The Long Way Home

We’re on our way to Mons, Belgium to stay with Maureen, a friend of our friend Becky from back home that said we should visit. We got to Maureen’s house at 3:30 this afternoon after a train ride and getting a ride from an elderly woman named Annette that we stopped and asked for directions. She spoke French and knew only a little English. We asked her if we were going the correct way based on the directions we had printed out. She said many things in French among which was “conduit.” It being one of the dozen French words I know meaning to drive, I gather that she was offering to drive us.

Barry, Maureen’s husband, greeted us at the door and showed us up to our rooms. They live in a very nice house with a garden-style yard. We each took showers, and then went down to the foyer to sit with Barry. We talk about travelling and learn that he has been all over the world, and has great stories to share. Maureen showed up a couple hours later with two pizzas and suggestions of what we can do in Mons the next day. Barry says he’s going to play tour-guide and show us around.

We got to call Mom and Dad for the first time because they get free international calls to the U.S. They both rave about the blog and want me to keep writing. It still hasn’t sunk in that we’re so far away from them; staying in places we’re only read about in books. It doesn’t make it any easier to come to that realization when I can hear what they say into a phone the instant after they speak it. Oh technology.

We arrived in Bruges, Belgium from Amsterdam at around 6:30 PM. At first, I wanted to visit the town of Neunen, Holland because it is the birthplace of Van Gogh, and also because I’m a Band of Brothers fan and a battle took place there. Really the only things we saw there though was a lot of rain and some hail.

We stopped in several hostels to check their availability and prices, but this only led us farther from the city center. After asking in the last hostel we could find as to where we might find a campground, we walked some three kilometers towards the outskirts of the city after sundown.

Britt’s shoulders were hurting and I was getting impatient looking for this non-existent campground. The last hostel we stopped at gave us directions to the camp that included making a right at a McDonald’s. We have still yet to see this so-called McDonald’s. Stopping at a stoplight to cross a street, Britt makes eye-contact with a woman sitting in her car. We crossed the street, and Britt watches the woman swing her car around, park on the curb in front of us, and get out of her car. She’s walking toward us and I see she is a middle-aged blonde woman, and she has a pretty smile. 

“Do you guys need a ride somewhere?” she asks. I’m still wondering as to how she knew we spoke English. She offers to give us a lift, and then calls her husband, Nikolaas, to bring a bigger car than her compact to fit us and our stuff. When he arrives, she offers to let us camp in their garden and serve us pizza and wine. We’ve learned to not turn things down when they are offered because, “It is better to give than to receive.” We are helping them more by accepting than they are helping us to let us sleep in their backyard.

At their house we met Alex and Tom, two guys that work for Nikolaas. He is a graphic artist and she works as the head of HR at a firm. Their house is beautiful and large. They offer that we sleep in their kids’ beds since they are on holiday camping with their grandparents. We decline respectfully.

Sitting around the living room, we each talk about our occupations before the trip. Tom and I got to talking about the politics of Belgium. It is essentially divided along it’s middle with the North being Flanders and the South is Wallonia. Dutch is predominantly spoken in Flanders with the exception of Brussels being French, and Wallonia is French spoken. Their government has at least ten parties while the US only has two. They are required to vote. I tell them that I like that idea, but Alex doesn’t like that they make him go. He would go vote anyway.

After some wine and a lot of food, I went out to the backyard to build the tent in the dark. We exchanged email addresses and promised to stay in contact. This would be the last time we saw them because they left for work very early, and they told us to come inside when we wake up and their maid will make us breakfast. It rained through most of the night, and Britt didn’t close her flap to keep the water out. Most of her stuff got wet.

We had breakfast waiting for us on the table when we awoke, and the maid served us coffee and tea. We tried to get directions to the station, but she hardly knew English. She drew us a map and that was very helpful. We walked back through Bruges and were able to stop and enjoy the scenery.

During World War II, this was one of the cities that Hitler refused to destroy because of it’s beauty and history. The whole town is surrounded by a canal, and is only accessible by bridge. The buildings are all made out of the same white colored stone, and they all look like castles. I stopped at a small bakery and ate a Belgian waffle covered in Belgian chocolate and whipped cream. I would sleep outside all night in the rain if I knew I could have one of the those waiting for me the next day.

