Gypsy at Heart

Day 5: More Religious and Artistic Adventures

2009-12-04T09:14:00.004-05:00

After a restless night due to a party going on upstairs in our building (to which I was NOT invited), we drank cups of coffee with our fresh croissants and a cold slice of quiche I bought for breakfast. Although we had already been to Notre-Dame, we had had to leave right after Mass so we opted to start our day there and finish enjoying all the little side chapels.

My favorite part of the Cathedral by far is a little round painting in the ceiling right over the main altar. It depicts Our Lady against a blue starry background. The medieval simplicity of it was delightful and I just sat and gazed at it until my neck was killing me and I got dizzy. Unfortunately, the church was too dark to take a good photograph so bare memory will have to suffice.

One thing we missed seeing the first time around at Notre-Dame was the treasury. We had to pay a few euros to get in but it was well worth it, despite the advice of shoestring (and irreligious) travel guru Rick Steves. The treasury was filled with ornate gold reliquaries dating between the 11th and 17th centuries, St. Louis' white robe and religious chain, huge wooden vestment cabinets painted with colorful scenes from St. Louis' life, and a collection of tiny ivory cameos of every Pope from St. Peter to Pope Benedict XVI. All but the most recent six cameos, made to complete the collection last year, were anonymously gifted to the Cathedral. Simply beautiful.

Above: The baptismal robe of King Louis IX, aka St. Louis

The folding doors of the vestment wardrobe, painted with scenes from the life of St. Louis

Outside Notre-Dame, we found the outlines in stone of the church that Clovis originally built on the site, one that held St. Genevieve's tomb for awhile. Also in the courtyyard of the Cathedral is a stone that marks the very center of Paris.

Statues of the Kings of Judah on the outside of Notre-Dame. The heads are modern reproductions; the originals were destroyed during the French Revolution when they were mistaken for French kings. However, you can still see the originals in the Medieval Museum at Cluny.

We continued to walk around Notre-Dame, past the sobering Memorial de la Deportation erected in memory of the Jewish people killed during WWII, and across the bridge to the Ile St. Louis, by far my the most charming spot in all of Paris. We got some of their famous ice cream (mine was chocolate and hazelnut) and walked up and down the r. St. Louis to do some serious window shoping. The streets are lovely: street performers play music and visiters enjoy open air cafes. There are signs on store windows though: don't dare to bring your delicious ice cream cones inside!

Point Zero in Paris, and our feet.

Another bridge took us back to the mainland, where our next stop was to be the Centre Georges Pompidou, a modern art gallery that most Parisians detest because it is an eyesore with its daring exposed ductwork and exterior escalators. But while we walked we stopped to visit two churches, St. Gervais, whose organ was used by the famous Couperin dynasty, and St. Merri, originally a beloved parish church that is now sadly - tragically - delapidated and now houses more pigeons and homeless than worshippers. Jesus was there, only signalled by the burning lamp. It made me cry; a church should never be so abandoned. It gave me a taste of what a dusty, cobwebbed soul must be like when a man has forgotten the King of His Heart and shoved him in a dark corner.

At the Pompidou, Mommy and I picked our way amongst sunbathers in the courtyard (yes, sunbathers) to the entrace, rode the escalators, peered at the library that was Mommy's old haunt, and finally wandered into the galleries of Picasos and other works upstairs. I am particularly fond of modern sculpture, and found one piece to be most telling: an empty frame with twine and labels tied around it, signifying (to me anyway) how art is mostly labels and trimmings these days, without any real substance or soul.

Mommy was really tired at this point, so she gave me the map and went back to rest. I got my bearings for another sidewalk-bonding session, and walked a rather long way to the Louvre. The Louvre began its life as the second palace of the French kings after they left the Conciergerie, and only later became an art museum. As with most other French buildings (Notre-Dame, Versailles, La Conciergerie, and Sainte Chapelle to name a few), it was at one point going to be razed and was only narrowly saved by a few far-seeing persons who donated money to save it. The new entrance - it wasn't there when Mommy lived in Paris - was very nice, with big cafe's, shops and staircases that were quite pleasing to the eye.

My feet were already killing me and I am not a huge fan of paintings, so I picked a few things to see. I made sure to walk through the Egyptian, Green and Roman galleries (I found Celeste's temple of Zeus and the Venus de Milo) and the medeival and Italian Renaissance galleries (I found some of my favorite religious paintings of St. Francis of Assisi and the Madonna). And, of course, I saw the Mona Lisa. Why is she so famous? I am sure I can't tell you. In my opinion the painting is sort of small and there are far prettier portraits in the gallery. But I took my photo (photos are allowed in French museums) and moved on.

It was hard to decide to be more impressed by the artwork or the fact that the French royals once lived here with their entire court. I don't think I would have minded living there. It was fun to imagine artists lazing around the galleries where the art is now displayed, artists that more often than not were like leeches on the crown.

I took the metro back via the Louvre stop, accessible in the basement of the museum at the center of the basement shopping mall, complete with a Starbucks. I met Mommy back at the room, and we went out for dinner at a creperie near r. Montorguiel. It was a nice place with a family atmosphere. We each bought two crepes, one for dinner and one for dessert. My dinner was one made with egg, cheese, ham and sweet onion, and the dessert one was a chocolate (yay!) crepe with whipped cream.

The Friday night parties had already started on r. Montmartre as we walked home. It looked to be another loud night in our apartment building. We called home to talk to family in the U.S. and went to bed.

Day 4: Who is Buried in Napolean's Tomb?

2009-12-03T08:54:00.008-05:00

Above: Our apartment building on r. Montmartre

After my morning walk to the bakery for croissants and (this time) a scrumptious chocolat almande, Mommy and I enjoyed coffee and breakfast in our apartment. The French do not sell cream or half-and-half for your coffee; rather, they sell bottles of "demi-creme" that are more syrupy than milky. We tried that for a couple of days and decided that we had better just buy plain milk instead. There is nothing like French milk in your coffee, smooth and thick. In Parisian laid-back fashion, we relished our breakfast before hitting the sidewalk for a rather chilly day of sightseeing.

(The metro stop at Bourse)

We came out of the metro right in front of Les Invalides, the huge veterans' hospital built by Louis XIV which now houses in part an Army Museum in addition to a contemporary military hospital. For a few hours, we ooed and ahed over an enormous collection of armour, weaponry, and artillery pieces from the middle ages through WWII. This museum was the one place I was told I simply had to see by friends in the Fort McHenry Guard. The collection is truly a royal one that must be worth billions of dollars.

The imposing inner courtyard of Les Invalides

A magnificent display of armour in the Musee de L'Armee

A priest's uniform from WWI

At the center of Les Invalides was our next stop, Napolean's Tomb. The chapel is split into two halves by a glass windowpane in the center, on either side of which are grand altars. Originally, Louis XIV built the chapel so that he could attend private Masses there knowing that his army was nearby, in their own chapel on the other side of a glass divider. Now, with the focal point of the king's side of the chapel being the magnificent tomb of the emperor, all that is left to testify to Louis are the sun carvings and the "L"s carved in the stone all over the walls and ceiling.

The dome/ceiling of the king's chapel at Les Invalides

Napolean has long been a favorite fascination of mine for his brilliant military innovations and for his involvement in a period of history when the Church owned land and fought wars. I am fairly certain that, had I been alive, Napolean would have fallen in love with me over Josephine. ;)

The Emperor Napolean

Before leaving Les Invalides, we visited the veteran's chapel "on the other side" of the glass where the veterans still attend Mass. The upper ceiling is lined with captured enemy flags, dusty and mainly gray with age, a testament to the valiant Frenchmen who fought and continue to fight in service of their country. The rest of the chapel was sparsely decorated, but I thought the muted tones of the stonework and the way the light played around the chapel was breathtaking. It was one of my two favorite churches that we visited in Paris.

The veteran's chapel at Les Invalides

Mommy was getting tired, so she took the metro to the Champs-Elysees while I walked to meet her there. I must say I *adore* walking around the streets of Paris, drinking in the sights of people and places and getting in touch with the pulse of the city through the sidewalks. I could do it for the rest of my life! On my way to the world-famous avenue, I loitered on the grandiose Pont Alexandre III (built in honor of the Franco-Prussian alliance) and waved to boat captains in their cargo ships on the Seine before going on my way. I got twisted around and ended up at Pl. de la Concorde with its obelisk. I had no idea where I was until I noticed that everyone around me was taking picture of something in the opposite direction. I turned around, and there in front of me, down the Champs-Elysees, was the magnificent Arc de Triomphe.

Then I realized I was standing in the middle of the road and had to make a mad dash for the sidewalk.

Pont Alexandre III

The Champs-Elysees was fun for window shopping (Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Renault are a few of the stores that line the avenue) but there were too many people for it to be truly enjoyable. Possibly the most amusing experience was walking into the Gucci store - not to buy, but to say that I had been inside - and I overheard an English gentleman apologetically telling his female companion about the Gucci keychains ($80 each!): "Honey, just pick three." When I found Mommy, we went to a sidewalk cafe for cafe au lait, a pignelle (for Mommy) and a pain suisse (for me). Then we continued to the Arc de Triomphe.

The Arc de Triomphe, seen from the Champs-Elysees

At the Arc, begun but not finished by Napolean in honor of his military victories, I got to flirt with a group of dashing French soldiers (with their HUGE gold epaulets) in between taking pictures from the top of the Arc of sprawling Paris below and visiting the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Mommy went back to the room when we were done, and I walked back down the Champs-Elysees before catching a metro back myself. The metro trains are interesting because you have the added excitement of having to manually flip a latch to open the doors on the train. I ran right into several train doors before I remembered that they weren't automatic.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

For dinner, I went and bought quiche for the two of us on r. Montorgueil. Bon Appetit!

Paris from the top of the Arc de Triomphe

Day 3: Beauty, Passion, Religion, Justice and History

2009-12-02T08:15:00.010-05:00

I woke up bright and early and braved the morning chill to run down to one of the local bakeries (boulangeries), Pâtisserie Traiteur, to buy two fresh croissants and a pain suisse. I think I was wholly addicted to French baked goods at first bite; I don't believe I will ever forget my first mouthful of flaky, buttery croissant. While I went to the bakery, Mommy made coffee and we enjoyed our first French breakfast before heading out into the city.
In our search for a phone the night before, we found a métro stop, Bourse, that was much closer than that recommended by Giovanni. We took the métro to pl. du Châtelet - my première glimpse of downtown Paris - to start a walking tour. To my delight, Mommy had picked out a fabulous series of books of walking tours of Paris before our trip. You could see the medieval towers of La Conciergerie across the bridge from pl. du Châtelet where we stood at the fountain surrounded by stone sphinx. We strolled down quai de la megisserie and back again, looking in pet store windows at adorable puppies and smelling flowers outside florists' shops, ironically on a street that used be lined by butcher shops.

Next, we crossed the bridge to visit La Conciergerie. Originally the palace of the French kings, it was vacated by the royal family after one king endured the scarring episode of seeing his ministers' throats slit when he was (unsuccessfully) attacked there during an (equally passionate but unsuccessful) uprising. The sturdy medieval building was then converted to a prison for use during the Revolution, when Robespierre presided over trials where the kings used to dine. Marie Antoinette was also held there until her death - you can see her "apartments" - and Robespierre spend a few of his final hours there before he was taken elsewhere to die, crushed by the unstoppable machinery of the Revolution.On our way out, we found out from a Jason-Statham-esque "bouncer" that Sainte Chapelle was close for an hour or two. So we continued on our walking tour via a cafe nearby, where we paused for café au lait.We crossed Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris dating to the medieval period, to the Île de la Cite. We meandered through the streets, peeking into shop windows and thouroughly enjoying the quiet parks. Finally, we visited the very tip of the île, a park called pl. Dauphine, before heading back to Sainte Chapelle to stand in line.

Sainte Chapelle was absolutely incredible, with its "light as a feather" Gothic architecture and four walls of nearly floor to ceiling stained glass telling the story of the Pentateuch. St. Louis built the chapelle to house the relics of the crown of thorns that Christ wore, which are now housed in Notre Dame. In stark contrast with the "Sun King" who built his chapel at Versailles in two levels so the court would always be worshipping him worshipping God, there is a hole in the wall of Sainte Chapelle through which you can see the private chapel where he and his family used to sit for Mass. There was no way to fully soak in the beauty of the windows.On our way our we stopped by the modern-day court of law, the Palais de Justis, where lawyers in black robes rushed about with briefcases and cell phones. I wish professionals were distinguished be such honors in the United States; only doctors of medicine wear special clothes. There is one large statue in the main hall of the Palais of a lawyer with a turtle, to symbolize the pace of the legislative process.We walked past the Préfecture du Police on our way to la Crypte Archéologique outside of Notre-Dame. The crypt contains what is left of the Roman ruins of Paris, ruins of the medieval Norman city, and of St. Vincent de Paul's home for foundlings. One of the things that impressed me was the Roman presence in the city, marked by the majestic Roman baths. The power of the Roman Empire was incredible; it just fascinates me that you can see exactly the same style baths in England, France, and Italy amongst other places in Europe. Regardless, if you want a decent history of Paris from the Celtic tribe of Parisii, Clovis and the Normans up to the 17th century, the crypt is a fabulous place to start. It houses awesome little panoramas of the changing scenery of Paris over the centuries.Notre-Dame itself was breathtaking. After spending so much time in England where the Catholic churches were either taken over by Protestants or are too poor to have centuries of dust cleaned off the walls, it was refreshing to see a living, breathing Catholic church in Europe. There were posters for the Year of the Priest along the side corridor, priests hearing Confessions in several languages, and worship continuing as usual despite thousands of visitors. After walking around to look at the place where Mommy was a Shrine-lurker in college, we stayed for Vespers and Mass.We swung by the Hôtel Dieu, a huge public hospital, on our way to the metro. Back at the room, we enjoyed a baguette and cheese from the local cheese-shop (fromagerie) for dinner before falling asleep.

Day 2: Settling into Parisian Life

2009-10-23T09:50:00.005-04:00

We arrived at CDG airport in Paris at 8:00AM. While waiting for our luggage, I got to gorge myself on the sight of fashionable Parisians, wearing boots, leggings, layers of necklaces, scarves, and gorgeous overcoats. We caught the shuttle to the train terminal, stood in line for what seemed like forever for RER tickets, and finally got on the train headed for Paris proper.

Tired, we got to the metro stop near our apartment and recommended by our rental place. But we were an hour or so late in arriving and could not find Giovanni (the landlord) anywhere and instead had to search high and low for a phone to call him. Eventually we called home because we were having trouble making local calls, and Celeste called Giovanni to tell him we were waiting outside the apartment building.

He met us outside and showed us up the creaky stairs – two flights – to our apartment. It
was a one-room place, with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a very clean shower (!). He
gave me the keys, I gave him a security deposit, and we were left alone to relax and regroup.
Since we were exhausted, we decided to explore the local scene on Rue Montorgeuil. On that charming street are bakeries, fromageries, poissoneries, a supermarché, and several cafés. It was very lively, mostly populated by Parisians who do not speak much English.We bought quiche (Mommy had quiche lorraine and I had saumon) and café au lait for a light dinner, did our grocery shopping, and went back to the apartment, 36 r. Montmartre, apt. 9, to unpack and enjoy an early bedtime.

Paris Day 1: In the Air

2009-10-23T09:43:00.003-04:00

It was the morning after a wonderful, albeit draining, Defender’s Day weekend. At around 4AM, I dragged myself – still achy from hauling benches and tables from the tavern to the Fort - out of bed, drank my token two cups of coffee, and literally threw the rest of my stuff into my suitcase. Daddy had taken the day off to help us get out the door, and he and the girls dropped Mommy and I off at the airport in D.C. Everyone was a little sad, especially Mommy, but excited at the same time.

