Dubliners (III)

Grace.

After arising and putting on my only clothes (those my fellow travelers would learn to love and loathe), I moved quietly to the window, easily drew the curtain to the side and looked out on the view that at night was a blur image of buildings lit with unbecoming lights and a river casting an impressionist image of the Dublin nightlife, I found that with the grey of the morning light came a new and slightly neurotic city. The hustle of the cars along the avenue, the unknown drivers unknowingly being looked down upon from the second story of a hostel window, the fast and eager pace of those walking along the thoroughfare, the shouts of car horns, the noisy talkings of the street, all blended together to make the city feel manic and important–to make the city feel alive. All this from the second story of an unassuming hostel. All this before I’d eaten breakfast.

Breakfast came with a splash of milk onto an assuming bowl of Rice Krispies. It went quickly enough and before the plastic spoon hit the bottom of the empty porcelain bowl we were out the door and slowly ambling towards the haven of highs, the glory of greats, the hither-be-known synonym of sheer awesomeness: The Guinness Storehouse.

The streets grew silent as we neared the Storehouse, as if in anticipation of a momentous event, the city–our city–had frozen in time and only we six were able to move gently through to our awaiting serendipity. We found the Storehouse to be generally empty upon arrival, and after looking at the map, we calculated the exact time it would take us to claim our free pint of Guinness. It was to be a long hour.

The Storehouse is a collage of sights, sound, and smells. Throughout the seven levels one finds the smell of roasted barley at times overpowering, at times strangely sweet, and always altogether (for lack of a better word) intoxicating. Each level is devoted to a specific characteristic of the Guinness Trademark, but because I am doing this solely by memory I will not go in to labored detail. Just know that it has a heavy devotion to the entire brewing process, advertising, Guinness throughout the ages, and (possibly the most fascinating part) barrel making. It is well worth the 9 euro admission price, if for the simple fact that you get to drink a pint (or two) at the top of the world.

It must be said that as we neared the top level (the level at which the fabulous freebie is given) the remaining floors were moved through in something one could easily call haste. It being nearly noontime our lips felt the subtle tingling sensation of dryness, our tongues, ever eager for something to taste, licked our lips in anticipatory delight, our minds thought not of what was before us but of what was to come. We were thirsty.

As we ascended the final stair that led us to the Gravity Bar—a circular room with 360 degree views of Dublin, hardwood floors, cleverly placed modern chairs and tables, and a homey feel in a modern atmosphere that could only be accomplished by contrasting the revolutionary design of the building with the famous antiquity of the Guinness Trademark—our eyes fell upon the bar in the center of the room bustling with busy bar matrons and stocked with the only Taps that one could possibly want or need: Guinness taps.

We handed our tokens to the barman who quickly (some might say too quickly for a proper pint of Guinness) poured our pints, and, after letting them settle, finally let the cool goodness rush down our throats. It is rare to find subtle ecstasy in something you expect, but this was my feeling upon the first gulp of Guinness. It was cool not cold, refreshingly light, and as smooth as ever. It was a rare event: a perfect pint. But it was not just what’s in the glass that made it a perfect pint, but, also, what surrounded it. The air was filled with joyous language and happy tidings. A palpable happiness hung easily throughout the room. And when you are in good company with people you enjoy in a place you want to be, nothing in life can be sweeter.

We sat at a fashionable chair and table number and after another free pint (a man was kind enough to give his tokens to us) decided from the Storehouse we would go to Phoenix park. A decidedly missed attraction, Phoenix Park is the largest park in Europe and after grabbing some food we made our way to this rolling expanse of green grassland. We sat on a bench at the entrance to the park and quietly ate our food, watching the occasional local couple slowly amble by, hand in hand, enjoying the sunny autumn day. After finishing, two of our group decided to do some shopping in town while three of us ventured into the park.

Dubliners (II)

The Boarding House.

With a jolt and a bump did we land in the darkness of a Dublin night–our eyes not yet wearied, our hearts steadfast. From the plane we found our way to customs, and after a stamp that induced jealousy throughout the party (you see as members of the “European Union,” their passports were only checked and not stamped), we were officially in the Land of Ire. Our first official business, then, was to find a way to our convenient and practically located hostel (I should note the latter part of that sentence should be read without irony, or ironless, as it was a very convenient and practical hostel.). There are many options when traveling from the airport, which is about 1-2 km outside the city, to the heart of downtown Dublin. But since it was nearing on 11 o’clock at night the only options for us were bus or taxi. A taxi would run about 5-6 euros per person, whereas the bus was a measly, and suffice to say, appetizing 1.90. The choice was no-brainer.