Britt and I went to the Van Gogh museum in the morning, we stopped by the Red Light District to look around, and then we ate a magical muffin that turned our lives upside down. I would write about what happened after that, but I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.

This morning we awoke at 6:30am to be at the Liverpool Street Train Station to catch the 8:02 to Harwich International in order to catch a ferry to Holland. We basically took a stab in the dark with this trip because we didn’t know if we could purchase tickets at the gate to the ferry or over the phone or online. We pretty much were going to get on that boat one way or the other; even if it meant us laying out on the deck with the seagulls the whole way. I was confident enough to go ahead and book a hostel in Amsterdam for the Annemarie Hostel.

We paid a little bit more than expected, but were able to get tickets. Through nearly seven hours of trying to sleep, playing cards, and eating dinner, we made it to the Hoek van Holland (hook of Holland). They did have a TV, but the only channel in English was a televangelist, and the soccer game they showed was set to repeat so the same game was on about four times.

There was also a small area where four computers were set up for internet access. We needed to book our Eurail tickets and get them shipped to Brittany’s college classmate, Julien, in Paris. However, the connection was so bad on the ship that it took around an hour and a half just to go through six or seven webpages. I got mine taken care of, but Britt ended up buying two different passes to herself and got charged double. This isn’t the first bit of trouble she will have with this pass.

We caught a train from the ferry station up to Amsterdam. The Hoek is in the southern part of the country and Amsterdam in the North. It only took a couple hours to cover the entire country. On the way, we were trying to prepare ourselves for not hearing English anymore from here on out. Oh, how wrong we were about that. Turns out, everyone knows English in Holland. Most of them also know French and German as well. I’m baffled by this. I mean, I know the close proximity of the countries in Europe requires the kids to be taught more than one language in school, but to know 3 or 4 different languages is unreal. Students learn Spanish or French in schools in America, and I probably shouldn’t go so far to say they “learn” it. 

We caught a tram from the train station in Amsterdam to our stop for the hostel. Public transportation is basically free in Holland. People punch these cards they have on their way in and out of the trams, but there is never anyone who comes around and checks to see if you have it. I know it’s wrong to not support financially such a great thing as European Public Transportation, but I figured we’re a couple of vagabonds on tight budgets, and I’ll support it with my words. 

The guy at the front desk of Annemarie was really friendly and looked like he had just come from a Nirvana show. He had at least ten piercings in his ears and his long black hair was in a ponytail. My initial stereotype of people in Amsterdam were either A) stoned all the time, or B) a prostitute. Turns out, I was way off. Yes, people do get high a lot here, but they aren’t useless by any means. Useless in the sense that when you think of someone who smokes a lot of pot, it’s usually associated with a couch, some cartoons, and a whole lot of Capn’ Crunch. He showed us to our room, gave us a map, and suggest to us where to go for dinner.

So, we set off into the night in the direction he gave us. The streets in Amsterdam are six lanes wide wherever you go. And only two of those are for cars. On the very outside are the pedestrian sidewalks, then the next two toward the inside are for bikes, and the inner two are cars. Bikes outnumber the cars here by far. It made us want our bikes back, but not that much. This system made it a little difficult to cross the street though. You have to look out for the hundreds of bikes riding stealthily through the night, then the cars, then more bikes.

We made it to a main restaurant area that our host pointed us to. There was every ethnicity of food you could think of, and each restaurant had an outdoor seating area with umbrella covered tables. Naturally, we chose the American restaurant because we were dying for a cheeseburger. We sat outside at a table next to a long haired guy smoking a cigarette and also eating a cheeseburger.

He must have heard us ordering because he leaned over and asked if we’re American. He also is, and he’s on vacation from Afghanistan. He had just gotten done with a two year contract as an electrician there, and was making so much money, that he had time to take a month off and fly his daughter to Amsterdam to meet her. She had apparently just left the night before, but he wanted to stay another week. He was very casual when he told us he makes over $200,000 a year doing what he does. The guy didn’t seem like he had it all going on upstairs, but he was nice to talk to. He also asked if we had partaken of the local coffee shops yet and suggested a couple that he has been a patron of.

