A passport to adventure!

 It's Christmas y'all!  My favourite time of year and a good time to be at home. Unfortunatley as it is, my brother was unable to make it home this year and he is staying in Ireland. In lieu of any material gift I could give him (I wouldn't have the money for any, anyway) I have decided to reminisce on a most excellent time I had with Dayleigh one fortuitous day. I promised him before that I would write an entry of this nature so really it is a lame excuse for a gift. But whatever.

  On February 26th in the year 2011 at 1:36 p.m. I was to be found pacing impatiently about the arrivals area of  Heathrow Terminal 5 wearing a long winter coat and carrying a plastic bag at my side. I was awaiting my brother Dayleigh who had an eight hour flight from Vancouver, and after landing would have five hours till his next flight to Dublin. I had not seen my brother, nor any of my immediate family members for ten months, and I had built up anticipation of this brief reunion by singing "Mon frere viens demain-demain, mon frere viens demain!" half the previous day. A television screen behind me indicated whether planes were landed or still in the air and reminded attendees that they may have to wait up to half an hour for those with baggage to make it through security. Seeing as how Dayleigh's baggage was going straight on I was not prepared to have to wait an hour after his flight touched down with no knowledge of what was happening; my excitement by degrees transformed into angst. He later told me that someone had forgotten to send the exit stair bridge thing to the plane and that had caused a huge delay. At the time though I didn't dare ask anyone if they were also waiting for anyone from the same flight but instead fretted over the possibility that Dayleigh had been knocked out cold and tucked away in a toilet stall before boarding by a Jack Bauer-esque type agent who needed his identity to save the passengers of the flight from certain doom. (Obviously if that were the case it would be a cause for celebration- but I wanted to see my brother). At last he came sauntering along, duffle bag in hand, looking as though he had been having the time of his life shut up in landed plane full of disgruntled passengers for forty five minutes. My eyes burning with tears of relief, I ducked under the barrier and ran to hug him, making sure everyone could see how dramatic I was. Feeling that this was a thoroughly satisfactory climax to the drama I relaxed and we made our way to a nearby café. For an hour or so we chatted, laughed, caught up on the latest goss, exchanged notes and so forth, whilst slurping iced teas and munching granola yoghurt cups. At one point he asked me to compare his visa photo to his passport photo saying that one looked “like a bad ass criminal” and the other “ the straight laced cop pursuing him”. I laughed at this. I gave him the box in the plastic bag which contained a tea pot/ tea cup combo, but he did not have room for it in his bag so we agreed that I should keep it for the time being. After an hour or so Dayleigh thought it best to head to Terminal 1 long before he had to check in. Looking back I see that in the subsequent chaos which occurred as a result of a mishap yet to reveal itself to us this was our first point of fortuity: that Dayleigh decided to head to his gate early just in case. Our second point of fortuity is that I insisted on escorting him so I could impress him with my aloof comprehension of the London Underground. So we set off through the terminal together, towards the trains and towards unforeseen complications. Arriving at the trains it appeared we had the option of taking the Heathrow Express, but being unfamiliar with this luxurious looking locomotive I chose to buy Dayleigh a one way ticket on the Tube. We arrived at Terminals 1,2,&3 ten minutes later and made our way to a long corridor with a moving ramp. Not troubling ourselves to move we let the ramp ferry us idly along until Dayleigh had a brilliant idea. He put his butt against the wall of the walkway so that as we progressed it suddenly swung outwards mooning any would be traveller’s of the empty hallway behind us. I laughed and followed suit and thus we entertained ourselves for the remainder of the journey; it was a good two minutes at least. Finally, we reached the entrance to Terminal 1 and as we walked towards it, it was just dawning on me how enjoyable our visit had been. Oh what a fool I was to assume that the wily fates of Heathrow were done with us! In that same moment Dayleigh dropped suddenly to his knees and started searching cautiously, then frantically through his duffle bag. I expected him to recover whatever trinket he sought at any second when looking up at me he said “ I can’t find my passport!”. Indeed after several more moments of frantically searching his bag and the tea pot box the passport was not retrieved so we retreated to the ramp moving in the opposite direction and formulated what I now consider the most idiotic of plans. Dayleigh was to continue turning his bag inside out in desperate hope, letting the ramp transport him, while I was to run back to the café in Terminal 5 where we guessed the passport actually was. There was no pause to consider how we would find one another in the event that the passport was found. To clinch the sheer ridiculousness of this scheme, before parting ways with Dayleigh I tossed him my wallet from which I had extracted the debit card for my own keeping . Making my way down the ramp I observed that the previously empty corridor now featured a handful of people pushing about luggage and prams. Worthy obstacles to my mission. Dodging swiftly through this bunch I ran down the hall where a large sign indicated the direction to the trains but realized too late that this area of this building had transformed itself into a twisted labyrinth of hallways and staircases. Somehow I had bypassed the trains and found myself in a hallway leading to Terminal 3. *Backtracking I took a random door and fell into a room lined with staircases, the likes of Escher’s imagination. Disoriented I stumbled about until I came upon another door and exiting there entered a dimly lit hallway. Down the hallway was a door above which swung a battered wooden sign reading “LOST PROPERTY”. A gust of wind came hurtling through the hallway whirling leaves and causing the lights to flicker. Inside the lost properties office there was an old Indian man sitting calmly behind a desk, unperturbed by my appearance. “ It’s not here” he informed me gravely. “ A young man has already been here to check on that.” ( He may have said these things after I enquired about the passport-but who can be expected to recall such details?). “When something is lost, it is always best to retrace one’s steps.” he said winking at me. Yeah. Great. Thanks. I ran back to the staircase room, up a flight and opening a door ran smack into Dayleigh. Thankgod. “Here’s your wallet.” he said grumpily tossing it back to me. “It only has £2 in it. I didn’t find the passport.”

