I am *not* a doughnut.

My friend Mona, who is basically made of the awesome, invited me to spend a week with her family in Berlin. Naturally, I accepted, because if Germany produced Mona, who is made of the awesome, than Germany itself must also be made of awesome.

Plus there's the whole bit with Berlin housing the Pergamon Altar.

I can't even describe it properly. Just go, if you ever have the chance. There's a million photos of it online, but there's no way to compress the scale of it into words. The stone breathes, okay? It's crumbling and half of the gods are missing faces but you can see the agony in the faces of the giants and feel the ground beneath them, the yank of Athena's fingers in their hair. . .

I don't care that this type of sculpture is outdated and based on a false ideal and no one makes it anymore. It's the closest thing to magic I've ever seen.

Beyond that, Mona's family spoiled me rotten. First off, her mother is a fantastic cook. I haven't eaten so well in a long time. Besides simply letting me stay in their home and giving me food -- which, FYI, is probably the easiest way to get me to like you as I'm a slave to my stomach -- Marion and Peter also decided to take Mona and I out for a day. We toured the Charlottenburg Palace, which was a mix of several different eras' worth of architecture and art styles. Mona and I spent several minutes gaping like idiots at one of the ceilings. Ceiling murals are of course rather common in royal buildings, but this combined sculpture with two-dimensional art, flowers and trees and clouds blending together, shaded so well and put together so carefully that we honestly couldn't tell what was flat and what had relief anymore.

(So I can't hold a camera straight.)

Marion also caught me staring at a certain sculpture on display in the gift shop, and not only told me a bit about its history (the statue was hidden for a century or so because it was "too free") but also bought me a postcard with a print of it, along with one of a portrait Mona and I had admired and a view of the palace itself. Peter was a veritable encyclopedia of information, too, frequently translating the German explanations of each room of the palace and adding his own insight. Afterwards, he took us on a drive around Berlin. Honestly, it was more of an auto tour, and it was wonderful. He adores his city and knows the history as only a Berliner could, his voice occasionally cracking with emotion as he searched for the right words to give me the best possible idea of his meaning.

The day was topped off with organic ice cream, and Germany is serious about its ice cream. If you're an American like me, think of what we take as "gelato," then think even richer. (And remember what I said about them spoiling me? They wouldn't let me pay for anything.)

Mona also toured the city with me when the two of us weren't busy revising for exams. I got to see the "mountain" of Berlin, try very authentic Sicilian pizza (delicious. Okay, maybe the pineapple wasn't authentic, but the crust was, and the cooks tried to speak to us in Italian. . .Mona was actually able to order in Italian, since she actually knows useful foreign languages), eat a wurst (also delicious) and take a picture with a giant Lego giraffe. Oh, and more ice cream. I think we had ice cream pretty much every day we were there -- lucky for me, Mona's sweet tooth is as bad as mine!

I wasn't being sarcastic.

Mona also threw a barbeque as a quick reunion with a lot of her friends; I got to help set up and even run the grill for a bit, since I was one of the few guests who was not only a non-vegetarian, but also not grossed out by touching raw meat.

At the end of the trip, Mona's parents thanked me for coming (yes, there were hugs) and I bought them flowers and then Mona's and my plane got delayed for over an hour. After we'd gotten through security. I also got to spend something like two and a half hours waiting in customs to get back into the UK, and had an absolutely fantastic interaction with a condescending customs agent -- but you know what? I'm going to save that for another post, because the actual trip was far too awesome to discolour with snark.

The Lion King and other things

On the 13th of April, Mona and I took a trip into London to have lunch and see a show. Being children of the 90s, we decided that The Lion King was a necessity, and being tourists, we wanted to eat in Chinatown.

First, the lunch. We pretty much ducked into the first place we saw that wasn't a buffet, which may have been a mistake. Mind you, the food was fantastic. Mona had a salt-and-pepper tofu dish, which she said was the best tofu she had ever been served; I had a beef and ginger dish, which was likewise delicious. They also served somewhat "upscale" drinks -- fresh juices and bubble tea among them. Again, everything was delicious, and we finished with a good forty-five minutes to spare before our show.

It was when we got our bill that we began having problems. We were handed a printed receipt with the food listed only in Chinese (I assume Mandarin, but honestly it could have been any dialect and I wouldn't have known the difference), and only the total price given as opposed to the price of each dish. This total seemed a bit off to me, and a quick mental check of what I remembered the listed prices of our food as indicated that something was wrong. We snagged another copy of the menu and totalled everything up. We'd been overcharged by a good eight pounds or so, even allowing for a 12% added gratuity fee. Okay. No problem. We flagged down a waiter and explained the issue. This took a good seven to ten minutes, as his English wasn't exactly fluent and he probably had trouble with both of our accents.* He took the bill back up, and we assumed that the problem would be quickly rectified and we'd be on our way with still some time to spare.