As we sat inside the luxurious and comfortably conditioned interior of a Dublin taxi I thought of the scores of mindless and obviously misinformed miscreants that were queuing onto the bus as we drove pass, hurriedly winding our way to our haven of hostels. Ha! Just kidding. We took the bus.

‘Why would I pay 6 euro, for something I can get for 1.90,’ I thought as I sat uncomfortably on a rigid bus bench watching the scores of smiling, supercilious faces rush past in taxis, seemingly saying, ‘You were misinformed you sad, sad little man.’ But the bus was a double decker. How could you say no to a Double Decker? Furthermore, how could you fight the urge to sit on the second deck of said Double Decker? Simply put, we could not fight and we winded our way up the stairs to perch above the single decks of cars that lined the streets that fateful Dublin Night. So we sat with wide-eyes above the world of single story automobiles–locking eyes with men and women leaning out of their second story apartments, nodding confidently as if to say, ‘Yes, we have seen the light. And it is good.’ As we arrived at our stop, slowly did we amble down those stairs–not ready to live among those at the bottom tier, but our ride among the heavens had to end sometime, so with heavy heart and heads hung high we stepped out onto the sidewalks of Dublin.

‘It’s kinda dirty,’ was bouncing around my head, at times almost falling from lips. But in my infinite wisdom as a traveler who was not looking for the touristy unnaturalness of so many places I let it bounce around with the thought, ‘But that’s how it’s supposed to be.’ So we walked, a bit uneasily I would say, to the hostel where we were to stay. We entered, excitement pulsing through our veins, ever anxious to see where our homestead would be.

‘It’s kinda smelly.’ Our room was quite nice with hardwood floors, rather attractive lighting, and unstained walls and bed-sheets, a very nice amenity in a city hostel. The only draw back was it was a room of 16 people adjacent to a room of 12 people all with whom we shared two toilets, two sinks and two showers with. Again my rugged adventuresome manliness assured me that indeed, ‘That is how it’s supposed to be,’ while my lazy, easily embarrassed, uncaring side thought quietly, ‘I just won’t shower.’

That may have been the smell.

That night we decided it would be in our best interest to rest up for the next day, where we would skip the streets with Joy arm in arm, laugh and tumble in the grass with Fun, play hopscotch with Happiness, and roundhouse kick Anger in the face. So after a night where my bed bunk buddy–some woman, who, to put it lightly (pun intended(wait for it)), weighed down the bed until it was inches above my face (slight exaggeration), spent the entire night playing with the idea of coughing up a lung, I was surprisingly well rested for the day ahead (follow all that? (It’s Joycean. No big deal.))

And what did you do on that day? you may ask. That day of wonder, that day of night! That day of royal beauty bright (westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy Perfect Light (see what I did there?)). But seriously, what did we do, that would go down as one of the most amazing, awesome, awe-inspiring adventures in the history of the world?

Well, you’re just gonna have to wait another month for the shocking finale of Dubliners (that might leave an opening for a sequel, depending on how much money it makes).

Dubliners

Counterparts.

I recall sometime in mid-August I was surfing the ol’ interweb and discovered a rather delightful surprise. RyanAir, that glory of an airline, was offering stupendous (Outrageous! Spectacular! Once in a lifetime!) fares from Gatwick to Dublin. The opportunity presented, I just needed some companions to accompany me to that fabled city of Joyce’s lost dreams. Thus, I quietly spread the word around that it was possible to get a return flight to Dublin from Gatwick for 20 pounds (Shya. I know. 20 pounds). Not knowing too many people in mid-August only five chomped at the bit, while a sixth was to meet us there. So, after one of the simplest meetings in recent recorded history (“Leave?” “Thursday October 18th 8pm.” “Return?” “Sunday. Noon.” “Hostel?” “Booked.” “Pint?” “Yes Please.” (It should be noted that I realise these exchanges make me seem like an alcoholic, but I can assure you that I am not, it just so happens that our meeting place for every trip is in a pub (also, in no way do I condone under age drinking or, for that matter, binge drinking or drinking to excess))), our tickets and hostel were booked, our bags were packed and we were ready to go...in a month and a half.

So the time passed.