I wanted to check out one of these coffee shops before heading back to the hostel. We go into one nearby, and were stopped by a large guy with dreadlocks that needed to see ID to verify we were over 18. We walked in and there’s this huge elaborate menu of different strains of herb and prices next to it by the gram. It was one of the craziest things I’ve seen. You just order right there at the bar, they weigh it in front of you, and there ya go. In the shop was a lot of seating at couches and puffy chairs. The place was packed. I could see through the haze and low-lighting an American family sitting around a tall table passing a joint around. Britt and I sat in there for a couple minutes and decided it was way too weird, and probably not a good environment to try the product in.

We went to bed shortly after this. There was a huge window in our room that opened up to the courtyard out back of the hostel where everyone did their smoking. At close to 4am as I was just getting into my REM sleep, a group of British guys were out back talking so loud that it was like they were on other sides of the street. I could smell the aroma of weed leaking through the window and could hear the sound of bottles getting set down and clinking. These guys were wasted. Their conversations were like one from That 70’s Show when they’re sitting around the circle in the basement and talking about cars the run on water or how good dorito’s are. I sat there listening for a little while hoping the pot would kick in as the narcotic it is, and put them to sleep. It didn’t happen. Instead I through pennies out the window at them. They didn’t have a clue that it could have come from our room. In fact, one of them thought God was showering them with cash as a reward.

I awoke before everyone else in our dorm so that I could get a shower before the daily rush to the bathroom, and also so that I could do laundry while Britt slept in.  The launderette is down the street, so I’m toting a trash bag full of clothes and my smaller backpack. I stopped in an organic grocery store to get a peach and a granola bar for breakfast.  I get to the front door to do laundry, and find that it doesn’t open for another twenty five minutes.  No big deal, I can find a bench to sit on and get some writing done. 

Apparently, the Londoners don’t have time to sit down and relax because there are no benches anywhere on the main roads, nor on the nearby side streets.  I debate in my mind if it would be okay to just sit on the sidewalk up against a building.  Then, I remind myself of my attire: all sweats, full beard, shaggy hair, a trashbag full of clothes, and eating a peach.  People would start to drop coins at my feet.

As I’m sitting in the launderette, looking at my clothes spinning around the in machine, I look up on the wall to see boxes of detergent.  I realize I didn’t put any in, and it’s on the last spin cycle.  Hot water is good enough washing right?  I buy a dryer sheet to maybe make them smell better so Britt doesn’t realize it until she reads this.

We rode the underground to the East side of the city to see the Tate Modern, the London Bridge and the London Tower.  The Tate was kind of cool.  It was more Britt’s style than mine.  I just don’t understand how an artist can paint an entire  canvas brown, draw one red line down the right side of it, and be like, “Yep.  This one’s done.”  Britt said I should read the story that’s posted on the wall beside it.  I do and learn that the artist was trying to depict the creation of Adam and the red line was the Light of God.  Yeah, I’m not buying that.  Smoke another one, buddy.  I did see Water Lillies by Claude Monet and enjoyed that one.  I never realized it took up an entire wall.

We left the Tate shortly after in search of the London Bridge.  Checking the map, we see that if we walk along the Thames, it should be the second bridge we come to.  When we get to it, it looks just like any old bridge you’d see in America.  I was expecting the one you always see in the pictures with the large towers and cables coming down.  We read on a plaque near that bridge that this is not the original London Bridge that was made by the Romans, but a remake.  Apparently, the one I was thinking of is the Tower Bridge.  We saw that after a couple more miles.

It’s getting around noon and I’m getting eager to get up to Arsenal for the match against Liverpool at 12:45.  We weren’t able to get tickets, but I at least want to watch it in a pub near the stadium.  On the way, there were red Arsenal jerseys everywhere on the train.  When we get out into the street from the underground, a massive sea of red was coming from our left and going right.  I almost mistook it for another London riot.  It was 12:40 and these guys were heading to the stadium just down the road.  We learn that instead of tailgating, these blokes stay in the pub as long as possible until gametime to avoid outrageous prices of beer at the match.  Brilliant.

Britt and I walk in the opposite direction of the crowd in search of the pubs they just left.  We get to the Arsenal Tavern situated at a crossroads to find it full of Arsenal jerseys, all six TVs turned to the game, and not an empty chair in sight.  Luckily, some people get up to move leaving one chair free.  I give Britt the chair, and I stand at the bar.  It was a good match, but Liverpool won off an own-goal.  The guy that it hit off of was playing in his first ever Premier League match. Sounds like a bad day.