Our flights, from Washington to Philly and from Philly to Paris, were mercifully uneventful. While in Philly, we spent a few hours at the USO lounge on the recommendation of my Aunt V., which was very nice. I had an interesting conversation with a tall, imposing African American man who I later discovered was a three-star general. Also, to add a little excitement, our gate was changed from one end of the airport to the other in Philadelphia so Mommy rode in the cart and I ran. Finally in line for our flight, we met some nice elderly people on their way to Normandy.

In-flight entertainment included “The Proposal”, “Star Trek”, and “Monsters, Inc.”. Embarrassingly, I did fall asleep for an hour or so whilst watching “Star Trek”. But it was fitful and I eventually gave up on sleeping.

Day 9: Taronga Zoo and the SOH

2008-08-11T10:57:00.002-04:00

Once again, Celeste and I were up bright and early to greet the Australian morning. I said good morning to my new bathroom-line friends, the French priests, between whom I stood for the second morning in a row. They gave me very strange looks and continued their own conversation, apparently holding my French accent against me.

This morning we headed down to Circular Quay to take the ferry to Taronga Zoo. This was to be our first ferry ride in Sydney. Freezing cold wind and rain ripped right through us while we stood on the dock, and it was then I decided I was going to have to buy a pair of gloves soon or die. Still in shock with cold, we met two women who volunteered at the zoo and they recommended some shows and exhibits to us.

It must be amazing to commute by ferry as so many people do in Sydney! That is one thing that I love about that city; I would almost want to live there just to take the ferry all the time. This particular ferry route took us around the Sydney Opera House and straight to Taronga Zoo. Like other forms of public transportation in Sydney, the ferry was quite nice, with three floors, a café, and interior heating.

The weather was still nasty when we arrived at Taronga, and would remain so the rest of the morning. After making sure to get our pilgrim discounts at the ticket counter, we zipped through the practically empty zoo in about two hours. I was so excited to see a platypus! The creatures are extremely shy, and we had to walk back to the cage several times and wait before we actually spied one, hiding under a log in its swampy environment.

Finally, wet to the bone, we decided to take the Skycar – a little suspended car that takes you back and forth over the zoo – up and down the zoo before we left. It was amazing to see everything from above. We ran from the zoo exit to the ferry and climbed aboard. Half an hour later, we met the cousins at Starbucks and all warmed up over cups of hot coffee and warm scones while we made plans for the rest of the day.
Our next stop was the Sydney Opera House. Since the day was fine and sunny now, we mulled around the outside a while and took pictures before buying tickets for a tour of the inside. The inside of the Opera House is just as magnificent as the outside, despite the fact that the building is so recent that construction is still ongoing. Approximately 85% of the SOH is finished inside; the rest has yet to be torn apart and done according to the original visionaries' plans.

My list of ideas for sightseeing that I put together before the trip included a Ghost Walk at Manly Quarantine Station, and everyone thought it would be an excellent evening for it. Thus we caught the ferry to Manly together. Everyone was starving by the time we arrived, so we wandered about the boardwalk until we found a kebab place. The little eatery was run by a Kurdish guy and his parents (who used to own a Mexican restaurant), and we decided to eat there when they could indeed tell us where the Ghost Tour met every night. I ordered pide (my new favorite) and proceeded to leave a rather large tip: I left my entire bag of souvenirs from the SOH under the table and never was able to retrieve them!

The last bus of the evening took us from the Manly Wharf to the Quarantine Station and dropped us there. The bus stop was in the middle of nowhere, and it was pitch black, cold, and rainy. I wondered what on earth the "Quarantine Station" was...a field? A wood? Anyway, we saw a shed peering out of the dark and made our way inside to escape the cold and figure out what to do next. To our chagrin we found out, from a brochure laying on the floor inside the shed, that the ghost tours were by appointment only and one needed to call ahead of time. While we gathered our thoughts and tried to devise a plan to get back to town without a bus, we wandered around the dark shed looking at huge horrific photographs of people with smallpox lining the walls.

The Quarantine Station, we read on the plaques by the one suspended and bare lightbulb in the middle of the shed, was where crowded ships were diverted and landed when there was the suspicion of a smallpox outbreak on board. All passengers were unloaded and herded like cattle into huge and painful acid showers in an attempt to "decontaminate" them. After this ordeal, everyone was forced to stay at the station under quarantine for at least three weeks, all within sight of their final destination, the city of Sydney. Apparently, both the acid showers and the hospital are well known for the high levels of "paranormal" activity that takes place there.

Sufficiently creeped out and cold at this point, we wondered what on earth we were going to do. I wandered outside and just looked out into the blackness, blaming myself for getting my cousins into this mess. Suddenly, a man walked out of the dark and gave me an awful start! He was quite friendly, said hello, and asked if I needed any help; his name was Robert and according to his name tag he was a shuttle driver at the Station. Once I had my wits about me again, I told him what our situation was and he offered to give us all a bus tour of the place in his little shuttle bus, *and* to drive us back to town afterwards. We accepted and climbed aboard the bus.

"Robert the Bus Driver" showed us around the Quarantine Station for about an hour an a half, and even let us into the museum for a run-through and the acid showers to "feel the paranormal activity". It was really creepy and cold in there...I made myself slowly...walk...in...and out of the showers. Brrr. Celeste hid her face in my arm when we got back on the bus she was so frightened.

On the way back to town, Robert told us about the actual Ghost Walk, where you walk around the place accompanied by a medium! We looked at each other in horror: I had no idea that was part of the Walk. Praise God we missed it! It was definitely Providence that helped us out of that one. How horrible that would have been.

Robert dropped us off at the wharf, we all bid a fond goodbye, and we headed back to Randwick and warm sleeping bags. The French and Malaysians were gone and we had the entire physical therapy room to ourselves, so Steven stayed with us on the floor.

Note

2008-08-07T09:46:00.002-04:00

I am going away for the weekend, so "Day 8" will be the last post until Monday. Stay tuned! :)

Day 8: The Blue Mountains

2008-08-07T09:37:00.003-04:00

I was up and about before the sun on our first real day as tourists rather than pilgrims. Apparently French clergy also wake up at ungodly hours, because I found myself in line to wash up between two French priests. But even they needed their cup of coffee in the morning, something they hadn’t had as yet or so I surmised from their remarks au Francais to one another over my head.

After I was ready, I roused Celeste and went to breakfast in the cafeteria while I waited for her. We ate a quick meal of Wheetabix, prunes, and toast and were off to the bus stop, proudly wearing our brightly colored WYD backpacks and with a bounce in our step. Because we were still unfamiliar with the bus route, we ended up getting off a little ways before our stop and had to walk the rest of the way to the YHA (Youth Hostel Australia) where we were told to meet our tourbus.

Our tourguide, John, a middle-aged man with long gray hair he pulled back into a ponytail, sunglasses, and a gentle Aussie accent, picked us up about half an hour late to take us to the Blue Mountains for the day. On our way out of the city, he picked up a group of pilgrims from Texas, a group from Brazil, and a guy from NC who was just visiting Sydney on his way to the outback. The merry group completed, we continued the two hour drive out to the foothills of the Blue Mountains, a World Heritage Site.

Why are the Blue Mountains blue? No one seems to know. The name is misleading as well, since the Blue Mountains are not mountains at all, but a plateau full of eroded gorges. And the site is not simply a geological beauty; the plateau has a thick layer of coal throughout the gorges, the remnant of the lush tropical rainforests that used to cover New South Wales. A large amount of coal exported from Australia is mined in the Blue Mountains.

Upon our arrival in the foothills, we all got out of the van to stretch our legs a bit. To our delight we spied two adult kangaroos grazing on grass along the edges of the wood where we stopped. We were able to get pretty close (about four feet away) from the creatures. It was my first glimpse of a real-life kangaroo and I must admit I was really excited! One of the ‘roos even had a joey in the pouch, which was absolutely adorable.

When the kangaroos had hopped away, John led us over to a low wooden table where he had set out supplies for coffee and tea: hot water, instant coffee, tea bags, sugar and milk. He told us about the different kinds of wildlife in the area while we finished waking up. Then we were back in the van and off to the top of the plateau, via a deli where most of us bought sandwiches for lunch.

At the top, John split us up into two groups, one that would continue in the van for the next three hours, and one that would follow Dennis (another tourguide who met us at this point) for a three-hour hike down into one of the gorges and back up again. Both Celeste and I were in this latter group, along with some of the Texans, the realtor from NC, and all the Brazilians. Soon enough we were off at a fast clip down the side of the gorge.

We enjoyed a lively three hours eating berries from the bushes along the trail, snapping pictures of strange plants, chatting with the North Carolinian about his trip and with the Texans (who seemed to think I was in high school), and simply taking in the waterfalls, cliffs, and other sights we encountered along the way. It was at about this point that one of the Brazilians – the only one who spoke relatively good English – started flirting with me. We hit it off pretty well, I would say, despite the language barrier. (Below: my Brazilian friend)

Tired but happy, we eventually met up with John again and his van. The drive back to Sydney seemed long, perhaps only because I was falling asleep the whole time. I couldn’t believe how cold it was outside! How strange to leave the United States during summer and visit Sydney in the wintertime. I never thought I’d be wearing a heavy coat and scarf in July. (Below: The famous Three Sisters rock formation in the Blue Mountains)

We climbed out of the van in Sydney, and I was promptly stopped by my delighted Brazilian friend who alighted at the same stop. He invited me out for dinner and drinks, but alas! I didn’t feel right bringing Celeste wherever he wanted to go and was forced to turn down his offer. I consoled him by giving him my contact info, and Leste and I made our way to the local McDonalds for a cheap (thanks to the free passes handed out for WYD), quick dinner. I suppose we could have gone on to the convent for dinner, but neither of us relished the idea of serving 200 French pilgrims again so soon.

We rolled back into the convent at around 9PM and went to bed. I think I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow! (Wait – what pillow?) Our cousins were nowhere to be found, having gone to a show that night at the Lyric.

Day 7: Spoons and Darling Harbor

2008-08-06T11:59:00.002-04:00

Everyone slept in a bit this morning in an attempt to recover from the night/day at Randwick on Saturday. The girls were off of school until Thursday, so when we were finished breakfast Celeste and I rolled up our sleeves to teach our host family a new game: spoons! Ah, the delights of spoons. I treasure fond memories of spoons tournaments at family reunions, sometimes resulting in dramatics injuries. Thankfully, our host family was less – may I say? – violent and no one was hurt. They were kind enough to compliment us on our excellent card-shuffling skills as well.

After the spoons game, we bid our “Australian family” farewell and Alma drove us to the train station with all our baggage. We took the train to Central Station, and hopped on a bus from there that would take us out to the Little Sisters of the Poor convent right next door (practically!) to Randwick Racecourse.

The residence/convent in Randwick was huge and they had about 240 pilgrims from France and Brazil staying there when we arrived. We deposited our things in a linen closet until the Sisters could find somewhere for us to sleep, and we followed Sister Julie (from Washington DC) to the kitchen where she promised to find us some lunch. One of the volunteers, a wonderful lady named Anita, gave us some food which we quickly ate before offering our assistance in serving the roughly one hundred hungry French pilgrims who had just come into the cafeteria.

An hour and a great deal of running around later, Celeste and I grabbed our little backpacks and caught the bus back to downtown Sydney to run some errands. Since our transport passes only extended through 7/21, the first thing on my list was to buy week-long combo tickets for unlimited bus, train, and ferry rides. Praise God, the woman at the ticket window was very patient and helped me choose the cheapest ticket option (which only cost $43) rather than the one I planned to buy which cost $180 per person. What a lifesaver!

While we were trying to decide what to do with the rest of our afternoon, Celeste snapping pictures of the Harbor and me wading through the dozens of maps and brochures I had collected, our cousins called. They had dropped their luggage off at the convent earlier in the morning, had by now finished their errands, and wanted to meet. We selected a meeting spot near the wharves and were soon a happy group of five (Steven was too tired and stayed back at the convent). Meanwhile, Rob called (three times for 30 seconds each!) and wanted to meet up with us as well. The Walkers wanted to do some souvenir shopping at the Hyde Park WYD tent, so I told Rob we would meet him there.

I snapped pictures of the fountain and was startled out of my wits by a curious policeman peering over my shoulder; Celeste continued to absentmindedly take pictures of everything around her; and the Walkers went shopping. Eventually, Rob met up with us – much to his dismay, he was the only guy with Steven out of action – and we decided that dinner would be an excellent idea. Off we went to Darling Harbor to find something to eat.

Without too much difficulty, we found a place on the Harbor with reasonably-priced meat pies (famous in Australia) and secured a table. The back-and-forth between five women and the one guy at the table was quite amusing, and Rob held his own stunningly. When we were finished we walked around Darling a bit until Anne remembered that she needed to buy hairpins. Rob groaned – he is constantly teasing about female shopping habits – and accompanied us to Woolworths to find the hairpins. Rob and I meandered about the store awhile, catching up on CUA news, and Rob tracked down some saline solution for our contact lenses since we had (ridiculously) forgotten to pack any. (Below: dinner at Darling Harbor!)

At this point Rob split off from the group and headed back to the hostel where he was staying, and the rest of us headed back to the convent. Our things had been moved the physical therapy room, where we all spent the night cozily on the floor with forty other girls from France and Spain. Ah the joys of being a WYD pilgrim!

Photo Supplement!

2008-08-05T08:53:00.003-04:00

Again, with a hat tip to Celeste and her stunning skills in photography.

Supper at Randwick over our sleeping bags.

Celeste, Anne and Janice try to keep warm on an Australian winter night!

Rob: "Stop taking pictures of me."

Smile for the camera!

Pope Benedict's reaction to the announcement of the 2011 WYD in Madrid.

Post-Randwick. We didn't want to walk another step.

Posing with Dominique and Joe, our Catechesis leaders.

Day 6: The Closing Mass

2008-08-05T08:26:00.003-04:00

The night at Randwick really blended together with the next morning, as a group of pilgrims behind us woke our group up at roughly 3AM with their bongo-drum playing. Eventually they tired of playing drums, and we fell back to sleep until ~5AM, when a cheer was started from the back of the racecourse (“Wake up the pilgrims!” :::clapclap clapclap clapclap::: ad infinitum) to wake up 200,000 pilgrims for the Closing Mass of WYD ’08. (Below: the pilgrims begin to wake up. Above: Wake up, Celeste!)

We ate breakfast while still curled up in our sleeping bags, and joined in Morning Prayer led by a group of seminarians far away on the stage. We were still trying to get up the courage to crawl out of our sleeping bags into the cold morning air when the Pope’s helicopter flew overhead. I jumped out to wave “good morning” to the Holy Father. The helicopter soon landed and the Pope began his long trek back and forth through the crowd in his Popemobile to greet the pilgrims. The Closing Mass was open to the public, so at this point there were about 350,000 pilgrims present at least. Once again I was within 20 feet of the Holy Father. These are moments you never forget. (Below: Steven snaps a picture of the Holy Father as he passes by)

After the Mass, the Holy Father announced the location of WYD 2011: Madrid, Spain! We had had “Catholic bets” going of rosaries, etc. for the past few days about where it would be held, and I came out on top so I was quite pleased. The Pope was adorable and obviously excited to announce the next WYD. We are incredibly blessed to have such a Holy Father at this time. I love him to death and just want to give him a hug.

We began our long trek back to our accommodations (it wasn’t a 10k, but it was 4k to the nearest rail station) and in the meantime lost our Indiana friends in the crowd. Once we were back at Belmore, the Sukkars hadn’t come back yet from Randwick themselves so Leste and I went out to a little Turkish shop in town for pizza (for Leste) and pide (for me) and chatted with Fr. Augustine, the pastor of St. Joseph’s who is originally from India. Eventually the buses from St. Joseph’s came back (with the Sukkars on board) and Leste and I said our goodbyes to Joe and Dominique before going to dinner with the Sukkars at a local Thai restaurant. Yum! (Below: Central train station post-Randwick)

After nice hot showers at their house, we all curled up on the couches in their living room with steaming cups of coffee and plates of the famous Lebonese sweets to watch the network coverage of the Closing Mass. Robert’s brother joined us for a while as well, and soon Leste and I drifted off to bed and sleep.