  When we found the train area we had the choice once again of taking the Heathrow Express which Dayleigh informed me provided free transportation between the terminals. There was however an eleven minute wait till the next train so we went down once again to the Underground and I purchased Dayleigh a two way ticket to Terminal 5. During the thirteen minutes which we waited for that train our lack of control over the circumstances gave way to anxiety. “I can't believe this. I'm such and idiot” Dayleigh spitted. “The first thing I do travelling is lose my passport. It was just sitting in my pocket. And I took it out to show you that stupid photo comparison and then what?- just oops!” He made a motion as though he had thrown the passport over his shoulder and I laughed in spite of the situation. “Dayleigh you shouldn't be so hard on yourself!” I said putting my hand on his shoulder. “You know my first day in London, I was so tired from air plane travel and jet lag that I left my backpack on the train. Eventually we recovered it cause no one wanted to touch a solitary backpack on public transport... I mean it had all my stuff in it. My new ipod, my wallet, all my birthday gifts and travel books.” “And your passport?” “Oh, well no. That was in a passport holder I had around my neck.......but the ipod...........” We fell into silence after this and the seriousness of the situation pressed upon our minds. If we couldn't find the passport not only would Dayleigh miss his flight, but his staying in the U.K would be illegal. We hoped that it was back at the cafe, but it could have slipped out of his pocket on the train. It could have been stolen by a dealer in the black market goods. On the train ride back we prayed in silence. Arriving back at Terminal 5, and running up the escalators we agreed to split ways again. Dayleigh would go to the Lost Property office there and I would run back to the cafe. There was someone sitting in our seats. I asked them if they had seen a passport there, they said no. I checked if any of the employees of the cafe had found anything. The manager went to check the storage room, but there was nothing. Then she went to check her office, but there was nothing. I despaired. I went back to the table and began peering anxiously around the area, my hopes depleting every second. The man sitting at the table, getting my attention pointed at something lying under the rear left leg of his seat. Sure enough kneeling down I saw and reached with a shaking arm and retrieved the passport which in my imagination seemed to have a layer of dust upon it. It was too surreal a moment. To be certain I opened it to see Dayleigh's cheesy 'straight laced cop' face. Still shaking I hugged the man. Ecstatically I sprinted through the terminal and seeing my brother leapt into a hug, making sure everyone could see how victorious I was. We ran down the escalators duffle bag, and tea pot set swinging from our sides, my heavy coat in hand. My travel card having at last reached it's limit I had to take some time topping it up, but the wait for the train was only a couple of minutes. In the end Dayleigh made it to his flight on time, and our sprint up to and through Terminal 1 was far more glorious and enjoyable than the care-free walk we had before. I say that this entry is written as a gift knowing full well that the actual is that we were able to have such an adventure together without paying a price.