After the game, we had wanted to go to the village of Thaxted outside the city to look for records of Loomis.  I had done some research earlier this year to find that they had resided there under the name Lummys from at least the 1300’s before moving to Connecticut.  However, we had missed the bus going  out there, and didn’t know any other way.

There were still a couple of things we wanted to do in London before leaving tomorrow for Holland.  First, we took the underground to King’s Cross station to get a picture of us going through the barrier of platforms 9 and 10, like Harry Potter.  I was disappointed to find they made an actual photo set complete with a trolley halfway through a wall and a sign saying “Platform 9 3/4.”  Britt got that one and I went down to the actual train platform to get mine.

Next, we took the subway to Abbey Road to get that shot.  We weren’t quite sure where the actual intersection was until we saw around fifty people standing at a crosswalk, cameras at the ready.  It was a madhouse.  First of all, there was fairly heavy traffic that didn’t stop at the walk.  Also, you had at least ten groups of people trying to cross with their  photographer out in the middle of the street to get the shot when there wasn’t cars.  Britt’s camera about died waiting to get a chance, but we got it.

We took a train back towards our hostel for dinner and an internet cafe to book tickets and a hostel for Amsterdam the following day.  We were in bed at around eleven.  Britt pointed out that we were the  only ones in bed in our dorm of 8 people, and it was a Saturday in London.  We felt pretty lame, but we needed to wake up at 6:30am to make our train to the coast.  Save money, get in shape.

Our friend at the zoo

We caught a bus at 7:30AM after getting dropped off by Gav at the stop. We owe him a lot after taking us in, and we expect to return the favor when he starts travelling. We had decided the night before to take the bus because it was cheaper, but we regret it. We were going on three hours of sleep, and the seats were impossible to sleep in. Not to mention, the co-driver kept shouting back to some girls near us trying to flirt with them.

Arriving in London, we purchased Oyster Passes, which are good for any form of travel made within the city. We were walking like turtles through the rat race of people to get through to the underground trains. I told Brittany I can’t imagine living like this everyday. The trains show up every 2-3 minutes but still they choose to cram themselves into one train rather than wait and stand comfortably.

We drop our packs off at the hostel and set out to explore. Deciding on Big Ben as our first stop, we stepped out into the sunlight from the subway to see the massive and elaborate building of Parliament. I’m looking around for the clock when Britt taps me on the shoulder and points directly behind us. We were standing right in the shadow of it. My favorite movies when I was a kid were always Peter Pan and Hook, and I always expected to see someone flying up there on the minute hand when I saw it in person. Feeling a little disappointed, we walked around the back of it to Westminster Abbey.

On our way, it struck five o’clock, and those great deep bells rang out for the city to hear. It was then that I realized how my mind’s image and the actual London differed. My favorite author is Charles Dickens, and every year since I was eleven and was required to read it for my 6th grade English class, I have read A Christmas Carol around Christmas time. I had always imagined seeing horse-drawn carriages getting pulled down snowy lanes, and everyone wearing top hats and long coats. Big Ben would have been the way for the whole city to tell time, and not be just another monument.

The Abbey probably wouldn’t charge £16 just to look around at that time either. We skipped the Abbey and headed to the Westminster Cathedral instead. It was around 5:30pm when we walked in. Britt has been wanting to go up into the Cathedral’s tower since it’s free and supposedly a lot better than paying £20 to go up into the London Eye, the city’s souped up ferris wheel.

When I walked in, I notice the giant cathedral is silent dispite there being a huge amount of people in it. I found this strange as I walked ahead of Britt a little bit to look around. I head a slightly loud and echoing, “Ah man!” from behind me. She had just read a sign saying the tower is closed at 5pm. At that very moment, a wise and soothing voice comes over the loudspeaker and begins a prayer. We both face each other looking startled and shocked, and then turn to face the front of the Cathedral. Seeing a priest standing at the altar in a green robe, we realize we had just walked into the Friday night Mass. I consoled Britt in her embarrassment by telling her it kind of sounded like she said, “Amen.”

