The Perpetual Profundity

I finally went to Dover. It’s one of those places that I felt like I HAD to go because it is literally a 30 minute train ride, and costs almost nothing to get to. Unfortunately, I have over-romanticized Dover to the point of parody. My concept of the place is based entirely on “We Both Go Down Together” by The Decemberists. It is not a very romantic song, well I suppose it is tragically romantic. But I always imagined Dover to be nothing but rugged white chalk cliffs and the open sea. A place that some baroque Victorian novelist would choose to use as the point of climax in a burgeoning romance. But it is none of these things. It is the least romantic place I have been since arriving in England. I should have known. Dover is a port town, which means that it is dominated by movement, the transportation of people and things. The port is brimming with pollutant pumping semis and disembodied announcements that caress the edges of the cliff so that the vibrant green and white and blue that I imagined is so invaded that I feel like I am trespassing on government land instead of taking a nice stroll by the seaside. It was beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But it was beautiful in the way that airports are beautiful, transient, alien, and non-human.

I went with my friend Liz Vogt, which was nice because we both ran out of breath walking up to the cliffs, and therefore were spared the shame of being out of shape. It was a really beautiful day, wonderful hiking weather, cool and sunny. It would have been nice to have a picnic on the cliffs, but I also would have dreaded carrying any kind of extra weight up the incredible incline. We were hungry when we came down and walked through Dover high street in search of some curry. But nothing was open. It was 4pm. And nothing nothing nothing was open except some greasy Fish n’ Chips places and a couple Kebab shops. By this time the sun had disappeared and early English dusk was setting in. It was cold and we had no idea where the train station was. So we gave up, after walking the entire (quite long) high street with hysterical results. We finally found the train station after getting some jumbled thick German directions ‘left petrol station, right school…” On the train we were still miserable. So we used our 21st century saavy and called Dan. In student housing, we get a literal PILE of take out menus, so he picked up one for Masal Gate (an Indian place in Canterbury) and gave me the number. After some train tunnel signal interruption, I finally got the order in and confirmed for 6pm. We were still on the train, got to Canterbury then had to catch a bus. We got back to my place (where I had ordered the food to be sent) at about 6:05. The restaurant was supposed to call me, but totally didn’t. As we were walking up we saw a shady car parked in the lot, but kind of ignored it and went inside because we were quite cold. The moment we walked in, Cody asked if we had ordered food. We’re like “yeah!” and he says, “Well I told the guy that no one did because I didn’t know, and he already left.” To which I replied with expletives as Liz and I ran wildly outside to flag down the shady car that could be none other than the Masala Gate delivery Guy. I literally jumped in front of the car. I was way to hungry to let this one pass me by. Liz ran the flank, and we surrounded the car in time to get the goods. And what goods they were. We stuffed ourselves with sweet curry and Nan, until we could hardly move. Liz had to go to choir after that, I just chilled. Haha.