Day 5: The Pilgrimage

2008-08-04T08:03:00.007-04:00

While it was still dark in Belmore, Celeste and I arose and packed our things for the overnight stay at Randwick. Stealthily, we gulped down our coffee without waking Alma (or so we thought), and snuck out of the house. Well, it turns out that she was awake and in fact beat us to the car and insisted on driving us to St. Joseph’s, where we were meeting Katerina and Theresa to begin the long day. Together, and armed with sleeping bags and floor pads, the four of us caught the train to the Domain for the U.S. Gathering and Mass. (Above: our cousin Janice at the US Gathering!)

Cardinal Francis George (from Chicago) celebrated the Mass, and a large number of U.S. Cardinals concelebrated, including our own Cardinal McCarrick from Washington, DC. It was really refreshing to hear American accents again – who knew that we would miss them so much? The music for the Mass was provided by popular worship leader Steve Angrisano and…wait for it…MATT MAHER! I have to admit one of the coolest moments of the trip was seeing Matt bow and receive Communion on the tongue.

Also, I saw another familiar face at the Domain: that of (now) Father John Rapisarda from Baltimore, MD. I am always crossing paths with that guy! We actually met back at Mount 2008 at Mt. St. Mary’s in Emmitsburg while he was a Deacon, and chatted awhile. He has such a cheery manner and gentle disposition, and is just one of those people who you know is anchored securely to the bedrock foundation of our Catholic faith.

After Mass the cousins and I gathered along with our Indiana friends to begin the arduous 10k pilgrim walk to Randwick Racecourse outside of Sydney. At this point the general giddiness was at its height throughout the city, and Sydnians came out in droves to wave at the pilgrims and cheer us on from the walkways, buildings, and sidestreets. It felt – truly – like the story in the Bible about King David dancing in front of the Ark of the Covenant. The pilgrims were singing and dancing their way to Randwick, across the Harbor Bridge and through the streets of Sydney. (Below: pilgrims walk across the Harbor Bridge)

During the pilgrim walk we had one of the most amazing encounters of the entire trip. We spent part of the walk marching alongside a large group of pilgrims from Iraq. When we first realized where they were from and fearful of starting some kind of international incident in a politically charged situation, we sort of put our heads down and tried to look inconspicuous (with our U.S. flags sticking out everywhere, of course). Suddenly, we heard a cheer from the left (where the Iraqi group was) of: “God Bless America! God Bless America! God Bless America!” There were brilliant smiles on our fellow pilgrims’ faces, and we responded likewise with a jubilant “God bless Iraq! God bless Iraq! God bless Iraq!” It gives me goosebumps just to recall the moment. (Below: pilgrims walk through a residential area of Sydney)

When we finally arrived at Randwick, we realized that we were such a small group that we could probably get away with sitting away from our assigned area (i.e. wherever we could fit) so we sought the perfect spot. Our little group split up to maximize our search area. Celeste and I found ourselves alone, and lo and behold we spied a dear seminarian friend of mine – Rob – asking for information from a volunteer! There were cheery greetings all around before Leste and I headed off to find a good spot. We all ended up setting up camp in I5, where we couldn’t see the stage at all but we had an excellent view of one of the giant screens set up “for our convenience”.

Our group settled down and started a card game with some friends of our cousins while we waited for the Evening Vigil with the Pope to start. Celeste expressed an interest in a cup of hot chocolate, so I went with her to buy one. By happenstance we “ran into” Rob again, and he accompanied us to the hot chocolate tent and then came back to hang out at our campsite. We all had a great time, and he spent the rest of the evening with us.

The Holy Father arrived for the Evening Vigil, and after Adoration (in front of an impressive 8 ft. monstrance!) the Pope did Benediction. It was truly amazing to have the Pope bless the crowd. I was breathless.

(Above: Randwick at sunset) As soon as the Holy Father left, we all said goodnight, Rob left, and everyone fell right to sleep under the stars. My last memory of the night is of a clear, beautiful sky full of stars over my head.

Video Supplement: Rowdy Germans on the train!

2008-08-02T19:40:00.002-04:00

Photo Supplement!

2008-08-02T19:11:00.005-04:00

I have begged Celeste to let me post some of her pictures as we go along, because many of hers are better than mine, and she granted permission. With all due credit....

Above: Me, along with my hard-core Kelty backpack.

Matt signing autographs at the Love and Life Site.

That's me with MATT MAHER!!!! How cool is that?!

Taking in my second Matt Maher concert at Bondi Beach.

Leste and I pose with our host family.

The Holy Father arrives!

Christina hangs on my arm as we watch the Pope's arrival on the screens.

A Happy Birthday in Sydney, Australia!

Day 4: Stations of the Cross

2008-08-02T13:06:00.007-04:00

The day started early once again, and we got dressed quickly in several layers to try to beat the freezing cold. After the usual steaming hot cup of coffee with Alma, the younger girls woke up and the family surprised me with a birthday party, complete with chocolate cake and strawberry jelly (translation: jello). It was so nice of the Sukkars – I couldn’t believe it! They barely knew me and already they were throwing surprise parties.

Alma dropped us off at St. Joseph’s as usual for our final day of Catechesis. There were three things on the schedule for the day: the bishop from Bangladesh was to deliver the homily and celebrate Mass, it was tattoo day (we were all instructed ahead of time to wear our WYD08 tattoos provided in the backpacks somewhere visible), and banner day! For banner day we had to arrive a little early and decorate a banner for our group/parish to carry up in the procession during Mass. Celeste and I took great pride in putting together our “group of two” banner for St. Mary of the Assumption Catholic Church. I wish more parishioners had been able to be there. (Yes, that is our banner above. Check out my amazing artistic abilities! Hm - I've always been a better musician...)

As soon as Mass was over, we headed to our assigned site at Barangaroo to watch the Stations of the Cross. Because they closed Barangaroo early, we had to arrive a couple hours before Stations began. Meanwhile, we spread out one of our emergency blankets and I took notes for this travel log while Celeste dutifully wrote postcards. A couple guys from Perth were cruising around and introduced themselves. They hung out with us for a while and stuck around for Stations. (Below: the train filled with pilgrims and a couple smooshed citizens)

I found it fascinating to chat with more University students from Australia. After we got over THE QUESTION, I was able to ask them a couple questions about themselves and about their career prospects. One of the fellows was a student in medical school, and I made a comment about medical school paying off in the end. He corrected me and said that, in fact, truck drivers and miners with no secondary schooling at all make much more than doctors and other professionals.

I have heard that Stations were quite moving, but unfortunately we were situated so that we could neither see the stage at Barangaroo nor the large screens set up “for our convenience”. Out of the venues in Sydney, Barangaroo was by far my least favorite. It was just a wide flat concrete space on the harbor, with freezing cold wind coming off the water. I suppose that the flatness of the space was good for fitting more people, but it was horrible if you wanted to see anything at all.

(Above: Celeste digs into mystery stew, which we later found out contained lamb) When Stations were finished and the crowd thinned a bit, Leste and I pushed our way up towards the stage and laid our blanket down again for the “Receive the Power” concert. Thankfully, the cousins were able to meet us at this point. The concert was headlined by Hillsong (apparently popular in Australia, although I admit I wasn’t too impressed), speakers Sam Clear and John Pridmore, and (of course!) MATT MAHER! You just can’t have too much of Matt. (Below: Matt Maher at the "Receive the Power" concert)

As soon as Matt finished playing and before the concert was over, we all headed back to the train to go home. Celeste and I found ourselves traveling with a group of eight very rowdy Germans singing auf Deutsch at the top of their lungs all the way back to Belmore. I was happy to have an opportunity to practice some of my mean German-language skills.

Day 3 - Birthday Blessings and More

2008-08-01T08:37:00.003-04:00

This morning we were up early again for a big Sunday-style breakfast with the Sukkars. Robert stayed home from work a bit to meet and eat with us too. Because the whole family was there, Leste and I skipped most of Catechesis to spend time with them and just got to St. Joseph's in time for the Mass.

(Above: THE backpack) The bishop this time was from Ireland, and his homily was excellent. His topics included love as well as the meaning of vocation, both favorite topics of mine as many of you probably know. Interestingly, he criticized the modern emphasis on living your dreams and doing what you most desire in life. Instead he summed up what our attitude should be with a quote. He said that you should pray every day to "accept surprises that upset your plans. Shatter your dreams. Give a completely new turn to your day; perhaps your life." Let God into your life; make Him your dream and goal. Rely on Him and you will never be disappointed.

After we wandered over to the parish hall for lunch, which consisted of a 3 oz. can of tuna (either mixed with sweet corn or spices), a white roll, and a candy bar. This was to be our usual fare for the next several days. Volunteers handed out the lunches in packs of six, so Leste and I ate with two sisters from Indiana, Katerina and Theresa, a girl named Pam from Malaysia, and a guy named Tony from Singapore. Tony and I ended up talking about the differences between Singapore and America, and he gave a hilarious account of how we drive on the "wrong side of the road" in the U.S. Oh, and I found out what THE QUESTION is, a question that I would get many times throughout the next two weeks: are you a Democrat or a Republican? (You would think my answer would be obvious; I am and always will be a proud one-issue voter.) Janice asked someone from Canada why this mattered to foreigners when she was asked THE QUESTION, and his classic response was "Because you are a freakin' superpower, man!"

(Above: Joe, with the bandanna on his head) This time we tagged along with the parish group and the Act1v8 Team to go downtown for the Papal Arrival. The Sukkars joined us as well. Christina proudly strutted her stuff as an "American cowgirl" in a pair of black snowboots and a WYD bandanna wrapped around her neck. So cute! Some pilgrims from Sudan on the train found out it was my birthday (from Christina) and gave me a wooden bracelet as a gift. During the ride I got into conversation with Joe, who is an incredible inspiring guy. He sees his career as a way to support his family and give him time to work on his true vocation, helping the Church in any and all capacities. Awesome.

(Above: Alma and Christina rest at the Domain) We all headed to the Domain at Hyde Park to watch the Papal Arrival. The Domain is basically a big grassy field, with a big stage and giant screens. We watched the Pope's Boat-a-cade arrive in Sydney Harbor on television, as well as the welcome ceremony at Barangaroo. As soon as it was over and the motorcade started, Leste and I ran up to the fence lining the street, stationing ourselves across from some boisterous French pilgrims. They kept calling us Spanish because *one* person had a Spanish flag hanging over the fence!

(Above: (1) the boisterous French and (2) Circular Quay) About twenty minutes later, the Holy Father drove by, only 1.5m away from us! It was overwhelming and, as happened when he visited CUA and the Basilica in April, I found myself even unable to scream with joy. Every time I see him I am utterly speechless and can just extend my hands to him.

Celeste led me, armed with the map and trooping past hundreds of Cardinals on their way to the trains, to the location of my surprise birthday dinner in the Rocks at the Phillips Foote restaurant. Famously, at this place you choose your meat and get to grill it yourself on one of the huge barbies scattered amongst the tables. We waited outside for my cousins to meet us, and got hundreds of high-fives from the pilgrims (mostly guys, admittedly - my sister is a magnet) passing by on their way home. This prompted Celeste's classic comment: "Gee, I had no idea there were so many good-looking Catholics in the world!"

We had dinner together when the cousins arrived, and afterwards celebrated with more high-fiving through the subway tunnels. Next stop: The Street Party with the Sisters of Life! Scythian and Catholic Underground provided the music, and at the end of the party, Sr. Mary Gabriel (plotting with Celeste) led everyone in singing Happy Birthday to me. How much better can you get?

Finally, after hugging Sister goodbye, Leste and I headed back to Belmore. On the train, I was again asked THE QUESTION, and we went promptly to bed when we got back to the house. After chatting late into the night, of course.

"Sophia" on Spiritandsong.com

2008-07-31T20:31:00.001-04:00

Follow the link to listen to one of my favorite Matt Maher songs on Spiritandsong.com!

Day 2 - Catechesis and MATT MAHER!!!!!!

2008-07-31T18:22:00.007-04:00

Woke up bright and early at 7AM to the cawing and cackling of a morning bird I never learnt the name of but definitely earned to hate, for his sounds clawed at my nerves in bed every morning in Australia. In the kitchen, Alma greeted us with huge cups of steaming coffee, hot toast, feta cheese, and olives. The coffee was a necessity, the only warmth to cold bodies in that house (the house is old and has no central heating). Even though the church was right around the corner, Alma insisted on driving us there for Catechesis, which started at 9AM on the dot. (Above: Celeste and I pose with Sr. Mary Gabriel)

Our first Catechesis session was given by a bishop from India. Each session during the week began with prayer and music led by the "Act1v8 Team" of St. Joseph's, followed by a talk, Q&A, and Mass all given and celebrated by the visiting bishop of the day. The bishop from India was very nice but difficult to understand, and as a result the talk and Q&A were fairly useless. During Mass, Joe and Dominique Farah (our totally awesome Catechesis leaders) pulled Leste and I up in front to teach everyone the hand motions to "I'm Trading My Sorrows", and from then on we were colloquially known as the "ITMS" girls.

Unlike his talk, the bishop's homily was quite understandable. He told the story of a girl who left her home to work in the city, but who accidentally left her mirror at home. She wrote and asked her mother to send one: instead, her mother sent three. The first mirror was a normal one; the second was plastered with a picture of a skull, and the third with a lovely picture of Mary the Mother of God. The girl was dismayed and called her mother to ask what the mirrors meant. Her mother told her that "the first is so you know what a beautiful girl you are in the eyes of God; the second is a reminder of your mortality; and the third is a reminder that you are always supposed to look like your mother. You must pray to look like your Mother." Beautiful.

With the end of Mass, we took part in the largest Aussie BBQ in history (it made the Book of World Records!) for lunch. All Catechesis sites throughout the city fired up their grills to break the world record. And I must say the BBQ was delicious - the best lunch all week!

We then proceeded to take the train (Sydney has the nicest public transit system I have ever encountered) into the city. Leste and I's first stop was the University of Notre Dame Broadway campus (if you ever want to see a city, I've decided the best way is to attend WYD there) to check out the "Love and Life Site" run by the Sisters of Life from New York City. I was blessed to have the opportunity to visit them and meet a number of the Sisters back in mid-March, so I was excited to see them again. The Sisters are simply lovely, and their work/ministry/life focuses on caring and providing for women with crisis pregnancies, helping them to carry to term. But they also do a great deal of counseling and support for women who are suffering from the trauma of abortions. The order was founded about twenty years ago by John Cardinal O'Connor, and today it is a vibrant community of about 75 Sisters.

Pro-life speaker Bernadette Black gave a talk at the site about her own crisis pregnancy, and the CFR group "Catholic Underground" gave a short concert. It isn't every day that you go to a concert and get a priestly blessing at the end! And then, the drumroll. Anyone who knows the Sisters knows they have two major musical passions: Celtic and Matt Maher. Next up on the stage was MATT MAHER!!!!!! I was jumping out of my skin I was so excited. Matt Maher, needless to say, is also my one major musical passion. He even sang one of my favorite songs: "Sophia". (Above: Cafe Benedicto, Holding the Keys to a Cup of Good Java)

After the concert everyone was told that Matt was going to be around for about fifteen minutes to sign autographs. Well, I already have three but I really wanted to meet him so Leste and I squeezed in line. To our surprise, we did get up there before fifteen minutes were up, and Matt posed for a picture! What an awesome guy. I was as happy as a clam and just kept saying "thank you" over and over again. Matt even teased me before I left for my level of gratitude. (Above: Matt Maher! :::aaaaaaaaa:::)

I had to track down Sr. Mary Gabriel, the Vocations Directress for the Sisters of Life, and say hello. Eventually, I found her in the crowd. She gave me a great warm hug, I introduced Celeste, and we chatted awhile. She wanted to know how my comprehensive exams went in May (was it really two months ago?) and told us that she reads our Lilies blog! How funny. I love her to death - she is a gorgeous woman of God.