We sat through our first Catholic service, and took Communion whether we were allowed to or not. When the congregation said something in unison in response to  the priest’s liturgy, we say silently and listened.

The message was about the greatest commandment according to Jesus when asked by the Pharisees, “The first of all the commandments is: Hear O Israel , the LORD our God, the LORD is one. And you shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. This is the first commandment. And the second, like it, is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.” (Matthew 12:29-31)            

Gav had to go into work around noon, so that left Britt and I to explore Liverpool. We didn’t really know many places that we wanted to see except for something Beatles related.

We explored the Albert Docks, near his apartment, where there are a couple of museums. But like every museum we’ve been in so far, they turned out to be a waste of our time. The official Beatles museum is there, but after noticing it charged 12 euros a piece, we decided against it. We did look at a map of Liverpool in their entrance hall that turned out to be helpful. The map pinpointed relevant Beatles sites around the city, i.e. John’s childhood home, where they played their first gig together, Penny Lane, etc.

I made a deal with my dad before we left that neither of us would get haircuts or shave until we get back. However, in my defense, my hair was far longer than his to start with, and the old man could use a little more hair up top anyway. I reason that I’ll still grow the beard and that will be enough.

So where do you get a haircut in this town? On Penny Lane, where “There’s a barber on the corner showing photographs of every head he’s had the pleasure to have known,” of course. Finding it on the map, we see it’s nearly on the other side of the city. Walk it? You bet your sweet bippy we are. “Save money, get in shape,” has been our motto since May to help us get ready for the bike trip.

Starting out, we see a huge cathedral in the distance, and since it’s on our way, we decide to check it out. It’s the Liverpool Cathedral, and it’s enormous. Walking in, on the far back wall of the sanctuary I see in pink, neon, cursive, letters, “I felt you, and I knew you loved me.” A little unorthodox, but okay. It just seems out of place in this grand cathedral with these huge, one hundred feet high ceilings. Straight ahead of us is an elaborate cruciform and image of the last supper that extends to the ceiling. I look to my right to see a Baptistry in an alcove off the main sanctuary.

Then I look left. There’s a large sign above a restaurant-like area that reads, “Food, Coffee, Bar.” I’m appalled and a little disgusted. I felt like fashioning a whip of cords and going to town. So what happens here? The people get done listening to a sermon, then stop in to the pub to watch the match without having to leave the same building? This sounds hypocritical, I know, because I drink and am also a Christian. But come on, in the same building?

We leave and start walking again, and Gav joins up with us to walk as well. We passed through the areas that the riots were happening in Liverpool about a week ago. There’s still remnants of vandalism and burnt plastic from trashcans on the roads. That area is the more impoverish side of town. Gav tells us that it’s mainly descendants of Irish-born farmers that migrated to the area. He says many of them are uneducated and start having babies at sixteen. Most children are raised by single parents. I suppose I would be pretty ticked off too if that were my situation.

We passed another old church on the way. This one is much smaller than the cathedral. Instead of stainglass, there’s plywood boards. There’s also a sign over the door leading into the sanctuary, “Buy/Sell Used Furniture.” What in the world is going on? In Glasgow on our first night, I saw three For Sale signs outside another church, and also one that had been bought and turned into student housing. I know their just buildings, but I pray people aren’t losing faith.

We reached Penny Lane after about an hour and searched for the fabled barber shop. We stop in the first one we see. It’s called “The Barber” and it’s written in the Beatles font. The barber asked me what I would like done. I never know the answer to that question; he’s the barber. Just cut my hair. Britt points at a Beatles poster on the wall and suggests I pick one of them. Okay then, give me Paul.

A couple minutes into the cut, he tells me he just opened the shop last year, and when they wrote the song, there wasn’t a barber shop on Penny Lane. What a gip. I did get a cheap haircut out of it though. He took my picture when I was done so that he could carry out the next lyric of the song.

That night, Gav has some surprises for us. He made reservations for a swanky rooftop restaurant for happy hour. We didn’t know it would be fancy, so we’re dressed in our jeans and t-shirts. Not that it would make a difference if we did know; that’s all we packed. Britt is afraid of heights and won’t look out the window, but I’m loving the views. After a little while, Keerthi arrives with two of her girl friends. They’re all adorning nice dresses and jewelry. We look like a couple of shmucks but don’t mind at all.

