When I left you last I was in a section of my time here called "British Landscapes", during the course of which I was to write three essays, witness many documentaries, lectures and field trips. That time has passed. My essays, I suspect were not my best work, but capable of communicating my potential, if nothing else. I wrote on the portraits of Elizabeth I, the life and work of Mary Wollstonecraft, and the relationship between the persons and ideas of Charles Darwin and Karl Marx. I learned much, wrote much and did not need to sacrifice sleep, as many of my colleagues did. The light at the end of the proverbial tunnel came in the form of a trip to the Imperial War Museum in London on the last Thursday in September. At that point, I had handed in my final essays and knew I would not return to Oxford before I had enjoyed both London and Barcelona. Before I write, however, about my curious break, I had a few thoughts I would like to present to you.
First is something that has been burdening me for some time. My question is, how does patriotism, if at all, fit into Christianity? The thought first rose one afternoon in London. It seemed that some sort of event had ended and the streets were flooded with people. The only thing I can compare it to is Boston after a Sox game. The significant thing was that each of this crowd presented some level of physical patriotism, whether in the form of a painted face, funny hat, or union jack t-shirt. As I observed the weary (for it was late) and contented crowd, I began to comment, mentally, that I would never paint an American flag on my face, or wear a t-shirt motivated by similar patriotic sentiment. As I thought this, I began to wonder why it was so. Was I ashamed of my country? Had I jumped on the hipster bandwagon wielding an anti-America bumper-sticker? If so, when did this happen and why? Quickly passing over the exploration of what my feeling towards America actually were, I moved onto a reflection on what they should be. I know that I am a follower of Christ, a child of God before all else. But I am also a sister, daughter, aunt, friend, student, artist . . . American? Like it or not, my nationality has shaped my person, and how should I respond to this? I ask because I do not know. I know that Christ taught submission to earthly authority, but does this submission provide only for keeping laws and paying taxes? Is it biblical to despise my government and speak ill of its leaders? Is it right for me to fear being thought naive and brutish if I were to utter positive words of my homeland? Surely no one would think twice if I boasted the superiority of New England, which I often do. Why, then, is it that I feel compelled to reject my nation as a whole? I am not saying, in the least, that I find America to be perfect, but rather that I believe in finding good in things and pursuing productive and constructive solutions to things we believe unjust. I know I sound as if I have my mind made up, but it is actually just a sort of thinking out loud situation. I guess my real question is, what do I, one who aspires to be a compassionate and loving Christian, owe the US of A? My allegiance? My support? Anything at all? I think that the best solution I can come up with is that I do owe my country my compliance with its laws, my tax money and my respect. I say respect because I believe, if only in theory, that everyone deserves my respect. If I begin differentiating between those who do and those who don't, I begin to think more of myself than I ought. I guess then, I only wish to urge our generation to thoroughly inspect their loyalties and motivation for said loyalties.
My second thought is more or less unrelated. This is not a question, but a statement of a curious fact: I am absolutely moved by war poetry. Our last lecture before break was on literature produced during and effected by the two world wars. I, though perhaps alone in my review, found the lecture enthralling and could have sobbed at its conclusion as I was completely emotionally drained. I do not pretend to know whether or not a war be just or unjust. I do not advocate war, but I am happily not a politician, whose unlucky job it is to decide who lives. In any case, whether you condone or reject all war, the impact of it on its immediate participants is undeniable. Case in point: war poetry. The work of young soldiers particularly bruises me. It seems that these men, these countless men experience in war the sorts of things that make me blink on a movie screen. The death of a close friend before their eyes, prolonged deprivation of adequate food, shelter, clothing, rest, indefinite separation from loved ones, the obligation to kill, the breaking of spirit and belief in anything good. All of these themes, and more, pour from the work of youths, younger than I, who lived through them. Luckily, many of the authors did not live to see their mid-twenties. I say luckily because, as I have read, those who did live, went on to live lives of loneliness, not being able to be who they once were for those they once knew. Having no one to share with, no one to understand what they have seen - the whole world taking their experiences for granted, not giving serious thought to the life-altering, life-destroying effects of war on those who survive it. All of this is almost too much for me to bear, when I read the bitter, heartbroken, cheated words of those who have seen more evil than I ever will, even on the movie screen. I write about something of which I know nothing, but I hope only to hurt for those who cannot share their own.