It was around this time that our cousins found us (Laura, Janice, Anne, and Steven), and Anne split off with Leste and I to go to the CFR Party at world-famous Bondi Beach (for those who don't know the coolness of the CFRs, they are the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal who work with the youth and gangs in the Bronx, NY). The beach was absolutely beautiful. We spread out a blanket and took in a fantastic concert, which included Fr. Stan Fortuna (CFR - the Rapping Priest), the God Squad, and was headlined by none other than MATT MAHER. Huzzahs for twice in one day!

Late, we made our way back to Belmore and to bed. On the train we met some other pilgrims from Paraguay and New Zealand who were awesome. Back at "home", we said goodnight to the Sukkars, and they showed us a big box of food and drinks that their neighbor (who has a banana tree in her backyard!) brought for the pilgrims from the United States.

Day 1 - It's Sydney or BUST!

2008-07-30T17:48:00.004-04:00

We arose at 3AM after a fitful few hours of sleep, finished any last-minute packing, and Mommy, Kenny, and Elizabeth drove us to Reagan National Airport. After a tearful goodbye, Celeste and I were on our way through the security checkpoint, shoeless, plastic ziplock of liquids of less than 3 oz. in hand, and ready to lose all remnant of self-respect as our bags were screened. (Below: Celeste naps in the airport at LAX)

Our first two legs of our journey (from DC to Cincinnati, and from Cincinnati to LAX) were grueling and uneventful (except for my becoming a band leader's best friend for giving him the aisle seat). Once in Los Angeles, Celeste and I picked up our hard-core Kelty internal frame backpacks, recommended by a good friend, and met the cousins for lunch.

Rumors swirled around the food court about cancelled Qantas flights to Australia. I called my mother and discovered what was to be my headache for the next twenty-four hours: citizens in Sydney, unhappy with the amount of money spent on WYD, had staged a strike to make the city look bad. Although it was just a Qantas mechanic strike, it was enough to make Sydney indeed look disorganized and ground a number of planes. As a result, the cousins were stuck in Los Angeles overnight and Leste and I spent about eight weary hours in the most boring terminal in LAX (not even a Starbucks!) waiting for our flight to New Zealand to be confirmed. Meanwhile, we ate some sandwiches for dinner, bought a few magazines, and I got a migraine. (Many thanks to all my relatives who called and helped form several backup plans!)

Finally, we boarded our Qantas flight to New Zealand, still unsure of our connecting flight to Sydney. We were told we "may" be diverted to Melbourne. I was too tired to deal with anything, and after watching an episode of "Dr. Who", turned on "Lawrence of Arabia" and promptly fell asleep after the first five minutes. I shall never actually finish that movie.

Celeste did not sleep much during our flight, but I got a decent six hours on her shoulder (thanks Leste!). When I woke up, we watched "Vantage Point" and "Dan in Real Life" (one of my new favorites) together. Praise God, it wasn't too much later when we arrived in Auckland and were told the strike was over. The final leg of our trip, from Auckland to Sydney, was again delightfully uneventful save the new and rather stressful experience of filling out customs forms which I found rather ambiguous. Do wooden saints' bracelets count as wood? Is my sleeping bag dirty? Is migraine medication a "regulated" medication? How twisted one can get around little words.

There were a lot of WYD pilgrims travelling with us from New Zealand to Sydney, who sang in the back of the plane throughout the flight. I met and spent some time chatting with a middle-aged Australian man, now living in America, who was travelling home to visit grandchildren. He used to be in charge of mining safety procedures in Australia, a country which is apparently a large producer of coal. The fellow was invited to the United States to streamline our accident response system after last year's mining accidents.

Tired but excited, we finished with customs and immigration in Sydney and walked out into the airport. As we were walking towards the train platforms, past roving groups of CFRs and smiling nuns and pushing through hundreds of young people, I heard my name called and ahead of me was the friendly face of Tom Yehl, a seminarian from Arlington, VA, classmate and friend. He gave me a big hug and we chatted a few minutes before I pushed on to find trains and international cell phone cards.

At the ticket counter the clerk told me how to get to Belmore station, and I got into conversation with an elderly gentleman and his two grandsons who were "going back in family history for the day at Manly". They welcomed us to the city and asked if we would see the Pope. Of course we were all grins at the reminder of the excitement to come.

We took the trains as instructed to Belmore, about a forty-minute ride outside central Sydney. Belmore is a mostly Turkish, Greek, and Lebonese community/town, and all the shops reflect its heritage. The clerk at Belmore station told us how to get to St. Joseph's Maronite parish, and we dragged ourselves for ten minutes up the hill to the church.

We dragged ourselves into the walled courtyard of St. Joseph's Parish. Instantaneously, we were made right at home. An elderly Turkish man pulled us away from our bags with a smile and a "Don't worry - we are all Catholic here!" He showed us to the parish hall where we were quickly introduced to the hospitality of our new parish family: hot cups of coffee were placed in our hands, and bins of biscuits (cookies) and fruitcake were opened. Another group of pilgrims staying at St. Joseph's was from Chile. A couple of them joined us for coffee and friendly (if disjointed by the language barrier) conversation. The extend of my understanding of the chat was limited to the fact that one guy gave the other a sandwich that didn't taste very good.

After a bit we were whisked back to the parish office to meet Patrick, the pilgrims' collective guardian angel at St. Joseph's. Patrick is a ruddy man with cripplingly bad knees who is always smiling and warm and ready to tell you a story. He told us to collect our backpacks, and to prepare to meet our homestay family. The WYD backpacks were pretty nifty and contained a number of odds and ends such as flashlights (torches), ponchos, emergency blankets, litrugy and transport guides, rosaries, bandannas, and other souvenirs.

The family soon came to pick us up. The Sukkar family consists of Robert and Alma (the parents), Mary, a lively though sometimes moody fourteen year old, Stephanie, a vibrant eleven-year old, Christina, a self-described "cheeky" six-year old with the attitude of an eighteen-year old, and the yet-unamed boy in the womb, who won't be named after his father because "there are too many Roberts in the family already". Robert came to Australia as a young man from Lebanon, built up a business, and went back to Lebanon to find a wife. He met and married Alma, brought her back to Sydney, and the rest is history.

The Sukkars own a cozy house in Belmore about two blocks from St. Joseph's, with a rabbit in the backyard named Cocoa and a never-ending supply of Lebonese hospitality flooding from the family's hearts. Their example of charity and love was one of the biggest lessons I took home with me; if they had anything (which certainly wasn't much), it was ours. We were never wanting for food, clothing in an Australian winter we were not prepared for, supplies, love and support.

Alma fed us a lunch of feta cheese, olives, and Lebonese bread and sent us on our way to downtown Sydney for the Opening Mass at Barangaroo (sometimes pronounced "bangaroo" by the locals). We took Mary with us since she was too young to go alone. Unfortunately, this was about the time that jet lag and general exhaustion set in, so I honestly don't remember much about the rest of the night. We went to the Opening Mass, celebrated by Cardinal Pell and of which I remember nothing at all. Afterwards, we were literally so packed by the crowd that we couldn't move and I feared we would be suffocated, but eventually we made it out and back to Belmore. Stephanie and Christina, who vacated their beds and slept in the garage for us, had left their electric blankets on to warm up. Sleep came very quickly. (Below: pilgrims head towards Barangaroo for the Opening Mass)

Stay tuned!

2008-07-07T08:26:00.000-04:00

+jmj

My sister and I are currently preparing - at breakneck speed, I might add - for a sixteen-day trip to Sydney, Australia for World Youth Day 2008 and some good, old fashioned sightseeing. Unfortunately, I won't have internet access during the trip, but I bought myself a red journal in which to keep my thoughts during the trip. I will be posting these on my return on the 29th of July. Stay tuned for more ramblings of a Gypsy!

I am ever so excited...this is the first trip overseas since my third to England in 2005, and my first trans-Pacific!

Day 16 - "Will" Power

2005-09-17T20:48:00.000-04:00

(Sick of my puns yet?)

This morning, in contrast to the morning before, we woke up at 5:30AM and were out the door and on our way to Stratford-Upon-Avon. I was so tired during the drive there that I can’t remember a single thing. We arrived just as the Shakespeare Birthplace opened at 9AM, bought our tickets, and went inside. To Daddy’s delight, our early rising payed off and we beat the crowds.

The Shakespeare Exhibition before the house was very nice. Admittedly, all I knew about Shakespeare the man was what I saw in Shakespeare in Love, so the little blurbs about his life were quite enlightening. I have always thoroughly enjoyed his work, however, and have read Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, Othello, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, The Taming of the Shrew, and Much Ado About Nothing. Once of my life goals is to at some point read all 41 of Shakespeare’s plays.

I was rather disappointed about the Birthplace itself; there were hardly any informative signs telling you what you were looking at. Thankfully there was a lady in the “Birth Chamber” running like a broken record: “This is the place where Shakespeare was believed to be born. This is the place….” Despite the bad presentation, I did find one fact interesting in particular – that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson visited the Birthplace together roughly one hundred-fifty years after it was opened to visitors. Ah; our history collides.

After the Birthplace, we spent several hours walking around the fun (though rather touristy) town of Stratford-Upon-Avon. I enjoyed the shopping immensely; there were plenty of roads set up specifically for shoppers, with cobblestone roads closed off to vehicle traffic. With twenty pounds or so to blow, I did some serious shopping. I spent way too much time saving that money at work to not spend it. (Of course, anything I have left will go towards postage for my seven autograph requests that Daddy is going to send for me via Royal Mail – better chance of success that way.)

Sitting on a park bench on the River Avon, we quickly ate our lunch before scooting off to pick up our tickets for the play. Finally seated and settled, we waited for the play to begin at 1:30PM. The play was “As You Like It”, and has been running this year since August 5th. Starring Barnaby Kay as Orlando, the show was absolutely fantastic. It would be hard to compare it to “Thomas More” because it is a different kind of play, but it was good in its own right. It was a lighthearted and romantic, and a perfect way to end the trip.

Three and a half hours later, we left the theatre, utterly hooked on plays. Chatting excitedly, we made plans to give up our monthly “dinner out” at home to go to a matinee of a play in Washington D.C. It would be so much fun, but I’m not sure that Kenny would agree. Ah well.

Thus elated, we practically ran into Barnaby Kay (Orlando) outside the theatre. I fear that all three of us girls were inflicted by various stages of crushes on the poor fellow, so none of us had the gumption to stop him for an autograph. Instead, we all kind of stared dumbly and I cursed myself bitterly for not being more forward. I made up my mind to write to him c/o the RSC for an autograph as soon as possible.

After mulling about the town a bit more, we ate our dinner at The Garrick. The food was good there, but the service left something to be desired. Also, the fish in the fish n’ chips still had its scales – blech. I was glad I ordered chicken and mushroom.

Day 15 - Family

2005-09-17T20:46:00.000-04:00

Sadly, we spent most the morning slowly packing up our things for the return trip to the United States. My head swam as I spread my purchases out on my bed and realized how much I spent on so little; roughly 120 pounds on pieces of paper and some tea things. Using plastic shopping bags and clothing, I gently wrapped and stuffed my new teapot and the six teacups that I bought for myself and others. I thanked God that I finished most of the books that I brought, because I could pack them in my suitcase to leave room in my carry-on for breakables. There is no way that I am trusting those baggage handlers with my teacups!

Since it was late in the day before we left the house, we visited something close to home. Looking through our guidebooks, we chose Audley End. We were planning on going there the first week without Daddy, but had to skip it in deference to other exciting things. It all worked out because we had a wonderfully relaxing afternoon there with Daddy.

Walking through the remarkable Jacobean mansion, looking at the previous owner’s tremendous collection of stuffed birds from around the world, strolling through the various beautiful gardens, and exploring the grounds took about six hours. The flowers were at their peak, and the day, though a little on the chilly side, was bright and sunny. The house and location didn't matter much...we just wanted to be together for the afternoon in peace. Although our carefully laid plans for the day did not work out, a day together in a gorgeous setting was the best way to gather and bond as a family before we go our separate busy ways at home again.

But this year I do not intend to let my family life fall to the wayside as it did the last. Just as during the spring semester I worked on balancing a job and school, this time I will focus on striking a balance between family and school. My grades are just as important as ever (and this new semester will be difficult, I promise you!), but this summer has made me remember what I lost by ignoring those around me. It doesn’t have to be a huge amount of time; perhaps fifteen-twenty minutes an evening drinking tea and chatting together.

Day 14 - More "More"?

2005-09-17T20:42:00.000-04:00

Three years ago I studied St. (King) Edward the Confessor for history class. There is a story that at one point in his life something happened that put him in fear of his life (I can’t remember what it was) and he prayed to St. Peter for deliverance. I believe the situation had something to do with his horse falling into a deep gully. Thankfully, he was snatched from the throes of death and fell to his knees, promising St. Peter that he would build him a church such that the world had never seen.

Soon construction began on Westminster Abbey in London. The church took a long time to build, and at the end plans were made to consecrate it. But apparently St. Peter had other plans. The night before the consecration, a vision appeared in the abbey of St. Peter and attending angels. They were consecrating the church. Next morning, St. Edward cancelled the formal earthly ceremony and to this day Westminster Abbey has not been consecrated by mortal hands.

I was incredibly excited to see Westminster Abbey during this trip, and everyone put themselves out to get there. Unfortunately, the place was a huge disappointment. An overglorified graveyard, the Abbey is choked with monuments and memorials. Not a scrap of its Catholic history remains. Although St. Edward’s tomb still rests there (they have not been able to remove it because of legal issues), there is a tall fence around it blocking any view, as well as any pilgrims. One could not even appreciate the beauty of the stained glass or the size of the church for fear of tripped over a memorial stone or running headlong into a stone angel or death-mask.

Among the few things that were impressive about the site was the ceiling of the Henry VII Chapel. With its gorgeous fan vaulting and milky-white designs that dip down towards the floor, the ceiling made me catch my breath every time I dared to look. Other fun highlights included a lovely memorial of a man defending his wife from a skeleton, representing death, and the coronation chair which holds the Stone of Scone during every Coronation Ceremony. (The Stone of Scone was the stone on which all Scottish kings were crowned, and was captured when England first ruled its proud neighbor. Though the stone has since been returned, Scotland lends it back to England for every Coronation.)

Other things that the Abbey is famous for were disappointing as well. The famous marble floor before the altar was covered for cleaning, and the Poet’s Corner was mostly – again – monuments. Very few of the poet’s commemorated there are actually interred in Westminster Abbey. For example, one stone reads: “Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland, interred in Oxford, etc.” Never again will I set foot in Westminster Abbey! By the end of the audio tour I didn’t even have the heart to buy postcards or the pen-and-ink drawings of the Abbey I wanted to buy for Monsignor Hughes.

From the Abbey we walked across the street and used the famous bathrooms across the street. It is a silly thing, but two years ago when we went there they had automatic hand dryers that blew really hard. And I mean really hard – your skin rippled in a disgusting fashion over your bones. Everyone wanted to see them again, so we had it on our list unofficially to use those bathrooms.

Once again on our way, we ate our lunch as we walked down the Thames to the Tate Britain Art Gallery. It was scheduled to close in twenty minutes, so we took a very quick run around the pre-Raphaelite exhibitions. Quickly I memorized the titles of my favorites so that I could look them up later: “Mariana”, “April Love”, and “Order of Release”.

Shuffled rudely out of the gallery by museum employees, we headed towards the tube to meet a tour at Tower Hill Station. I am going to have to give in a minute and relate (rather immaturely) what has been dubbed by Kenny my “Rather Romantic Tube Ride.” On the way through the tunnels to the train I noticed that a young, tall, blond fellow in front of me kept turning around to “check me out.” My interest was peaked, and when he turned back around I tried to get a decent look myself. Prone to remarkable clumsiness at incredibly inopportune times, I stepped on his foot. As I – red in the face, most likely - jumped back safely to Kenny’s side, the boy turned around and told me it was okay.