Today, we had our usual film meeting at Bramley’s, a chance for us to wax poetic about what we all love most, the cinema. It was nice tonight because it was a small group, just seven of us. Sometimes it goes double and that can be quite daunting for intense conversation/ debate about film. The night pretty much ended with Cody and I talking about the film Wendy and Lucy which is currently my favorite film. Since it has now been turned into a one person conversation (me relating the exchange on my own blog) I won’t pretend that I can sum up what Cody was talking about. But it got down to a debate about the lack of fantastic elements in the film (by fantastic I mean illusions, special effects, futuristic projections, breaking the time space continuum). I would categorize the film as realist, or humanist. It is quiet, slow-paced, concerned with ‘the everyday’ experience, and has no succinct ending. It sounds like the viewer’s worst nightmare, some artsy film taking itself too seriously. But it is the complete opposite of artsy, it is bare bones filmmaking (director Kelly Reichardt has a crew of volunteers and edits the films in her New York apartment). Cody and I also argued about that, he citing Primer as a ‘better’ result of low-budget filmmaking. But this is less about Cody’s want to show me ‘another perspective’ for consideration, and more about my own experience with the film. Cody and I have very different relationships with reality and differing taste in films (his favorite is 2001: A Space Odyssey, my previous favorite was Drop Dead Fred). So I would never condemn him for having a different opinion, or anyone for that matter. The conversation didn’t really seem to be about the movie, it was more about what cinema should represent. I think that is a question that will never be satisfied, and one that seems unproductive. Cinema is as varied as any other art form, so it seems to me that, like art, it should be approached with respect to the intention of the film. I believe the intention of Wendy and Lucy is to portray a young independent woman trying to make something of herself in modern America, without an education and with little money. Wendy is traveling to Alaska with her dog Lucy, trying to find work in the Alaskan canneries. The American dream is dispelled when she experiences a serious of semi-self-inflicted hardships, her car breaks down when she has been warned that it is on it’s last leg, she is arrested for shoplifting, and when she is jailed she loses Lucy. She spends most of the film looking for Lucy and talking to this old security guard at Walgreen’s, who lets her use his cellphone to call the pound. When Lucy is gone, Wendy is completely alone. She is in a strange place and no one back home can help her out financially or mentally. She counts every cent, even picking up loose change in her car seats, and trying to turn in aluminum cans for some extra cash. Maybe it was the aesthetic, Wendy has crudely cut dark brown hair, an ill-fitting blue hoodie and cut-off shorts. She finds solace in diners and gas station bathrooms. Maybe I could identify with the main character. But thank God for that. I have never found myself able to ACTUALLY identify with a main character, except for a few occasions – Ghost World and the animated series Daria. Even those were a little too dark and monotone for my taste. Wendy, though, is an idealist who is just trying to survive in the only way she knows, by doing everything the wrong way. It is rare to see a female protagonist with any kind of ideals, let alone ideals that are so fiercely independent.
So maybe that’s why Wendy and Lucy is now on the top of my favorite movies list. Or at least that’s what Cody and I’s conversation would want me to believe. In reality, the film was a beautiful portrait of solitude and disconnect between people and people, as well as people and nature. It is the exploration of personal disaster in a culture that promotes individualistic success, a success that I imagine is quite foreign to the wayward Wendy. It denies the myths of financial independence that have been pumped into our mainstream media for decades. This is a woman who is living by the very cash in her hand, not the credit on her card. She has no debt, but also seems to have no future. There is no happy or tragic ending, there is only constant motion, which may be realist (a supposedly ‘unproductive’ approach to cinema), but at least it’s Real.
Mostly.

The Frangible arts.

I haven’t posted in awhile, and for this I apologize. It’s difficult for me to keep up on any kind of routine event, especially when it is not associated with punishment for non-abidance. Besides, I have not been traveling or doing anything of much interest beside studying and spending time with friends.

But there was Thanksgiving. 

I went to the dinner sponsored by the International Study Office. I have recently been eating an all vegetarian diet, despite my not having serious moral hang-ups about the whole meat thing. So I told Hazel Lander, the head of the International Office (or at least the person who sends me e-mail reminders), that I would have a vegetarian option. Jump forward a couple days. Awkward Americans sit side by side and across from one another, mostly strangers with this loose association that we all desperately cling to. You see, we think, we have nothing at all in common, but we do have this great granfalloon called the U S of A, and we all live there on occasion, I guess we can just keep talking about that. So we do and we complain. We all complain alot, about everything, about why they are serving roast potatoes when they should be mashed, and who serves pork sausages wrapped in bacon on Thanksgiving. And what is this? The vegetarian option? Ok. First impression- it’s a flaky breaded something with a little dribblet of thick tasteless looking tomato goo. Thanksgiving is ruined, they screwed it all up. They could have given me potatoes, I think, just a big plateful of potatoes would have done me just fine. It’s a cheese and spinach pasty, and it’s not that bad. Someone tells me later that there was Brie cheese baked in there, which is nice and classy. But there was no stuffing, bitter cranberry sauce, no mash, no greenbeans, no champagne, just English goo. 

Not that I’m complaining.

It was free. 

So I should be thankful. 

But I wasn’t.

So we had another Thanksgiving. All out vegan, not a single animal product on the menu. It was me, Cody Baldwin, Theo Kindyis, Nile Arena, Fisher, and two of Cody’s friends – Martin and Sarah. I woke up with an extreme ‘headache’ in the morning, so I thought I was going to ruin it all. But luckily I sorted myself out with a whole lot of water and about 6 aspirin (over the correct period of time, of course). My task was to take care of the mashed potatoes (my personal fav) and green beans. I made authentic hand whipped mash with dill and garlic to spice it up a bit. We had Tofurkey, roast squash, two kinds of stuffing, cheese potatoes (provided by Martin), cranberry sauce, mash, green beans, vegetarian Haggis (which was basically a nutty stuffing and not at all like what I imagine Haggis to be), and a lovely sweet potato pie baked by the lovely Cody Baldwin (this country does not believe in canned pumpkin.)