Twenty-five minutes later...we were handed another copy of the bill. We were still overcharged (possibly; again, it wasn't like we could read the receipt very well) but had no time to continue haggling. We booked it out of there, promptly got lost, and ended up asking a guy selling discount theatre tickets for directions to the Lyceum. We ran there and made it with some minutes to spare, though we were both out of breath.

Totally worth it.

If you like massive puppets and crazy-awesome dancing and African-inspired chant and gorgeous costuming and lions and stuffy British accents, you'd love this show. I'd never seen professional puppetry on this scale before, so I spent the entire show gawking and gasping and generally making a right fool of myself. Mona and I both left the theatre grinning like idiots. My inner child has yet to shut up about the whole thing.

(So, naturally, I wait a month before posting...I am bad at blogging. Bad blogger. Lazy.)

UNRELATED:
A short blurb of mine has been picked up by The Colchester Circle for publication! It will appear in either the June or July issue! Celebrations! Jubilations! Exclamation points!


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*Mona is German, though her English is excellent and really is only accented when she's very tired and/or stressed. I'm American, and thus don't actually speak English at all.

Dublin, Dublin, Dublin...

I spent a goodly portion of my time in Dublin at least a little bit lost. All the roads curve and bend around the River Liffey, occasionally disappearing altogether only to reappear a block down. I should be used to this, growing up near a river town, but this was on an utterly massive scale.

As such, it took me almost an hour and a half to find the National Museum of Archaeology. At least the walk was nice -- the tourist and shopping districts of Dublin are distinctly...ornate, actually. All the buildings seem to be lovingly-maintained ye olde brick[e], or lovingly-designed towers of steel and glass (which can be pretty, if the architects are allowed to do their job properly). There were also more than a few street musicians -- all at least fairly good, and several playing reels I recognized. Street vendors lined the, er...streets...mostly selling jewelry of one sort or another. A lot of it was kitschy junk, but there were a few selling sterling silver. Claddaghs, predictably, were a common motif, but sun and dragon knot designs were aplenty as well.

But the museum!

Dublin's "National Museum" is actually several buildings nowhere near each other. The Archaeology Museum was small-ish, but the exhibits were meticulously laid out as well as unique. The main attraction for me was the "Kingship and Sacrifice" display -- that is to say, the bog bodies.

I've always been a little bit uneasy about the display of human remains, particularly those like the Egyptian mummies, which were originally preserved for religious reasons and intended not to be disturbed. The bog bodies are something of a different case.

First, I should probably explain what a "bog body" is. The easy explanation is that it's a type of mummy, but most people hear "mummy" and think pyramids and sand. The better explanation might be that a bog body is a human body preserved by the acid and temperature of the northern bogs. In the best cases, they'll still be partially clothed, hair and fingernails will be intact, and you might even be able to read the expression on the preserved face (The Wikipedia entry on bog bodies has a photograph of Tollund Man, who is beautifully preserved). Think leather, if your stomach isn't strong enough.

The bit that icks most people out about the bog bodies is that many of them died violent ritual deaths. Triple-deaths are common -- i.e., the sacrificial victim was strangled, stabbed, and drowned all at once. Also, a lot of the remains aren't in the best of condition. Several were mangled upon discovery via farm equipment, leaving dessicated organs trailing beneath severed torsos.

I'll spare the worst of the description, as I've been informed that most people do indeed find the whole concept more gross than interesting.

The actual displays were fantastic, though. As I said, the display of formerly interred human bodies makes me uneasy. The Dublin museum had the most respectful arrangement I have yet seen. Walking into the exhibit, not a single corpse can be seen -- just the grave goods found near them, maps, and descriptions of what the bodies mean as well as a few photos. To actually see the bodies, you have to enter tiny rooms-within-rooms, spiral-shaped divisions cut into the floor; you walk a ramp slightly downward in order to reach the body in question. It's dim, and quiet, and womb-like. Perhaps this is a bit creepy to some, but I merely found it sobering.

(Also, it's probably a good way to help parents prevent very young children from accidentally discovering the bodies -- I could see them figuring in more than a few childhood nightmares.)

After leaving the museum, I spent the rest of the day wandering around the tourist district and buying gifts for my family.