 Yes a cheesy line to end on, but I'm being rushed. My parents and I must be off to have Christmas dinner at a relatives. So cheerio, and Merry Christmas all! I miss you Dayleigh.

*elements of surrealism or mysticism in the story made be exaggerated

Behold as I emerge from my Cocoon!

  I guess I've done a fair bit of travelling by myself. Some people might say that going to a foreign country alone and living in the big city for the first time was brave of me. Some people do not realize  that I've already voyaged to Earth solo from a distant galaxy, and was continually evading space pirate capture on the way. My first days on Earth were spent in confusion, eating rocks, wrestling various beasts (and one time spooning a panda). However I cannot claim merrit for these feats. My decisions then were guided by a naive love for adventure, the gung-ho attitude of a fresh recruit. Overcoming obstacles and was merely a matter of letting survival instincts take over.  But At Last! Today is the day I can call myself a woman, for I have conquered a childhood fear!

  My ordeal began yesterday at the Vancouver Maritime Museum. As I toured the ship St.Roch I was drawn by curiosity, or perhaps the hands of fate, to the communal cabin where I encountered an unlikely foe: a wooden foot locker. To begin with I stubbed my toe on this locker. Then when I went to open it the lid lifted unexpectedly all the way out. I dropped it and it wedged itself diagonally inside the locker. I readjusted it and considered that the end of my worries with this unpleasant piece of wood. But it t'was not so, for during its descent the lid had roughly grazed my hand and in my index finger was lodged a short, fat splinter, such a one as I have never had before. A vague memory flashed through my mind of my mother removing a splinter from my finger while little girl me realized that she would one day have to carry out such self-inflicted pain herself. 24 hours later that day had arrived. After much fumbling with the tweezers I managed to push the sliver out of my skin so I could grab a hold of it. Tugging it out I felt the unfamiliar and sickening pain of extracting an object foreign to the body. Yet I was more aware of a fascination of what I was capable of, and a surge of pride. It was my finest hour.

 That being said, if the removal of the splinter was a culmination of all my life's struggles, I am now faced with the haunt of my former glory. Since it's happened my fingers can't help but dwell on the scar, pushing at the skin, pretending there might be yet more to challenge me. I know there are none though. Now that I have conquered this symbolic rite of passage I live quite possibly in a void where even a thousand more slivers will be of no significance.

 Wow. I didn't mean for this to get this real. I'm just really tired. I need to find a job.

Dear Online Diary:

   A few days after my most previous entry I was innocently munching on my daily apple unaware that the smooth yet discoloured patch on the skin was indicative of horror within. I bit right into this apple on that patch and retrieved a mouthful of mushy, brown rotteness which pervaded the apple to its very core. The irony was not delicious. In anguish I discarded it. Needless to say my passion for apples has lessened in intensity. 

 In other news I do not have one specific thing to muse on, only bits and pieces of my week. I've decided to return home in October after visiting my human brother and parents in Dublin-it'll be an 80% family reunion! So I've mostly been busy having a grand stressful time with trying to fit one suitcase into another and getting luggage within the strict limits of RyanAir's carry on policy.  And, in the year and a bit that I've been abroad I've put off purchasing souvenirs for everyone, so that's a definite order of business.