Let’s just say- It was a meal fit for Vegan Gods. We finished the whole spread. Hardly a crumb left on the table. There was wine, warmth, and good conversation. And we were all so proud of ourselves, I just kept saying over and over, “that was really good guys, we made that.” And it was wonderful. I can never dream of replacing my family Thanksgivings, but this was quite an acceptable stand-in. I’m glad that we all pitched in to save the holiday. Plus Theo got his first Thanksgiving, and what can be better than a first holiday? Well, you’re right. A first holiday with presents. 

I got to talk to Lyssa on webcam while she was visiting her parents. It was nice to see a moving face that I love. That moving face happened to have pneumonia, which is depressing, but she does get some sweet Codeine cough syrup and two kinds of antibiotics to make up for it!

The week has hit the center again. I have started on two more essays. They are both due on January 19th when we are back from Winter Break, but I figure that I won’t want to spend much time working on them while traveling. I’m writing about violence in Micahel Haneke’s Benny’s Video versus the kind of violence portrayed in Mellville’s Les Doulos. I nearly shied away from the question, because violence- to me- is prey to a constantly conflicting ideology- censorship. [A few people from the Film Society have been meeting down at this really sweet pub - Bramley's- that plays wonderful, subtle Indy music, provides a tin of sweet biscuits with any order of tea or coffee, has old Victorianesque furniture, paintings, and lamps, serves huge delicious sandwiches on wooden planks, and had a wide array of board games to play at your leisure. We meet outside of filmmaking because we want to be able to have a free and open conversation without the bureaucracies of leadership. We were discussing censorship this evening, as well as rating systems, feminism, and the Internet.] Which came first, the censor or the violence? Well the violence, or maybe it was the censor who perpetuated the violence. Perhaps the violence has shaped the ideology of censorship, or has censorship created the destruction? Why shouldn’t violence be ok? I am liberal, I believe in free-for-all. But do I?

The question fits the mind. Always bemused but constantly confused.

Film is mostly everything.

O-bomb-A!

I will never forget where I was last night, the strangely distance anticipation, blankly hearing the snide babble of the BBC anchors. Everyone in the room was certain that Obama would win, but I still had an unforgivable pain in my side that reminds me over and over that we have made the wrong decision before. I will never forget the walk home from dan’s house. It’s a misty twilight at 4:30 AM. I hear the birds rousing from their nests and perches as I walk steadily homeward. In one hand I’ve a bottle of half-drunk shiraz in the other I flip two keys over each other and over and over. I feel a surreal calm. A parched lip that had been brought to water, a fever that had finally been broken. And I go to my  bed, in England, assured that I don’t have to be frightened for the future of my country, at least that I don’t have to fear that I am part of a country whose policies are dishonesty and deceit. I can be proud that we have moved forward when we could have easily stepped back into the shadows of familiarity. I can be proud of the person who stands as an icon of America, and can at least be hopeful that this person had my best interests in mind, and the best interests of my compatriots. 

Cody and I were talking about the election on our way home from European Realisms lecture. He commented how he thought it was frightening in a way, because the media was treating Obama as a messianic symbol. And we compared him to JFK. I agree that it can be dangerous to think of a politician with this kind of non-political rhetoric. This rhetoric of hope and change so closely resembles the speeches of Martin Luther King, that I can’t help but a cringe a little. Remembering the last time someone tried to overturn injustice. But then. I know that we are ready to face this opposition, and I think that this is the reason Obama has become so symbolic in the few short hours that he has been declared our 44th president. He is a symbol of transition, of bridging a once insurmountable gap. A gap between races and religions and human beings in general, that has led our country to be bitter and divided and scared to death of each other. We may have gotten past the civil rights movement, the same ‘rights’ may be alloted to ‘all’ citizens, but we never talked about it. We’ve been trying to push it further and further into the deepest darkest corners of our closet. We cover it up with gossip and entertainment, and popular culture that operates on the shallowest principles of human relationships. We slayed the dragon, but we never buried it. It’s been the white elephant in the room for 40 years and we are finally acknowledging its presence, and saying “Hey, why don’t you have a seat? I think we have some things we need to talk about.”