We went to a nice Thai restaurant after we meet up with Ipcus. Gav has a surprise for Brittany, and orders a large plate of fruit with her name written in whip cream. The waitress sets it in front of Gav and Brittany. Britt is about to take a picture of it when Ipcus, sitting on the other side of the table doesn’t see that it says her name, nor does he think it’s a surprise. Fast as lightening, he reaches across the table, grabs up a strawberry, and buries it in the B of her name. It’s in his mouth before any of us can stop him. I’m dying laughing, Britt is getting there too, and Gav looks like he just went into shock.

The next day, Gav leaves his place early so that he and Ipcus can go rent a car for today’s adventure. Britt and I checked prices on transportation and accomodations for our trip to London tomorrow. At 2PM we are headed to Chester, just outside Liverpool, with Gav, Ipcus, and Keerthi to go to a zoo. Britt and I are not excited in the least, but feel somewhat obligated to go since we’re getting free housing for a couple of days and don’t want to let anyone down.

It turned out to be a lot of fun though. I hate seeing the animals locked up. I understand sometimes when they are protecting an endangered species by bringing them in to breed, but when a lion and lioness are put into an enclosed space and are just handed a piece of raw meat by a zookeeper, then something isn’t right.

That night, Britt and I made them all dinner, and Nik showed up as well. We wanted to fix them an American dish as a thank you for being so hospitable. So, of course, we made quesadillas. They seemed to enjoy them, but said the pico de gallo was way too spicy. I’ve never heard of an Indian saying something like that, and thought it would be blasphemy to do so. Usually it’s the other way around.

After dinner, we sat around the living room and discussed the possibility of Britt and I going to India in the future. We’re all for it if we are able to save up some money again. Keerthi and Ipcus informed us about some huge cultural differences between India and America, and that we don’t know how priviledged we are. For instance, there is a ton of pressure on them from their parents for them to succeed. This sounded normal to me, until Keerthi said she wanted to study law in college, but her parents made her go into engineering. No questions asked. Then there’s the choosing of their spouse. Ipcus told us a large percentage of marriages in India are arranged, and only one out of a thousand don’t work. I guess if you are forced and pressured to make something work, you do. And you work together towards that. Everyone left shortly after, and we said our goodbyes. I would be very happy to see each of them again.

We purchased a bus pass that is good for the entire Lakes District this morning. While on the first bus, we saw some beautiful scenery, but the driver had the heat blasting. I’m wearing shorts and a raincoat and feel like I’m going to pass out.

It reminded me of the time my grandparents, aunts, and uncles came down to visit us in NC one summer. We took a trip with them to Durham for shopping. The boys in one car, the girls in the other. While there, our grandpas wanted to sit at a table in the outdoor food court while we went inside. An hour later we came out to find one of them passed out face-down on the table with the other eating lemons slices out of their lemonades like it’s his last meal before the fallout. On the drive back home, my uncles were sitting in the backseat of the van with my younger cousin sitting between them. My dad is driving and hadn’t thought ot turn the air conditioning on for the backseats. I look back to see both of them nodding off with their mouths wide open. My cousin is 8 years old, and he’s cracking up. A couple minutes go by, and one of them musters enough energy to croak, “John, can you turn the air on?”

After catching a couple buses, we arrive in the Lakes. It’s like the setting of all the fairytales I’ve ever heard just came to life before my eyes. We’re told that a lot of them were actually written here. The weather is rainy, and the clouds cover the tops of the mountains, but it’s still awesome.

Britt has a hankering to go to Grasmere, the birthplace of gingerbread. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat gingerbread or build a structure with it, but I’m willing. William Wordsworth lived here for a while and Grasmere is “The lovliest spot man hath ever known,” according to him. He taught there for a while and is buried in the chuch’s graveyard. I haven’t read anything by him except for that quote, and I’m still not sure who he is, but at least I know where he is now.

We sit down at a cafe’s outdoor seating. There’s huge umbrellas over each table to keep us out of the rain. We each order a bowl of potato and leek soup with a piece of bread. I haven’t eaten anything more satisfying. The weather was a little chilly now with the rain, but the soup hit the spot. Eager to eat more things here, I order some tea and a scone with raspberry and vanilla jam with whip cream. I wasn’t disappointed in the least. Brittany is at a loss as to how I’m not obese.

