Our Story

  A cousin of mine recently said to me, "You'll be glad when you can stop having to be in two places at once, won't you?"  I looked at her in amazement, since she'd said it knowingly and correctly.  She went on, saying, "I bet when you're here physically, you're constantly there mentally and emotionally.  Am I right?" 

  Forgive me, readers.  I'll stop being ambiguous.  My cousin was referring to my constant state of identity and belonging crisis when I'm back in the States but thinking of Scotland.  She was right, too.  I could skip to my current situation and today's not-so-fun research of finding out which British consulate in the States I'll probably end up flying to in order to apply for a fiance visa.  I'll be forced to hold my breath to see if they'll grant me permission to marry and live in the same hemisphere as the love of my life.  Despite the fact that my face will have turned blue at that point, everything will depend upon how well we've prepared, completed our research, can prove we have a legitimate relationship, and, most probably, upon how good of a mood the immigration staff are in at the time we go through our interview.  My life and future hang by that precarious thread. 

  I suppose I've just successfully and somewhat inadvertently started you out there, but I would like to tell you our story from the beginning, if only you'll permit me.  It's a good story.  It's quite romantic and shares many qualities with the fairy tales you all probably believed in when you were children but now have written off as impossible and silly.  Our story is also filled with stress, tears, a love-hate relationship with geography, and decision-making that would frighten Lincoln's statue off of his seat in the Washington Mall.  I'm just warning you.

  Also, I don't expect all of you readers to be interested or care in the slightest, thinking of yourselves as the non-romantic types or as not having time for autobiographies.  I can only ask that you'll realize that my story is one of the beauty of human companionship and the intensity and strength of human commitment in the face of adversity.  I do not claim to be unique - many, MANY others have taken the path I now tread before I ever knew its existence - or my own, for that matter.

  I only ask that you readers will gain from my story at the least some amusement and at the most an understanding of who I am and who we all are.  We humans can endure much more than we think we can.  We can also love like Sleeping Beauty's prince when he hacked through five miles of thorny brambles just to kiss the probably well-chapped lips of a comatose princess - all in the name of love. 

  I don't expect you all to consume my story in a single, gigantic entry, either.  My fingers and your capacities to read would all be numbed to oblivion by that.  Therefore, I'll stretch it out and give it the space it requires.  I'll try to break it up with entries on other topics, too, when the mood hits me or I can hear your screams.

  I'm not going to start it out with this entry, either, since it's already too long and the water in my bath is threatening to extinguish the process of circulation in my body by means of hypothermia.  I just wanted to introduce the idea here, partly to give you all a chance to stretch out and make a pot of tea in preparation for reading my further entries...and partly because I want to.  I'm ready to share it with you.  I hope you'll read it.  If not, though, I hope you'll at least go ahead and make that pot of tea.  It fixes everything.

Homelessness

  I saw a man today.  He was riding a bike.  It wasn't a motorcycle.  It was a bicycle.  He wasn't an athlete.  He was riding the bike because he had to.  He was a homeless man.  I don't know because he was holding a sign or because he was begging for money.  He was doing neither of those.  I know because he had his whole home, his whole life strapped onto that bike - down to some stuffed animal cow strapped onto the back.
 
  I moved over to the other lane so that he would have room to ride on the side of the highway, and I watched as several other people just drove right on by him, blowing the air into his face and threatening to tip his already top-heavy vehicle onto its side.
 
  It made me sad to see a human being with no four walls around him, no security - just everything he owned piled onto two wheels, heading for who-knows-where.  I thought to myself, "Well, at least he's heading south, so that it will be a little warmer in the wintertime, wherever he ends up."

  Thinking about the homeless didn't really occur to me when I was younger.  I'd see people walking along the highway on occasion or sometimes outside of our small town McDonald's, holding cardboard signs and hoping to catch a ride to anywhere-but-here.  Awareness finally hit when, one day, my dad stopped in front of a ragged looking man who was holding one of those signs with black magic marker scrawled across it, and Dad rolled down the window, leaned out, and handed his sandwich to him.  Other than "thank you," no words were said, and I suppose none needed to be.  At the time, though, I was very naive and couldn't understand what my dad had done.  As we pulled away and headed toward home, I looked at him and said, "Daddy, why did you just give that man your lunch?"  My dad told me that he didn't need it, but that man did.  He also told me that you never knew who people were or what they had been through.  My own sandwich grew cold in my lap as a tiny part of what my father had said made some sense to me.  I felt a bit guilty in my warm bed that night, my belly full and my favorite toys close by to protect me from any monsters lurking about in the darkness, just as my family could keep me safe from the monsters of poverty, starvation, and homelessness.

  Now, as I think back to the words of my father, I stop at his description of homeless people's unknown identities.  This makes me wonder: can anyone be homeless?  What does it mean to be homeless?  How can we define "home" in the first place?  I believe that these are secondary questions to a bigger one.  Why do we tend to ignore the homeless?
 
  Those people who just drove right on by that homeless man on the bike probably thought they could speed on by him quickly, leaving both him, and their guilt, on the side of the road with as little injury to themselves as possible.  Just like people who walk by the homeless begging on the sidewalks of cities or the highway edges of smaller towns harden their faces and direct their eyes elsewhere, maybe even feigning a cell phone call or crossing to the other side of the street, in order to escape the burden of helping their less fortunate peers in this life quickly and painlessly.  The guilt doesn't linger as long if people choose to ignore instead of turn down.  To acknowledge or, especially, to actually help is to admit that 'home' can be taken away - that our security in this life is quite fragile.  The answer to that bigger question then leads to those secondary ones. 

