Going home in 16 days

Before I begin with Saint Patrick’s Day Part 3, I’ve got a few other things on my mind.

I’m coming home in 16 days… I think this is the most mixed feelings I’ve ever had about anything – in fact it might redefine my view on what having mixed feelings even means.

I’m glad to be coming home. I miss my friends, my family and the familiarity of being home… I was up working on some writing a few mornings ago and actually went onto UofA’s website and watched the sunrise over the campus via their webcam. Seriously? Who does that? Well, me…

These 5 ½ months are very rapidly coming to an end… which is just so weird – in my very first post I was writing the night before leaving about how it felt like it was never going to happen – like I couldn’t possibly imagine what England was REALLY like.

It’s a place. Everywhere is just a place. But before I came over here I really expected it to be like another world. People live here, people work here – people are people here. People are still people everywhere. Big cities are big cities anywhere on the planet, which really first hit me as a belief and a knowledge in Edinburgh as I walked past a construction yard, graffiti and a traffic jam.

I’ve made friends here. It’s not the culture, the food, the fact that you can go to a pub at 11am after a big test and find your entire class in there - it’s not any of that I’m REALLY sad about leaving – it’s the friends I’ve made. THAT’S what I don’t feel ready to leave… because in all reality, I’m never going to see most of these people again.

I guess that’s all I have to say on that… I've started working on the next installment to Saint Patrick's Day but am not in the creative writing flow right now. It'll be up soon.

LONDON - Saint Patrick's Day - Day 2

The next day Dom’s other band, The Screaming Bluejays, practiced most of the day. They’re wicked good. They were practicing for a gig they had the day I was scheduled to leave for Scotland, so it was cool to hear them play. But, the Gaelic sounding named band had another gig that night as well. This time at a pub called Maddens in East Finchley (North London.) The gig wasn’t set to start until later that night but it was the last day of the Rugby Six Nations so we headed over at about two. The six nations is like the super bowl of rugby – though they also have a world cup. As Dom is a rugby player – he was stoked about it. I was too, as I’d never really gotten to watch a rugby match.

Let me just say – rugby kicks ass. They have two different types – Union and League. When we silly Americans think of the bloody rugby with biting, kicking and hair pulling without pads, what we’re thinking of is Union. (Apparently though, biting, kicking and hair pulling are all illegal.) The closest sport to union rugby I can compare it to is ice hockey. The clock starts – everybody goes. You kick ass and fight hard to score. When you score, the clock stops until everyone can make it back to the center of the pitch and the process starts all over again. It is NOTHING like American Football, except for the fact that it is played on grass and the ball is of a similar shape. Those are the only two similarities. (Rugby League is what NFL football came from.)

Though I’m sure there are just as many intricacies to rugby as there are to baseball, it was still really entertaining to watch even without knowing the strategy and statistics. We had a blast watching, yelling and cheering. Wales won the championship… I don’t remember if Dom was pleased about this because depending on his mood he tells people he is either Irish, Welsh or English… so who knows, he could have been simultaneously excited and sad. Two parts sad, one part happy? Maybe!

After looking through some of the photography I’ve done, Dom asked if I could bring my camera along and shoot some good photos of the band playing – which I was happy to do. They had quite a crowd going by the end of the set. Near the end, with my camera still around my neck I went up to the bar for a pint and a really big guy comes over and says “Hey photographer! What are you drinking?”

“Oh – thanks! I’ll have a Carlsberg,” I tell him.

“No. You’ll have a Carlsberg and a double scotch!”

“…”

Man, English people are nice.

I don’t remember what his name was – only that he was a bond trader and he apparently made a lot of money that day.

One of this guys friends saw us talking and comes over to say hi.

“Are you buying drinks for an American again?” he asks, laughing. Apparently this guy is fond of us Americans.

So, after I finish my two drinks, another round of Carlsberg and scotch is handed to me. I can see that this is very shortly going to be a disaster, but also see an opportunity.

Midsong I go tap on Dom’s shoulder. He looks up at me with the bagpipe tube still in his mouth.

“These guys are buying me drinks just because I’m American and they want to get me drunk… any drink I put down on this table is for the you guys… k?”

Dom nods. James on the fiddle has heard this as well. He grins.

I put my scotch on the table and go back to the guys who have decided I’m entertaining because of my accent.

“So where in America are you from?”

“Arizona.”

Bond-traders eyes light up.