The train pulled up, and was fairly crowded. Looking around when I boarded, I noted that there were two seats free next to (who else?) the young man I tripped over. Normally I would have taken the seat further away, but seized with a sudden daring that fails me at home, I sat down in the seat next to him. Out of my eye I saw him smile, and I smiled back. Two stops later he went to get off the train, but at the door he paused and looked slowly back at me. For a moment we exchanged meaning glances, and he left. That was all. I must admit that I am continually shocked at my own audacity over here.

At 7PM sharp the “St. Thomas More Ramble” through London started from Tower Hill. Monsignor Stark, an elderly but very energetic British priest, led the walking tour. Little did we know when we began that we were joining a six-and-a-half mile jaunt around London! We saw practically every spot touched by the life of St. Thomas: Tower Hill (the site of his execution), his parish church when a young man (the smallest church in London), St. Anthony’s (his primary school), Milk Street (where he was born), the sit of St. Mary Magdalene (where he was baptized), St. Lawrence Jewry (where St. Thomas delivered a series of lectures which formed the basis of his Utopia), the building where he worked, Lincoln’s Inn, and several other sites. How surreal to walk in the footsteps of a saint; it wasn't too difficult to imagine the bustling narrow streets of the early 1500's. An interesting and sad fact we learned on the tour was that there were originally 126 parishes within the square mile of London, but most were destroyed in the Great Fire.

It was very hard to keep up with the Monsignor and even harder to hear what he was saying. We were told by one of the ninety-six other "ramblers" that the little priest had been giving the same tour for thirty-six years. Afterwards we got a chance to talk to him ourselves. A very genial man, with perhaps the one failing of being a little too proud of his title, he told us of his visits to the United States and what pleased him (and displeased him) about our country.

The time being nearly 10:30PM, we climbed on the nearest tube and rode it back to Cockfosters, and from there drove home. No eventful or disastrous tube rides this time!

Day 13 - "Life is a stage..."

2005-09-17T20:39:00.000-04:00

Our plan for today was to go to the city of St. Alban’s, the third largest Roman city in England, to visit the Roman museum and theatre as well as what is reportedly the oldest pub in the world (Ye Olde Fighting Cocks). Unfortunately, awful traffic blocked the roads all the way to the city, making our drive an hour and a half longer than it should have been. Because of this plans had to change: as soon as we arrived in St. Alban’s we turned around and drove home, for fear of missing the play for which we reserved tickets.

Soon enough we were back at the house, tidying up and ensuring that our dress fit the “snappy casual” dress code. We met Daddy at JAC Molesworth and drove to The Swan Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon, the home of William Shakespeare. To my delight, the play was titled “Thomas More”. (I said that this was the “St. Thomas More Tour”!)

For the girls the experience of a play was a new one. Whispering excitedly, they waited for the lights to dim in the theatre. Our seats, carefully chosen by me, were quite good. And the layout of The Swan, a traditional Elizabethan theatre, minimizes the number of bad seats.

The play began at 7:30PM sharp, and starred Nigel Cooke in the title role. Though not entirely a Shakespeare piece, one scene in the first act was written by Shakespeare and so the play qualifies being shown in “his” theatre. Originally penned during the reign of King Henry VIII, the play was censored so greatly by the king that it has never had a major performance until this year. Of course, Henry was well to be nervous of the play; it has a decidedly “pro-More” slant.

The first act focused on the career of young Thomas More, centering particularly on the racist May Day riots in London. For his wise and gentle pacification of the rioters, Thomas More was awarded knighthood. After the first act the play takes the course of most stories about St. Thomas More, detailing his time as Lord Chancellor and his death.

When we left the theatre Kenny remarked that it was a lot like “A Man for All Seasons.” Naturally, how different can one expect two plays about one man to be? But “Thomas More” displayed some facets of his life “cleaned up” in “A Man for All Seasons”. These included his gaiety, his often ribald jokes and remarks, and his love for plays. Another central figure to this part of England’s history (and left out of A Man for All Seasons in a serious oversight), St. John Fisher, had a role in the play. The brave Bishop of Rochester, refusing steadfastly to take the oath, is contrasted with the family man Sir Thomas More, who must consider all his options

If anyone has a chance to see this play, I wholeheartedly recommend it. Not only was the story a timeless one, but the acting was also superb. Though Mr. Cooke looks a bit on the shady side, with slicked back black hair and a very gaunt figure, he brought St. Thomas More to vivid life. More’s son, Roper, did an excellent job, as did the man who played St. John Fisher. For the whole three hours I was held spellbound. At first I thought the minimalist sets and costumes would detract from the play, but I admit that I did not notice.

Outside the stage door, we waited for the actors/actresses to leave the building. Several of them left furtively, hoping that we did not notice them. Others were extremely friendly. Two fellows in particular, one named Nigel Betts, stuck around to sign autographs and chat with our family awhile. While I hung shyly towards the back of the bunch, Mr. Betts signed autographs for the rest of my siblings. But he noticed me anyway, and asked if I wanted one. I looked up and said: “I suppose so”, to which he answered, with a smile, “Well, I’m not going to force you.” I laughed and said that wasn’t what I meant and handed him my book. He signed it: “Best Wishes Sweetheart. Nigel Betts”.

Meanwhile, Mr. Cooke tried to sneak past us unnoticed, but with a look of alarm from me my father basically tackled him. Caught, he quickly gave us autographs and before he left, loosened up a bit and even laughed and chatted a little. He left and we stayed to chat a couple more minutes with the other two gentlemen.

Eventually they had to go for dinner, so we slowly walked back to the car and drove home. It was a wonderful evening, and one, I think, that St. Thomas himself would have enjoyed immensely.

Day 12 - Step Back Into Ancient History

2005-09-12T14:26:00.000-04:00

Although we had a bit of trouble getting out the door this morning, everything worked out well. We headed over to the Base to fill the car with petrol, and then were on our way to Peterborough, Norfolk. While still in the States Mommy discovered an archeological dig site called Flag Fen, and was excited to take us there.

As usual Mommy was absolutely right, and Flag Fen was a really interesting place. Excavations are still in progress (you could actually watch the archeologists at work in the fen) to dig out the remains of late Bronze Age and early Iron Age settlements. On either side of the fen (a wet, swampy area) are two sections of dry land called the Fengate and the Northey. This is where the settlements are found. Also, the foundations of a Roman road, called the Fen Way, can be seen there.

But the treasure of the site was found in the fen itself, preserved by the slime and mud. 60,000 wooden posts, arranged across the fen, fan out from a huge wooden platform a hectare in breadth. Today, to preserve the posts, they are kept in a controlled-climate (very wet!) building. Still it baffles historians as to why the posts were erected; most believe that they have something to do with a religious ritual of a sort, because all kinds of articles (jewelry, pots, knives, swords, and even dogs) have been found amongst the posts, all deliberately broken. Did these ancient people think that the fen was a window to the other world, and threw things into it for their dead ancestors?

It was truly an amazing and somewhat creepy feeling to stand on the platform and gaze at the 3,000 year-old wooden posts. Talking to Mommy later, I realized that the creepy feeling stems from the fact that we do not know what the posts mean. The room where they were kept had the same hushed and reverent atmosphere as Stonehenge; people that came in after us were “shhh”-ing each other as thought they were entering a church. Were the posts used for some religious ritual? If so, was it a portal to another world or a place to pacify a much-feared god? Or was it simply some prehistoric trash dump? I suppose we will never know for sure.

After “ooohing” and “aaaahing” over the Roman roads – I have done extensive reading about the building of Roman roads – we climbed in the car and started off for our next adventure. With quite a bit of trouble we finally found our way to Grimes’ Graves, a Neolithic flint mine that I have wanted to visit since our trip in 2003. When we drove up there during that trip, the site was closed on account of some excavations.

Our efforts were repaid in full. But I’m afraid that I can’t recommend the site for the site alone, for from the parking lot the place doesn’t look like much: a field of bumpy mounds and a little shop/museum/shed in the center. The true treasure of the site – at least in my eyes – is only temporal.

A young man, glowing with enthusiasm for the history of his country, was our tour guide for Grimes’ Graves. The place literally came alive for us as he told us the story of the site, from how the flint was formed by glaciers to his own personal stories of “babysitting” documentary crews in the mines. He speculated that one mound (the second highest point in Norfolk) may have been the very place where Boadicea rallied her troops to rebel against the Romans.

Before going through the numerous but fascinating things our guide told us about England, I have to digress and drying talk a bit about the history of the site, etc. With our hard hats on our heads, we climbed down a ladder into a 30-foot shaft mined for flint in 3000 B.C. Still visible are some of the huge holes where large chunks of flint were mined with the antler of the local red deer. Stone Age man dug this tunnel in a mere four months.

Around this mine, the only one open to the public, are 433 known mines. I say known, because it is suspected that there are as many as 700 more in the area of Grimes’ Graves. Out of the 433 tunnels discovered already, only 28 of them have been excavated and explored. Much, much more is still to be unearthed regarding the world of over 3,000 years ago.

After exploring the dark, cool tunnels around the main shaft we all climbed back up the ladder. For about an hour we continued to talk to our guide, Jason, about the history of the land. Several things came up in conversation and were explained from the vast knowledge the young man had:

(1) St. George and St. Michael are in actuality the same person. Both are famous for slaying dragons.
(2) There are unexplainable lines going up and down the continent called “leylines”. One runs from St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall to Mont St. Michel in France. Along this line, oddly, are landmarks and monuments with the name either of St. George or St. Michael the Archangel. Normally explained as an “energy flow” by New Age followers, these leylines remain a mystery much like the standing stones of Stonehenge.
(3) Jason had an interesting theory to offer on what Stonehenge really is. First he told us about an awful tangle of roundabouts (raised on stilts) in England called “Spaghetti Junction” and mused that perhaps two thousand years from now all that would be left of these roundabouts would be the stilts. At that point what was Spaghetti Junction would look like a series of standing stones. Thus, Stonehenge really is an ancient roundabout!
(4) The U.K., he explained, is quite honestly an island resting on a spongy mass beneath. During the Ice Age, a huge glacier covered the Southeast corner of England, and “tipping” the U.K. As a result, thousands of years after the glacier melted, the country is still trying to right itself. Every year the Southeast corner of England rises a tenth of a millimeter, and the Northwest corner of Scotland falls the same amount. Who would have imagined?
(5) Scientists really don’t know how flint is formed. Jason said that it is great asking geologists about that and seeing the “smoke come from their ears”.
(6) The flint mines we saw were 19 times older than the United States, 2.5 times older than Christianity, and many scholars believe that the world did not exist when the mines were built!
(7) Commenting on something I said about England having much more history than America, Jason pointed out that for most Americans, before 1492 our history was Europe’s history. “For one thing”, he said to me, “your red hair suggests that you come from an Irish background, and in turn from a Celtic background. Boadicea herself was known for her mane of flaming red hair.” Here he laughed, and indicated with a wave of his hand the hill he mentioned before where that pagan warrior rallied her troops. “Maybe I don’t want you going up there – you may come back, sword in hand, to kill us all!”

As I write I can feel the color coming into my face. I must admit that, ever since I he started talking, I liked Jason very much. Though he was probably eight or so years my senior, I noted that he was “interested” and the age difference didn’t stop me from “playing the game”. Yes, I shifted my weight from one hip to the other, brushed my hair behind my ear, tossed my head, and laughed at all his jokes. Thankfully this didn’t end in embarrassment (as it usually does when I flirt!) and he responded with compliments and attentions. Quite honestly, I would have happily run away with him right then and there had he asked me (which he wouldn’t have – I only just met him). Looking back, I am a bit ashamed of my girlish heart and how I let it run away with me. At least I know his name; it was fun and exciting while it lasted.

To the chiding comments and teasing of my all-to-wise brother Kenny, who knows me too well, we left Grimes’ Graves and went to meet Daddy at the Super Tesco’s in Peterborough. Daddy is so cute: he loves Tesco’s dearly as his own little “discovery.” It is a store much like a Target in our country. But everything is cheaper there, so I did a lot of my shopping for gifts. It is a sort of family ritual to go to Tesco’s at least twice a week.

Tired and hungry, we arrived at the Lodge and ate our dinner. Thinking about everything we had done and seen (and trying to invent ways to describe the experiences), I got ready and climbed into bed. For the third night Elizabeth slept, curled up in a comforter, on the floor next to me. I love her so much – it is very hard to believe that she is already going to be twelve years old in December. Times goes by so quickly.

Day 11 - Crash & Burn

2005-09-12T14:25:00.000-04:00

Today was a difficult day, because Mommy came down with a bad cold last night. In addition, I made us about two hours late. At around 6AM I woke up feeling very sick, and spent the rest of the morning in the bathroom throwing up. In more pain than I have ever felt before, I honestly thought that I was going to die and wished that I could at least pass out to escape the pain. But after I crawled into bed again, curled up, and began a rosary, the pain subsided and I fell back asleep. When I woke up I felt 100% better and we left for York.

Normally it is only a three hour drive to York, but Mommy was falling asleep at the wheel so we pulled over and let her sleep for an hour. Finally we arrived at Castle Howard, a Georgian palace still occupied by the Howard family, at 2PM in the afternoon. Mommy asked to sleep a little longer, and meanwhile we all went and perused the four gift shops in the courtyard of the palace.

By the time that we woke Mommy up, it was already an hour later. At this point it seemed ridiculous to pay 25 pounds to see the house for an hour an a half. So we left and headed towards York for a tour of York Minster and perhaps a little shopping. Our hopes scrambled out of the dirt and dusted themselves off.

However, the day was insistent on not be resurrected. We parked in York, and promptly realized that we couldn’t find the cell phone anywhere. Searching every nook and cranny of the car and every pocket occupied our time for roughly 45 minutes. Eventually we gave up and Mommy used a pay phone to make a long distance call to our cell phone, while I remained in the car to listen. With relief I heard a ringing sound coming from the inside of the driver’s seat. Somehow the phone had been wedged inside the seat, and I, without too much trouble, found and rescued it.

By now we had missed the last tour of York Minster. Despite our continuing misfortune, we walked towards York Minster to at least walk around the church. At least in this we were rewarded.

Though we visited York Minster two years ago, I only had ten minutes to look around and had barely enough time to appreciate the windows. Being the English Cathedral fanatic that I am, York Minster was something I simply had to see again. For an hour I walked around the Minster, holding Elizabeth’s hand and trying to impress upon her the magnificent beauty that were witnessing. Adding enchanting “mood music” to our tour, Evensong started at 5PM.

However, the music was unnecessary. World-renowned for their intricacy and delicate structure, the stained glass windows of York Minster sing a soaring song of their own. I have never seen such creations before, pieced together from colored common glass. Even now, when I think back to what I saw, I can hardly believe that such things existed on earth. Our Lord must be honored by such craftsmanship.

Unfortunately an hour was only all we were granted before the sun ceased to sparkle through the glass. Nearly all at once the Minster lost its enchantment. I found Mommy, sitting in a dark corner enjoying the experience of saying her rosary in a Catholic-turned-Anglican cathedral. We gathered our belongings and left.

All the shops were closed in the town so shopping was out of the question. On the way back to the car we got lost in the city, and were forced to sprint (for me a sprint is more of a brisk clip) to the car before our parking ticket expired. We made it just in time, climbed into the car, and started the drive home.

Halfway home we stopped at a Moto, which, during our 2003 British tour, was our favorite pit stop. Every year for the past three it has won the “Loo of the Year” Award for cleanliness. Sadly, service there has declined in the past two years, and though the loos won the 2005 Award (it was displayed on the wall), they did not deserve them. The restrooms were filthy. To be fair I must admit that they are still better than most bathrooms in England, which seems to be plagued as a nation with bad plumbing.