  "Home" means different things to people.  Songs, quotations, cliches, etc. all try to define it.  For me, I think "home" isn't the physical structure, and maybe it's not even "where the heart is," as much as my hopeless romantic self would like to believe that it is.  Maybe "home" is just that feeling of safety and security.  Maybe that means that "home" is much more temporary than we humans would like to believe.  In that case, anyone, at any time, can be homeless, even if it's not as obvious as being forced to live under a bridge or shake a Styrofoam cup.  Frankly, that's quite frightening to me.

  I think that we all have a lot more in common with that homeless man on the bike than we think.  Perhaps that means it's time for people to stop crossing to the other side of the street just to avoid the guilt that comes with turning down a desperate person's plea for some change.  Myself included in this.  I know that the argument that every person can't afford to give money to every homeless one isn't wrong.  I am well aware of the arguments revealing suspicion that not all homeless are, in fact, homeless, and that maybe it would be possible for some homeless to get jobs to support themselves.  I am not denying that all of these arguments exist and that some have validity.  I am simply putting forth the idea that to ignore the homeless is to ignore the fact that we could all be in the same situation.  We could all be homeless.  Maybe offering one tiny shred of security and safety to those homeless individuals could provide a home for them - temporary, but lasting in the reality of showing a little bit of humanity.  Maybe even if it's only in the form of a handful of coins or a lane change.

The Music of Life

  I was watching the sun rise this morning, listening to the beautiful music of an Irish singer and flute player, and I thought about the power that music has.  Ben and I are both musical, (although he is much more faithful to his practicing and performing than I am!), and Eigg has an incredible music culture.  In fact, music is what brought Ben and me together, since our fated first meeting was at the 12th of June ceilidh (pronounced: kay-lee): a dance/party with both traditional and modern music and dancing that celebrates the Eigg islanders' independence day.  In 1997, the islanders bought the island from a very oppressive landlord, so Eigg now belongs to the islanders.  The yearly celebration is, therefore, filled with shared memories, happy visitors, and endless music.  That music remains a huge part of our lives during every other day of the year, as well.  Even in France this summer, Ben and I experienced the magic of music. 

  We were driving back to Ben's aunt's and uncle's house in Buze but decided to stop at a little church that Wina said had perfect acoustics.  Wina, Ben, and I walked inside after seeing that a van was parked outside with the name of some professional choral organization on the side of it.  Once inside, we found a nice couple, and Wina, (through pointing and broken French), asked the woman if she were from the organization.  We found out that she was, so Wina asked if she would sing for us.  She shyly agreed and walked to the front of the stone chapel.  She sang the most haunting tune I have ever heard in my entire life.  It was more than breathtaking.  It was music that could both give breath and take it away.  It was music as music was meant to be.  It was the spirit of music, and I witnessed music's soul.

  The chapel had been built hundreds of years ago, but the builders had known what they were doing.  The stone ceiling curved into a pointed arch that echoed in the most magnificent way.  Every inch of the building was filled with sound.  I had thought about videotaping her song, but the moment was too perfect to record.  I knew that I needed to simply be present and record that memory forever within me.

  When the singer's last note had faded, absorbed into those old stone walls for eternity, we stood in awed silence, then came to our senses and applauded and thanked her profusely.  I never meant "merci" more than at that moment in France.  I looked over at Wina and saw tears in her eyes.  I didn't blame her.  My heart, too, had been lain bare by that music, and the sounds reverberated through my entire being - raw with emotion. 

  I will never forget that pure beauty, and I will always feel so fortunate to have heard it.  Music is such an amazing, powerful entity that has lived for all of history.  As I and those stones saw in that ancient chapel in the French countryside, it continues to live agelessly in any place and at any time - even in the genorosity of a talented stranger to some oblivious travellers taking a detour.

The Pain of Fear

  As Halloween approaches, many of us - both kiddies and adults alike - will make plans to have ourselves good and scared.  We might even take the route of paying our own money to have other individuals frighten us so badly we won't sleep without the blankets pulled, suffocatingly, all the way to the tiptops of our nightmare-filled heads for weeks.  Another tactic we will probably try is sitting down in front of the television with a big bowl of popcorn and a horror movie that will either disgust or terrify us enough that we leave our snacks to go stale while we run for the cover of the light switch and "stop" button on the remote. 

  Although I have put myself through more years of surviving haunted houses than I would care to admit, the most recent episode of self-induced fear from which I have suffered came in the form of that horror movie watching I just discussed.  The movie was quite good, as far as horror films go.  The plot was complex enough to surprise me, there was an appropriate amount of gore, the suspense made me want to twist myself around on my couch until I was upside down and could allow the blood to drain to my head and take away that desperate, itchy feeling of wanting everything to get itself over with, and I was left satisfied with the ending but unsettled and unable to go to sleep until I had finished my book, just to add a buffer of pleasantness for my subconscious to hopefully feed upon for constructing my dreams.  Unfortunately, my dreams still ended up tainted, upsetting, and relentlessly negative.  I couldn't understand why.  Then, I realized that my book, while absolutely amazing, powerful, and beautiful in its own right, had evoked deep fear from me. 

  Written by one of my favorite contemporary authors, Bernardine Evaristo, Blonde Roots could be considered just as eye-opening as Uncle Tom's Cabin, except with the ability to allow those readers of European descent to finally not only sympathize with African slaves but actually relate with them and feel the horrors they experienced in an uncomfortable close-to-home proximity.  Evaristo did this by creating a work of fiction (yet horrifyingly nonfiction at the same time) in which white Europeans are the slaves of black Africans.  Because Evaristo maintains the cultural characteristics and historical themes of both groups, instead of just substituting names, she makes her readers experience understanding on an entirely new level.  To return to the idea of fear, closing the back cover of this book left me frightened to my core.  I was forced to entertain feelings of loss, torture, and hopelessness.  I mulled over in my mind what it would be like for me to lose absolutely everything and everyone and still continue to breathe.  That was fear, and it was painful.