I would like, here, to include a disclaimer. If my language seems at all melodramatic, or contrived, it is because I have just spent the last two days reading a Victorian novel - Jane Eyre. If you have read this, then you need no more explanation. If you have not, let me say only that it is filled with emotive and dramatic language which has, no doubt, effected my thought.
Let me bring you back to the Imperial War Museum in London. As you might guess, the museum is not an easy thing for me to explore. More and more reminders of the horrors of war lie in wait around each corner.
I had agreed to meet Sonja, my newly London-dwelling kin, at the Imperial War Museum. It was at this meeting that we would commence our coming time together. I was to stay with her for two nights, and fly to Barcelona on Saturday morning. We did meet, though it was after I had bid my housemates farewell, some heading back to Oxford for the night, others beginning their break then, as I was. When she arrived, we walked around the museum more. It was actually a funny little situation because neither of us, having not seen each other for weeks, had much interest in learning about imperial war. We hurried around the building, our pace quickened by our rapid speech, trying to catch each other up on our transitions into life abroad. Finally, we conceded to sitting down to chat, forsaking the charade of pondering the countless artifacts.
Soon after we sat, we decided to leave the place, which we did straightaway. We walked around the city and I showed her, as best I could some of the city landmarks, accompanying each visit with a poor explanation, remembered from long ago tour guides. It was a pleasant time. We were both happy to be in the company of one who there was no need to 'get to know better'. Meeting new people is great, one of my favorite things, but it is draining, especially when there is no rest, like in the case of one moved to a different continent. We walked and chatted, got something to eat and then resolved to reach her dorm. I was happy to rest, as I had not slept too much the night before, determined to finish my last essay in time to begin my break a day early. That night, we hit the town, or a local bar, with some of her new friends and tried to be social despite our contentedness to 
converse with each other. Our one success came in the form of a nice young Austrian. He was, as they say the Austrians are, charming and knew English well, giving him the right to tease us Americans for our lack of any knowledge of foreign language. We could not argue, he himself spoke upwards of three.The next day we had planned on exploring the city more, but the dependable British weather would not allow it. We shopped a bit, perplexed by the
European sizing system, ate lunch, I bought a hat that, I think, makes me look artsy, then settled for some gelato in Leicester Square. I have had this same gelato at this same shop three times now, never a disappointment. Once, in the underground station, I thought it would be good fun to mock a poor young man who had just, in a way to be mocked, hopped out of the train. I began to imitate him, I thought, out of his view. I was wrong, and as he turned his head to confront me, I spun in the opposite direction, pretending to be utterly involved in one of the posters on the wall. We walked away as soon as we were able, but, in the midst of our discussion of the event, through broken laughter, came upon the young man again, no doubt re-opening the wound of his embarrassment. 
During the day, we decide that the night's activity will be an outing to a night club with some girls Sonja knew from her school in the states. I put on my artsy hat and my bright green sneakers and, though feeling a bit of an unlikely London club-goer, ventured with my heel-clad (and so much taller than me) cousin to meet up with our evening companions. My insecurities were put to rest when, as we were approaching the club, one of the bouncer-types approached us and asked if were wanted to enter. We said yes and he quickly rushed us into the short line. The short line, of no more than five people, was quite short as compared to the other line, of no less than fifty. This would have been enough of a pleasant situation, but it was sweetened when the man produced two sort of passes that, he assured us, would allow us to pay a cover charge that was three pounds less 
than if we did not bear the magic passes. Feeling quite special, we entered the establishment and quickly found our friends. It was a good night. We danced and observed the spectacles around us. A dance club is not a place I frequent, but I am never disappointed with the, to me, novel scene that I find.After we had had our filled of the London club scene, we managed to negotiate the bus system well enough to get home. So tired, but moreso concerned with finding the airport in the morning, I stayed up a bit to research my morning route. I finally figured it out, put away my new hat and went to sleep, but not for near long enough. My darling cousin woke with me and made me some oatmeal before my departure - what a host! We said our farewells and I made my Saturday morning London stroll to the train station and purchased and one-way ticket to Stansted Airport for much more than I had hoped, but such is travel.