A couple of ladies walking by had a weimaraner. It reminded us of my dog, Jack, and I wanted to go pet him, but decided against it. We realized that every weim we’ve ever seen is almost half the size of Jack. Big boy.

We walked along a river path after lunch and saw some good views of the mountains. Then we went into a small shop that is the birthplace of gingerbread. It was surprisingly very good.

Deciding the weather wasn’t nice enough to hike or camp, we go on a whim and get train tickets to Liverpool. I called Gav beforehand to see if we could stay with him. He gladly accepts, and says he will be at the station to pick us up as well. Gav shows us a few things in the city before taking us to his relaly nice apartment overlooking the waterway. We then went to an Indian restaurant with a couple of the guys we met in Glasgow. I didn’t have a clue what we were eating again, but I was able to name everything on the table when we were done.

We took a cab over to Ipcus’ girlfriend’s, Keerthi, house to hang out. Britt and I taught them some American card games, which they were very excited about. Apparently they actually study in college as opposed to us Americans that use our inginuity and creativity to come up with ways to drink a beer while playing a game.  

We awoke this morning around 9AM to a blue sky and the sun shining. It’s becoming more frequent that I wake up and have to remind myself where I am. My dreams are still set back in the states, so that’s my first thought when I wake. We stayed up pretty late the night before finishing up laundry and posting a couple blogs. A couple Dutch girls made an apple pie from scratch in the hostel’s kitchen and shared it with everyone sitting around the common room. Delicious. We ate the standard hostel breakfast: toast with jam, cornflakes, and coffee. Not bad for free food.

After checking out, we had to hoof it across town to a Barclay’s bank to stock up on pounds, and then catch a bus to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival. Walking there I noticed the temperature here in perfect; around 65F and just a little cool in the evenings. We were in time to catch the bus, but didn’t take into account that everyone and their dog wanted to go to Edinburgh today as well. We weren’t able to get on because it was full, but luckily the next one left ten minutes later.

I’m writing this paragraph while sitting in a cafe next to The Elephant House, the restaurant that J. K. Rowling began Harry Potter, and hoping the same muse might help me out. This could be the beginning of “The Adventures of The Loomi Wonder Twins,” or “There and Back: A Loomis Tale.” Maybe not.

Edinburgh is absolutely insane. The weather is gorgeous, and the people are nuts. There’s a huge hill in the middle of it called The Mound where Edinburgh castle is built right into the side of it and overlooks the entire city. While walking up to the castle, we passed a tour guide giving a speech about the castle. The pointed to the two statues of Scottish Kings standing guard at the gates. I couldn’t hear who he said the first one was, but his voice got quiet and his tour leaned in, and he said, “The other statue is of the second most famous person in Scottish history. Mel Gibson.” Britt and I laughed and continued to move on down the street.

The architecture is all of very old stone, but it looks almost like black marble because age has made it look ashened. The area where the actual festival is held in on the Mound in the pedestrian section just West of the Castle. People everywhere are dressed up in costumes and performing various street art. There were break dancers, tight rope walkers, knife throwers, musicians, and skits every few yards.

We stopped in The Museum of Scotland, which caused me to take a vow to never set food in another museum until we reach The Louvre. They might have been cool when I was 8, but now they just bore me out of my skin. Speaking of, I’m pretty sure the detergent I used last night for the laundry is making me break out. The underside of both my arms is getting little itchy bumps. It could just be that I’ve been carrying a backpack longer than I have in my life. Oh well.

We did some more sightseeing and got to our bus stop with a half hour to spare to catch our bus to Carlisle, England. However, our plans were once again shot down when we found out that bus only runs on Fridays and Saturdays. We don our packs and head a few blocks to the South to the train station.

I feel like picking a destination, jumping on that train, and just going. Brittany, being the sensible and cautious one, reminds me that we’ve already paid for a room in Carlisle. We find a train on the timetable, and I notice a fact come onto the screen. Out of over 15,000 trains running through the UK, they are running at 94% efficiency. Amazing. We catch a train to Carlisle that departs not too long after our arrival in the station.