  Lying in bed this morning, feeling not the least bit rested, I realized that the "surface" fear that comes from watching horror movies or screaming in the face of some masked and fake blood covered actor in a haunted house does, indeed, cause pain, just like the "complex" fear derived from witnessing the cruelty of humankind causes pain.  I then thought about why we voluntarily expose ourselves to such fear, when humans, typically, wish to avoid pain.  I believe that, like doomed moths to their light bulb electrocutions, we, as mortal creatures, are drawn to proof of our own mortality.  Experiencing fear makes us taste mortality, since, as immortals, we would not be forced to face fear. 

  Finally sniffing imaginary coffee and trudging downstairs to not unwillingly sacrifice myself at the alter of a probable caffeine addiction, I pondered further on my experience of watching people choose to scare themselves with the "surface" fear of fantasy much more readily than with the "complex" fear of reality.  Why would this be?  Perhaps it is easier to recover from the pain of an occasional nightmare brought on by one-too-many encounters with the chainsaw-carrying, flannel-wearing, Jason-mask-toting neighbor who likes to volunteer for the fire department's annual charity haunted house than to deal with the pain of placing your head on your pillow to the fearful realization that human beings are actually capable of uncontrollable hatred, torture, and cutting short the life of another.  Facing the pain of this complex fear makes us not only aware of our own mortality but of the fact that our mortalities are deeply connected.  We must endure the pain of fear to remind ourselves that we fear because we possess things worth fearing for. 

  I think I have a new respect for fear now, strange as it sounds to my own ears.  Don't assume, dear readers, that I'll be running off happily to join in every Halloween haunting around the corner.  I'm much-too-much of a scaredy cat to do that.  I just feel that fear has the potential to teach us what we need to appreciate, what love is about, and what we are willing to suffer for to protect.  Maybe fear is the key to being brave mortals, to being human.

The Nature of Wind

  I just returned from a weekend of camping in a beautiful state park.  Leaves were clinging desperately to the prehistorically tall trees, reminding me of millions of tiny, warmly colored flags waving in the wind to get the attention and hopeful support of those down below.  Instead of patriotically breaking out into some made-up national tree anthem, I stood with my neck craned to the sky and my eyes drowning in yellows, reds, and oranges.  The tiny flags whipped at their guardian branches until the limbs of the tree giants relinquished their loyal decorations to the quite demanding wind.  What a rascal that wind can be!  He toyed with the detached leaves for only seconds - twirling them around in his wispy fingers before letting them descend slowly on the wake of his tale and abandoning them to the mercy of the earth below. 

  I don't actually hold any resentment toward the wind.  It's one of my favorite elements, in fact, which is a good thing since Scotland is my other home.  Scotland is known for its heather, bagpipes, kilts, thick accents, and haggis, among other things.  When it comes to daily life, however, weather plays a huge role in the Scots' existence.  Abundant rain is obvious, even to an outsider, but the strength of Highland wind is something that new visitors don't necessarily expect.  I did not.  You see, rain does not fall sideways, but wind can force it sideways.  The first time that I experienced this "sideways rain" in Scotland, I was standing in the upstairs kitchen of the bothy on Eigg, happily putting the kettle on for a morning cup of tea.  I was still in pajamas and blissfully unaware of anything other than the fact that it was looking stormy outside but warm and cozy inside.  Soon, the mild storm increased to a gale, however, and it was "blowing a hoolie" as the Scots say.  I had heard the wind howl before, so I was not frightened of any flying banshees, but I had never seen the wind blow in a continuous horizontal state.  Tea cup empty, despite the kettle having boiled, I stared out the kitchen window in fascinated horror as the downpour turned sideways.  I suddenly felt quite a lot like Dorothy, just waiting for the house to fall to the ground in Kansas and wondering who my moral-lesson-learning travel companions would be.  A sudden swirling howl, and I went running for the living room, no longer Dorothy but a terrified child, seeking shelter from the monster that adults claim to be only a weather occurrence but which children see as a true threat.  I dove onto the couch and stuffed my face so far under Ben's arm I tasted cushion.  It took much caressing of my buried head, many tight hugs, and quite a few reassurances that our stone bothy could withstand the wind with ease to convince me that we would survive to see the next day (and not just if we asked the Wonderful Wizard for help).

  Now that I have lived through many more fierce weather conditions on Eigg, I will say that I no longer have to camp out in the furniture until they pass.  I have come to view wind and the other wardrobes of nature with a much deeper sense of respect, though.  The Highlands of Scotland are seen as a rugged frontier, and much of that is because Mother Nature claims them as her practice mat, art studio, resting place, and, at times, battleground.  She certainly makes life very interesting on Eigg, for better or for worse, but she also brings all those who visit Scotland a sense of clarity and appreciation of her beauties and power.  If you visit Scotland, you'll learn to sprint full-force into the dazzling light and take advantage of a sunny day, go on with outdoor tasks in the pouring rain as if everything were normal (as long as you're wearing your waterproofs), and take the time to truly wonder at the tiniest aspects of nature - even if they happen to be pretty leaves falling during a perfectly normal, perfectly amazing annual occurrence called Autumn.    
 

Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 6: ...When It Sizzles

  There are so many things that I would like to tell all of you readers about the last part of our stay in Paris and our eventual trip home.  I sit here now, racking my brain and scribbling out main details on my little dry erase board that is already perilously close to being completely covered in writing.  Memories from our trip race through my mind, and I'm back in Paris, strolling along the Seine with Ben, my hand in his and my heart showing itself to the entire stylish city through my mile-wide smile.  We'll be homeward-bound tomorrow, but, for now, the weather is perfect, we still have a few more places to look forward to visiting, and we've already had a perfect holiday.  Life is beautiful.

  Grudgingly, I step out of that vision, and I'm sitting here once again, typing away on my laptop with Indiana landscape filling my windows.  I love this Indiana land, but I always miss Scotland when I return here.  Since I've only been back for a number of weeks, I still haven't fully readjusted to life in the States.  Enough about my identity crisis, though - there will be plenty of further posts dedicated to just that, I'm sure.  For now, I promised to finish telling you the rest of our traveling tale.