 I did however find time to visit Rosslyn Chapel in the town of Roslin with some friends. Since its use as the supposed ultimate resting place of the bones of Mary Magdelene  in the Davinci Code Rosslyn Chapel has gone from receiving around 30 thousand visitors to 170 thousand a year. It was crowded enough yesterday that rather than being led around the room everyone had to sit on the pews and the tour made less sense-Damn. However, I got to sit next to a sleeping kitty cat-Yes! But I wasn't allowed to pet it-Damn. I don't know why this lady brought her cat with her to a church, but she is most definitely my new role model.

 The Chapel isn't as steeped in Priory of Sion symbolism as Dan Brown made it seem. It is decorated all around by faces of the Green Man, a pagan myth representative of man's relationship with nature and aging. There are hundreds of faces all together connected by a vine, all done in 14th century mason work. Apparently though, the Green Man was a popular figure at the time and is featured in many churches across Europe. In any case the Chapel was full of fascinating stories and depictions, some mysterious and eerie. It was well worth it and afterwards we went to check out the local castle which turned out to be a wall. Still we had fun exploring the surrounding forest and getting a glimpse of the Scottish countryside.

 Earlier today a friend and I ascended the magnificent Sir Walter Scott monument, which has around 287 spiral steps. I've climbed higher heights but never in such narrow or disorganized passages. Frequently while going up we would nearly collide with other visitors going down and we'd have to budge up against the wall while they squeezed past us being careful to not to miss the edge of the narrowed steps. On the highest flight of stairs a girl went balistic and for a few minutes could go neither up or down; her boyfriend had to lead her down step by step.  The view at the top was glorious and from there we listened to a guy on the street play "Thunderstruck" on bagpipes. I will miss Scotland.

This is how I like dem apples:

  It occurred to me the other day that as of late I've been having a lot of conversations about apples. It's hard to say where this preoccupation of mind stemmed from but now that I've acknowledged it I can no longer refrain from disclosing the truth to everyone possible: I love apples; infact I dare say that of all fruits there is none more noble than the glorious Malus Domestica.

 Bananas may be cheaper, but only delicious on the chance that they are the right amount of ripe, and then all too soon their zing subsides to mushy flavourlessness. Peaches are juicier but at the price that the juices dribble down the chin making the enjoyment of them an embarrasing ordeal. Apples don't bruise as easily, they have the right amount of juice, plus they can be enjoyed anywhere at anytime making them ideal for picnics, lunches or bribes to teachers. But above all what makes apples so amazing is their availibility to me at a reasonable price despite their great taste, unlike snobby grapes and  strawberries of disdain. Truly the apple is the Robin Hood of fruit.

 I could go on forever about the infinite qualities of apples which make them ideal. Actually that last paragraph was initially five paragraphs which had much more expostulation and passion. Who needs expostulation though? We all know in our heart or hearts how great apples are, even if we don't admit it. What is of more concern is how we go about professing our love for apples. In the expression of their greatness words may go too far and carry dangerous connotations which warp an otherwise healthy appreciation.

 For example, I was talking to my human sister Braleigh the other day on facebook chat and I broached the topic of my love for apples. Her immediate response was "what are your favourite kinds of apple?" I felt that something was wrong with this question and it's immediacy, but having never been exposed to her ideas before I responded "granny smith or golden delicious". Truthfully I do not, as I feel I should not, have a favourite kind, these are simply the first two that popped into my head in answer to a perverse question.

 Yes, perverse I say, and given her reply it's not hard to understand my discomfort. She said " Wow. You're so basic". Now her question may be interpreted fairly but coupled with that response I cannot but declare it to be the exact definiton of Apple Racism! (apple racism: a belief or doctrine that inherent differences amongst various apple races determine superiority) What's worse is she went on in unatural zeal to describe her loyalty to pink lady, jazz, and cameo apples as though the appeal of these kinds could not be acheived by variations. Sickening. Even through the medium of the internet my skin was crawling.

 She needs to be stopped. WE must put a stop to this poisonous apple racism and prevent these seeds of hatred from growing into indomitable trees of destruction. Cut the problem at it's core! This is a call to arms! Who's with me?!