“Like… like that song? Like that song that goes ‘I’m standing on a corner in Tucson Arizona!’ there?”

“Winslow Arizona.”

“What?” he asks.

“Standing on a corner in WINSLOW Arizona.”

“Well, is that where you’re actually from?”

“No, I’m actually from Tucson but that’s not the lyric.”

“Well if you’re from Tucson then that’s the lyrics!” he proclaims and starts singing The Eagles at the top of his lungs.

“Five double scotches!” he yells, pointing at the girl behind the bar.

“So, if you’re from Arizona, was the grand canyon like your high school hangout?”

Clearly, the bond trader doesn’t want the answer to be no to any of his questions.

“Yeah, we go there sometimes… it’s not a bad hangout.”

“Have you seen the movie Superbad?” he asks. If you’re unfamiliar, Superbad, being true to it’s name, was one of the worst movies ever. It was like American Pie mixed with Napoleon Dynamite - except with none of American Pie’s nudity and none of Napoleon Dynamite’s humor.

“Yes… I have,” I tell him, absolutely knowing where this is headed.

“Dude, you’re our McLovin!” (an arbitrary reference to the movie.)

One of his friends hears him say this and comes over and agrees.

Bond trader starts singing again. “All the way from the USA – McLovin! McLovin!”

This was probably chanted about 600 times in the next few hours. Most of them usually ended with me being handed a drink that I dropped on the table.

As Bond-Trader drank more, his focus shifted from getting ME drunk for his amusement to getting himself drunk for mine.

I was talking to Dom for a moment, and just like my cat, Bread, this guy had to do something dramatic to get my attention back.

“McLovin, look!” he shouts. Both Dom and I turn and look. Bond-Trader ripped open his button-up shirt, sending buttons flying, poured a tequila shot down his chest and lit it on fire.

“MY CHEST HAIR IS A VOLCANO!” he shouts. My jaw drops, Dom starts laughing.

“Come on guys, you should try it! McLovin, you’ve got chest hair, don’t you?”

“No. None at all.” (Oh, the beautiful art of lying.)

“That’s a shame. It’s fun!” he says.

“Did you already finish your scotch, McLovin?” Dom smirks, as he and James are in possession of the last two drinks this guy has bought me.

“Yeah man! Can’t you keep up?”

This guy easily weighed 245 pounds. I said this and he looked like I’d just kicked his puppy.

“I can’t keep up with an American… you should feel proud of yourself.”

I wandered off to the bathroom at this point. When I came back out there was a tray of 30 shots sitting on the table.

“What the hell are those?” I ask Dom.

“Sambuca – he bought them for the band… seems you both got the same idea about sharing,” Dom tells me.

I’m going to pause here to address the morality of this situation. Yes, we were kind of taking advantage of this drunk guy. HOWEVER, someone smart enough to make a successful career as a bond trader should be smart enough to know their limit – and smart enough to keep their credit card in their wallet. If they’re going to choose to drink to the point that their financial-good-judgment disappears, I’m certainly not going to step in and act as the voice of reason on their behalf. That’s what friends are for, not strangers.

Bond-trader asks Dom at some point if scotch is my favorite drink – because he wants to get me my FAVORITE drink in the world. Dom tells him a sapphire and tonic with a lime will win me over.

“I got you your FAVORITE!” he says as he hands it to me. I nod approvingly.

One of bond trader’s friends asks me at some point if I’d like to come outside with him for a smoke. I turn down the cigarette but tell him I’ll come hang out with him.

“What’s your real name again?” he asks – sounding sober – which is refreshing after talking to someone who has drunk himself into the preoperational stage for the last hour. He asks the normal questions – where do I go to school – what am I studying. I ask what he does for a living.

“It’s really boring – I work in publishing,” he says. He picks up on my excitement as I immediately ask “with who?!”

I won’t go into the details because – to most people – this WOULD be a really boring conversation, but as I’m hot to get a job with the Random House Publishing Group, I grilled him with as many dorky questions as I could imagine.

Bond trader came running outside to find us some point later.

“McLovin, I jut bought your friends a presents and I want you to have my sweater,” he says as he loosely ties the sleeves around my neck.

“Wear it as your cape, McLovin! McLovin cape – forever!”

He runs back inside.

“Does he do this often?” I ask publishing guy.

“Yes. He likes bars with Americans in them like most kids like pet stores. It’s really kind of embarrassing.”