  From my previous entry, you probably figured out that the cemetery was one of my favorite places that we visited.  Next on the list would have to be La Louvre.  The Louvre is the largest museum in the world, and I cannot even begin to describe what that immensity looks and feels like.  Above ground, the Louvre resembles a huge courtyard surrounded by magnificent, multi-story buildings from the 1800s.  Also above ground are two more recently built glass pyramids that reveal what's below the surface.  Ben and I stood in the ticket line, warily reading the "Beware of Pickpockets" signs and willing the line to move faster, when I looked up and pivoted, drinking in a 360 degree view.  I sighed, smiled, and told Ben that I couldn't believe I was standing there.  It was just like my history book had depicted it to be.  Reminiscing, I went on to tell him about sitting in history class in my middle school/junior high days and opening my giant book to a colorful picture of the Louvre.  My teacher must have lectured about it, possibly even reciting something about French history or culture, but, at the time, I could barely hear.  My entire attention was on that photograph, and I remember tracing it with my finger reverently, believing it was a magical place that existed in fairy tales alone.  I toyed with the idea of how marvelous it would be to visit this romantic place called Paris and go to this beautiful museum, but that seemed like a distant dream.  My mind didn't even allow me to hope to see the outside of that historical palace, let alone the amazing works of art inside.

  Then, over a decade later, there I was standing at the entrance!  Ben joked later that if he'd known that I would be so satisfied with just seeing the outside, we wouldn't have had to get tickets. While I am, of course, thoroughly glad that we did, I must admit that, after gazing at the Mona Lisa from behind six feet of bulletproof glass and under the scrutiny of more security guards than we could probably see, I did begin to experience museum fatigue.  We walked slowly through the museum, appreciating the works of so many masters!!  Every painting seemed to be more vivid and alive than the one before, every sculpture more detailed and awe-inspiring, and every set of steps leading to more and more masterpieces.  Because there was so much talent to see, however, my eyes began to glaze.  I realized that one would need years to fully explore the Louvre - not simply the day that we had to dedicate to it.  With that in mind, I did the best I could to get everything I could out of the time I spent there without feeling guilty.  We will be back someday, and I will return to the Louvre refreshed and prepared with research notes, supportive shoes, and plenty of water.

  Along with the museum, Ben and I also visited the famous Notre Dame Cathedral, which had no hunchback character but did have grotesque carvings of demons torturing the sinful and many, many gargoyles patiently waiting for rain to flow through their mouths.  Peering up at them, I believe they might also have been waiting for their stone bodies to turn to flesh so that they could fly away.  I'm sure they're nearly deafened by those bells by now, anyway.  Who wouldn't want to escape? 

  Montmarte was another church that we visited, although I have now learned that "Montmarte" also refers to the area that the church is built upon.  This area is an extremely high hill from which tourists stand to admire the view of Paris.  The church is purely white, and it does seem to sparkle in the sun.  Inside, the aura is strange, since the subdued tone of religious observance clashes with the fairly irreverent and clicking camera atmosphere of tourism in full regalia.  Ben and I were able to ignore that feeling briefly when we saw the massive, domed ceiling of the church and realized that it was covered in a mosaic of Jesus, formed with tiny tiles no bigger than half an inch each.  I think that this is one of the largest mosaics in the world.  It was worth fighting through the tourism masses to see that.

  Realizing that the Eiffel Tower has quite pretty, scrolling bits of iron at its base and testing our stomachs on beef tartare, (a nicely seasoned, raw, hamburger-like patty typically topped with a raw egg), along with all of our other sightseeing could still not compete with our time spent with Josh and Lola.  One day, when we had a lazy few hours of afternoon to spend, Josh introduced Ben and me to a French plastic toy animation cartoon called, "A Town Called Panic."  Despite not being able to understand the words, we laughed until our stomachs ached for us to watch something sobering.  I highly recommend treating yourself to some giggles with this cartoon, but be prepared for strange looks when you find yourself quoting the characters out in public, clueless to the translation, but tickled by your own funny voice.

  Constructing paper airplanes under the tutelage of my enthusiastic and expert man, Josh, Lola, and I spent several nights mischievously launching our round crafts out of those high windows, videotaping and whooping in triumph as they soared across the streets.  One night, Ben and Josh created a monster plane and sent it on its maiden journey...into the lap of a bewildered gentleman!  We watched in nail-biting anticipation, wondering what he would do with this gift from the sky.  The man picked it up and placed it on the ground, as if that sort of thing happened to him every day!  We were quite disappointed but continued our entertainment, nonetheless.  Good times.

  We spent a wonderful last evening with Josh, Lola, and several of their friends, gobbling down cheese and bread and managing great conversations, despite language barriers or full mouths.  When the time came that night for Ben and me to make our way to the metro and the eventual bus journey home, I pouted that I didn't want to leave.  Ben reminded me that my feelings were the sign of a lovely visit and that we would return.  How wonderful to leave wanting to stay!  I have nothing but warm thoughts when I think of our time in that apartment. 

  Ben and I then began our 26 hour journey back to Eigg, crossing the English Channel via the ferry this time and not really minding the Megabus trip as badly.  We lugged many souvenirs back to Eigg, but the most priceless were memories.  I realize that may sound cliche, but I only speak the truth.  Truly experiencing traveling has nothing to do with how much money you spend but only what you collect in your mind's eye.