I’m starting to notice things about myself on this trip that I should change, and also working toward fixing those deficiencies. My main concern is my patience. Britt reminds me all the time to slow down when we’re walking somewhere. I find myself always rushing, and worst of all, rushing her. I need to stop and take things in. Moments only happen once. They cannot be recreated or retold in the exact same way. I also need to be more aware of the fact that our plans should be extremely flexible in terms of the logistics of it. Anything could happen that causes us to miss a train or not have a place to stay for the night. There will always be another train, there is always a place to sleep.

We’re now about to cross Hadrian’s Wall that the Romans built to keep the Saxon invaders in the North from reaching their territory on the British main island. The bright purple and deep green fields of heather are everywhere. William Wallace may have led his troop of rebels through this very one. I turn on my ipod to Bon Iver’s newest album, put it on repeat, and stare out the window into the twilight. Recipe for enlightenment. Every once in a while I saw a golf course that greenskeepers in the US would love to have. They did invent the game here after all.

After Carlisle, we would like to do some hiking in the Lakes District and maybe some camping. I almost used that word ‘plan’ again. You can plan on seeing it less frequently on here.

We arrived in Carlisle at 8:30PM and it was getting dark. We weren’t quite sure where the hostel was, but we knew the direction. We got there safe and sound, and found out we have separate and single rooms. I wanted to go to a pub to watch the Manchester City/Swansea match. I debated earlier, when passing a bookie’s, on placing a £10 bet that Man City would win 4-0. I would have won £110.

We walked into a pub right down the street, The Joiner’s Arms. Insider were twenty or so middle aged to elderly men standing around the TV and playing darts. The only other women besides Britt were a couple of toothless, overweight lasses with sideburns.

I walked up to the bar to order Britt and water and myself a pint. On tap I saw a Strongbow logo, and I’m always willing to try out new beers. After ordering, the old barkeep looks over his glasses and says, “Huh?” Apparently he can’t understand me, and I’m feeling likewise about him. I point to the Strongbow and he looks inquiringly again, and says, “A whole pint?” I’m starting to think this wiseguy is testing my masculinity in this bar full of hardened Englishmen and reply, “Of course!”

I bring the glasses over to the table where Britt is seated. I take a long swig from my cup and make sure the barman is looking over. I about spit it back in. It’s effing cider. I hand it to Britt and walk back up to the bar. I point back at the Strongbow label and say to the guy, “You didn’t tell me it was cider.” He replies, “I thought you knew what you were ordering.” Touche’ old timer. I order a Foster’s and head back to watch the game.

I see a pool table towards the back of the room and notice there’s only red and yellow balls with the black 8-ball. I’m wanted to gain some dignity back after that cider episode, so I walk back and ask if I can call next game. An old geezer in a Christmas sweater is sitting next to Brittany, and he encourages me to put my money on the table to call next game. I do, and then talk with a guy that’s playing about the Lakes District. He tells me some places I should check out, and asks if me and my sis want to go to a party down the street. I pass, but thank him anyway.

After his game, both participants leave. I’m standing there with the balls already racked and no one to play. I go ask Father Christmas if he wants to, but declines and recommends I play Alan, another oldie sitting near the pool table. Alan’s up for the challenge. He walks with a limp and uses his cue as a cane sometimes. It’s my break. Nothing falls. Alan lines up and knocks in four off the bat. I look at Britt, who has come to watch, and wonder if I’m going to get a chance to play. By the time Alan is on the 8-ball, I have all but one of my balls left on the table.

He pays for the next game and says it’s my break. I haul off and scream the cue ball into the lead ball in the rack. It glances off, takes a hop, and it’s heading right for Brittany’s kneecap. It just misses and hits the wall between her legs. She might be in the hospital now if she wasn’t a little bowlegged. I run to fetch the ball and hear laughter coming from the bartender and Santa. Alan’s holding back a smirk too as he takes the cue ball from me. This game was closer, but still he waxes me. I shake his hand and head with Britt towards the exit, eager to not show my face in here again.

We ask Sweater Man on the way out if he knew Alan was that good. He and his buddy with no teeth nod their heads in unison, and say, “Oh yeah. We knew it.” Thanks you old farts. First night in England-Dejection Accomplished.