I met a woman on the train. We never exchanged names, I don't think. In any case, I don't remember it. We chatted for most of the 45minute ride. She was from Canada and also travelling by herself. He next destination was Sweden. 'Maybe I'll go there one day,' I thought. She made me a bit nervous when we discovered that her flight was to leave over an hour after mine and we were on the same train to the airport. I got over it quickly. I'm not typically a punctual person, and it has never led me terribly astray. I was right. I was there in plenty of time to make my flight.
In my backpack - my only piece of luggage - I had packed toothpaste, face lotion and face wash. All of these things were against the security regulations, but I was willing to push my luck. When I finally reached security, the man asked me if I had any gels or liquids. I sad yes and he asked to see them. I showed him and he said they were too big, but in a hesitant way. I was half-expecting him to throw them away in front of me, but he, instead, said that he would have his colleague look at them. He gave them to a woman, who carefully inspected the containers and then returned them, assumedly after deciding that they weren't harmful. I chuckled to myself, thinking that I could have had a horribly unstable and explosive chemical in my toothpaste container, and no one would have been the wiser. I didn't though, have any sort of harmful liquid or gel, so that's where that story ends.
I flew Ryanair, not necessarily the creme de la creme of airlines. I got nothing free, and could have purchased a great many ridiculously priced items, but did not. I chose to sleep and was perfectly content with my decision. Soon enough, we landed, and I was in Barcelona. Well, actually, I was in Girona, but that is near Barcelona. So, for all intents and purposes, I was in Barcelona. I had apparently slept through the part on the plane when they give you a customs landing-card to be presented to the customs agent, so I had to ask for one at the window which, along with my mysteriously moldy passport, was a little embarrassing
. I don't know what happened to my passport. The day I left for England, I opened it up and my picture page had a whole bunch of grey dots on it, like mold. I keep getting more and more trouble about it every time I have to use it, so I should probably get a new one. Anyway, I bought a bus ticket to Barcelona proper. I slept on the bus too. I would highly recommend being quite tired whenever embarking on a fairly long journey - travel passes quicker when you are unconscious.
I had directions from the bus station to my hostel, but they were missing the first, and so possibly most important step. Consequently, I wandered for a bit. For the first twenty minutes or so, I was feeling too independent to ask for directions, but the heat and my heavy backpack soon put my pride to rest. I asked a couple of people, thus receiving my first opportunity to speak Spanish - I was having fun already. I even asked a couple of French guys, in Spanish where I could exchange money, it was an interesting little conversation, walking away form which I felt quite silly.
I finally reached my hostel. I hadn't found the exchange bureau and, because they only took cash, I got directions to 'Las Ramblas', the most popular tourist area of the city, almost completely devoid of any actual Spaniards. It was here that I was assured I would be able to exchange my money. I changed into some more Spain-appropriate clothes, and set out. Las Ramblas is basically one long 'strip' that leads from the southern center of the city all the way to the sea. I walked the whole thing. It was a bizarre place, filled with street performers and animals for sale. I could have bought a chicken, or a turtle or a great many other things. I still think that was a weird thing to sell in a tourist spot. How am I supposed to get a chicken back to England?
One other very interesting thing I saw during this outing I still don't really understand. As I approached the water, I heard the sounds of drums and singing ahead of me. I then saw a crowd of people. I snaked through the mass to see what was happening. There was a cart at the center. It held a number of golden images - icon/idol-looking things. Besides that, there were elaborate decorations and flowers surrounding the figures - it looked very Eastern. In front of the cart were a number of people wearing colorful togas. Everything was in Spanish, so I didn't really understand what was going on, but there was a lot of singing and chanting and dancing going on. Then, a few of the toga-wearers each picked up a coconut and then placed on top of each coconut something that looked like a sugar-cube. I realized that they weren't sugar-cubes when they were then set of fire. I was baffled at this point. Three toga-wearing, singing, dancing Spaniards were holding coconuts that were slowly catching the flame from the mystery objects on top. Then, without warning, all three coconuts we thrown to the ground and smashed. There was a scramble for the pieces, which were either immediately eaten or stashed away as a keepsake, I presume. At this point I left and still do not really comprehend what I witnessed, but I'm glad I saw it, for it was intriguing.
