. It was bloody cold, too. Why they don't pad those things I don't know.
The actual failing-to-sleep-on-park-bench bit wasn't as bad as the being-scared bit, as it turned out, and I did manage to finish Scott's 'Waverly' and to start, *and* finish, Yamatin's 'We.' Also froze. Finally, at 5:00, they let the little band of train refugees (me, some tipsy gypsy spirit born a century too late who persistantly assured me he wasn't 'freaky' or anything and tried to give me cigarettes, and two American kids who had flown in late only to discover that, due to the Queen's Birthday, all the Beaureu de Change's were closed and they couldn't get any English money) back into the warm, and we all got on trains again. Meant to go to York, but slept through the stop and thought, oh, well, what the hell, I'll go to Edenburough instead.
I'm glad I did. First off, I got a room within the first five minutes, which was a great relief. Second, Edenburough (which I strongly suspect I am misspelling, but never mind) is gorgous: big, but not like London. It is incredible to me what being out of London does for me; it's like a continual stress, a weight on my mind, has vanished... I don't do crowds well. Edinburgh (have spotted a sign) is *much* better. Wandered around, hiding in the library (a haunt of mine when I'm lost and rattled), crusing the shops, falling asleep at random intervals. Warm. Happy. Good.
Hopefully this visitation of Travel Hell will be the worst I have to endure for a while.
Monday, June 03
I passed a bagpiper waiting for a bus this morning. Such things don't happen to an American every day.
My moral stance held up and I did *not* see 'Attack of the Clones'- I went for a walk in Hyde Park instead and saw the Albert Memorial. They have much in common. Gaudy, self-indulgent, arrogant, and entirely way too much reliance on special effects. The only difference is that the Albert Memorial stars Albert instead of George Lucas's Ego. Overall it's an improvement.
I'm not sure what I'll end up doing today... feeling a little lost now that my friend from Indiana isn't around to organize me. I was going to see the Tower, which interests me deeply, but then I realized that it's the Queen's Birthday and therefore a bank holiday. No *way* am I going to the Tower of London on a bank holiday. On the other hand, I couldn't care less whether I saw the Crown Jewels, so it may be safe... hell. Maybe I'll just go see the BBC museum instead, which is also cool and likely to be less crowded with people, particularly other Americans.
It's so wonderful- I've been abroad so long that my accent has sort of morphed, and people think I'm Canadian. If you don't think that's wonderful, you've never been around American tourists. To explain, I've developed something of an acid test for civilization:
You're standing in a queue for the bathrooms.
If you're a civilized person, when your turn finally rolls around, you do your business as quickly as possible and get out so the next person can have a go.
If you're not, you spend as much time as possible in there, on the theory that you've waited in line for it and deserve every ounce of time you can eek out of it. Deserve, hell- it's your *right*.
Most Americans are inherently uncivilized. I enjoy being mistaken for Canadian. It means less people say things like 'But you *can't* be an American! You're *polite*!'
My moral stance held up and I did *not* see 'Attack of the Clones'- I went for a walk in Hyde Park instead and saw the Albert Memorial. They have much in common. Gaudy, self-indulgent, arrogant, and entirely way too much reliance on special effects. The only difference is that the Albert Memorial stars Albert instead of George Lucas's Ego. Overall it's an improvement.
I'm not sure what I'll end up doing today... feeling a little lost now that my friend from Indiana isn't around to organize me. I was going to see the Tower, which interests me deeply, but then I realized that it's the Queen's Birthday and therefore a bank holiday. No *way* am I going to the Tower of London on a bank holiday. On the other hand, I couldn't care less whether I saw the Crown Jewels, so it may be safe... hell. Maybe I'll just go see the BBC museum instead, which is also cool and likely to be less crowded with people, particularly other Americans.
It's so wonderful- I've been abroad so long that my accent has sort of morphed, and people think I'm Canadian. If you don't think that's wonderful, you've never been around American tourists. To explain, I've developed something of an acid test for civilization:
You're standing in a queue for the bathrooms.
If you're a civilized person, when your turn finally rolls around, you do your business as quickly as possible and get out so the next person can have a go.
If you're not, you spend as much time as possible in there, on the theory that you've waited in line for it and deserve every ounce of time you can eek out of it. Deserve, hell- it's your *right*.
Most Americans are inherently uncivilized. I enjoy being mistaken for Canadian. It means less people say things like 'But you *can't* be an American! You're *polite*!'
Right.
Hell of a week. Update later if I get time. Suffice to say, both of my friends are now gone, and I am wandering around London wondering what to do. I am boycotting 'Attack of the Clones' in righteous annoyance, but my resolve is definately weakening....
Went up on the London Eye this morning. It was moderately cool, though overpriced at £10.50. The view is fantastic, but anything that looks like a giant Ferris wheel, and is advertised as a giant Ferris wheel, and spins around like a giant Ferris wheel, should, in my opinion, go slightly faster. But we crawled up and crawled down and took photos like good tourists, so there we are. I even bought the corny souvenir photo of myself in the capsule that they take as you're going down. My friend from Indiana said I looked very wistful. I don't know. Maybe I was hoping the bloody thing would take off.