  At our return to Eigg, I spent a week packing my bags to head back to the States.  One missed ferry (due to Scotland's unpredictable weather), one missed flight, five million phone calls pleading with the airline company, and one rescheduled flight later, Ben and I found ourselves at the airport, experiencing the "hate" side of our love-hate relationship with it.  We said (I sobbed) our farewells, and I was off again on a journey, this time heading west.  Now, here I am, writing feverishly and counting down the days until Ben comes for a visit, before it's time for me to pack my pencil and paper and fly across the pond again.  This is my life.  It is difficult, taxing, and not what I ever could have foreseen, but it is mine, and I love it like Parisian pigeons love stale French bread.  And that's a lot.

 

   

Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 5: I Love Paris in the Summer...

  Oh Paris.  Je t'aime Paris.  The City of Lights and Love has been the subject of more movies, books, and imagined stories than I could possibly know.  Simply hearing "Paris" would instantly conjure mental images galore in the minds of nearly all people living on this giant bouncy ball - whether or not they have ever stepped their homebody feet off of their native land.  See?  You're already licking your lips at the thought of buttery croissants, looking out the window and squinting at that tree you've always thought resembled the Eiffel Tower, and wondering if you still have that flamboyant beret in your attic.  I knew it.  When you're standing on the streets of this fine city, however, many nonstereotypical experiences wrap themselves around you and refuse to let go.   
  We arrived in Paris a bit bewildered by those streets.  After climbing many steps out of the metro system, we scrutinized a giant map of Paris placed there for tourists such as ourselves.  We were loaded down with (mainly my) luggage, struggling to spot a street sign and not having a vague idea of which direction we needed to walk, even if we could catch sight of the elusive marker.  Later, Ben's cousin, Josh, would set our minds at ease by showing us that finding most street signs in Paris is like looking for that striped and constantly lost Waldo (or Wally for those of you who grew up on the east side of the Pond).  Kindness, it seems, is an easier find in Paris.  Two incredibly helpful older women outside of a little cafe nearby revealed the street and our needed path.  Stereotype number one of the French being rude was smashed like a blissfully oblivious mussel released from the claws of a bloodthirsty seagull licking its bill in anticipation as its beady eyes stare at the juicy bivalve speck approaching the rocks below at lightning, fatal speed.  Eventually, we made it to the apartment, dodging crazy traffic and a constant flow of pedestrians.  Josh and his lovely girlfriend Lola live above the noise and teeming life below and have multiple sets of old, beautiful wooden spiral steps to reach that peaceful space.  Of course, by the time I climbed the thousandth step, I cared only for a giant glass of water and a heart monitor.  Ben and I had a perfect holiday with Josh and Lola, with Josh performing wonderfully as tour guide extraordinaire and Lola giving us directions to off-the-beaten-path shopping areas and quaint cafes aplenty.  We explored Père Lachaise - the French National Cemetery - with admiration of the tombs and graves that were more works of art than death markers.  The cemetery resembled a small city, since the stone tombs lining the brick-paved, pedestrian-only streets were built like miniature churches, many with macabre skeletons and crossbones skillfully chiseled into the walls.  We saw the lipstick-stained grave of Oscar Wilde, where I guiltily read love letters scribbled on bits of paper or scrawled around the "do not deface" warning and vowed to read more of his work.  We were slightly underwhelmed by Jim Morrison's simple gravestone, squished between the graves of other poor souls putting up with the flocks of tourists clicking away at the musician's grave with cameras never directed toward them.  Chopin's tomb was much more impressive and touching, with a sculpture of a beautiful, weeping woman, (the muse of music, I have since found out), gracefully sitting above his name and fresh flowers bedecking the much-visited site.  Our most exciting grave visit (and Josh's favorite) was that of famous French journalist Victor Noir, who was apparently just as well-known for his reputation as a lover.  His grave consists of a bronze cast of his entire body, with the tips of his shoes, the area of his heart, his lips, and the conspicuous bulge of his trousers all shiny from years of visitors' hopeful rubbing.  Legend states that touching these areas on the murdered man's form will lead to fertility and a tremendous sex life.  While we were laughing at the grave (irreverent, I know!), three Spanish women nearly sprinted to the grave to follow the legend's demands.  They encouraged me to do the same if I wanted many babies and, struggling for English interpretation, told me I would also benefit in other ways.  My lack of superstition aside, I did find the hilarity in the whole experience.
  On another day, Josh led us to a hidden, tourist-free park, weaving through gates and pointing out obstacles to avoid crashing through or stepping into.  Here, I must admit I found Paris to be a cluttered and sometimes dirty city in some areas, with people leaving broken television sets, discarded mattresses, and random trash on sidewalks or streets.  I even gasped in horror and outrage as a young man relieved himself on the wall of a river walk along the Seine and proceeded to pull out a can of spray paint and splash graffiti on that same poor wall.  Not only did I find myself dodging reeking puddles of that nature on quite a few occasions, but the graffiti I was forced to stare at wasn't even good!  Seriously, if you're going to go through the trouble of stuffing a paint can into your trouser pocket, the least you can do is come up with some decent artwork.  Returning to the park Josh brought us to, however, I must tell you that the view was spectacular.  I gasped at the tiny Eiffel Tower and breathtaking city panorama, all gleaming in the golden blanket of the setting evening sun.  After we found ourselves back at the apartment, pleasantly exhausted from thorough sightseeing, we sat on Josh and Lola's balcony, (which also had a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower), and I gushed as the lights on the famous structure sparkled on every evening hour.  In my opinion, the Parisians have discovered a species of tiny, punctual fairies that they have captured and brought to the Eiffel Tower, enticing them to cling to the iron and sparkle their little hearts out.  Perhaps they even bribe them with pain au chocolat or brioche pastry.  How else that tower could look so magical, I do not know.        

Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 4: Market Day

(August 24: Bourganeuf, France)
  We went to the market in Bourganeuf today.  It was brilliant.  The cobbled streets were packed with people - villagers and tourists alike.  French, German, and English gabbled around the stalls, creating an intense atmosphere almost as intoxicating as the sights and smells of produce aplenty.  I hid behind Ben's shoulder, drooling over giant loaves of rustic, crusty, chewy bread toted around in beautiful baskets hanging gracefully from the thin or plump arm of a local madame or mademoiselle.  I was too frightened to combine my few poorly pronounced, staple French greetings into some patchwork form of conversation, so I allowed my smiles to do the talking.  My own non-basket-burdened (sadly) arm weaved through Ben's, we strolled down the stalls in eager actual and metaphorical hunger.  I was soon quite pleasantly accosted by three French children, all thrusting plastic cups of apple juice into my helplessly accepting hands.  Hoping these were just samples of the free variety, I brought the murky, golden liquid to my lips...and promptly stopped caring if it would cost or not.  I believe "Mmm" translates itself in any language.  Luckily, the samples were given in good spirit (and with good sales tactics - the children were so lovely!), and the prices were marked on the bottles of ambrosial, fresh juice.  I happily handed over two euros for a sweet apple, then later returned for a second bottle, some free pears kindly given to me by the young farmers, and a photograph of the children standing next to me, bemused and (I hope) enjoying themselves.  I begged their understanding by pointing at myself, shrugging, and saying "tourist."  I was weak and wanted a memento of such a wonderful day.  The children flashed toothy grins and giggled in good humor at my weak attempts to communicate, which quickly dissolved into enthusiastic pointing, gesturing, and "wee-ing."  "Merci, merci" and "bonjour" I could handle, and we smiled ourselves away to the next stall knowing that the good nature and generosity of people can shine through all language barriers. 

Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 3: Le Massif Central

  Les boulangeries.  Le pain.  Les fromages.  Le café.  Les patisseries.  Le chocolat.  La nourriture. 

Le paradis! 

  The bakeries.  The bread.  The cheeses.  The coffee.  The pastries and cakes.  The chocolate.  The food.  Heaven!

    After an exciting trip across the English Channel via a bus via a bus inside the train inside the channel tunnel or "chunnel," Ben and I eventually arrived in Le Massif Central, which is a large, mainly rural, forested, and high-elevation region in south-central France.  We stayed with Ben's aunt and uncle who spend their summers in a tiny village thirty minutes away from the nearest "big" town of Bourganeuf.  I had no idea what to expect in the countryside of France, but I was not disappointed.  The architecture of towns and homes alike is stunning.  Stones of warm colors are the typical wall building material, and red tiles are used for the roofs.  I must skip to my favorite architectural and aesthetic feature: the shutters.  Everywhere you look, you see brightly colored wooden shutters thrown open to let in the day.  Shutters in every shade of red, yellow, and blue are hooked back to the outside walls like eyelids for the windows, making the houses seem to have both character and life.  Lovely flowers spill out of window boxes, climb over walls, and beckon to passersby from lovingly tended gardens.  The sound of laughter escapes from open windows or sunny patios as long family lunches and dinners begin.  Wine from other regions flows into waiting glasses, and the fresh bread, cheese, and meat platters fill the tables.  Life is enjoyed.  

  For most of a week, we visited other towns and saw many war memorials, since the French Resistance (Le Resistance) during World War II had been very active in this area that was a border between Nazi occupied and unoccupied France.  As we hiked through a tranquil, beautiful forest one day, I told Ben that I could not erase from my mind the thought of how life would have been during those days.  I could imagine the sound of machine gun fire, screams, and harsh yells cutting through the peace of the oblivious trees and songbirds' notes.  I thought of people possibly hiding in tiny caves on the top of the hill, holding their breath and living with constant fear and a wish that their bodies didn't need food and water, since that meant leaving their shelter.  It was a haunting image.  A small amount of guilt crept up my throat as I grabbed at the feeling of elation that came from knowing I did not have to live those experiences.  We must always respect and learn from history for our tomorrows will always take their place in its sometimes blood-soaked halls. 

  To rise to lighter topics, I want to tell you about French bread.  I am a bread lover.  I am a bread addict.  If my dreams always reflected my inner yearnings, they would always involve my search for the perfect, gigantic loaf of fresh bread and my subsequent actions of tearing at its flaky crust, digging through its warm, chewy center, and crawling inside it to promptly fall asleep, snug, stuffed, and with a grin on my face.  While I bake my own bread, constantly tweaking and experimenting to make it more delicious, I do appreciate a good bakery...and the French don't have a good bakery.  They have incredible and innumerable bakeries.  Les boulangeries francaises are some of my favorite places to go in the entire world.  Granted, these are newly discovered loves of mine, but I don't see how it could be possible for them to be topped.  One of my favorite images in my mind's eye from our trip is this vision of an old, gnarled French woman walking slowly across the cobbles of Bourganeuf one early morning, cane tapping the stones and basket hanging from her bent arm.  She made her way to her boulangerie of choice - probably the same one she's been going to every morning for many, many years.  No smile came from her lips as she passed us - only a curt and obligatory "Bon jour."  She stepped through the bakery door and came back out with her basket now cradling two baguettes, still fresh and warm from the oven.  I would say she didn't even need to tell the baker what she wanted.  I would say she still didn't smile.  But I do wonder, as she shuffled back down the street, invariably toward a brightly shuttered house, if, inside, she was beaming at the thought of letting butter melt through her first piece of bread like sunshine spreading over the cobbles and setting her teeth to tearing through that crust.  I wonder.  I really do.   

Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 2: Appendicitis Anxiety in "The Smoke"

  Fortunately, London's smoky nickname is no longer relevant, since the Clean Air Act of 1956, (followed by revisions in 1968 and 1993), drastically decreased the "pea soup" smog that, historically, was a daily part of life for Londoners.  While researching London smog (smoke + fog) on the BBC News website, I was horrified by the fact that 4,000 recorded and at least 8,000 more unrecorded deaths were due to this pollution mixing with perfectly fatal winter weather conditions in December of 1952.*  If Ben and I had been alive in the first half of the 20th century and had felt inclined to travel to London, we probably wouldn't have been able to sightsee without pressing our noses against interesting buildings and monuments, while squinting our eyes and breathing through gas masks acquired through time travel to the future.  This is just one of the many thoughts typically running through my head - along with how off-track I am getting with this entry.
  I believe that I left you with a vivid description of our trip down to England's great city, but I have not yet shared with you how it felt to reach it.  I was a bit delirious from the long ride, and, keep in mind, London is sprawling.  This is why, when we found ourselves in city streets lined with laundromats, shops of any and every kind you can imagine, and pubs with  names like "The Ship and Shovell" or "The Admiral *insert random English-sounding name here*" or even "The Dog and Duck...Fox...Bull...Bell...etc. etc. etc.," I turned slightly to Ben to ask if we had arrived in London, while keeping one eye glued to the window, so as not to miss one thing.  Little did I know at this point how not little London is and that it would be impossible to take in everything in a number of years, let alone in the moments before we unloaded at the bus station.  Gawp I still did, however.  We were in the famous city of London!
  Resembling pack mules with our luggage, Ben and I headed for the London Victoria Train Station.*  I had heard some interesting trivia about how London was the most multi-cultural city in the world.  Standing under the bright lights of the beautiful station, drinking in my surroundings and guiltlessly people-watching, I could understand why.  In a small voice, awed by the intensity of one of London's most highly trafficked areas, I whispered to Ben, "We're in Britain's biggest city, and I have heard every language of the world except English!"  A young African woman with deep ebony skin and a height that seemed to nearly double my own gracefully floated past in a dress that would have sent a rainbow skittering for sunglasses.  Two little girls and a boy all with manicured blonde curls rotated around their parents' legs like prep school uniformed planets in a very busy solar system.  Languages curled, sizzled, oozed, smashed, rang, swung, tipped, clip-clopped, bounced, tinkled, and swirled in the air around me.
  I tried to concentrate on the next leg of our journey to reach our friends' house in East Dulwich but to no avail.  I held on tightly to Ben as he led us through the turnstiles and onto our train.  He is a good and patient man.  I should pause to tell you that, by gradually gaining travel experience, I am also gaining focus and losing some of my childlike wonder of every new country or area that we visit.  I should, perhaps, tell you this, but it would be a lie if I did.  If you hid in my backpack and traveled with me on our adventures, upon poking your head out for a breath and a peek, you would consistently find me with lips parted in awe, (I am not a cod-fish, Mary Poppins - simply astounded by my surroundings), eyes wide for the view, and nerves tingling in excitement.  The exotic, spicy breath of a thousand countries blows across my neck, enticing me to come and explore their secrets.  The addiction of traveling has found me, and I am powerlessly in its thrall.
  We arrived at our friends' house to find them incredibly welcoming and hospitable.  Over the next week that we had allowed in London, these wonderful people proved to be unfailing in their good hosting habits, and I will be forever grateful.  On our second day in London, Ben and I had plans to follow the typical tourist route of sight seeing.  Instead, we were able only to make brief outings in the Peckham neighborhood, as I was almost utterly incapacitated by sudden sickness.  I am still smarting from the memories of spending an entire week in London unable to even gaze up at Big Ben or Westminster Abbey except from the balcony of our friends' house.  A trip to a walk-in clinic led us to believe that I had chronic appendicitis or "a grumbling appendix," which the nurse practitioner explained to us could eventually result in acute appendicitis, burst appendix, unbearable pain, and an emergency surgery.  By the end of the week, we had added the inside of a London hospital's A&E (Accident and Emergency) department to our list of places visited.  After going through every test under the sun, I was finally diagnosed with severe dehydration and a bad case of gastroenteritis - a nasty bacterial or viral infection.  My cure was a strict adherence to a bland diet, constant fluid intake, and time.  So much for singing London Bridges while floating down the Thames on a barge, being enraptured by an afternoon performance in the Globe, or shivering through a Jack the Ripper tour!  The most depressing point of all was calling Ben's grandmother in Leatherhead to let her know we couldn't make it for a visit.  I had looked forward to meeting her so much, but life is unpredictable and, for better or worse, sometimes makes our decisions for us.
  We left London to continue our journey to France with a touch of disappointment but with a promise to return soon.  Next time, I'll be ready with a pumped up immune system, my own copy of London A to Z in hand, an Oyster card primed for a second (and hopefully not as nauseating) ride in those red double-deckers, and still-twinkling eyes, ready for a fresh adventure.     



* http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/december/19/newsid_3280000/3280473.stm
* http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/nov/09/first-world-war-dh-lawrence-report

Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 1: Landing in London 
 
  I am sitting in a house in London.  I am sitting in London.  I am in London!  This is the city of legends, and we have now walked its streets - some of them, anyway.  Our travel here was anything but luxurious, and I should begin telling that tale of horror first. 
  When Ben and I started looking at transportation options down to London, we knew our choices would be narrowed for us by price.  Flights were out of the question, especially since Ryanair charges more for any luggage larger than the size of a grape than they probably pay their pilots.  The rumor is that they're going to start charging passengers to use the toilets on board, too.  I believe this will quite possibly result in damp carpets...or an overwhelming increase in Depends adult diapers sales.  Back to our expensive travel predicament, though, we closed the airline webpages with preconceived disappointment and opened another for the railway option.  The Caledonian sleeper train went first.  The dream of stretching ourselves out flat and having some privacy flew out of reach on little fluttery wings.  Comfort was quickly creeping away from us.  One by one, all of the other rail options melted away with the price results.  We had waited too long to search.  The next click was simply depressing.  We went from the sky to the high speed tracks to the grinding road.  Buses: fine for short journeys, bearable for a tad longer ones, TERRIBLE for long ones.  Glasgow to London is excrutiatingly endless.  The cheapest option was not a comfortable bus, either.  The busline whose price rang "dingdingding" with the sound of a B-rated horror film's theme tune was none other than Megabus.
  For those unfamiliar with the infamous Megabus, it is the cheapest mode of coach transportation in Britain, and you definitely get what you pay for.  In order to have leg room aplenty, you would have to gnaw your own legs off...or reach the emergency exit row before your fellow travellers, but either option probably involves growling and biting.  The seat-backs have never known the function of 'reclining', and passengers are, therefore, crammed perpetually into a gut-squishing, bum-falling-asleep, fearfully blood-clot-inducing, impossible-to-sleep position.  Tack on a nine-hour journey on one of these vehicles, plus a 50-to-1 ratio of passengers to malfunctioning toilets, and you can begin to get a visual (and olfactory) image of our bus trip.