 ( I think from here on in I will attempt to include the phrase "this is a call to arms!" in all of my posts)

starDUST, SANDman, what's next? POWDERpeople.....or something.

  I am optimistic that as I progress in writing perhaps the title of my posts will improve? Here's hoping....

 For a long while it had been my secret wish to someday glimpse or even to meet a celebrity. In London there were numerous opportunities. I could have seen Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act but I couldn't afford theater at the time. I could have gone to Buckingham Palace to see Will and Kate kiss on their wedding day but I really didn't feel like going out at the time. Friends would casually brag of who they saw in a restaurant or who they met at a concert. A friend once showed me video footage of Johnny Depp passing through a crowd of cameras and within two feet of him. At such times all I could do was stare wistfully out the nearest window, wondering when it would at last be my turn and what sort of personality this enigmatic character might have.

 Well, that day has come and gone and I am happy to say that it was not a tabloid skank nor your average run of the mill, dime a dozen celebrity. It was none other than Neil Gaiman author of  Stardust, Coraline, and writer of the brilliantly imaginative Sandman series. And, not only did I see him, I was in the same room as him for at least an hour! AND he made eye contact with me a few times! Oh, AND I heard him read, not his own material, but even so, it was amazing!

 As apart of the International Book Festival, Amnesty International was hosting a free show every day in which different authors would read excerpts from the works of imprisoned writers around the world. I happened to attend the festival on the day in which Neil Gaiman was reading and decided to go.

 Amongst the three other authors in attendance Gaiman was immediately distinguishable. He wore entirely black: baggy black pants tucked into black boots, and a black shirt covered by a black sports jacket. Also a black wristwatch worn on his right hand (Is he left handed? Possibly). All this combined with his black hair made for the same dark, moody effect that his characters are styled by.

 And that hair. Such black hair. While he was sitting, listening to the others read he would frequently run his fingers through those frizzy curls which had such ease in their disarray that this was never to any effect. Was he brooding or being haughty? Was it an indifferent force of habit, or did he perhaps have a slight itch on his scalp? Alas! We can only speculate. 

He was last of all to read his bit which was originally written by an inmate on death row in California. And of all the writers he by far had the best voice and charisma for the task. His voice is strong and silky, but not excessively so ( i was expecting it to be like Alan Rickman's) His perfect pauses and pronunciation heightened the dramatic effect when appropriate. His eyes roamed equally over the crowd and equally between the crowd and his paper. It was narration at its finest.

 As I mentioned before he seemed to make eye contact with me a few times, however, I did not approach him after the show. One reason is that lately if my voice is not in use it tends to issue itself in croaks that would presumably belong to an individual who is either dying or very manly. But besides from that I don't think much would have been accomplished by me meeting him on such unequal footing as a famous writer to a fan. I would hardly have been able to articulate on what levels I appreciate his creativity. I would hardly have been able to articulate anything through sputters, stutters and eyes overflowing with adoration. Had I approached him in this state I imagine that I would have swiftly abandoned hope of an average interview and attempted to detach some souvenir hair from his head before running gleefully from the room. So it was all for the best. I could not have been happier with the experience.

 I found out later though that apparently the day before he had a Q&A show, 1 hour long, hosted by Audrey Niffenegger all about his work, and the tickets were only £4.50! Sigh...

Adventures in Walking

Over the past year or so in which I have traveled around bits of Europe, lived in London for awhile, and have settled for the time being in Edinburgh, I have become accustomed to walking down crowded streets. 'Become accustomed to' here having the meaning "become increasingly aware of how stressful it is".

 Edinburgh  at the moment is particularly bad for crowds as it is celebrating its annual festival and accompanying Fringe Festival. So the streets are packed with bumbling tourists, people persistently handing out flyers and giving a full preview 2 minute to their shows, people dressed in weird wacky costumes, and all sorts of street performers and musicians. Most of the time I find it all fascinating, and like a tourist I take tons of photos. When I am trying to get anywhere e.g. the library, grocery store, or to a specific show on time it is a pedestrian's nightmare.