As a final note, I've decided that the Irish take on Mexican food is decidedly odd. I had a "Mexicana" crepe for lunch, which was delicious and included both smoked chicken and guacamole, but the whole thing was drizzled with a sweet-spicy chili sauce that tasted distinctly Japanese. Seriously. It was like a mild version of the sauce Sushi.com in Ann Arbor drizzles over their spicy rolls. Delicious...but bewildering.

It's not all blarney. Not quite.

I’ve been meaning to write about Ireland for a bit, and it's going to take more than one post, which just made it that much harder to begin. The itinerary for the trip went something like this:

Monday 4 April: Get up godawful early to catch bus, train, ferry to Dublin. Check into hostel, find dinner, go to sleep.

Tuesday 5 April: Get up godawful early to catch Luas to rail station. Go on railtour to Blarney and Cork. Return to Dublin. ???

Wednesday 6 April: Get up and explore Dublin for a day.

Thursday 7 April: Get up not-exactly-godawful early to catch bus to ferry. Ferry, train, bus – and home. Well, flat, anyway.

Everything went pretty much according to plan! Except for getting, like, three hours of sleep Sunday night. That was unexpected.

First off – yes, it’s basically a ten-or-more-hour journey each way. I slept a lot on the train, but also had my Kindle with me, so I read here and there, too. Yes, I went alone. No one tried to accost me, and, no, I did not leave behind bodies I’m not telling you about.

I first arrived in Dublin, and while I was waiting for my luggage (I only had my purse and a carry-on size roller bag, which I was told to check at Holyhead), an Irish-English lady struck up a conversation. She was wonderfully nice, and of the variety who simply cannot understand why she hasn’t moved back to Ireland. Her children, born and raised in England, all moved “back.” “There’s a connection with the land,” she told me. Something spiritual.

Also, a note to travelers: it’s really hard to find a Bureau de Change in Dublin. I actually had to just go to an ATM and withdraw Euros the first night so I could pay for the locker I needed and buy food.

My first impression of Dublin was the stink. The bus ride from the ferry (luckily that particular bus takes pounds – bills only, folks!) went right by a refinery. Stepping off the bus, it just smelled like a city. Car exhaust and too many bodies and old stone, moss and damp and weeds growing up in the cracks. Further, all the roads in Dublin curve and stop and pick up again ten yards down. I never exactly got lost, but I was frequently uncertain of exactly where I was going. It wasn’t like in Edinburgh, where I immediately felt at ease. . .though Edinburgh is also a good deal smaller and arguably even more touristy.

The railtour was as advertised, more or less – I think they should’ve left “Cork” off the destination list, as those who did the “full” tour only drove through it on the way to the next stop. Irish countryside is surprisingly a lot like what they show you in movies. Minus the cliffs, because we were inland. Tiny ramshackle farmhouses, plank fences, sheep, cattle, horses – a random castle ruin – more houses, rivers and streams that somehow looked ice cold and crisp. I saw a heron, or else a bird a lot like one, in a brief flash of a second where I was lucky enough to be looking down as we crossed a gully.

An odd thing about the livestock, though. Besides the fact that there were a lot of draft horses, there were a lot of white horses. Or grays, if you insist, but of the sort that look white. The cattle were often mixed as well. Whereas back in Michigan, most farmers will have more or less one variety of cow – maybe all Holstein or Angus or Jersey, or perhaps Holstein bred with Angus to make them look more uniform or whatnot – and they’ll all be more or less the same color, in Ireland that didn’t seem to be the case. Most pastures had a mix of animals, some red, or red-and-white, or black, or white, patched, highland breeds. . .and I’m not sure why this would be the case. Perhaps breed is less of an issue there and ARGH I am going on about cows. ‘Scuse me, I have to go wash off the flannel shirt now.

Blarney village. This was the part that felt like a fairy tale. The grounds were brilliantbrilliant green, and it was misting a little, drops coating my hair and eyelashes (and my camera, if I wasn’t careful). The castle itself isn’t huge, but it is appreciably big, and stone, and it looms. There are dungeons and dripping caves and towers. To climb up as far as the Blarney Stone, you have to climb a spiral staircase cut into the stone, each step so narrow and slick with raindrops and the climb so steep that I clung to the rope on the central pillar and essentially hauled myself up that way.

Whether or not the Blarney Stone works is something I suppose you’ll have to judge for yourself.

Climbing down was easier, or would have been if the older couple in front of me hadn’t had a tendency to pause unexpectedly to catch their breaths, with me teetering on the edge of the steps above them. At least there was a railing, and I was too busy processing the fact that I was in a castle, uneven floors and mysterious draughts and odd echoes and all, to actually care.