I headed back to the hostel after exchanging my money, browsing a stand or two and just trying to take it all in. Right across the street from the hostel was a small grocery store, where I stopped to buy some food, something I hadn't had since the early-morning oatmeal. I payed my hostess at reception and then retired to bunk to eat my apple and Laughing Cow Cheese. I soon began talking to a couple of girls from America. They weren't too interesting - studying abroad like me, only in Paris. They seemed young. Much more interesting was the group of characters I would come to spend that night with: Australians, lots and lots of Australians. There were about twelve, actually. One group of five, one group of three, and then four girls on their own who had recently met and decided to travel together. They adopted me as an honorary Australian and I was delighted to be taken in.
They were a fun-loving group and the first item on their agenda was the purchasing of liquor, which the store across the street was more than happy to supply. We all chatted on our patio-type thing and I pretended to know what they were talking about until I realized that my way into the conversation was to ask questions. They thought I was funny because of the things I didn't know about - cricket, the sport, for instance. We had fun for a while at the hostel and then moved the party en route to a bar downtown - off Las Ramblas. I felt a little unprepared for the outing because I hadn't brought any 'going out' clothes and so was forced to sport my cut-off Bermuda shorts and a cotton tank top. One of the girls, already a bit tipsy, kept asking if I wanted to use her straightener. I wasn't sure what she was implying, but refused every time, having already forsaken any hope of looking appropriate for the evening and being particularly attached to my tousled ponytail.
When we got the bar and started talking, they were absolutely floored when I reluctantly revealed that I hadn't ever had more than three drinks in one night before. They resolved to get me 'wasted' for the first time, but were soon so drunk themselves that, I am happy to say, they forgot their mission. I had many interesting conversations and quite enjoyed being a novelty. It was nice to sit and talk with so many people from a different culture. This is why we travel, isn't it? I know I was in Spain and not Australia, but it would have to do.
The group tapered off, though most of us left together at the end. The long walk home and the intoxication of most led to a dispersion of sorts. When the group I reached the hostel with got there, one of our mates was passed out on the stoop of the hostel, so we helped him up and got him inside. I have often seen and judged groups of hoodlums before, so it was quite an experience to be a part of one. Not necessarily an experience I would like to build my life on, but definitely an enlightening one.
We all slept in the same room, for the most part. I loved the community. In the morning everyone determined their course for the day and then set out. The group of five (one girl, her brother and three other of their male friends) asked me to come out with them, so I accepted. Everyone was leaving the next morning, so I figured I had the whole next day to myself and I wanted to get to know them better. They were a perfectly irreverent group. We wandered around the city, trying to see noteworthy things. We eventually came upon the famous cathedral that is being built in Barcelona. It is going to be the biggest one in the world when it is finished. I have decided to describe it as being in the gothic style on an acid trip. Actually, I would recommend looking up pictures of it if you have any interest in cathedrals. I looked up at it with a furrowed brow for some time.
After that main event, we went back to the hostel for lunch. This lunch time was probably the most worth-wile part of the trip. I ended up in a lengthy conversation with a few of the guys about Christianity. I was completely casual. They had so many questions, and I was happy to answer them, or tell them I didn't know. I was shocked at how little they knew about the subject. One of them, Josh, asked me if you could 'turn Christian after you've had sex'. I hid my surprise and answered in the affirmative. I tried to explain that Christianity was so little about rules and so much about relationships and love. The conversation went on for a while, and I really think that God helped me shatter some stereotypes. I loved being able to be myself and share my faith with people who were so far removed from it. And they were not put off in the least! There was almost something addictive about it - travelling alone to a foreign country, meeting people, building relationships, sharing my faith. It was invigorating and incredible.
After lunch, we went to the beach. I had forgotten to bring anything in which to swim, so I volunteered to be the watcher of things while the others did. The night before one girl had her purse stolen. She was drunk and sitting by the water with another drunk guy. A local approached them and said something excitedly about not falling in. Before they knew it, he was gone and so was her bag. So, at the beach, I was an attentive watcher of the bags. It was an interesting beach - topless women, men with coolers trying to sell their wares: "cervesa!, coca cola!, aqua!" over and over again. And women roaming the beach saying, much in the same manner, "massage, five euros!" I could have had a coke and a massage for six euros! Neither of those things interested me much, I was too bust feeling awkward for all of the people who should have been wearing more clothes and feeling insecure about my white legs that had been held captive in an overcast England for a month.