The injustices allowed by ignorance + time, have been mostly ignored, but the eyes of the man who does not blink while facing the fiery beast will not tremble in fear, indeed, he will be mostly right on.

Isn’t it nice living out in the Country?

As you may or may not know, Canterbury is an agrarian center just 7 miles from the coastal city of Whitstable. In fact, one can hike down there on the Whitstable bike path, which makes for quite the tour of Southwest England’s flora and fauna. I’ve walked this path a few times, but never the entire 7 miles to the coast. I am just a little too dedicated to public transportation, but someday… someday I will make the journey and maybe even stop for a little picnic on the way. Until that day– I am content to make my way around the quaint Canterbury by UniBus and the occasional stroll. 

While the countryside is the ideological expression of my greatest affections for the land and expansive horizon– I must admit, that sometimes, it’s nice living out in the City.

This past weekend, I visited my good friend and former housemate, Rachel Weidner, at her dorm in Chelsea, London. I went with a couple friends from campus, Cody, Nile, Cecily, and Liz. We were all feeling a little too intoxicated by the country air and traversed to the metro in search of a little more grit to our porridge. 

Whenever I enter a big city– whether by coach, train, or car– I get a sudden rush of endorphins. It is as if I could suddenly feel the buzz of human brains, the beating of millions of hearts and the mumbly chatter of distant conversations. When I am in the city, I no longer feel the throat clenching solitude that is a country night. I no longer feel that I may look over my shoulder to find no soul behind me. I am suddenly second string in a never ending orchestral performance. My footsteps are inevitably in time. 

Upon arrival, we duck into a convenience store to pick up some drinks and a snack. At Victoria we find the Underground and take it to Scott’s Cottage. The gang is staying at Palmer’s hostel — restored Victorian with wooden lockers under the bunks– so we head there to drop off a load. Nile Cody and I took the coach while Liz and Cecily took the train, so we meet them in the lobby and they book up their rooms. Luckily, I don’t have to throw down the 20 pounds because Rachel’s roommate never moved into the dorm leaving a perfectly good twin bed for me to rest so sweetly upon.

We congregate outside to formulate some plans. Liz and I sit down on a bench and start looking up at the clouds with the other three compare notes on places to go and underground lines to take. Liz and I exchange indecisiveness and wait for direction. To the National Portrait Gallery! They say, and so we line up and down to the underground tube to tube to get around. 

We emerge at Tralfagar Square– first time for me. Stunning projection into the sky with sweet old Nelson perched perfectly atop the mast of England. We throw pence into the fountain like so many scenes of movies I’ve never understood. I wished I knew more about God, which I tell everyone, they keep theirs secret in hopes that they may be granted– I’ve personally given up hope on that little puddle. Up the stairs we go to the National Gallery, but as I step up, a suicidal pigeon dives toward my moving feet missing the pavement by a shoe and crash landing into my ankle instead. I scream- Liz got hit too, we scamper up the rest of the stairs and laugh that our previous joke kicks came true. 

In the National Gallery we see hundreds and hundreds of priceless paintings, Klimpt, Monet, Manet, Michelangelo, Van Gough, Goya and Da Vinci. To stand face to face with the fuel of in-numerous theories and debates about the state of man and creativity. To be nose to nose. Oh and the Execution Of Jane Eyre. Oh. Oh. To see what men did to preserve the absolute physiology of their subjects, and then to see three rooms later, the distortions that so logically followed.

Stendhal’s syndrome kicks in. I can’t even look at the paintings individually anymore, I walk by wall after wall trying to absorb a piece of every cake I can swallow. But I am dizzied with the sugar, and like a diabetic, I call out for nourishment. “I’m hungry. Anyone want something to eat?” We have all been passing this idea back and forth between masterpieces, it finally catches flame and we walk out into the bright white light of Tralfagar Square. We find Pretz- a kind of pre-prepared sandwich and soup shop. Savory Thai Chicken stew with little pieces of coconut floating. We eat and are full and warm and ready for another go at greatness.

Just up the street from the National Gallery is the National Portrait Gallery. I just keep thinking ‘ These aren’t photographs, they really aren’t Sagan.’ But I can’t believe myself so I stick my face closer and closer until I can see the tiny give away brush strokes. I hold my hand to my chest. If I were any older or ill of heart- I would be down in a second. I am amazed floor after floor. 