I head back inside to find out exactly what it is that he’s bought for my friends.

I kid you not. Three $160 bottles of champagne. Dom, Miriam and Shamus each took one home.

“Hi Dave,” an attractive woman says at one point.

“Hi…” I say.

“I’m Bond-Traders fiancé… would it be too much to have his sweater back? He’ll want that for the walk home.”

I laugh and take it off and hand it to her. She goes back to her table with her friends and I sit back down with Dom. Without fail, five minutes later Bond-Trader is back with the sweater.

“I’m sorry Cindy took your cape – she’s not usually this much of a bitch – I told her it’s yours now and she shouldn’t steal. I’m sorry. Would you like another drink?” he asks, patting my head. I tell him “No thanks, I’m good” which he heard as “Yes please, I’d like another sapphire and tonic with a lime.”

I try and tell him to keep the sweater, I don’t need it but he INSISTENTLY demands that it is mine now, and he “wants nothing more to do with it.”

It’s about 3 a.m. at this point and time for us to head home.

“McLovin, next time I’m standing on a corner in Tucson Arizona – we’ll go to a bar again – and you’ll wear your cape. Okay?”

Deal.

So with a designer sweater that doesn’t fit – and three expensive bottles of Champaign – we all climb onto the night bus and head back to Doms.

Dom playing the pipes.

Dom clapping along to a Shamus solo.

Dom singing "Dirty Old Town"

Shamus on the guitar.

Shamus playing the drum that I mentioned in my previous post.

James on the fiddle.

Miriam on the flute.

Shamus and Miriam.

From left to right: Bond Trader (probably chanting "All the way form the USA"), Me, Friend of Bond Trader, and guy trying to get free drinks from Bond Trader

From Left to Right: Bond Trader, Publishing Guy, Friend of Bond Trader

LONDON - Saint Patrick's Day - Day 1

Okay – so before we get down to business, this conversation just occurred:

Sam: “Susan, you don’t have a soul.”

Susan: “That’s not very nice, Sam.”

Dave: “Yeah Sam, don’t be a dick. I’ve seen Susan’s soul before – it was that time a couple of weeks ago when she got really drunk in the kitchen, smeared peanut butter all over her door and then fell asleep in front of my bedroom door… yeah it was kind of just hanging out…”

As of yesterday at 2:17pm GMT, I am finished with my studies here at the University of East Anglia. I’m psyched to be done with the hard work part, but also glad I get three more weeks of time in the is country to relax and spend time with the friends I’ve made over here. Everyone in the dorm has different schedules for coming and going – but someone fun will be here until the day I move out. Pat is coming on June 4^th and my friend Dave from London might come spend a weekend here.

And now, ladies and gentlemen – the moment you’ve all been waiting for – stories of backpacking!

This will be divided up into many posts over the next few weeks. It will be broken up by country. Some countries will be broken into segments – some segments broken into atoms and atoms into anti-matter!

Yeah: exactly. We all know I’m not really planning that far ahead. I mean, for Gods sake, I went to France by myself and barely knew how to say, “Do you speak English?” in French.

Oh, but that story is to come! Not today, because today we start in London. We’re going all the way back to Saint Patrick’s Day.

The five days of Saint Patrick’s Day.

I will come right out and say some of the Saint Patrick’s Day celebration memories are a bit jumbled. That is not (purley) because Saint Patrick’s Day is pretty much a celebration of beer, but – well, YOU celebrate the same holiday five days in a row and see if after two months you can remember what happened when.

I headed into London on the 13^th of March for my first leg of the trip. I was staying with Dominic in London. His parents were in the Lake District on holiday. Dom and his brother Sebastian were going to be meeting them later in the week but for a few days they had the house to themselves.

The reason I was there on the 13^th was because Dom’s band (whose name I can’t remember… it’s something Gaelic) was invited to play at the American Embassies Saint Patrick’s Day celebration in London. Dom being the class act of a fellow he is invited me to join. It was wicked cool – the embassy on Bond Street is a no kidding around military complex. That shouldn’t have surprised me but I’ve never been in an embassy before and I’d never actually thought about it. Metal detectors, bomb sniffers, rubbing us with tissues and putting the tissues in machines to see if there were drugs on our persons – it was intense. That had to put all of the instruments through the airport style x-ray machines and being just as shy as I am, Dom asked the guy running the machine if he could come look at the screen and see what bagpipes look like on the inside. The guy was very nice and let us. (Usually the band isn’t too much of a threat.)

