Whew. It is a testament to my organic diet and exercise regiment that I am still alive after the past week.
I declined the part of Motel 6 but still played Expedia.com, tour guide extraordinaire, Suzy Homemaker, Chef-ola, mommy, yente, transportation database, sex kitten, fashion maven, TimeOut spokeswoman, et al.
I was at the gym more than I was at the library the past week, and if you’re surprised then you don’t know me very well. I guess it was worth it (?)
I gave up cake for Lent. With the copious amounts of dark chocolate eaten around this flat, I decided not forego my old confectionary standby but instead narrow it down to a very specific subset of sweets, postgrad style.
Keeping with the theme of “dissertation,” here’s my attempt to wax philosophical on life and its structure and theoretical framework and all that jazz: no matter how many romantic comedies or Disney movies or Golden Hollywood epics one has been exposed to, we all know that the fairy tale does not actually exist. The most anyone can hope for is peace. And even the very blessed see little of that.
But there are moments, too rare and scrumptious to dare to fathom, that can sometimes befall you. They are to be cherished, captured and put in shiny orbs, shelved and polished and admired every six months or so, or when things start to go horribly wrong. These are the moments you are certain that a higher power loves you.
Sometimes the fairy tale creates itself around you. And it’s got the lifespan of a firework. You can barely take a photo of it for it’s so gut-wrenchingly short, so be smart enough walking into it to play the hero, not the villain. And for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t play the fool.
Once you choose the latter at the critical moment, beautiful things die around you. Flowers wilt. Clouds cover the sun. Doves weep at such stupidity. Tea goes cold.
Like any good saga, time feels as though it’s folded on itself. Worlds have collided. Locations loaded with symbolic meaning swirl thickly with expectations of fresh data and make room for new shiny orbs to reign beside the old ones.
Then, a work so close to having a monumental chapter written is suddenly cut short. The ending is perfunctory, not tragic, because at the end the players decided it didn’t even deserve one. It’s a shame when the leading lady shows up to meet Henry IV and gets Falstaff instead.
But at the end of it, pick up your bags and don’t look back. Purposefully exit stage left, hold your own, know your name, and go your own way. Regret nothing if your intentions were pure as you pursued the ever-elusive green light.
I got on that coach to Scotland Sunday night and realized I hadn’t eaten anything in three days. I also hadn’t achieved a decent rest in about a week. My face felt like it was on fire. A well-deserved cookie and some vitamin water quelled the flames, and I managed to pause the repeating montage in my head long enough to grab some deep breaths and find rest on the 9-hour journey.
gardens off Princes St.
Hello Edinburgh! It was cold and the sun never could really decide if it wanted to welcome us or not, but Gemma and I certainly made the most of our trip.
Scott Monument
We walked everywhere in the stunning, accessible city. Even our hostel wasn’t so bad, save for the gross doily they shrugged over our window.
I think I only heard about three Scottish accents in the whole two days. The managers of our hostel were Australian, most of the tourists sounded American, the one chatty bartender hailed from Canada, and the ingratiating bloke who chatted us up at Whistle Binky’s open mic night was Irish.
Scottish pub!
It was nice to be a traveller in an antique land again. I will never shy from the chance to hike through lush rolling hills, explore castles, or visit yet another cathedral.
St. Giles Cathedral
looking toward the Old Town
I love pouring over maps with Italian coffee and a panini (two things which, I’ve found, can be enjoyed at cheap prices in any city).
life source
As we drank in the vista of the Old Town from the side of the New Town, I was reminded of Heidelberg. Maybe it was because of the weather, or the architecture, or because I’d just gotten off a crowded coach. I was truly grateful for my digital camera. Documentation has been much easier since Christmas.
After basically a week out of my flat, I was ready to return to my little room in Willow House. I’d skipped class like a champion, done no homework, and neglected to call my family for days on end. Generally, I behaved like a typical 21-year-old, which is odd for me. I like when my rebel edge comes through though. So of course, on the way back as punishment, our coach had no heat. And it started to snow on the way out of Edinburgh. NINE HOURS in a plastic igloo. Hooray!
Exhaustion consumed me the minute I saw my bed.
the comfy side of the room
It was more than the travel at play. When you live for two decades feeling relatively few emotions, finding them can be…frightening. In the past week I sprinted the gamut… and I think I felt every degree of every single emotion that has ever been felt by a human being on this earth. The friction of such a frenzy was too much, and those pesky little feelings lit themselves on fire and burned to ashes. 
The verdict is still out on whether a phoenix shall rise any time in the near future.
Two presentations, two papers, two more visitors, a concert, and a partridge in a pear tree are going to be enough to distract me for the next month. I do my best work when I check my right-brained self at the door.
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” ~Alfred Hitchcock
I’m speechless…