The Eye *does* have one of the most interesting queue systems I've ever seen. First you queue up to buy your tickets. Then you jon another queue, which nobody can find, which doesn't actually seem to go anywhere or do anything, except a guy marks your ticket with a blue marker. Unless he's done that you aren't allowed to join the *queue* queue, which is to say, the one leading up to the Eye. My friend figured she could make a killing with a blue marker.
We rode around on the Underground (which is a cool thing) for a long time, and then we ended up in Heathrow, which is not a cool thing at all. It is an airport. They are a little more sane over here than in the States, but airports are still badly-air-conditioned-hell. To make things worse my friend had broken the zipper on her suitcase and I had to go hunting about for some duct tape. Ah, duct tape. Wonderful stuff. Sadly, like everything you actually need or want, they don't sell it in airports (it has been pushed out by the massage-soap and silk-scarf-sellers) and we had to settle for one of those silly luggage straps, which doesn't work half so well. It was a locking one, which I didn't realize, and I threw out the keys thinking they were trash (they *looked* like trash; little plastic tag things, they certainly didn't look like *keys*) and then we had to comb the airport finding where I'd dropped them when we figured it out. All very exciting. Security, at least, was low, and non gun-toting: the British have had the Irish bombing the shit out of them for about a century now, and so they don't really understand why we Americans are making such a fuss. This is a relief. Last time I was in an American airport there was some guy looking thoroughly smug carting a *massive* automatic weapon around. I think it was an M16 or something.
'Er,' I said. 'What's he going to do with that?'
'I've got no fucking idea,' said my father, who'd been in the Navy. 'Those things are about as accurate as a sprinkler system. If he starts firing that thing in here it'll be a fucking bloodbath *and* pure chance if he actually hits what he's shooting at.'
'Ah,' I said. 'Gee. I feel *so* much more secure now that my country's on the alert....'
There was a security guard checking bags on the Eye too. He looked in my bag, very grim, and then in my friend's purse, then asked her if she had any money.
'Uh, yes,' she said. He switched from horribly grim to puppish.
'Would you give me some?'
I love Brits.
Hell of a week. Update later if I get time. Suffice to say, both of my friends are now gone, and I am wandering around London wondering what to do. I am boycotting 'Attack of the Clones' in righteous annoyance, but my resolve is definately weakening....
Went up on the London Eye this morning. It was moderately cool, though overpriced at £10.50. The view is fantastic, but anything that looks like a giant Ferris wheel, and is advertised as a giant Ferris wheel, and spins around like a giant Ferris wheel, should, in my opinion, go slightly faster. But we crawled up and crawled down and took photos like good tourists, so there we are. I even bought the corny souvenir photo of myself in the capsule that they take as you're going down. My friend from Indiana said I looked very wistful. I don't know. Maybe I was hoping the bloody thing would take off.
The Eye *does* have one of the most interesting queue systems I've ever seen. First you queue up to buy your tickets. Then you jon another queue, which nobody can find, which doesn't actually seem to go anywhere or do anything, except a guy marks your ticket with a blue marker. Unless he's done that you aren't allowed to join the *queue* queue, which is to say, the one leading up to the Eye. My friend figured she could make a killing with a blue marker.
We rode around on the Underground (which is a cool thing) for a long time, and then we ended up in Heathrow, which is not a cool thing at all. It is an airport. They are a little more sane over here than in the States, but airports are still badly-air-conditioned-hell. To make things worse my friend had broken the zipper on her suitcase and I had to go hunting about for some duct tape. Ah, duct tape. Wonderful stuff. Sadly, like everything you actually need or want, they don't sell it in airports (it has been pushed out by the massage-soap and silk-scarf-sellers) and we had to settle for one of those silly luggage straps, which doesn't work half so well. It was a locking one, which I didn't realize, and I threw out the keys thinking they were trash (they *looked* like trash; little plastic tag things, they certainly didn't look like *keys*) and then we had to comb the airport finding where I'd dropped them when we figured it out. All very exciting. Security, at least, was low, and non gun-toting: the British have had the Irish bombing the shit out of them for about a century now, and so they don't really understand why we Americans are making such a fuss. This is a relief. Last time I was in an American airport there was some guy looking thoroughly smug carting a *massive* automatic weapon around. I think it was an M16 or something.
'Er,' I said. 'What's he going to do with that?'
'I've got no fucking idea,' said my father, who'd been in the Navy. 'Those things are about as accurate as a sprinkler system. If he starts firing that thing in here it'll be a fucking bloodbath *and* pure chance if he actually hits what he's shooting at.'
'Ah,' I said. 'Gee. I feel *so* much more secure now that my country's on the alert....'
There was a security guard checking bags on the Eye too. He looked in my bag, very grim, and then in my friend's purse, then asked her if she had any money.
'Uh, yes,' she said. He switched from horribly grim to puppish.
'Would you give me some?'
I love Brits.
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