To my surprise, when the day came I felt no tingling of excitement, no anxiety, no craving pangs of anticipation. I merely had a brief moment of realization as I stood flat footed and lackadaisical on Platform 8 in the Guildford train station, staring brightly and intently at my compatriots as they ate gingerly at cashew nuts, pears, apples, and bananas, occasionally offering tidbits to me, the wide-eyed child who stands at the window of a sweet shop and has no money, that today, my good friends, we go to Dublin.

A Little Cloud.

After another smooth ride on those beloved Southwest Trains of England we found ourselves, rather easily I should say, to the terminal of Gatwick airport. We then checked in, rather easily I should say, with Ryanair, got our boarding passes, threw away our gel containers that held more than 100mL (goodbye my sweet Colgate Total) and headed to the dreaded airport security. It being nearly half past 6, pangs of that monster hunger began to rap the inside of our stomachs. So we passed through airport security, rather easily I should say, and began searching for Gatwick’s finest offered cuisine. This was spotted almost immediately by one our trusty travelers who, either because of the destructive nature of food withdrawal, which slowly eats (pun intended) away at the nerve endings that control the motor functions of your brain (it’s science) or because of his imperfect English, decried, ‘You? We? Food. McDonald’s?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied gently, ‘we will go to McDonald’s.’

I’ve had better.

With belly...well, with belly, we positioned ourselves in front of the departures monitor eagerly awaiting the flight’s gate to be called. I had been warned beforehand about the adventure that is RyanAir, some referring to its boarding process as a Cattle Call, or a Stampede, or a Rodeo (not really the latter, I just needed a third steer reference), others warning me with serious faces, gazing down on me with eyes like the old man who tells his grandson to stay away from the Nickel’s House, ‘Be There Early.’ So when the gate was finally announced (boarding was supposedly at 20.05, gate was announced at 20.00), you can imagine our rush towards the boarding area. Not overly eager to let stragglers beat me to the gate I held a strong and steady gait complete with arms swinging violently to deter those intent on passing. Upon arrival at the gate, a sense of pride swept through me, my companions in tow, we passed into the boarding area and took a seat near the door in which our dreams dwelled. Our heads were held high for those few minutes as others came in and saw our postures and humbly took seats at the back, but when the seats began to fill up our heads began to bend over so slightly towards the floor in shame. For, as the seats were no longer sittable, those smart enough (and late-enough) stood. They stood in front of us. And as they came in later, they got closer to the front. So here we were, so full of pride but minutes ago, now somehow stuck between staying seated thus guaranteeing being near the end of the queue (for, if we were decent, we would have to let those standing pass by before we rudely stood up to claim our deserved spots) but maintaining our dignity or standing up, while the queue was just beginning to grow, and insuring a spot, not our ideal spot, but a spot nevertheless.

To hell with dignity.

They called for pre-boarding and the inching began. Slowly grown men and women began shuffling their feet ever-so-lightly toward the front of the queue. Thus when the boarding was called a (I wouldn’t say mad) rush began. The space that was once occupied by the preboarders now became free territory and those brave enough went for it with startled stares and confused head spinning. Eyes were wide, and faces were determined. Children screamed in the delight of watching the folly unfold. Family’s pushed through, apologizing with their eyes, ‘We’re a family.’ The rush was over as quickly as it had started, and soon we were seated, together, with plenty of room wondering, “What the hell was all that about?”

So she soared. Quietly and easily through the evening mist of South London the plane rose. Steadily we reached that peaked perfection above the everlasting clouds and into the darkness we settled. As we peered forward to that fabled city, perhaps in some distant corner of my mind rang the bells of Joyce, “Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.”

Sir Nate Continues His Adventures in The Mysterious Affair at Baker Street

First off, again, apologies. This is indeed the second part to a two part series. If you wish to read what critics are calling, "Not as good as his first." "Probably the third or fourth best blog Sir Nate has written." The Sun raves, "What's he on about?" While the Times states, "I actually didn't read it." you just need to scroll to the end of this adventure without feeding your temptation to read it and begin afresh. So, sorry, and let the unmysterious mystery continue....