 At some point within the last month to counter my mounting sidewalk rage I made weaving through crowds into an art. It is an art of grace, awareness and predicting probabilities. One must maintain more than 180 degrees visibility while observing the body language of specific individuals who might prove an obstacle. As well there are infinite chain reaction occurring at any second. For instance, someone could stop to pick something up causing the person behind them to veer to the left, causing the person behind them to veer even further to the left, causing me who is walking towards this last veerer to have to veer right from the previously unoccupied space and possibly into someone who is walking perpendicular to all this.

 One must be aware of all this while walking at top speed, keeping in mind the quickest routes to one's destination, and refraining from shouldering past people who are ambling about aimlessly.

Naturally this art form soon evolved into a video game. There are plus and minus points, pit stops, level ups for reaching different points, and just as there are koopa troopas, boos, bullets, and those weird creatures that mario stomps on, there are varying foes and obstacles in my game.

 1. The Bumbling Tourist. Often uncertain of where they are, the biggest threats posed by the tourist are halting abruptly right in front of you in order to gawk at something or slowing their pace to a crawl in order to look in the window of a store without adjourning considerately to the side. They also like to take pictures, and you may lose up to 5 points for walking right in front of what would have been a good shot. But you may gain 5 points if they ask for directions or information that you are able to give.

2. The Indecisive Group. Obviously groups take up whole sidewalks and are only as fast as their slowest walker. They are usually talking and oblivious to your existence. Minus 10 points for prolonged entanglement in a group which has just exited a pub and is ambling in the most uncertain way cause they did not collectively decide where to go next before hand.

3. The Awkward Encounter. This is my least favorite and has likely happened to me 5 times in the past few days. You and another fellow pedestrian are walking toward each other. Simultaneously you both shift to the side so as to avoid a collision, but upon seeing that you've both shifted to the same direction, you both shift uncomfortably in the other direction. Now you're stuck and any good will either of you had is dissipated. You're now so near each other that you have to stop but you both continue shifting uncertain of which path the other is to take. Bumbling tourists gawk in amusement. This spasm contest, continues until one of you hits overload, goes haywire, and their robot head comes crashing to the ground. The victor may now take whichever path they choose but they cannot entirely shrug off the awkwardness. Minus 1000 points either way!

 Yes, I have suffered as a pedestrian in recent times. So much so that I became cynical about the human race's ability to walk amidst each other in peace. The other day though something amazing happened right in the kitchen of the hostel where I am staying. On average, the kitchen is the most frustratingly crowded of rooms in which people are the least aware of each others' space. This could only be described though as poetry in motion.

 I was intending to walk across the kitchen to get to the counter at a diagonal angle to the right. But spotting that there was a girl headed towards the sink right in front of me from across the room I decided without pausing to walk straight past the sink and then to the right. Once I got halfway across the sink though the door in front of me opened and i had to swerve suddenly to the right  so that the guy entering could walk straight on. Meanwhile the girl, whose path i had just swerved through just as suddenly swerved to the left to avoid me and the guy swerved to the left so that the girl could reach the sink and he could carry on to the cupboards. All of this happening within two seconds while we all moved at top speed and with no hesitation. It was beautiful.

 I initially had diagrams handcrafted on Paint to demonstrate this more clearly, however, I could not attach it to the blog. In any case a diagram could better describe the physical action of the event but only words can attempt to convey the connection that transpired when we all moved seemingly as one. It was as though in that moment our minds were together communicating our movements to each other with perfect clarity. There was no room for confusion, anger, or apologies. In that compact space there was only room for our bodies to move with confidence and grace. It restored my faith in human's ability to.......move.

 Perhaps words cannot properly convey the magnificence of it all. Perhaps its something only the three of us may appreciate. I have not walked in the same room as these two people since, but I have no doubt that they look back on that time with the same fondness and satisfaction as I.