After the beach, we went back to the hostel and took a much-needed siesta. When I woke up everyone had returned. We exchanged stories and then I headed out with my group from the day to find some dinner. We wanted real Spanish food, but ended up at a suspiciously American-looking all you can eat buffet. I was there for the company anyway, so I conceded. We talked more over dinner and I was beaming because I was growing so fond of my new friends and because I knew they liked me, even though I was so obviously different from them. It was funny because even though we were essentially speaking the same language, I could often not understand them because of their accent and slang. So many times I asked for translations, and so many times I jsut nodded and smiled.
Back at the hostel everyone decided not to go out again as planned. Most of them had come from Octoberfest in Munich where they had drank more alcholo, I suspect, each day than I have in my whole life combined. I agreed that they needed a break, so they taught me a new card game and we played until sleep was inevitable. I knew they were leaving early, and that I probably would never see them again. I was sad, but went to sleep fully satisfied with mytime thus-far in Barcelona and excited about the next day and the things that I would do.
I was right. I woke up and most of them were gone. I got ready, pulled out my map and planned my day. My first stop was the zoo. The zoo, however, was far too expensive, so the next stop was the Picasso Museum, which was closed. Arg, I was 0 for 2. I went into a shop and the keeper informed me that most of the museums would be closed on a Monday. I was discouraged, but learned that the Modern Art Museum was open, so that became my next target.
It was a strange place, and the exibits were strange. I didn't come upon much that I would describe as beautiful, but I do enjoy modern art for different reasons. I like to think about the statement, the motivation, the sentiment behind the art. The exhibits left me baffled, but I was glad I went, however perturbed I might have been. I don't like it when people insist that art be beautiful. I am not a real artist, but I try and I know that to create something because it's what you need to create is just as legitimate as creating something meaningless that is aesthetically pleasing. I'd rather look at a dark painting that screams something to me than pleasant hotel-art any day.
Allow me to dismount my soapbox. After the art museum, or maybe before actually, I can't quite remember. In any case, I found a cathedral and went inside. It was a bit different than cathedrals I had seen before. It wasn't unusually big - the size of a typical parish church. It had a wierd ambience. I think part of it was that it was getting darker outside (that reminds me - it was after the museum) and so there wasn't much light. Another thing was that, as I learned from feading a few plaques, the church had suffered a great fire in the nineteenth century. Because of this much of the stonework was a bit charred, as well as some of the sculpture on the altarpieces in the chapels. It was almost a little bizarre. Most of the cathedrals I have been in have been grandious, bright and clean. This was small, dim and charred. I almost prefered it, perhaps only because of its novelty. It felt more human, more broken.
After the cathedral, I walked around in that area for while. I think it was called 'the Gothic District'. It was characterized by narrow streets of cobblestone and tall, medieval-looking buildings. It was a neat place to be, filled with tourist shops, clothing stores and other miscellanious vendors. I found an H&M and bought a little purple purse for 2.50 euros. I was happy with my purchase, though it looks a bit juvenile.
After what I decided was a sifficient time of wandering, I went back to the hostel for some food and a nap. I partook of both and then decided to venture to a place that I had learned from the lady at reception was the part of town where the locals were. It was called Gracia and was supposed to have many little squares filled with nightlife. We had planned to go there the night before, but, as I've already mentioned, decided to stay in instead. Now, this was the only time on my trip that I felt like I wish I wasn't travelling alone. I stepped out of the metro station and onto the street and realized that it was dark and I had no idea what I was looking for. Also, it was a Monday night and so the nightlife was most likely not as hopping as I hoped. Feeling determined to explore a little, I walked down the street a ways. I decided that my mission was to find a little store where I could buy travel size bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I had borrowed some the day before from my australain friends, but they were gone. I couldn't find travel-size anything in any of the stores I perused. A bigger problem was that I didn't really have a mission and assumed that aimless wandering through a foreign part of a foreign city was a dangerous idea. I finally found a well-lit area and pulled out my map - something I was a bit apprehensive about doing before, as I was not looking to announce that I was lost. I found myself and the nearest metro station and began to walk. I passed a movie theater and went in to see if I could find a bathroom. I asked the ticket woman where it was and when she told me I asked if I had to buy a ticket to use it because it was beyond the ticket-taking place. She said no. I was pretty proud of myself for carrying on a successful conversation in Spanish without and awkward stares from either party. (There was an incident in the H&M dressing room, but we wont get into it.)