The already familiar excitement of Waterloo hit us like a steam engine (c'mon!) when we stepped on to the platform. It was another glorious day and I had made up our minds that we would go directly to South Kensington Station in order to go to the Science Museum. There would be no dilly-dallying this time. No hanging around the station looking like tourists, confused and obviously dumbfounded by that grandiose city's hussle and bussle. So I hoisted the team onto my back and led the way to the underground. We almost made it off the platform when, like steam escaping from tea kettles, the whining began. 'I'm hungry.' 'Where are we going?' 'I need the bathroom.' Feeling like a disheveled mother, I rushed my children off to the bathroom and McDonald's, told them, 'We're going to the Science Museum honeys. You'll like that.' and patted them on the forehead. This altogether pleased them. Thus we boarded the tube and rode in relative peace to South Kensington Station.

I think a short interlude is in order, to briefly explain the grand scheme of the Guildford to London train ticket. There are many different options when purchasing a ticket to London. Some choose to buy a month long return ticket from their home countries that is good for one trip but since the ticket checkers in England don't know any better it turns out to be good for one month rather than one journey (if you are a ticket taker in England disregard that last statement). Others choose to buy a single ticket from the kiosks at the station, which is truly one of the worst deals possible. But then there are those of us who are clever enough to travel in packs of four. Southwest Trains has a really rather remarkable deal on this ticket from Guildford to London. If you travel with four people on a one-day return ticket you all pay for the price of two. So in essence, four of us get to travel to and from London plus an all day tube pass that is good in zones 1 and 2 (the really important ones) for only 7 pound 20! This card will basically get you anywhere you want to go in London. Just as long as you hold on to this card.

After a brief stint at the Science Museum, which was, to say the most, truly unremarkable and thus will get no mention from me(!), we decided to break up our band of brothers and sisters. The sisters and two brothers (pshaw!) went for that holiest of all holy sites, Her Majesty's Harrods, while three of us saw that it was truly a wonderful day and it deserved nothing less than a walk through Kensington Gardens. We would meet again at around two for lunch.

Ah the joys of a warm summer's day in the park! We sauntered delightfully through the posh poodles and picturesque panoramas. Our eyes and ears at the height of bliss, fully trying to capture all that was put before us. We took the opportunity to talk a little while, hands held behind our backs, heads bent slightly forward looking to the ground as if the answers we were searching for were lost somewhere amongst the greenery of the grass, our pace tidy and leisurely. We spoke of the disastrous effect on the global economy if China were to become a democratic state. We galvanized the idea of Stem-Cell research but realised after much debate it may never exist properly in our lifetime. We thought about ingenious ways to improve the quality of life for human beings around the world. And we argued fervently over which was cuter, puppy dogs or kitty cats (um...puppy dogs, duh). It was truly a wonderful mid-day's stroll, a restful removal from the hectic pace of London city life. But, as all things in life, it had to come to an end. And as time flowed onward, as it is wont to do, toward the chime of two o'clock, we knew we must meet up with the rest of gang.

At Oxford Circus.

For those of you unfamiliar with Oxford Circus, it is a wholly detestable area. Planning on meeting at Oxford Circus on a Saturday is like planning on meeting at Mecca during the week of the Hajj. I mean they call it Oxford Circus for a reason (It's near Oxford?), it's a circus (c'mon)! Despite my misgivings and unusually cynical thoughts and after about fifteen of confused looks and missed phone calls, we actually met up and had a rather pleasant lunch at a local sandwich joint known as Subway. With my belly half full with half a sandwich it was time for another parting. Nearly the entire group decided they had not had enough shopping so they headed to Soho (Women...and three Men.) for an afternoon I'm sure was full of adventure, meanwhile the leftovers, a lowly two of us, went for a real adventure towards Baker Street and the home of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Baker Street is not far from Oxford Circus but to walk it demands a certain amount of courage and strength that I was not altogether so sure I had. So a ride on the tube was in order as it is only a few stops away. But upon reaching into my ticket storage compartments (pockets) I found that holy card of an all-day tube pass to be absent. Strange. Perhaps in my safe deposit box (wallet). Dash it all, not there either. Surely then it must be in my impenetrable container of goods (backpack). Well, I say, wherever could it had gone. I pose this question to my colleague, to which he replies, 'I thought I maybe might have seen it on the ground at South Kensington Station.' Ah, ta. Great, grand, good to know, fantastic, superb. I'll just... I'll just...um, well...'let's walk, shall we?' Thus the walk to Baker Street was taken up mainly of my careful musings on how to get about, and how to get home. Surely I was not going to pay another 13 quid for the journey home, and I couldn't just hop on the train without a ticket (I do have morals, you see!), but what was I to do? And, furthermore, could someone have picked up my card and made the journey back to Guildford. Perhaps a homeless man looking for a warmer, gentler place. Perhaps a wronged woman, looking to get away from the city that had caused her so much pain. Perhaps a man on the run, desperate to get away from whatever was after him. Perhaps an adventurer saw the card on the ground and took it as a sign to let go and follow his heart to Guildford where he found Love, Tragedy, Despair, Happiness, Joy, Life. Or perhaps it lied on the ground in a sad state, unbeknownst to the eyes of the city goers hurrying in and out of the gates in a sloppy and altogether unerring pace, whereupon, at the end of the day, it was swept up into a plastic container and dumped into the rubbish. But, then again, one never knows....