Lots of hot shit people were there. I’m not quite enough of a politics dork to identify senators just by looking at them but I’m assuming the guys who were sipping their cocktails with armed Marines standing behind them giving passers-by the evil eye were pretty important. I went into the rest room at one point and heard this bit of conversation occur while I peed.

“Hey Jim, I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Yup. Kinda tired. I was in The War Room at 8 this morning and now I’m here.”

He was wearing a badge that had his name on it but I didn’t want to try and peek at it for fear of him thinking I was peeking at something else, and then going to find one of his Marine friends.

Dom’s band consists of him on bagpipes, James (who is 19 like Dom) on fiddle, Shameus (James’s dad) on guitar/drums/anything that needs to be played, and Miriam (16) on flute. I got to help set up and do sound check. Unfortunately, a bunch of jet lagged senators, cabinet members and diplomats boozing on foreign soil don’t make a very good crowd for anything – especially a band. There was a bit of dancing near the end, and I’m PRETTY SURE I saw Michael Chertoff dancing to “Sexy Back.” (No, I’m not calling his secretary to see if he was present. That would make this journalism – which it’s not. J)

Another invite to the celebration was a group of Irish step dancers who came and preformed after the band was done playing. They of course did the running out into the audience and conscripting unwilling diplomats to come dance with them on stage which was greatly amusing. The whole evening was good fun. I have very limited pictures because I did not have camera clearance. I’ve got a few pictures from some people who did, which I’ll post below.

This really shouldn’t have made me as excited as it did, but they had Sam Adams at the embassy bar. Nothing sooths the homesickness like the sweet nectar of home! They didn’t have the Octoberfest brew (ya know… cause it was March) but they had the Boston Lager and the Winter Lager which was more than I could have asked for. I was stoked. Not only was I stoked, but I later found out that the man who served me my Sam Adams was the head of security for the entire embassy. Apparently when you do too good of a job making sure nothing bad happens – you get to bartend until something hits the fan.

Dom had far more beer than I did on night-one of Saint Patrick’s Day. We’ve never actually discussed this system but I’ve noticed that we both gauge our intake levels on how much the other is drinking – so there’s always one of us in good enough shape to keep an eye on the other and make sure everyone gets home without incident. Granted, this might not have been very smart on Dom’s part because not only did I have no idea where we WERE but also I couldn’t have found my way home if my life depended on it and I had a GPS in my hand… well maybe that’s not true, but it was my first time in Central London for sure.

I’m not sure the relation, but at one point someone’s little cousin named Natasha, who was 12, came over to our table and started talking to us. At 12 years old, this little girl was wearing a shirt that said “All the cute boys are gay.” Who lets a 12 year old wear that? Honestly!

Anyway, this little hellian at one point steals Dom’s can of cider, runs away and then comes back about 10 minutes later.

“What did you do to my cider?” asks Dom.

“You won’t drink it if I tell you,” she says.

“I promise you if you tell me what you did to it, I’ll down it in one gulp.”

You’re kidding, right?

“I filled it with toilet water,” says Natasha.

Dom looks sad.

“Don’t be a moron,” I say.

Occasionally Dom says realllly dumb things when he’s drunk that everyone remembers and repeats over and over until it stops being funny. So far, none of them have stopped being funny. Okay, take it from the tops!

“I filled it with toilet water,” says Natasha.

Dom looks sad.

“Don’t be a moron,” I say.

“No! No! You know what Dave? I – I am a – a man of my word! I’m a man of my word! I’m a man of word and I promised Tash that if – I promised that she would…” and DOWN the hatch it went.

The only thing I could do was shake my head and laugh hysterically.

“You’re going to get Hepatitis-C, Dom.”

“What’s that?”

I’ll spare all of you out there who are legitimately worrying about the outcome of this incredibly bad judgment. Natasha found out that Dom was really, really worried he was going to die and later told him that she had actually filled it with water from the sink.

Personally, I still would go get a Hep-C test… but personally, I also wouldn’t drink a cider can filled with toilet water… but that’s just me… and me? I’m a man – I’m a man of my word!

Anyway, we left the American Embassy shortly after this. Dom and Shameus were pretty toasted, so I followed closely behind James, as it was his house I was to spend the night at. (Apparently Dom’s parents hadn’t left for the lake district yet.)