Humanity

We're getting ready to head to the mainland and travel down to London in a couple of hours, and, frankly, the news just isn't being very cheery about our trip. My first time in London should be spent with me gaping and gasping at the sights, giving myself away as a complete tourist and depending on Ben to helpfully lead me through traffic and save me from all collisions or straying. My head should be upturned, my ever-widening eyes desperately taking every sight in, vacuuming up every image to be shaken out of my memory at a later, less visually tempting time. My arm should be looped through Ben's out of safety, I'll admit, more than romance, since my sightseeing should take number one priority over observing the little green men or red "HALT" hands on the streets. This is how my holiday should be spent. Instead, it seems I may have to be aware of the bracing sound of police sirens, the jolting and unnerving image of store front windows being smashed into a million tiny pieces, fire and aimless distruction, and general mayhem. This, I say, is utter madness. I have never understood the idea of destroying one's own backyard. Violence is an unfortunate part of this life to which I have devoted many, many hours of study. While my passion to hope for a thoroughly peaceful world has been brought down from an ironically violent, raging boil to a more realistic and patient (but still constant) simmer, I still am left with a pained expression on my wide-eyed face, and a disappointed tightness in my chest when I see such awful violence and meaningless anger. No forward movement is made by the breaking down of both property and human character. Violence lends itself to violence. The halls of history have had this echo of truth reverberating off of their surfaces for all time.
The ferry from Eigg to the mainland will cut its way through the stormy gray waters in less than an hour, so I must rush my overpacked bag across our single-track road and off to the pier. I apologize to my fine readers for leaving you with a less-than-chipper post today, but this blog is meant to share my ideas of truth and love, and I feel it would be a lie to shield you from my actual thoughts. Truth and love, it has become clear to me as well, are sometimes just as painful as they are beautiful.
With that, I will leave you and return at the end of August, hopefully nearly bursting with tales of London and Paris - our second destination. Cheers! Au revoir!

The Beginning

The first words...a blank white screen. This is much more intimidating than the infamous blank sheet of paper. At least, with paper and pencil, you can look away, pretend not to notice your eraser making its way down, down to land, ever-so-lightly, on that colorless wasteland, and do the dirty deed. Your lead-stained eraser can brush the light pink shoulder of a line and glide, haltingly, into the plump pillow of the space between. You can risk a peek back, only out of the corner of your eye to see if you were successful in your miscreant behavior. And, "ah," there it is: the perfect smudge. Writers' block broken! The snow has a dirty footprint, so you can now trudge on guiltlessly.
The blinking cursor is not nearly as satisfying of a smudge. Of course, at this point, I have now muddied my electronic page. There are no soft pink lines, which is a bit sad, but my unleaded writing stays in an organized pattern, nonetheless, by a computerized hand which is not my own. I have begun and will continue, no matter the medium. That is satisfaction enough.
So I sit, my fingers tip-tapping across keys lit by the warm glow of our bothy's upstairs lights. The sun gently sunk into Rum - the breathtaking island opposite our shore - a few short hours ago, at last allowing itself to be swallowed by the mountains, accepting its vanquish, but not before turning Askival - Rum's tallest peak which is quite evocative of "Lord of the Rings," both in name and appearance - into a fiery volcano connecting sea to land to sky. The night noises usually consist of the clean and comforting sound of the burn (Scottish word for a small stream or "babbling brook") beside the bothy, but tonight, along with my self-irritating and almost inadvertent alliteration, the air is filled with guitar and whistle tunes, friends' laughter, and softly spoken half-stories, trailing off as the late hour cuts into their memories or my own distracted attention becomes too captured by my fingers' dance to hear. I've just sipped the last drop of hot chocolate out of my favorite hefty cup, pulling the liquid through my lips and teeth to splash onto my content tongue. I sense my clean sheets beckoning to me already, even though my cursor still blinks at me, unfeelingly, demanding I continue. This first post has been, I'll admit, quite taxing. I am nervous at sharing my words with the world. They have always flowed out of me, but I have kept them, hid them away in a safe, tiny cave by the sea...or in torn notebooks and old computer files, but that is less romantic, so I suppose I shouldn't admit that. I believe I will leave these words out now, like freshly baked cookies on a green and red plate for Santa Claus, and go lay my head on my pillow with dreams not of sugarplums but of pleased readers, smiling - at least inwardly - at my rambling words. I will not run (up)stairs tomorrow morning with hopes of our non-existent Christmas tree, (it is only August, after all), twinkling above shiny gifts. Realistically, I will lumber sleepily up each step, thinking of my nice cuppa and brown sugar-laden porridge awaiting my attention and consumption. Yet, I will hold a tiny glimmer of hope within my groggy head that perhaps I have given one fine world citizen a pleasant read. Maybe he or she will even look forward to more of my word sharing. Perhaps I am yet a bit too optimistic. Either way, I will sleep peacefully, knowing that I have released a few words from their secret cave. I have begun my quest of verbal giving - to those both poor and rich in love. I have made my first footprint in the snow.