I spent most of my time in Blarney exploring the grounds. It was a little chill and damp, as I mentioned, which I loved. Blarney has beautiful gardens which normally I would have to avoid due to a severe bee sting allergy. But the weather meant that most insects were out of sight, or at least too dopey to sting. I spent a little time in the Poison Garden, which is exactly what it sounds like. It was interesting, but a little too. . .groomed for my taste. Everything had a label, and a stake, and an exact place where it was supposed to be. Which is a good thing, considering what the plants were and that the purpose of the garden is to educate, but artistically it’s a little lackluster.

More interesting were the dead-end stone grottos that somehow muted all outside noise despite only being twelve feet tall or so. More interesting were the steep banks overflowing with ferns growing up and out like fountains. More interesting the caves so low even I had to bend double, feeling with my hands to clamber over the rocks. The way was dimly lit by carefully-placed electric lamps, tiny round spotlights. In front of one of these was a violently-green rash of clover.

More interesting was sitting on the rocks by the river, eyes closed, and opening them again and staring in disbelief, because in that shock of light, everything was so green, so bursting with it, that my eyes perceived it all as a landscape of blue.

Shameless

You know those days when you really want to get things done, but somehow never actually get off your ass and do 'em? Yep. I couldn't even convince myself to get out of bed until almost one p.m. today. And even then, it was only because I couldn't get back to sleep. I've been tired a lot lately. I could worry about having the flu or mono or something, but in all honesty I'm just lazy.

I spent a good part of the time I was awake arranging my trip to Ireland, and the rest reading comics to try to stop myself from thinking. (Shortpacked! is pretty good, actually. It's a sequel to It's Walky!, but it's not especially confusing to read them out of order as I have.) It wasn't an especially successful attempt, mostly because when my mind decides it wants to go in circles, it's nigh-impossible to stop. Anyone who's had to listen to me whine about the same issue multiple times (and that's most of my friends at this point) is well aware of this. Just smile, pat me on the back, and -- if it gets really bad -- stuff something chocolatey in my mouth to make me shut up for a minute.

Though, if you're Disser, you're probably more likely to do the mental equivalent of kicking me in the balls until I realize I'm acting like a certain whiny teenager again.*

Oh. Right. I'm supposed to be keeping a travelogue.

Erm. I'm joining the juggling society at the uni, which means I get to spend Monday evenings throwing balls at people and playing with fire. Good thing I've already cut my hair short -- singeing happens rather frequently, especially with the fire staves. It's not an especially useful skill, but the people are awesome...and it's fun. Also, the girls in the society like looking at videos of kittens as much as I do. (Some of the boys do, too. They just don't admit it because they're hanging tenuously onto their last shreds of masculinity as is.)

Wednesday night I went clubbing again. The university venues were having a theme night: "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." They advertised chocolate cocktails at the SU bar, a chocolate fountain, and free sweets, all going until three in the morning. All at the low, low price of eight pounds.

That last bit is to be read in a sarcastic tone of voice, by the way. Mostly because they closed the bar over an hour earlier than advertised, and the fountain and sweets were put away two-and-a-half hours in. Also, they were playing Katy Perry, and my shirt was damp because one of my flatmates and his friend dumped half a beer on me while he was dancing.

So I rounded up Becky and Ed, who I'd been hanging out with for a good chunk of the evening, and we went back to my flat and had hot chocolate. I prefer to make my own fun, anyway.

Mona and I made another excursion into the sweet shoppe. Aniseed balls ftw. We've also had a Star Trek: TNG marathon, punctuated with frequent cries of "DatyDatyDatyDatyKITTY!"

It has been decided that a robot kitty would be the best pet of all, but only if it had patches of fluff upon it.

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*I mean Anakin Skywalker in Episodes II and III. Frakkin' wanker. Seriously. I can't watch 20 minutes of either of those movies without wanting to punch him in the face.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

I make my own souvenirs. Most of them aren't even real things. When I'm in a new place, I both love and hate my camera; I know it will help me remember later, but I end up feeling obligated to try to capture everything. It's a distraction, but perhaps a good one. It forces me to stop and look both ways. Not necessarily because I have to cross a street, but because I'm suddenly very aware how much there is to miss. Even other people are a distraction, which sounds harsh but anyone who has tried to interrupt me at the piano or halfway through a book or while I'm writing is likely painfully aware of this. I wanted to give Edinburgh my full attention while I could.