At some point, Shamus gave Dom a drum. It was a hand held drum that you play standing up and bang on it with a small stick. I don’t remember the name of it but you get the picture. It was a drum. James and I are sitting on a bench in the tube station talking to each other when Dominic runs off with the drum. Dom’s a big boy, he can handle finding his own way home if indeed he’s run off somewhere. But he hasn’t.

No, because a moment later James and I hear a loud voice boom from across the tube station.

“Who wants to see me take it out and give it a good whacking?!”

Dominic is standing there with his hand in the drum bag, threatening to take out the drum stick. Granted, his drunken mannerisms made it clear that this was an intended sexual innuendo and he wasn’t about to flash someone – but it was late and the tube station was crowded…

“Pretend we’re not with him,” James says.

“Yes. He does this all the time,” he tells me.

“Really?” I ask.

“WHO WANTS TO SEE?!?!?”

“Okay…” I say, chuckling.

James and I watch Dom go harass poor sober people in the tube station as Shamus actually HAS taken the drumstick out and is giving it a good whacking. Unfortunately, because both James and I wanted to see it happen – Dom did not get arrested – or even scolded. So, other than Dom making more noise than normal, we got back to James’s house safely.

Dom told me ahead of time that “English people” don’t use heaters like us Americans. They ask if I want a blanket before I go to sleep on the couch – I take one and everyone looks at me funny.

“Okay, well, you know where they are if you need more in the night…”

I woke up a few hours later and in the darkness could see nothing except a long trail of my breath coming out with every exhale. Yeah, they sure as hell DON’T use heaters like we do – and by that they mean they don’t use them AT ALL.

Dom and I at the American Embassy.

Backpacking Adventures Starting May 25th

Hi Everyone.

Maggie and Marja just got here - so obviously I'm keeping this brief. They're leaving on the 21st, I've got my last final on the 23rd and then some alone time in Norwich until June 8th. The first installment of my backpacking adventures will be posted May 25th!!! Probably nothing substantial until then.

-Dave

Popes, Presidents and Shakespeare

These past few days have been very interesting. I finished my Shakespeare final, Hillary Clinton’s lead campaign strategist told the press that Hillary has 3 testicles – and the pope announced yesterday that believing in aliens is no longer a sin.

::head spins around::

WHAT?

That’s right readers of The Weekly Brit. The pope – Pope Benny Sixteen – Joseph Alois Ratzinger – announced that believing in aliens is NO LONGER A SIN.

I read this on a message board and checked some credible news sources and found its true. I ran out of my room and into the kitchen to tell someone and had a Freudian slip the way only someone from Arizona can. With 100% sincerity, I said,

“THE POPE JUST SAID IT IS NO LONGER A SIN TO BELIEVE IN ILLEGAL ALIENS!!!”

That was when everyone just kind of stared at me…

“I mean – aliens – like from outer space… not Mexico…”

Meanwhile, Hillary Clinton’s lead campaign strategist in fact DID tell the press that Hillary has 3 testicles. I did not make that up. Remember James Carville, the guy that looks like a greyhound who used to host CNN’s Crossfire with that little dweeb who wore a bow tie all the time? Carville has been the lead campaign strategist for both Bill and Hillary’s campaign. As Hillary’s campaign is slipping away for reasons I’ll let those “political bloggers” tell you about – they’re pulling the gender card back out. Actually – I think calling it the gender card would be a misnomer, because really they’ve pulled out the genital card. Here’s the quote from her LEAD CAMPAIGN STRATEGIST.

“Hillary is the tougher of the two, the candidate you want on your side in a knife fight. If Hillary gave Obama one of her cajones – they’d both have two!”

It seems that the campaign for the knife wielding tri-balled candidate from New York is nearly over as she has lost her lead in every race possible as Obama has scored two key endorsements. John Edwards and James Carville – yeah – the guy who made the testicle comment came out and (got himself fired) by endorsing Obama.

Lastly, I survived my Shakespeare final. I’ll find out my score at the end of July.

If anyone is unfamiliar with the show crossfire and would like to see an excellent clip form it, the link is below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFQFB5YpDZE

Sonnet Movements

From now until May 14^th – it’s Shakespeare study study study time, and dammit, by the end of it I will poop a sonnet!