These were the thoughts that galloped through my mind on our roundabout way to the Sherlock Holmes Museum. Upon arrival at the haven of mysteries--where mysteries go to die, as they say--we looked around the gift shop, found out that admission was 6 pounds, said thank you and went next door to have a pint. After the soothing relaxation brought on by a pint of cool ale from the aptly named Volunteer, it was once again time to trek our way across the tremulous city sidewalks to meet up with our cabbage patch kids. It was also decided that I would use an extra ticket that my colleague, bless him, had brought along. Now that that was settled we hitched our thumbs into our backpack straps and headed off to meet the rest.

At the Virgin Megastore at Piccadilly Circus.

Meeting at Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday afternoon is like...well you get the idea. It is mental. Nevertheless, once again, we managed to meet up with everyone. Unfortunately, each came one by one for some strange reason, and as they are generally kind and caring and thoughtful people, they each would ask, 'How was the Sherlock Holmes Museum?' Thus we answered the only way we could, 'Best Museum Ever.'

Our party had grown. Somehow we had gained the company of five more people at Piccadilly Circus, pushing our number up to just about 17. It was this group that decided it would be a fine idea to procure a pint at one of London's famed pubs. To save you (and me) the agony of this misadventure, I will skip it and simply say we ended up having a pint in a place that did not serve pints (whatever that means). Thus we parted company with the those rambunctious five and headed back to Waterloo, the cool of the night falling heavily upon us. We walked down toward Big Ben and, across the Thames, the London Eye. These behemoths were lit steadily and ever so gracefully like torches guiding us, O! the weary travelers, home. After a long day of strolling, walking, meandering and general wandering we found ourselves once again racing swiftly aboard the stealth trains of southwest England for our home away from homes. Another adventure ceases, another journey comes to an end, another day is done.

And I'm exhausted.

The Mysterious Affair at Baker Street

What I put before you today is not so much a mystery as it is a collection of rather curious events. Perhaps you will find them of the greatest inconsequence and nothing more than a series of unfortunate and rather unimportant coincidences. Perhaps you will find them entertaining but nothing more than stories from a sly and often formulaic trickster. Or perhaps you will find within them a deeper mystery that concerns us all and not just the party involved, a mystery so strange and powerful (and dare I say macabre!) that it effects each and every one of us in our own and separate way. I merely put the words in a certain order, it is up to you to interpret them.

After a few days of planning that were horribly similar to that of the week before, 'What do you want to do this weekend?' Shrug. 'You guys wanna go to London?' Shrug. 'Day trip?' Shrug. '9:02 train?' Shrug. 'Museums?' Shrug. 'Shopping?' Shrug. 'Another pint?' 'Yes Please.', we decided a day trip to London would be a nice change of pace from dreary old Guildford. So it was to be that our party, of oh let's say 13, were to meet on the platform at a quarter to 9 to catch the eastbound train at 9:02.

It should be said at this point that time and I have had an agreement for some, well, time. It keeps a relatively steady pace and let's me know when my favorite shows are on, when I have to get up in the morning, how long I have to cook pasta, and whether or not I am going to be late, and I overlook the fact that it moves too fast when you want it to slow down, the fact that it is the primary factor in my aging, and the fact that you can never travel through it. We live in pretty peaceful harmony. It seems, however, that time does not necessarily agree with everyone. In particular, women.

Now I should say, before I indulge, that this particular incident could have been caused by miscommunication, a certain amount of Lost in Translation, if you will, but that does not fit very nicely with my terrific time segment, so I will continue to blame the issue on women and time.