We jet out after drooling over Annie Leibovitz’s book- a collection of her works. Out into the open air and we decide to head to Chelsea, they’re off to the Science Museum, and (finally) I am off to meet Rachel. I haven’t seen her since I arrived about a month ago, and the effects of jet lag and preoccupation made our previous encounter less than satisfying.

She gives me text directions and we meet on a corner with a run and spinner. She is wearing a baggy black hoodie over a white skirt with primary color squares erratically placed. ‘Oh Rachel, where did you get that skirt?’ She bewilders me. She found this jacket on the side of the road with a huge Scooby Doo zipper pull, it is at least four sizes too large, but somehow– she pulls it off. We walk excitedly back to her dorm. I’m happy to be in comfortable company. Company that has seen me at every degree of health, wealth and disaster. We have fought and loved and screamed and got each other out of the country, making promises for tomorrow and the next day over and over. 

We hang out for awhile and just chat it up, we have a lot to catch up on. Later we go out to Brick Lane, which seems to be a pretty hipster hang out. A nice little club for free and some friends met and left and met again. Ride the bus home late. Wake up about 11 and walk to groceries and then to the tube in an attempt to hang out with my group. My phone dies- due to some heated text message battle on the way into London- and Rachel doesn’t know/ have anyone’s number. So we just turn around and go home. Talking about communes in Seattle and radio shows when we get back into Bloomington. Living like Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway- we say. Wish I’d lived in those days. Spend the rest of the day chatting and running small errands, lifted from here to there. Love love love that Rachel

Ride the coach back to Canterbury, sleeping then Subway where a drunk starts a fight and we catch the last bus home. I sleep and sleep and sleeeep.

Humans are Mostly musical.

Trippin’ it

The trip so far has seemed to last much longer than just seven little days.  Packed up all the things I thought I’d need for a year and climbed into a great plastic tube that was full of non-human mechanisms equipped for hosting a great deal of human bodies. Landed and 2 hours in customs. Dart out into London, the tube and great big luggage don’t agree and we’re pushing and pulling these giant packages made for stowing and not towing. 

Stayed in London for 3 nights. The 1st is hazy after having been awake for some 36 hours. Merry Wives of Windsor at the Globe Theatre and some coffee, a lot of walking and back to the hostel to sleep like tired lumps of Delusional human clay. Up the next day, Cody leaves first to go to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, can’t drag myself out, but rise rather early. I think this day we went to the Thames Festival with Rachel. Giant crowds of smiling and drunk people pushing through bright coloured shirts in search of the booth selling what it was they wanted. Westminster, the Clock Tower, Big Ben, The Thames, back to the hostel drinkin to sleep. Up again to the Tate Modern where Cody and I lost eachother, but I found Rachel. What a wonderful place to spend a free day, Francis Bacon, and on and on these Modern Artists’ sketch photo paint and pull these wonderful landscapes of the modern life. Oh my two hours we pass through every floor. Quite the time it was. Couldn’t find Cody even on the way out. To Rachel’s school and back to the Hostel, Cody gone to Greenich, Rachel and I get some Scrumpy Jacks English Cider drinkin until Cody comes. Lug our big suitcases to Rachel’s Dorm. Meet her bo Amz and out for a pint at the Green Man. Eat some pizza and wander until back to the hostel to rest. 

Leavin for Bath the next day. On the First Great Western out of Paddington. About 2 hours on the train. Bath is a beautiful cities with buildings like the eyes of God. So beautiful its hard to look at them for long. We quickly decide to play tourist big time and hop on a tour bus to Stonehenge. 15 pounds to walk around a rope that surround the great towering rocks. Must say that the location had a strange ambience so that I can understand the attraction ancients would have had, a quick turn and one can see in all directions. We’re on an audio tour so this hanging speaker about our necks tells us all about the stones. A bit that I didn’t know at all. Nearly half the stone underground?! Geeesus. Beautiful place, sheep everywhere. Back on the bus and into town. We walk about search out a place to eat and try to contact our couchsurfing host. My ‘International’ phone is fritzing so we pour pound after pound into a demanding payphone. Catch a taxi to University of Bath and when arrived we are instantly submerged in a Samba Jam Drum troop. Asked to Pick up instruments and play along with a group so widely ranged in age that I can’t even begin to compare it to anything I’ve seen before. We play and play sit out for second half and afterward jump into the back of Jackson’s mate’s Landrover. Dippin down the curvy roads listening to M.I.A. Stop by Jackson’s to drop off bags, then to the Riser, a little pub in his area and drink my first English Bitters. Refreshing and not nearly as strong as I thought it would be. Out of the pub with Jackson and co hanging out in the bus stop to encounter a bluenosed old man whose been patrolling the pub for what has to be 80 years. Shoot it with him telling us stories about pissin on the Rising Sun’s tomato plants, he catches a bus and we giggle down the street to Jackson’s home. Little music sharing and to sleep in comfy accomodations.