At 10:30PM we slunk into the driveway and tumbled out of the car and into the house. A ray of warmth, Daddy had a delicious dinner of spaghetti ready and we really enjoyed something as a family for the first time all day. While cleaning the dishes, we acted out “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and “The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra”. Daddy never fails to laugh when we act them out, and we know all his favorite parts. His smiles – and his rare laughter – are like gold. Most of the time he is so stressed out and serious that even light moments are strained. Thus, although the day started badly and was rough, it ended on a happy note.

Day 10 - "More" and More Pilgrimages

2005-09-12T14:20:00.000-04:00

As is usual on weekends, Daddy dragged us out of bed bright and early at 5:30AM. As quickly as possible we got ready and prepared lunches/snacks for the day. In the bustle of the preparations we realized how grossly small our new accommodations were. Given barely enough room to move around, we squeezed about the house (in all honesty made for three at the very most). It was a huge relief to burst through the doors, even if it was only for a moment before climbing into the car.

Two hours later (during which time most of us slept), the family arrived at Aylesford Priory in Aylesford. Famous because it houses the relics of St. Simon Stock, the Priory was recommended to us by Monsignor Hughes, our pastor at our home parish. It was a beautiful, untouched retreat that quietly passes unnoticed unless purposefully sought. Though at one time the Priory boasted forty brothers and priests, the numbers have dwindled now to only twelve.

We hurried in to Mass and afterwards stayed for morning prayer with the Carmelite priests and brothers. When it was over, we all walked out and Daddy went to find someone to open the relic chapel for us. He found a young Indonesian priest – a certain Fr. Augustinus – to let us in and show us around. But beforehand Father wanted to chat with us a while.

A short, dark man with glasses and an unassuming manner, he charmed each and every one of us. For a year he has been living in England, practicing the English language. It was truly wonderful to talk to him and help him along, as his tongue unfamiliarly tripped over words and his eyes pleaded for assistance when it came to vocabulary. When given the right words, he had quite a story to tell.

Fr. Augustinus’ parents converted to Catholicism from Islam in 1965 on account of missionary priests who visited near his village. Of Father’s nine brothers and sisters, only himself and one other has accepted the newfound religion of his parents. Most of the others still retain their Muslim faith, the largest in Indonesia. Interestingly, Fr. Augustinus is now a missionary to Indonesia himself, who with his brethren convert and baptize approximately eighteen Muslims per month. When asked the one thing that convinces members of Islam to convert to Catholicism, Father said that in his experience it was largely that the Muslims themselves realized that their fanaticism perhaps it not the right way. Some, after coming to this crossroads, join the Buddhists, and others the Catholic Church.

By this time a brother had come and “absconded” Mommy and Kenny to take them on a historical tour of the Priory. I was disappointed to miss the tour, but it would have been rude to leave Fr. Augustinus at this point in the conversation. Noting the disappointment, perhaps, on the rest of our faces at missing the tour, he decided to take us on our own.

First he brought us into the relic chapel, where the relics of St. Simon Stock lay in a huge reliquary behind the main altar. Although the outside was made of clear glass, we tried unsuccessfully to see inside. Finally another brother, seeing our confusion, came into the chapel and planted himself nearby. Mischievously looking at Celeste, Elizabeth, and I, he said “I can show you how to look at the relics, but it will cost you a pound fifty per girl.” We all giggled as he switched on a light inside the reliquary and disappeared down a corridor. In fact, the relic is the upper part of St. Simon’s cranium, or skull, and it lies on a black-and-white checked cloth.

Briefly we venerated the relics and left the chapel. Leaving us with Fr. Augustinus, Daddy went to see if he could find Mommy and Kenny. Meanwhile, Father wanted to continue the tour (and practicing his English) and took the rest of us on a walk through the ample and lovely gardens along the river. It was so peaceful, bringing to my mind memories of the Dominican House where I spent so much of my time last year. I can even smell the air inside, heavy with incense. As we walked Father picked a rose for Elizabeth and gave Celeste a pretty rosary bracelet from his pocket. I chatted with him about the differences between Aristotle and Immanuel Kant.

After we finished our walk, Daddy found us again. He had attempted unsuccessfully to find Mommy. Waiting in the hopes that she would show up, we stood in the courtyard a while longer and talked to Fr. Augustinus. About fifteen minutes later and elderly brother – the one who “absconded” Kenny and Mommy – came out of the eating hall in the corner of the Priory and said hello to us. Introducing himself as Brother Lawrence, he proved to be a crusty fellow who insisted that in England the “honeymoon was over” in the Church and who had many stories to tell.

I suppose I should give a bit of history about the Priory itself. Originally the first Carmelite Priory in England, it was abandoned at some point and turned into an estate. Later, in the early 1940s, the Carmelites bought back the property and did a little excavating when they moved in to their new (old) home. They found, underneath where the open-air church now stands, the foundations of the original church dedicated to St. Simon Stock. Where the stables were on the estate, pilgrim are now housed; where a flight of steps stands on the porch which aided ladies in mounting their horses, a bell announcing the beginning of Mass is rung three times a day.

Tearing ourselves away from this joyous place, we climbed into the car and drove the rest of the way to Dover Castle, which as you probably know stands on the famous White Cliffs of Dover. Nicknamed the “Key to England”, the defensive battlements enclose 2000 years of history. On the property you can see a Roman lighthouse (phantos), an example (the finest) of Anglo-Saxon churches in Kent, walls built by William the Conqueror, a keep built by Henry II, various tunnels dug during the Napoleonic Wars, and a three-level network of tunnels occupied by the military headquarters during World War II.

First of all, we joined a tour of the famous tunnels, which were only recently opened to the public as unclassified. The first level held a huge hospital. Below this, the second level (“The Annex”) was very important. In the tunnels in this level was the headquarters of Admiral Bertram Ramsey, who orchestrated the “miracle” rescue of over 338,000 British and French soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk. Also open to the public is a barracks which housed 500 soldiers during the Napoleonic Wars, but was partitioned into several rooms during the Second World War. Finally, fifteen meters below the second level, lays “Dumpy”, the deepest network of tunnels which is yet unexplored and supposedly was the headquarters for the Army, Navy, and Air Force of England.

Next we moved on to visit the medieval keep, visitor-friendly because of its colorful exhibitions. Unfortunately, I find these “Disney-style” audio-visual activities kind of degrading. They teach little or no history, and merely suffice to impress upon little ones that the Middle Ages were a time of colorful theatricality and senseless noise. Nonetheless, the roof of the keep offered a breathtaking view of the English Channel and the surrounding countryside.

Putting this behind us we climbed down not a few stairs to the medieval tunnels underneath the keep. These, again, were dug during the Napoleonic Wars but have not been used since. Kenny and I, a bit more brave (or stupid?) than the rest of the family, went ahead into the dark tunnels. Apparently the English Heritage organization that runs the rest of the site didn’t see fit to install much lighting in the medieval tunnels. Aided by the faint glow of Kenny’s digital camera, we explored some of the deeper regions. There was one pitch-black small tunnel, however, at the end of a dim passageway, which I would absolutely not enter. Eventually Daddy and the rest caught up with us and only then would I go inside.

Despite my apprehensions, the tunnel led to a huge, creepy, black room. This room in turn led to more tunnels that we dared not enter. But it was incredibly exciting; the same adrenaline rush you feel at the peak of a roller coaster, or when you just know that someone – or something - is going to jump out at you out of the dark. Somehow it felt safer when Daddy was in there.

Above ground once again, we hiked across the grounds to a scenic overlook dubbed “Admiral’s Lookout” in honor of ADM Bertram Ramsey. From a viewing platform you get a fantastic view of the White Cliffs of Dover, as well as the bustling seaport of Dover. For roughly an hour we stood up there: feeling the clear sea air, trying to find France across the Channel, musing as swimmers struggled against the current in preparation for attempting the Channel, and watching boats come in and out of port. No one wanted to leave.

Daddy and Kenny went to get the car so that Mommy and I didn’t have to walk so far. Seated at the base of a bronze statue of ADM Ramsey, we talked quietly about how much times have changed since only sixty years ago. In the 1940s ADM Ramsey was trying to plan “Operation Dynamo” to rescue hundreds of thousands of men from Dunkirk in France. Even before this Dover Castle repulsed the siege of Prince Louise of France. Today, three or four ships ferry hundreds of European visitors across the Channel every hour, and more brave the twenty-minute long Chunnel. While sixty years ago the German machine, swathed in a swastika, roared across Europe, today I sat on a bench at Dover Castle listening carefully to conversations around me Auf Deutsch. How much this world has changed…how much more will it change in my lifetime?

The last thing on the agenda for this busy day was a very quick visit to St. Dunstan’s in Canterbury to venerate the relics of St. Thomas More. Waiting for the Evensong service to let out, we strode slowly up and down St. Dunstan’s Street, snapping pictures of the gate to William and Margaret Roper’s house in the 16th century. Finally Reverend Worgen finished his service and was free to take us around the church.

Unspeakably awed, I stood over the Roper vault in the corner of St. Dunstan’s Church in Canterbury. Gently I knelt to kiss the “E” on “THOMAS MORE” written on the stone above the vault. The Vicar, a gray-haired soft-spoken fellow who thought that everything we did or said was “lovely”, told us that the small lead casket containing his head was directly beneath that letter.

At the beginning of every new semester I formally dedicate my studies to St. Thomas More and every morning I bed his help to remain discerning. A feeling of security pervaded my soul as I realized that he was with me; he will not abandon me. What better representative could I have in the court of Christ than a man who was one of the most religious and brilliant men in the realm of England?

Having paid my respects to the late Lord Chancellor of England, we left Canterbury. It was a long trip home, and we were all very tired when we arrived.

Day 9 - A Pilgrimage of Personal Importance

2005-09-08T08:06:00.000-04:00

In the morning we finished our packing and moved our things into the other house. Only one story, it is a much smaller house. Briefly, the entry opens into a common area, with two foldout sofa beds and a television (four stations). Off of the common area is a bedroom with two beds (Mommy and Daddy’s room) and the kitchen. In addition, off the kitchen is a full bathroom and a small bedroom with a single bed. This is where my siblings have decided I will sleep; but I think I will surprise them and bed down with them in the common area. I can sleep alone anytime I like at home.

We all piled into the car and drove to Bosworth Battlefield, near the town of Market Bosworth in Northumberland. This weekend they are hosting a special Medieval Weekend, an event I found while scrounging on the internet before we left the U.S. Though it has always been on my list, I thought something like this would make it more fun for the rest of the family while I enjoyed making a pilgrimage to the place where the medieval era ended.

The Weekend was a little bit like out Renaissance Festivals back at home, but much less commercialized. There were a few vendors, but not screaming at you from every side. Instead, most effort was put into the historical side of everything. It was unusual to be in an atmosphere where everyone truly appreciated history for what it was, instead of merely reducing it to fairytale costumes, huge lamb shanks, and ale.

Spread around a central area, a hundred or so tents were set up so that visitors could move among them and see what was going on inside. Some sheltered footmen, some cavalrymen, and some common men like weavers and basket makers. You could talk to and ask questions of any person in costume. In one corner of the battlefield was a huge armory.

Several events took place during the day in the central area, including jousting, falconry, and mustering of soldiers. Two events in particular were my favorites: the jousts and the re-enactment of the Battle of Bosworth. Throughout my life I have always enjoyed reading stories that described jousts – Ivanhoe, to name one. Heraldic banners snapping in the wind, lovely ladies honored, and brave knights dealing in death and daring. A more bracing atmosphere you could not find.

This joust was not disappointing. Four men, apparently professionals because they had jousted for Queen Elizabeth II herself, rode their sturdy horses into the arena. Each knight was arrayed in full steel armor, said to weight anywhere between 50 and 70 pounds. A “commentator” explained the rules of the joust (dating back to the late 1400s, when a Constable of England wrote them down) and ordered that the pages set up the lists. Finally, the crowd was taught to cheer “Huzzah” in medieval fashion for their heroes and the joust began.

For and hour or so the contest continued. At the end the two highest scoring knights had it out, and a highly unfavored Frenchman eventually won with 15 points. The commentator then introduced each knight to the crowd for huzzahs. Dismissing them from the field, the commentator invited “everyone, most especially the pretty young ladies, to come visit the four knights in the jousting tents.” Unfortunately I was fairly stuck wandering around the “educational” tents with the rest of the family, or else I would have taken them up on the invitation. One of the jousters wasn’t all that bad looking, in fact. ;-)

At 4PM the crowd began to gather for the centerpiece of the afternoon, the reenactment, which lasted an hour and a half. The Battle of Bosworth took place on August 22, 1485, between the reigning King Richard III and the exiled rebel Henry Tudor (later King Henry VII). It was the battle that ended both the medieval period and the Wars of the Roses with the death of the last Plantagenet, Richard. It is a battle that I have reviewed in my mind’s eye a thousand times over, imagining how tragic the day must have felt to the worn and vanquished Yorkshire army.

Before our eyes history was replayed: the thunder of cannons, cavalry skirmishes, the whistle of arrows, gunshot, and the clash of steel as the two armies locked in combat. Breathlessly I watched King Richard III, alone but for a few close supporters, in his final charge down the hill on Henry Tudor. If it hadn’t been for the traitorous Stanleys – supposed friends to Richard – turning on him at the last moment, the battle would have been a Plantagenet victory.

This was not to be the case. To the end Richard fought bravely, hacking through his enemies in a vain attempt to cut down Henry. But soon the King was knocked from his horse and quickly dismissed with a dozen sword points. His army dispersed, running for their lives. A servant cut the crown from Richard’s helmet and gave it to Henry, who raised it on high in a gesture of victory.

The late king’s body, stripped of its armor and clothing, was hoisted onto a horse. From Market Bosworth it was carried to Leistershire where it was hung on public display for two days as a warning to all who dared oppose their new king Henry VII. The body was finally laid to rest in a monastery, but was later removed after the monastery was destroyed during the Reformation. Eventually, King Richard III’s bones would be desecrated and thrown into a river.

Something I have always found fascinating about Henry Tudor was his remarkable (and rather suspicious) efforts to rewrite history after he took the throne. Soldiers were sent out to all nobles, etc. who had dealings of any kind with Richard and every single scrap of paper relating to him was collected and carefully burnt. Then, Henry saw to it that new statements were written (by force), back dated, and signed by friends of the late king decrying him as a monster and a tyrant. Thus history is as it exists now.

But Henry could not have foreseen the advance of science. Revealing his plot, carbon dating on these documents has revealed that the dates written on the pages and the age of the paper and ink do not correspond. In addition, historians have found diaries belonging to friends of Richard, detailing how they were forced to help Henry ruin the name of Richard Plantagenet.

So the visit to Bosworth Field meant a lot to me; it was a pilgrimage of sorts that I have wanted to make for several years. In two days, on the anniversary of King Richard’s death, the annual memorial service will take place. I wish I could be there.

When the day was over, we left and ate dinner at a nearby pub/restaurant called The Hinckley Knight. The food was good, but there wasn’t much atmosphere to speak about. On the way home we stopped at Tesco’s for a little shopping. Exhausted but satisfied with a fun day, we arrived back at St. Neot’s, unpacked, and crawled into bed.

Day 8 - When isn't it rainy in England?

2005-09-08T08:04:00.000-04:00

Today we made lunches and piled into the car for the long drive to Sutton Hoo, near Suffolk on the east coast of England. The day itself was cold, windy, and very rainy. It is owned by the National Trust, but is extremely hard to find. The signs, rather than being the usual large green signs, were tiny and yellow. We thought for sure that no one would be there except for us, especially because of the rain.

But it seems that the English enjoy the rain; the car park was full and there were British tourists everywhere at Sutton Hoo. A bit daunted by the rain but not ready to let the Brits beat us, we parked and climbed out of the car. Of course, we didn’t forget our umbrellas, the quintessential tools in Great Britain.