Other than the work I've done reading the plays I needed to throughout the semester (key word being needed), I’ve basically started preparing today. I’ve also been informed by Sam that finals don’t really work the same way here as they do in the states. This is how I described finals in the states – and if the ENTIRE country is an over generalization, at least the departments of humanities and journalism at the UofA.

It’s like a drivers test. You get in the car, you drive, don’t hit any pedestrians and keep the car on all 4 wheels the entire time – you pass. Finals basically require you to prove that you read the assigned reading and understood it. Multiple-choice tests are common, as are essay tests. You will score highly on both of them if you can repeat as much information from lectures and text as possible. Secondary reading lists are sometimes issued in classes, under the pretenses that if you actually do secondary reading you’re a huge dork – even by English major standards.

Over here – apparently – they don’t want you to repeat anything you learned in the class – and you’re even encouraged not to. Instead, going back to the drivers test analogy, you get into the car and show the person proctoring the test the different types of fabric that can be found making up the seat he’s sitting on. Discussing the history of the windshield wiper is a plus, as is jump-starting the car with nothing but a Swiss army knife. Do that – you pass on the assumption that if you learned all of that, you probably took the time to learn to drive as well. You’re suppose to go out and do a whole lot of secondary reading – and on your essay final (multiple-choice tests do not exist here) you’re suppose to talk in great length about all of the things you DIDN’T learn in the class – that you later taught yourself… If you can do that, you pass – and they just assume you did your homework too.

Faaaaaantastic…

Sam asked how many books I take out of the library a semester. I thought for a minute and told him that I could only remember taking roughly five books out of the library in my entire college career – a few for that damn archeology class I dragged myself through freshmen year, one for my British poetry class, and one for research I was independently doing for a short story I’ve been working on.

Sam started laughing. In fact, he might still be.

I tried to defend our education system by saying “Yeah but we have to buy a ton of books…” which flew like a chicken. Apparently they do too – though I only ended up buying 2 this semester.

Anyway, with all of that said – I’ve been diligently preparing for this foreign style of exam that I have on Wednesday by fine tuning the roster of my first-place fantasy baseball team, and reading articles on Wikipedia about how to cool my God damn room down without going out and buying an air conditioner… as much as I love the view I have I’m facing east-north, so, the sun starts shining directly on my window at around 10 and doesn’t relent until about 6 or 7.

The interior decorator UEA hired to paint my door purple and put in pink and black curtains (I wish I were kidding) in front of my window had the brilliant idea of putting up the heaviest pink and black fabric possible. You could fry an egg on these monstrosities. I’ve had my windows and door open all day, fan blowing full blast – but thanks to Wikipedia I’m also wearing my “Jesus Hates the Yankees” shirt soaked in ice water. “When you can’t cool the room – cool yourself,” Wikipedia says. To hell with dripping all over the purple carpet, it’s hot in here! And, it makes my feet feel nice and refreshed whenever I walk through one of the many puddles that are everywhere!

I actually have been studying – too… in fact writing a blog post is the study break I promised myself when I started working this morning – but writing about studying is just about as exciting as doing it, so I’m sparing all of us.

I’ve spent the past week in Italy with Mom, her childhood friend Karen, and her husband, John. It was wonderful. I will put up pictures at a later time but it was really gorgeous. Karen and John are renting a house in a town called Montisi, population 300, outside the city of Sienna. It was the least touristy place I’ve seen since coming to Europe – less so even than Norwich. It was literally in the Tuscan country side, the house was surrounded by sheep farms, vineyards and mountains. We went on a hike of some different part every day, exploring Montisi, Sienna, Sinalunga and Trequanda. We ate gelato, drank wine and did all of those Italian things that we silly Americans (correctly) associate with Italy. It was great.

Unfortunately, hiking and eating gelato doesn’t lead to great blog post stories… so I’ll leave the Italy story at that for now, but maybe I’ll think of more to add when I start working on my backpacking adventure stories. On that note, Dave's backpacking adventure will start being written/posted on May 24^th. I have from the May 24^th-June 8^th with no classes, no finals, and no visitors so I’ll have plenty of time to work on those… AND stay up until 4am every morning watching major league baseball online. (What the hell else am I going to do? Explore Norwich? Well, actually... yes that'd be a better use of my time abroad...)

You will not believe how many pictures there are to come… it’s an intimating task and the intimidation is the entire reason I haven’t started yet. Thanks for reading – I’ll post again soon.