Because a few of us live in the princely estates of Manor Park (if you don't know, it is a particularly well-to-do housing complex just off of campus), we decided to meet at reception at 08:00 to catch the bus to the train station. A wholly splendid idea as we were to find out the bus leaves at 08:01. So, as I walked towards the reception at 07:59 (as is my nature, lest we forget), watching one of our Manor Park group run in a breathtaking fashion after the 08:01 bus only to see it pull away in a fiendish and disgusting manner, I thought to myself that time had indeed got the better of me this morning. The three of four Manor Parks (as we shall be known in all future regards) waited for the 08:32 bus whilst calling everyone in our party that, alas, we were going to be late. As the 08:32 bus approached so too did the fourth member of the Manor Parks (who himself has a rather nasty disagreement with time). On the bus ride into town, however, time was in an awfully kind mood. It allowed us to reach the station at 5 till, purchase the tickets, and make it to the platform with minutes to spare. "Jolly Good! Jolly Good Indeed!" thought I, "Not so supreme are we, time? Perhaps you remember our little agreement? You have forgotten who you are dealing with," and other such remarks went through my head as the east-bound train approached. But my eyes were not as pleased as one might think to see this train approach, for it seemed four of our party were missing. So we stood there--like children in a candy store unable to taste the sweetness, we stood there. As the doors closed on our triumphs, then, and only then, did the four of them run up the incline to the platform shouting apologies only to see the train slowly amble toward London. They came over to our stern looks with puppy dog eyes, but what could we do? Time made a decision and it decided against us in that moment. There was nothing more to do but role your eyes and shake your head. Women.

Ah well, we'll catch the 09:17.

As I sat quietly on the 09:17 train, I could not help but think what would have occurred on the 09:02 train. More than likely, nothing, but still, one could not help but think. Perhaps I would have caused an imbalance in the train thus leading to a horrible catastrophe. Perhaps I would have happened by a man with crutches who had the unpleasant idea of removing himself from the train mid-journey, to which I or one of my colleagues could have bravely attempted to save him. Would we have succeeded? Would we have the courage, the wherewithal, the competence? Perhaps I would have had a casual run in with a woman who was entangled in a serious affair and, in confidence of an empty rail car, enlisted my help to off her husband. Would I dare? Would I have the confidence to make my own decision? Or perhaps while reading the paper I attempted to cross my legs and accidentally bumped the stranger across from me, thus starting a stirring and spine-tingling conversation. Would we get away with it? Was it the perfect crime? Or, most probable, it would have resembled the 09:17 train. The one with no stories to tell. The one void of intrigue. The one that was not invented by Alfred Hitchcock. The one that did not carry on it murderers, adulterers, thieves, mad-men, and general no-gooders. The one we got off at 09:47 at Waterloo Station.

But, then again, one never knows...





Catch Sir Nate's next installment of The Mysterious Affair at Baker Street in the near future!

I'll take you to foggy London Town: Part Deux

First off, this may be a bit confusing to new arrivals (which, really, there shouldn't be), but this actually is the second installment of what critics are calling, "The most intelligent blog written to date!" "A masterpiece!" "Four stars!" The Guardian raves, "Sir Nate has done what other bloggers only dream about!" So if you wish to read the one that started it all, just scroll on down. (Perhaps I'll figure out the formatting and put them in another order (but probably not))

As my North Face (and Oh So fashionable) hiking boots had their first taste of London City Streets, I had a rather startling realization. Simply put, 'I am in London.' Not but a fortnight ago I was inhaling the cool clearness of the rocky mountain air, whilst now I am exhaling into the crowded and clouded morning mist of London. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. But as I looked to the faces of my comrades, expecting unsuppressed joy plastered on their bright and shiny faces, I found, to be plain, nothing. They were not sharing my introspective and fantastic moment. Though I cannot be sure, I imagine their excitement was bundled up quite comfortably just below the surface. So, with this in my mind, I snapped out of my joyous philosophical moment, and settled into an uninterested and rather casual stance. London? Who cares?

We did.

The team was rearing. As was I. So reared we did and off we went. Our subtle group of 16 had almost made it out of Waterloo station when, alas, a decision had to be made. 'Where should we go?' There were a few blank expressions, one or two mindless and obviously distracted shrugs, and a throng of suggestions. It should be known, before I continue, to all future travelers in large groups that the saying, 'Well we'll figure it out when we get there,' should never, under any circumstance, be uttered in the planning phase of your trip. Because, as it has happened so many times before, someone will start walking, then, as a group is wont to do, people will follow, then, after about 70 paces, someone will query, 'Where are we going,' which will thus cause the group to stop in, usually, an exit or, really, any tight space that makes it impossible for others to pass and makes the group the target of evil and venom soaked stares. Then, once the impassable fortress has been made the two or three "leaders" of the group will argue over where to go, what to do, while the other fifty people look like mindless bafoons scratching their heads and, often, backing into people. Finally, when a decision has been made, the group starts moving again with the "alpha-leader" up front, the mindless drones throughout the middle, and two or three sour faced "loser-leaders" in the rear complaining about how stupid the plan is. This is then repeated six more times in the course of a morning. So to all ye future group travelers I say, 'For God's sake, make a plan.'