Next day we leave at 10:35 up too late to shower, shovel some cornflakes in and run to the train. Hug Jackson and we’re to Swansea in South Wales, heard it was a mite industrial for other’s tastes. A little anxious on the ride there, but pulling in to see I’ll get along with this town. Strip from the station spotted with discount stores and run down storefronts. To the City Centre which plays host to the largest open air market in South Wales. In to get a couple Pasties to quell the hunger seeping in our bellies. We look about for tourist information and decide to head out to Mumbles, a bay just down the road accessible by bus. Buy a belt and a redbull try to unlock Cody’s phone- no luck . ON the bus, we hop out when we see a castle. It’s the Oystermouth castle about 65 pence for students to run about and explore the ruining walls, walking down the falling stairs on the landings and towers and seats and windows. Explore for some 40 minutes and we’re out to another payphone to Call Doug out host of the night. Feeding the hungry pay phone coin after coin until he just calls us back and it’s free. He’s off work and will meet us at the White Rose at half fiver (5:30). So we skip down to the Swansea shore to frolic on the mud-flats. Found myself a cute little crab that I held for a bit and looked for good rocks to keep close to my heart. Into the pub and a Brain’s Bitters, Delicious. Doug in and we talk easily, comfortably. After the beer we’re out to his car and start towards the peninsula of Gower. Doug knows a lot about Swansea and is quick to tell us all that he knows. We walk and walk to the top of this great hill overlooking Oxwich Bay. Turn and turn you can see all the countryside host to runners finishing this strange scavenger hunt. Who knows what they are doing, but we’re standing on top of this hill and they are running around us in circles. It makes everything seem much dreamier than it ever did before. Went out to a great delicious Indian Restaurant, another pint and we’re at Doug’s place sleeping it all off

Back to London staying at a Hostel, can’t get a hold of Rachel for shit and we need our luggage, so we hop about, get a tube day pass ride it wherever. Made it to Chinatown and happened upon the HUGE Freddy Mercury statue glistening in the English moonlight sweet sweet rapture, snap it into my camera and we’re off again. Grab a drink at this Spanish bar in an alley where you set your glasses on the pavement and dip out. Drink it down and head to Rachel’s where we wait for some 45 minutes until she shows up and we get our luggage back to the hostel with the original intention of going out again. But we’re staying in a 4 person dorm with 2 older one a lady the other a fellow from France and Uruguay respectively. Don’t wanna come back pissed and disturb them so we stay in anyway. 

Next day up and out to explore. To Hyde Park, Regent Gardens, some palaces and Princess Di’s memorial playground with a great pirate ship, we can’t go in though because we aren’t and don’t have children so movin on we go to the British Library and see some of the oldest documents in existenz, including an original collection of Shakespeare plays, Magna Carta, and notes from Sylvia Plath. Jesus, so close but everything is in glass I dirty it with my face trying to get closer. Dip out quick to catch the coach to Canterbury.

At the station we are met by our next host Tom, nice guy carrying two bikes back to his place on a 40 minute walk. Lugging the big blue whale bag up all those hills about to die. But we get in and he makes us a nice meal, I can’t eat it all, but I’m happy to have a homecooked meal in my belly. We sleep I on the floor for a bit until I’m too cold to sleep. Up early and we’re to Campus.. Get into our place and I dump my stuff and spreadeagle on my bed. So happy to be in a place that is so mine and made for me to lock and keep my things so safe and I will be so safe here so wonderfully content. 

Pub crawl that night.

So that’s the quick tip of the berg about what’s been going on the past couple o’ evenings. 

Travelins is mostly Safe, Sick, Sound, Sweet.