Back during the reign of King Henry VIII, farmers found what resembled large rusted nails at the base of one of the many mounds in the field of what would be known as Sutton Hoo. Henry saw himself as a patron of treasure hunting and gave permission for digging to start in the field. Apparently, the remains of a large ship, full of treasure and some human remains, was discovered near the nails. To the chagrin of historians today, all the treasure was plundered and the site refilled. For a few hundred years Sutton Hoo remained untouched.

In the early 1930s, the sister of a woman who now owned the fields reported seeing ghostly figures hovering near the mounds. Intrigued, the owner hired an archeologist in 1936 to come and begin excavations of the mounds. Out of fourteen total mounds, one was excavated.

Though the mound had mostly caved in and flattened all it contained, many things were still salvageable. The stain of another ship was found in the soil, along with treasures beyond the diggers’ imaginations, and the remains of a body. Beautiful helmets, gold belt buckles, swords, and shoulder plates were among the gems. Slowly the story was pieced together; the ship was dragged from the nearby river and buried under the mound in a burial ritual. Everyone was excited to work on the other mounds.

But the Second World War began and halted all progress. After the work on the first mound was finished, the excavation was filled and the bumpy field of Sutton Hoo was used for tank exercises, doing who knows how much damage to what lay beneath. Finally, in 1980, excavations began once again at Sutton Hoo.

By this time carbon dating on many of the objects found in the 1930s dated the burial to the early 600s, the Anglo-Saxon era in British history. The man buried in the ship was likely King Raedwald, the first Christian king. To put the Anglo-Saxons in their proper place on the timeline, after the Romans left the Anglo-Saxons arrived from the icy countries of the north, and later the Vikings would arrive to wipe out the Anglo-Saxons. It was during the Anglo-Saxon era that the epic poem Beowulf was written.

Two other mounds in particular offered some excitement: one was the one originally excavated during the reign of Henry VIII, and the other that of a warrior buried next to his horse. Various other burial sites were found in the area as well – full cremation bowls, child burials, etc. A gallows and the graves of supposed criminals from a later period were also found. Dating to the later Christian era, historians believe that it was considered an awful punishment for a criminal to find his final resting place amongst ancient pagans.

The museum at Sutton Hoo was fantastic, showcasing some replicas of the treasures (the real ones are in the British Museum in London) and giving a great deal of history of the Anglo-Saxon people. When we had finished in the museum we braved the rain for a walk around the mounds themselves. Sheep graze on them now.

It was quite exciting to walk around the sites of such ancient burials, dating back over 1,400 years ago. Perhaps there were still unexcavated burials, right beneath our feet. With every new discovery will come a new window on the life of those people, who disappeared with the arrival of the Vikings. Were the Saxons slaughtered, or simply absorbed into the population of foreign arrivals? Knowing the Vikings, it was probably the former.

Though we originally planned to do more than one thing today, Sutton Hoo took us twice as long as we budgeted for it. So we ate our lunch at the car and decided to meet Daddy and Miss Leshinski at the RAF Mildenhall Exchange for some shopping. I bought some gifts for people back at home, and everyone had dinner in the food court.

We arrived home at St. Neot’s at 10PM and began packing up our stuff to move the next morning. Sadly we were only able to rent The Garden House for one week, and have to move to The Cottage, which it much smaller but it still comfortable. Slowly everyone tired and fell asleep.

Day 7 - Peace and Quiet in the Cotswolds

2005-09-07T12:35:00.000-04:00

Mommy was really tired this morning so we all slept until around 9AM. I woke up at 7:30AM and made good use of my time. Since I hadn’t had much time to myself for the past few days, I took advantage of a quiet house to eat breakfast, read, and drink my tea in peace. I finished my latest book – The Turn of the Screw – and then prepared the lunches for the day.

After everything and everyone was ready we piled into the car to take a driving tour of the Cotswolds. It seems we overlooked telling Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth what exactly we were doing that day and they figured that we were going somewhere. For this reason Kenny spend most of the time driving up to the Cotswolds on the Gameboy, and the girls slept. At least Mommy and I enjoyed the scenery!

The Cotswolds, at you probably know, are formed by rolling limestone hills. Since early times the owners of farms there could get nothing to grow in the limestone and so started grazing sheep in the fields. Thus the wool business grew very famous there. The scenery, of course, is world-famous as well.

For the most part, the houses look the same: small stone houses in the same local limestone brick, with small windows and window boxes filled with a profusion of colorful flowers. Nearly as charming are the hundreds of feet of stone walls built throughout both villages and countryside, in the ancient style which made mortar of any kind unnecessary. The towns also look the same, but one could never tire of the simply beauty of the little towns.

Unfortunately, however, modern development scars the scenery in many places. Though builders have tried to imitate the color of the limestone and size of the original houses, the newer additions stand out like ugly monuments to the encroachment of a swelling immigrant population in England. At this point the only places that remain safe are far away from the cities – the Yorkshire Dales and wild Northumbria.

Our driving tour took us through Bibury (a huge tourist town), Uley, Tetbury, Painswick (nice looking young men), Stow-on-the-Wold (famous but quite ugly), Chipping Norton, and Bourton-on-the-Water. We attempted to visit Owlpen, but when the road was reduced to a two-way, barely one-lane road, we found a way to turn around and decided to skip that stop.

Our last stop was Bourton-on-the-Water, and on the way we stopped at several scenic overlooks of the Cotswolds. From one, at an elevation of ______ feet, we could see Wales across the river. It is at these incredible moments that you realize how small this country really is. Standing on the edge of that cliff, the cold wind whipping around me (and drying out my contact lenses, meanwhile), I felt invincible. The only thing taking away from this feeling was this nasty broken leg. Ah well.

Bourton-on-the-Water was a very nice little town. Mommy really wanted to visit the Miniature Village, a little stone replica of Bourton-on-the-Water modeled from the same limestone as the town itself. Apparently, when Mommy and Daddy visited England many years ago, they wanted to see it but it was closed. So we saw it this time.

After doing a little shopping in the general store, we settled down on the banks of the river running through the town and enjoyed the peace of the surroundings. Celeste and Elizabeth pulled off their shoes and went wading in the cool water, following the example (nearly) of two little children skinny-dipping nearby. Everything was very peaceful and pleasant.

Once the girls were absolutely freezing, they got out of the water and dried off. We all walked down the street and got dinner at a sidewalk Fish n’ Chips place. Dinner took about an hour, and then we started back to the car. On the way we fed the ducks in the stream – there were about twenty of them fighting for bits of chips – and laughed at their antics. Noting that it was quickly becoming dark, we hurried on to the car park and drove home.

Sitting in the dark on the way home, I couldn’t help thinking about how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family. I am the first to admit that I often take them for granted. Tears sprang to my eyes as I thought about school, which is fast approaching. While I am at school, though I may be living at home, I am not really there. My mind is occupied wholly with homework, study, and the people at school. Hopefully, this year I will be able to make time for family in my schedule. I must.

Day 6 - Includes A Utopia of Sorts

2005-09-07T12:33:00.000-04:00

In an attempt to resurrect our trip, we awoke and left early at 7:30 AM. It was a long drive to Battle Abbey in the bustling city of Battle. Fortunately it was very scenic so we weren’t bored. Mommy and I talked, listened to music, sang to the radio, and as we drove nearer to the beach, enjoyed the exhilarating fresh air with the windows rolled down. It was an indescribable feeling I indulged in as I let my hand hang out the window and let the wind blow through my hair. At the risk of sounding silly, it felt like flying.

After navigating our way through streets too tiny for comfort (we almost lost a mirror on the way), we arrived at the famed Battle Abbey. We paid the entrance fee and took the longer walking tour around the battlefield itself. On that fateful morning of October 14, 1066, two rivals for the crown of England assembled with their troops. Howard, with the Saxons, held the high ground where Battle Abbey now stands. William and his Norman troops, on the other hand, were at a huge disadvantage down in the valley. Soon what would become one of the most famous battles in history began.

For hours on end the battle raged. Those who lived to tell the tale describe the battlefield thick with body parts – the Saxons had special double-headed axes that the Normans did not own. The ground was wet with blood. At one point a rumor buzzed round the field that William had been killed. As his soldiers started to retreat in dismay, William, unhurt, lifted his helmet so that all could see that he still lived.

Finally the battle was ended and England claimed for Normandy when William used an ancient tactic: he faked out the enemy. The Normans pretended to retreat, and then turned round on the Saxons who were in full pursuit. It was a rout, and the Saxons retreated in shame. Howard was supposedly shot with an arrow through the eye and died.

To atone for his sins, William later returned to Battle and built Battle Abbey on the spot where Harold was killed. Unfortunately, most of the Abbey is closed to the public because it is a school building, but some rooms can be seen.

It thrilled me to my foundations to know that I was walking on the very spot where modern England was born roughly 1000 years ago. I could almost feel the heavy atmosphere of death and smell the blood in the air. What I would give to go back in time and see William lift his helmet to rally his frightened troops!

A funny story about William that we heard on the audio tour: when he landed on the shores of nearly Hastings, he fell flat on his face in the mud. Always a man of good humor, he grabbed two fistfuls of dirt and stood up. Lifting his arms above his head, he cried: “I have taken England with both hands!”

We spent a bit of time in the gift shop and soon were on our way to our next stop, Bodiam Castle. Famous for its romantic appearance, it is truly wonderful to photograph. I suppose I felt a little disappointed because the castle has very little history and it largely a ruin inside. Nonetheless, the moat is unusually large and the outside of the castle picturesque enough to deserve a visit.

But it was fun to observe the Brits on vacation there near the seashore. Almost like stepping back in time to a hundred years ago, people, their straw hats and picnic baskets scattered on checked blankets, had low lawn chairs out on the grass across the huge moat. Some were sitting under the ample shade of trees, painting, drawing, and using pastels to record their impressions of the castle. I wished that I could throw my pack down on the grass as well and simply drink in the atmosphere of the place.

But, as busy tourists, we had to get on the road. The final place on our itinerary was a surprise planned by Mommy, another castle called Scotney Castle. Nestled in the middle of Kent (The “Garden of England”), Scotney is a glittering gem. Most renowned for its extensive gardens, Scotney also has a small castle and moat supposedly haunted by a ghost.

The gardens were amazing – never in my life have I seen such flowers! Roses, lavender, jonquils, and every type that you could name, were there. Covering the estate from corner to corner were lakes, trails, dramatic weeping willows, lilies, and romantically draped ivy. Honestly, Scotney was my favorite place of all thus far.

The Castle had a bit more history than Bodiam, Catholic history in fact. The owners of the castle during the Reformation hid priests from the authorities in “priest-holes”. One of these was open to the public, surprising for anti-Catholic England. Sadly I don’t know much about Catholic British history (a victim of Protestant history books), and had never thought that such things were necessary.

While Mommy was explaining the history of the castle to us, two young British men came along. One, particularly talkative, was a Catholic who was traveling to America to study a Masters in Theology at Steubenville in the Fall. Shy, with curly red hair, he gave us some hints as to other Catholic sites in England and admitted some apprehension at going to school in a foreign country.

Eventually we had to tear ourselves away from this lovely utopia. The drive home was wonderful (again the windows were down) and uneventful. When we got home we all made dinner together, ate, and had tea before bed.

Day 5 - Yet Another Glitch

2005-08-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

As if yesterday’s bad luck wasn’t enough, today tops everything. Daddy left his car for us to use for sightseeing (Mommy dropped him off at work). We woke up early, well rested, and made lunches and finished our travel preparations. After piling into the car, Mommy went to start it. Guess what? It didn’t work; we didn’t even leave the driveway.

The rest of the morning was pretty quiet – we spent the time reading, writings, playing games, and painting (Celeste like to paint) in the garden. At around 1PM Daddy arrived to drop off another rental car for us to use. Sadly, by this time the day was fairly wasted. However, we still wanted to make an attempt to resurrect it, so we got in the car and drove to Cambridge for some shopping.

Drowning our sorrows, we stopped in almost every shop in Cambridge and I spent nearly ₤35 on lavender-scented items. Thankfully we didn’t spend too many hours in the city, and I escaped with a few pence left in my pockets. We all drove home (I fell asleep!) and met Daddy. After he changed clothes we all went out to an old favorite, The Stukely Inn, for dinner. A coworker of Daddy’s also joined us for dinner.

The final adventure of the day was a trip to the Tesco’s (a store much like our Giant, but larger). Now I am home and much too tired to write anything else. Tomorrow morning we will be up bright and early and back on track for sightseeing again.

Day 4 - Lewis/Tolkien Tour

2005-08-30T12:04:00.000-04:00

The morning was an early one, but we spent several hours out doing various and sundry necessary things (getting gas, going to the grocery store) until noon. At this point we left for Oxford, one of Kenny’s requests. The drive lasted about two and a half hours, and we read, chatted, and laughed all the way.

What is my general impression of Oxford? It is a snooty, dirty, touristy town that is much larger than Cambridge and too large to be charming. Throughout the day this impression was only confirmed over and over again, rather than shaken.

After visiting the tourist office to buy a map (ads, really, with a teensy tiny map in the center) we walked around for a short time. Among the things we saw was the Bridge of Sighs, the round library, St. Mary the Virgin parish Church, and a round theatre where J.R.R. Tolkien once worked. At around 4:10 PM we made our way to a “museum and ride” called The Oxford Story, right outside the historical district.

If any of you ever goes to Oxford, skip this waste of money. The tickets are incredibly expensive for what you get. Both the website and the brochures are very misleading, showing what looks like a large museum showcasing the history of the city of Oxford and a ride showing you visually what you learned in the museum. Before the ride they push you into a little room where you watch a video advertising the college. In reality the place was made up of only the (short!) ride narrating the famous people who graduated from Oxford. It was dinky, dusty, and felt dangerously old. In addition, the audio tour and the ride were extremely anti-Catholic, and I spent most of the time explaining to the girls that everything the audio tour said was a blatant lie.

I will never understand how a country as Catholic as England was become so anti-Catholic in a short amount of time. Is it something inherent in the British character? God only knows. But on the ride the narrators described how, after the fall of the Church, a “new and far more stable form of religion established itself”. A monk who lived 100 years before the Protestant Reformation, but who championed the same separation from the Pope, was placed on a pedestal. An entire room was devoted to hanging, smoldering, pieces of the monk's writings as the narrator explained how the Catholic Church was against the advance of modern thought by burning the heretic’s thoughtful writings. Near the end the bravery of the Protestant martyrs was praised to the highest heavens, and the dying speech of some of them was heard. Finally, the tour finished with the soaring phrase: “Even today, Oxford continues to foster diversity in sex, race, and religion.” And we paid to hear these hypocritical lies? I can’t believe it.

We did a little shopping after the ride and before we drove to Lewis Close. In Lewis Close, at the end of a little residential area, is the C.S. Lewis Nature Reserve. The Reserve, which used to be Lewis’ backyard, contains a pond on which Lewis would reportedly row out to work on his Chronicles of Narnia. Tolkien, visiting, would take hikes through the woods surrounding the pond. Also, near the Reserve is the house that once belonged to C.S. Lewis himself. Unfortunately, it is a private residence now and so we could only take pictures of the outside. We were not alone either; there was one other solitary pilgrim to this place.

Afterwards, we drove around and finally found the Jewish Cemetery where J.R.R. Tolkien and his wife are buried. While driving (it was a difficult search and we found it thanks to the GPS), we read a very good article written by a Tolkien fan who visited the site and who described it very well. J.R.R. Tolkien and his wife Edith are buried in the Catholic corner of the cemetery, and there are little signs to guide you to the grave.

Though not affected with the same sense of awe that struck the writer of the article, it was surreal to be standing next to his grave. It was true, what was said to be written on the stone: underneath their names was written “Beren and Luthien”. The story of Beren and Luthien, a mortal man who falls in love with an elven princess and must win her hand, is my favorite in the Silmarillion. We snapped some pictures as reverently as possible, and said a prayer.