After that I rode the metro back to my hostel, feeling contented with what I had seen in Barcelona and determined to see the Picasso Museum the next morning before my flight. I took a shower, having found some questionable shampoo in the bathroom, and put on my pjs. I was braiding my hair by my bed when a new guest arrived. The woman showed him into the dorm and told him to chose a bed. He chose the one next to mine. We chatted. His name was Matia and he was from Argentina. He spoke about as much English as I spoke Spanish and so he spoke to me in English as best he could and I did the same in Spanish. It's was funny to see how much Spanish I actually remembered. I was impressed with myself as we talked for a while about many different types of things. My favorite part was when he told me that the airport, that had lost his luggage, was going to be delivering it in one 'house'. I was confused for a while, until I realized that he meant 'hour'. He was moving to Barcelona for a job - he was a chef who specialized in meat. He was probably around my age, maybe a little older. At the beginning of the conversation he asked if I wanted to go get a 'cervesa' and I said I was trying to get to bed early because I had no alarm and I needed to get up in time to see the Picasso Museum before my flight. We talked for a while after that and I was slowly changing my mind. After about an hour he asked me what I would be doing in an hour. I thought I said 'probably not sleeping', but I think he assumed I was saying 'probably sleeping' so he said 'adios' and left without me. I was sad because I wanted to keep speaking Spanish to him. I didn't sleep much that night anyway - the cars outside were noisey and I had developed a great number of extraordinarily itchy bumps all over my legs, feet and arms. It was not a fun night, to say the least. Finally morning came. I changed, pakced my things, said goodbye to Matia and headed out.
I was dismayed when I saw the line that had formed outside of the Picasso Museum and began to believe the reception lady, as she had told me that it was the second most visited museum in Europe. I waited, growing nervous about catching my plane, but determined to get inside. I did get inside, and saw everything. I moved a bit quicker than I normally would have, but I wanted to see it all. I had expected to see a whole museum full of the cubist-type stuff that Picasso is famous for, but was surprised when most of the museum was beautiful impressionistic work. It seems that Picasso only shifted styles later in his life. Though cubism isn't particularly my cup of tea, I really enjoyed the rest of the pieces that I saw and was instantly glad I made the trip. Much of the work had a Spanish flavor that I liked, the colors were exotic and warm.
I left the Museum when I needed to and powerwalked back to the metro station. I rode to the stop nearest my bus station and then bought my ticket. I always hate waiting in line, so when the bus started boarding I waited until almost everyone else had boarded. This is usually a great plan, but the trip had been sold out, so I ended up sitting in a little jump-seat at the very front of the bus, next to the driver. It was kind of funny and I got a great view of everything, so I wasn't too upset.
I got to the Girona airport, checked-in and went through security. They didn't care at all about my gels and liquids there, I was relieved. I was pretty starving at this point, but I put off buying any food for a while, trying to be frugal. I finally broke down and bought a ham and cheese baguette and some chips (or 'crisps' in England). It was possibly the best meal I've ever had. That could be because I was quite famished, we may never know. I got on the plane and slept some more, happy to have successfully completely my first solo international trip. I guess my trip to Oxford was solo, but for some reason, this one seemed more dangerous. In any case, I landed at the Stansted airport, and it was rainy and cold - welcome back to the UK! I missed the sun and sand of Spain already. I was supposed to go back to London and chill with Sonja before heading back to Oxford, but decided against it with the assistance of my hunger, poverty and fatigue. I called and left her a voicemail and bought a bus ticket straight to Oxford. While I was waiting, I decided that it would be a good idea to buy a chocolate bar and Fanta. It was not a good idea. I don't really eat a lot of sugar, and so it pretty much made me sick before I even put it in my mouth.
I rode that bus for over four hours. That was way longer than it should have taken, but we kept making stops in random, probably not so random, places and the traffic was bad. When I finally got off, I had to walk a half mile in the rain before I finally made it there . . . the Vines. I, in my month of living there, had never been so happy to see it in my life. I unlocked the door and immediately heard the sounds of cooking and cheer. I loved Barcelona, but was oh so happy to be home.
After break, life at Oxford was completely different than before break, but that life will be described in another blog, for this one is already far too long :)
1 comment:
Katie, that's probably the coolest (and longest) description I've heard of how someone spent their break! :) sounds like it was a great time. oh, and I like your melodramatic, Victorian writing style btw.
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