So I spent Sunday morning wandering around by myself. As it turns out, I'd been staying only a few blocks away from the Elephant House, a cafe where J.K. Rowling -- other writers too, but Rowling was the only one they were advertising -- used to sit and write. I was given Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for my tenth birthday. I grew up with Rowling's books (and Roald Dahl's, Edward Eager's, and honestly anything I could keep hold of long enough to get through before someone realized I was supposed to be doing something else). I'm too biased to attempt to make any grand statements about the quality of Rowling's writing. But, think as you will of it, she turned many children into readers. And a few of these she has turned into writers.

Rowling wasn't solely responsible for me picking up the habit. Pretty much everyone I've ever read holds at least some credit for that, and boredom holds a good deal more. But I don't think I feel like hashing out my adolescence just yet. Back to Rowling. I read her books growing up. I re-read her books growing up. I can't deny that she has had some type of effect on me -- I burst into tears when Sirius and Dumbledore died, and if those were spoilers to you, go read an actual book instead of a twenty-year-old's self-indulgence. Christ.

But I was a bit awed at being where she had been. The cafe itself is warm and buzzes faintly. I can't describe it any other way. Like it was full, even though most of the tables were empty. A type of pressure. I ordered tea and sat down, then quickly moved to a window table. Edinburgh Castle, a ruin atop a cliff, loomed in the background, and below the window was a graveyard. Edinburgh is a city built on multiple levels.

I'll say this about the Elephant House: their napkins make good writing paper. I couldn't sit there and not write, even though usually I don't like to write where people can see me (inevitably, someone asks what I'm doing, which actually means, "I want to read it." Obviously I'm writing, you twit). And an hour later I had a napkin fulla words -- and I figured I'd be in there for half an hour, tops. I still have the napkin. The first panel is even something relevant:

I wonder if this graveyard is the one where Cedric died, if Edinburgh Castle is Rowling's Hogwarts. It's fourteen pounds to get in, and she was on welfare at the time, so perhaps it too was unreachable. 

I'm here by accident.

I stayed hoping, perhaps, that some of her magic would pass on to me. There is an illumined frame of several photos of her here. She's not smiling in any of them. I wonder when she had to switch from writing in cafes to writing somewhere hidden. (Did she switch?)

I would have had to the moment people began to take photographs, attaching respect to what in all likelihood would be no more than a grocery list.

Okay, so it's not Great Expectations. The rest of it isn't either, and I won't bother putting it here.

When I'd finished writing, I went into the bathroom. There were two stalls, one with a toilet decked out collage-style with stills from the movies. Thanks, but I don't really want to piss with Dumbledore watching my arse. Especially since in Rowling's world, portraits are fully sentient. The other stall was coated in graffiti, most of it more or less grateful (one reader was apparently irritated that Harry and Ginny made a couple). Someone had started a list called "Dumbledore's Army." Others left simple messages. "Thank you" cropped up a lot. I hope the person who eventually has to paint over all that isn't a fan. As it was, I felt a little odd doing the extremely unpoetic things I needed to do in there.

The napkin's still sitting on my desk, though. I guess there's room for a little more superstition in my life.

HOMEROW MASH

At some point, I went into Brighton -- a free trip sponsored by classes on romanticism and modernism. It was cold but really cool and there is a pavilion that is "Oriental" in every sense of the word.

Meaning, of course, that it is an utterly ridiculous mishmash of Indian, Chinese, and god-knows-what-else put together by an English ruler. It's beautiful, though. There is a chandelier with a dragon holding it up.

Brighton also has a huge street market, or whatever you call those things where the shops spill out into the alleys for a square mile or two.

That was March 5th, anyway.

Today, I just got back from a weekend in Edinburgh, Scotland. My head is so full of everything I've seen that I don't know where to start.

The bus tour, I suppose. Paula and I took a 12-hour trip around Glencoe, the Highlands, and Loch Ness. Unfortunately, it was very cold and wet out that day, and snowed more often than not. Paula had never seen snow before and was visibly enchanted at first, but then disappointed by the timing of it. The snow made it difficult to see very far, meaning that our tour guide was often reduced to saying things like "And now on the far right is [insert awesome memorial/landmark/Nessie], which. . .you may not be able to see." I opted for the optional "tour" of Urquhart Castle and "cruise" of Loch Ness. The "tour" was self-guided, which I actually liked, since Urquhart is a ruin and fun to explore on your own. The "cruise" was a bit grand of a label, though, considering that the boat was too small to allow all guests to remain in the saloon, where it was warm and dry. They sold tea, though, so I stood out on deck with a cup and watched. Not for anything in particular. Remember how I mentioned the snow? It was still coming down at that point. And it was extremely windy. At one point, I swear I saw snow going upwards.



More on Scotland later -- for now, it's one a.m. and I have class in the morning.