Luckily, our experience was dissimilar.

We decided to split early on. 8 went to the Tate, 8 went wandering. I went wandering. With my wanders I will be brief. I wish I could describe everything in acute detail, but time is my enemy and here now I have only 30 minutes until I must go pick out wines for our steak dinner tonight (sigh). I would also love to tell a story of each landmark we saw, but, to be honest, those stories have been told and most assuredly better than I ever could. So it was, that we saw: the London Eye, Big Ben and Houses of Parliament, Westminster abbey, Buckingham Palace with the changing of the guards, (break for lunch) the Tate modern, Millennium Bridge, St. Paul's Cathedral with choral evensong, (break for dinner, check-in at hostel) (nighttime) Tower of London, Tower bridge, Queens Walk, London bridge, and a partridge in a pear tree. I would, as I say, love to elaborate on each and every one of the wonderful things we did, but, I think, I will let the pictures speak for me (if I can ever figure out how to put them on here).

After a curious night in the hostel we awoke early to once again seize the hands of time. After a brief "shower" (water to face+ deodorant), I trudged down the stairs eager for my free "continental" breakfast. As I reach the bar/lounge area my eyes are pleased with what they perceive: one or two guests leisurely eating breakfast and reading the paper, the smell of fresh coffee and shine of the food-filled platters welcome me to a new day. Jolly good, indeed. The kindly breakfast-keeper, as it were, approaches me and I flash her a keen smile that seems to say, "Good morrow to you my lady. Is it not the most wonderful morning your eyes have had the pleasure of viewing?" I am just about to say, "one for breakfast please," when she grunts, 'what's your room number?' A bit startled, I reply uneasily, '407.' A slight smile cracks her face, 'your breakfast is downstairs.' I turn from my purgatory and enter into the depths of hell. Crammed into a 10x12 "room" were forty people (slight exaggeration) eating noisily from their dull white paper bowls, drinking tea steadily from their drab white Styrofoam cups, and eating, well, distastefully their white bread that surely was on the verge of molding. Yep, this seems about right. Now...corn flakes or bran flakes?

With a fully empty stomach I was once again ready for a new day. After waiting outside alone on a suitably plain white chair with matching table for only two hours (slight exaggeration) I was joined by my slightly sleepy eyed yet fully eager travel-mates. The men this time took control: British Museum or bust, as the motto goes. The women would rather bust it seemed, they opted for the surely intellectually stimulating outing at the Notting Hill travel bookstore (if you know what the significance of this is you are, most assuredly, a woman (or a Hugh Grant fan (me))).

Our one plan, I think, for this trip was to go to the British Museum. There had been wild talk from those who had traveled to the great beast before us. "You could spend a whole day there without seeing everything." "I heard they just opened the Terracotta Army exhibit." "You have to see the Terracotta exhibit. It probably is the greatest thing I've ever seen." "You have to go!" So we went. Ready we were to see one of the amazing feats ever done by human hands. So incredible was this that grown men have been known to throw up their hands and wail in startling delight. Women have died lost in the sheer scale of it. Infants are silenced by its beauty. So when we entered that famed great hall of the immensely impressive British museum, looked to the banners proudly displaying a Terracotta figure, pronouncing, "Here! Here you shall look God in the face and he shall say it is good!" and saw that general admission to that godly goodness was only...12 pounds! We all three looked at each other and said, "Do you wanna just walk around instead?" Making a decision was never so easy.

So after a most enjoyable and, albeit, tiresome 5 hours, we had seen a very fair share of that great museum. We met up with the girls, who, of course, quietly raved about the beautiful simplicity of Notting Hill, while the men just nodded their heads and rolled their eyes. Women. It was time to go. And after a brief and semi-frustrating pout from one our members (who shall rename nameless) the west-bound train to Guildford was underneath us. A tired and most peaceful calm came over me as I sat recounting the affairs of the past two days in my head. It had been a rather wonderful trip and, as I sat looking from my dozing companions to the buildings slowly easing into lush woodland, I thought, "We'll have to do this again sometime."