As quickly as possible (the cemetery was supposed to close soon) we walked back to the car. It was sad to see the state of the rest of the graves. In contrast with Tolkien’s decorated grace bedecked with flowers, rosaries, and Lord of the Rings figures, these other graves were barren. Some of the headstones had been pulled up by tree roots, making one wonder whether any bones were visible. I wanted to leave a flower and say a prayer at every single one. “At least”, said Kenny, “all these people are probably in heaven.” I said a prayer anyway.

Halfway through the two and a half hour drive home, everything seemed to be going very well. We chatted about dinner (we were all starving), our favorite places we visited, and rude Brits. But we weren’t going to be home for dinner for a long time. The emergency light on the car flickered on, and about one hundred feet further down the road we veered off and broke down. Literally in the middle of nowhere, we started calling AA to come and tow us to a garage in the nearest town.

At 11PM, the tow truck arrived and the guy drove us home before dropping the car somewhere. He was a nice guy, but we were too tired to say much. At this point, after two “adventures” in a row, we wanted to go home. We arrived at the Garden House at around 12:30AM, ate dinner, and went to bed.

Day 3 - Accidents Happen

2005-08-30T11:52:00.000-04:00

This morning we slept in until 10:30AM so that everyone could recover from jet lag enough to actually enjoy sightseeing. Though we were all a bit annoyed that this had to happen, it was for the better. No one wanted one of our drivers to fall asleep at the wheel.

I promised to describe The Garden House today, so I will give a brief overview of the house. Through the front door you come to a small foyer and from there enter into the dining room, with windows that open out into the walled garden. There is a bathroom and a huge kitchen with a stone floor off of the dining room. The garden in the back is beautiful, where ivy and roses are profuse. At the top of the stairs is one bedroom (where Mommy and Daddy sleep) and a huge common area with two fold-out couches and a television (four channels). Down the hallway from there is another bathroom and another bedroom (Celeste and I slept here). All in all it is a large and comfortable house.

When all the day’s travel preparations were finished, we drove to Epping. From here (the end of the Central Line) we took the Tube to right outside the National Portrait Gallery. The Gallery was one of Mommy’s few requests and I backed her on it because Paul Scofield personally recommended it to me as one of the finest things to see in London (along with the Tate Gallery and St. Magnus the Martyr). Though Kenny wasn’t too crazy about going to an “art museum”, even he enjoyed looking at all the portraits. To my delight, the very first painting we encountered was the original of a beautiful family portrait of the More family, painted after St. Thomas More’s death. I have always wanted to see it in person.

While Mommy and Daddy went off on their own, I took Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth with me, giving them a history lesson as we went along. British history throughout these periods is my particular element, so I was well equipped to give an off-the-cuff tour. We continued through several centuries of portraits – the Tudors, the 17th Century, the 18th Century, and the late 18th and early 19th Century. Also, there was a large collection of etchings and painting of Lord Nelson on display. One favorite painting we unexpectedly came across was a portrait of George Washington, naturally shoved in a corner amidst a slew of other mediocre paintings.

Before we left we hurried through a visiting exhibition called “Shooting Stars”. A fun collection, it was a group of portraits taken of celebrities by one artist. My favorite was one taken of Paul Scofield, though unfortunately I wasn’t able to find a copy of it in the gift shop downstairs. But this exhibition was very crowded, so we left as soon as we could and flew through the gift shop before it closed. (Thankfully we were all allowed inside; there was a rule posted on the door that only ten children were allowed in at any one time.)

From near the Portrait Gallery we took a Tube to the Brompton Oratory, a breathtaking church that Monsignor Hughes highly recommended. Apparently he took a retreat there many years ago. In the middle of central London (a mere few blocks ago from Harrods department store), the Oratory provides a place of escape and recollection for the surviving remnant of Catholicism. The priests still say Mass facing the altar (away from the congregation) at the Oratory and everyone received Holy Communion at the rail.

We went to Sunday Mass, the Feast of the Assumption – our parish feast – at the Brompton Oratory. Though I was fully attentive at Mass, I must admit that my thoughts were with those celebrating at our annual parish picnic back at home. I can see it now: the balloon toss (Fr. Baer moderating), the elderly parishioners congregating for dinner, and Deacon Klco up to his own tricks. Perhaps Fr. Joe would even make an appearance…who knows? I really miss being there.

There is something sublime about attending a Mass where it is said in the traditional way (pre-Vatican II style). The way the priest says the Mass facing the Altar rather than the people is one thing that I really do wish the Catholic Church hadn’t lost. It really gives the whole Mass a different attitude: one of prayer, reverent worship, and sacrifices reminiscent of those of the Jewish priestly order in the Old Testament. Instead of looking at the priest, you feel as though you are participating with the priest in the offering. It is a sorry thing that more people do not appreciate the beauty of the old Mass.

After Mass, we walked to a restaurant we had seen two years ago called the Bunch of Grapes for dinner. Before we went inside, Daddy went ahead to find out if children were welcome. Thankfully they were, because we were all starving. As an interesting note, this particular restaurant dates back to the mid-1700s. Dinner was very good, and the waitress extremely sweet. Meals ordered ranged from traditional fish and chips to chicken wrapped in bacon and a hearty shepherd’s pie.

Dinner being over, we hopped on a double-decker to go to Piccadilly Circus. From Piccadilly we took a walk to Trafalgar Square, one of Lizzy’s requests. The magic of Trafalgar Square at night is difficult to describe. The fountains, the lights, the huge lions, the illuminated Portrait Gallery and the statue of Nelson all combine to make not a sight, but an experience not to be missed.

We stuck around, relaxing, until 11PM when they turned off the lights. Soon enough we found a Tube station at Charing Cross and hopped aboard. Leaving the big city behind, we sped quickly towards my beloved countryside. Quite honestly, I forgot how much I hated the city of London. Even more so that I remember two years ago, the people are incredibly rude. I can’t even count the times that I was pushed, shoved, and trampled in the course of this one day. Not a single person says “Excuse me” or even acknowledges that you exist. Never in my life have I met such rude people as the Londoners.

Though we thought that our day was over and we would soon be home, we were wrong. The adventure was to continue. Not being natives, we were ignorant of the fact that the Tube stops running at 11:45 PM, whether it be at the end of the line or in the middle of the line. Our train stopped at a station in the middle of nowhere, twenty minutes or so from Epping where our car was. Since Mommy has a bum knee, we weren’t going to attempt to walk so a night watchman at the stations helped Daddy find a 24 hour cab service.

The cab only held four, so Daddy and I stayed behind while Mommy, Kenny, and the girls went to get the car and pick us up. Meanwhile, Graham (the watchman) hung around to keep us company and keep an eye on us until our ride arrived. A tall, broad man with short red hair, he said that there had been some muggings in the area, and he didn’t want anything to happen to us. To pass the time we chatted about this and that: about how the Tube works, how heat affects the UK, how Spain is “saturated” with Brits now who treat it as their Florida, and more. The reason that the train shuts down before midnight is because all trains run on a single tracks, so maintenance can only be done at night.

Finally the rest of the family arrived and we piled into the car for the ride home. Graham gave us directions for the ride back to St. Neots and we left. We arrived home at 2AM Monday morning and crashed into bed.

Day 2 - Yorkshire, My Future Home

2005-08-29T17:20:00.000-04:00

Daddy dragged us out of bed bright and early (5:30 AM) for a light breakfast of tea and scones. Half asleep, we ate and then walked out to the van to wait for Mommy and Daddy to check out of the TLQ.

The weather here has been quite a shock. Thankfully I packed long pants and long-sleeved shirts. On the day before we left Maryland thermometers topped off at 100 degrees; in England today we had a high of 72. It is cloudy and drizzly – Kenny, in his usual charming way, calls it “Jane Austen rain”. Though, he is quick to point out, in all mushy love scenes in Jane Austen movies a downpour happens to dump itself on the heroine.

First on our list for today was Thirsk, an extremely charming little town in the Yorkshire Dales. In fact, its claim to fame has everything to do with its charm, so well described by its famous son James Herriot. For those who have read the books, the town looks much as it must have when he wrote. The marketplace, cobblestone streets, “Black Bull” Tavern, and host of friendly though elderly residents transport one to another era entirely.

I am constantly awed by the simplicity of these people living in the Dales. They seem to live quite happily apart from the rest of their country, London especially, and would rather not be bothered. But they love it when others appreciate what they have. Never in my life have I met such a charming people.

Other than its streets and residents, Thirsk’s main attraction is the World of James Herriot, which consists of his house as well as a museum to veterinary medicine. The house is set up very much like it would have been when he lived and worked in the 1940s (though I think that much of the clutter was for the benefit of the tourists). But somehow the time period portrayed inside the house was not alien to the outside – the town is caught in some kind of time trap.

A little on James Herriot: His name, in fact, was not James Herriot but rather James Alfred Wight. Also, one might be led to believe that “Alf’ was born in England. This is wrong – he was born in Sunderland in Scotland and was raised in Glasgow. It was only after Alf had graduated from veterinary school in England and had moved back to Sunderland to look for a job that he found a position had opened up in Thirsk. Since veterinary jobs were few and far between, he packed up his things and moved to the Yorkshire Dales.

One thing that I did not realize about James Herriot was that he never stopped practicing veterinary medicine. As his charming books rocketed him to international fame, he remained grounded. When asked what he would do with his million pounds gleaned from royalties on his books and their film adaptations, he answered “Do? I am going to go on doing what I always have - being a vet. I am, and always have been, a vet first and a writer second.”

The museum was interesting as well, but not as much as the house itself. Devoted to the history of veterinary medicine, the museum contained a myriad collection of frightening instruments (a box to contain a cat while it was castrated?) and “interactive” exhibits. We all enjoyed the one where we got to birth a calf. ;-)

When we finished at the gift shop we took a short drive to Northallerton for lunch at Betty’s Tea Room. Because Betty’s is famous worldwide, one of Mommy’s wishes was to have tea there. There was a very long queue when we arrived so Kenny, Celeste and I went to browse the market while the rest of the family stood to wait for a seat.

The lunch was very good and extremely filling – I had lemon and seasoned chicken salad and probably drank six cups of tea. Kenny flirted with the waitress (named Rachel – he said she had lovely eyes) and made the poor girl blush awfully. I don’t think I will ever get used to my brother flirting with girls. Afterwards we piled back into the car and started the rather long trek through the Yorkshire Dales to the Forbidden Corner. On the way we passed Middleham Castle, a highlight of our 2003 visit to the Mother Country.

One would think that we came to England specifically for the Forbidden Corner, considering how excited Elizabeth was to see it. The Forbidden Corner is what is called a “folly” and was built by one man on his huge estate to entertain his grandchildren many years ago. A labyrinth of elaborate mazes, caves, streams, and gardens, it takes roughly three hours to find the way through. No expense was spared in the building of the folly: the caves, castles, and statues are all made of stone. But one shouldn’t be surprised to see arms sticking out of walls or perhaps (excuse me) a little statue of a mischievous boy that pees on you as you pass by.

Daddy had never been there before so we spent a long time following him around and enjoying his reactions to everything. I remember coming two years ago and being absolutely terrified because I was so claustrophobic. It is a very upsetting feeling to know that you can’t get out of somewhere even if you wanted to. As to pass through the various parts of the folly, the doors close and lock behind you. There is no way out except to find the correct way.

After finishing the folly the girls and I went to the bathrooms. Characteristic of the Forbidden Corner, even the bathrooms were not spared some form of trickery. The entrance was wooden, reminiscent of traditional outhouses. We opened the door and there in front of us were two holes in a bench in a wooden shed, and a sign hung over them that read “This privy occupies two, but if there is only one in here, leave the door unlocked.” There were newspapers stuck on nails on the walls for our enjoyment. Celeste said “You have got to be kidding me”, expressing all our thoughts. We did a search and finally found a hidden door into the real bathroom, an elegant one in pink marble with silver fixtures. Very funny – Kenny said that they didn’t play such a joke on the boys, of course.

We left the Forbidden Corner and started heading back through the Dales on their famous one-lane two way roads. Daddy has a habit of driving very quickly, so I got used to the sight of white knuckles on those roads. Eventually I fell asleep and continued to sleep until we stopped at Doncaster for dinner.

Unfortunately not everything during a day can go well; the day ended on a sour note here at the Lakeside Beefeater, a Family Restaurant. The portions were very small and the service extremely slow.

Dinner was over by 10PM, and we continued our drive to Mrs. Sander’s farm where we would be renting the Garden House. We dragged our things into our new house and crashed for the night. Tomorrow I will try to describe the house a bit – it is very charming and feels like home as we spent four weeks in it in 2003.

Day 1 - An Uneventful Plane Trip

2005-08-29T17:12:00.000-04:00

After waking at 4:00AM (or, rather, washing our faces; not many of us slept with all the packing we had to do), we all piled into the car and Kevin drove us to Reagan National Airport. Much to Mommy’s dismay, a very small plane took us to Boston for the first leg of our flight. At Celeste’s count, there were fifteen passengers total.

Adding a bit of excitement to our morning, to get to the plane we had to walk across the tarmac and climb up the stairs to the plane. Daddy said that this is the “old-fashioned way” of doing things; doesn’t he fear dating himself with comments like that? Ah well.

Our flight to Boston was rather short, and we soon found ourselves inside Boston International Airport. Until now I had been wearing my short leg brace, but my foot started bothering me at this point so I sat down and strapped on the walking cast. Naturally, security gave my quite a hassle, and I found myself subjected to a wanding, pat down, and various chemical tests. Had I been less tired I may have found these chemical tests fascinating.

Mommy and Elizabeth fell fast asleep and spent most of our trip to Heathrow snoozing. Though running on very little sleep ourselves (Celeste had one hour), Celeste and I watched “The Interpreter” twice. Despite my plans to read all the way to England, I was way too tired to navigate my way through the labyrinth of Scottish accents in Rob Roy.

Other than dealing with a bevy of witchy flight attendants apparently uninterested in customer service, the flight was uneventful. Approximately 6.5 hours after leaving Boston we arrived in Heathrow. It took us roughly two hours to get through security, passport services, and “reclaim” our baggage downstairs. While standing in line to have our passports stamped, Mommy got into conversation with an elderly African (Sierra Leone, to be exact) Londoner returning from “holiday” in the States. He said that he taught for forty-two years at a University in his native country. Leave it to my mother to meet the most interesting people.

Since Daddy and Kenny still hadn’t arrived to pick us up at this point, Mommy watched the bags while the girls and I browsed the airport stores. We were interrupted by Kenny in the middle of choosing scents of shampoo we liked at Boots. Soon enough we piled into our big blue van, which was rather ugly on the outside but very comfortable inside, and started our drive to the Base.

It took about an hour and a half to get home and unload our overnight bags. The room was fairly nice as TLFs go, despite the old bubble gum in the drain and the cheerios stuck to the lamp in the common area (Elizabeth discovered these). We ate a quick dinner and climbed into bed.

While Mommy and Daddy fell asleep immediately, the rest of us stayed up for a while and watched British television. It was some sort of entertainment program showing the UK premiere of “Fantastic Four”, and included fun interviews with the stars. A highlight was Ioan Gruffudd (pronounced Jo-ann Griffith) demonstrating how he “kissed the air” in the movie when he had to kiss Invisible Girl. The general consensus in the room after the show was that Ioan was “classy” and the favorite, Jessica Alba was pretty, and Chris Evans and Michael Chiklis were pretty shallow.

The fun being over, we all fell asleep at 1:45 AM British time.

So much to say!

2005-08-29T13:05:00.000-04:00

As you may have suspected, I didn't have the means to post to my blog while I was on vacation. However, I have roughly thirty pages of material that I wrote on the road. Over the next week or so I will post it slowly to the site (including pics!) for you to enjoy - or hate, or yawn at, whatever the case may be. Cheers!

Cheers!

2005-08-11T01:16:00.000-04:00

I started this blog so that I could keep a travel log (and include snapshots) without using up all my space on my normal blog. My first trip is to England...Enjoy!