How's next week?

I'll take you to foggy London Town.

My Thursday started ordinary enough, I suppose. The Standard Thursday Phrase, 'So, what are you going to do this weekend,' was passed around more times than a bowl of rice at a Chinese dinner table (Heyo?). But when it came to the answer most replied with a bemused and uninterested shrug, a smug shrug, if you will. Whereupon, one of the many, many people I know suggested with a cheerful smirk, 'Let's go to London.' This suggestion was met with uproarious applause, a few playful noddings, and one hideous evil eye (that man did not go nor will I ever speak to him again!). London then. It was settled. Now what to do?

We decided to meet Friday night to discuss fervently our plan of attack, upon which the fate of our enjoyment rested. We decided to meet Friday night to ready ourselves for the days ahead, mentally prepare ourselves for what should and could be a moment not worth forgetting. We decided to meet Friday night in a Pub.

20:00. Chancellors Bar and Restaurant. I arrive promptly, as is my nature, to find the pints have already been poured. No worries, I shall have myself one poured and join my team who must be ever-ready to plan the days ahead. After the pouring has ceased I join my companions at a rather elegantless picnic table outside. 'So, what time are we to leave tomorrow,' I query. 'We have to wait for Myeke, who has the train timetables,' was the uninterested response. Very well, I shall enjoy my beer as there is no real rush and I can't imagine she'll be along. Myeke arrives unceremoniously half way through my second pint, timetable in hand. Oh bully, now let the planning begin! 'Let's leave at 09:27.' 'Okay.' 'What do you want to do there?' 'I don't know.' 'I want to go to the British Museum.' 'Okay.' 'I'd like to go to the Tate Modern.' 'Okay.' 'Another pint?' 'Yes please.' And so it went.

Saturday morning and luck was on our side, an absolutely beautiful morning. I strolled with a few of my compatriots to the bus stop on route to the train station. After the normal morning niceties I bravely asked Scott, a fellow New Mexican (viva la raza!), 'About how may people are coming, do you think?' 'Well,' pause,'I think I told the Fins, a few Spanish girls, one or two of the Germans, perhaps the guys from Hong Kong, and us five.' 'Oh okay. Just curious.'

It should be known that the trains are absolutely wonderful in the UK. Sharp, fast, clean, easy to handle, quick to the helm...my, they are yar. (You know you've hit a new low when you make a Katherine Hepburn reference that has no relevance at all to what you're describing and most people have probably never heard of, simply to use the word yar.) Nevertheless the trains in these parts are a dream. Five pound ten to travel into London and use the tube all day is something that should be cherished like a new born child. Unless, of course, you find yourself in an undesirable seat.

Now it should be known that really I am in absolutely no position to complain, especially after Peter's delightful experience on the trains in China, but I just thought I would share with you a small, tiny, itsy (wait for it) bitsy, quasi-comical episode aboard the train.

But now that I've built it up, I find it unfunny and uninteresting and I'm regretting making something out of it. So, quickly, I sat between two of the Germans in our party (which came out to be 16) who talked most of the way in a pleasant and deliciously tasteful mixture of German and English, which I call Germlish. Then to include me, as I must of have looked rather sad or depressed or constipated, they asked me about American swear words. So they had a jolly ol' time, along with the 80 year-old refined and no-doubt appalled British couple sitting in front of us, trying out what you could and couldn't say on American TV. But you know me, I can't complain.

Then, just when I thought all hope was lost, we pulled into Waterloo Station and disembarked into the busiest and most frequented train station in the UK.

See what I did there?

Right off the bat. Off to England? Yes Surrey. Bang. See if you read it like yes sirree, it really is quite a delightful play on words. Also, it gives an idea where this blog is coming from. A tad of playfulness, a touch of sentimentality, a drop of merriness, and a bushel load of fun. (Also, there is a good chance that there will be an amazing amount of alliteration (as well as unnecessary parenthetical asides)) So sit back, relax, grab a coffee, curl up to the fire with loved ones, and enjoy what I have to offer you (note: Sir Nate does not advise drinking coffee while on the computer as it could be hazardous to your health and general safety, nor does he advise sitting near a fire with an electrical device, nor does he guarantee that what he has to offer will be enjoyable.).

Oh and by the way, I am also attempting to become a knight of Her Majesty's Crown, but we'll get to that later.