Cheerio, Y'all

I guess I've been a lot of places by now. I've seen a lot of things.
But in reality, here's what I truly know:
In only one place,
I can hug my best friend of twelve years.
I can drive down the winding roads with the windows down.
I can smell the roses that grow in the backyard.
I can swelter in the Southern heat.
I can see a familiar face in the street.
I can feel memories linger around every corner.
And this--
this is when I know I'm in a very special place.
The only place in the whole world.
This is when I know
I'm home.

Cheerio, y'all.

Keep Calm, and Run Fast

They call me the Blur. Why?
That’s exactly how fast I ran, this morning, through Terminal 3 of London’s Heathrow Airport. 
Interesting story . . .what possessed me to sprint, weave, and duck between travellers, stores, and benches, with my backpack furiously bouncing and hair flying, all the way to Gate 31?

This is what I’d seen, only two hours earlier, as I strolled into the airport:

Destination:Toronto   Air Canada  12:05pm   Cancelled—See Airline

I stood in the middle of the Terminal 3 foyer for a full 30 seconds, while people chattered and jostled and bustled all around me. 

Just staring at that terrible word: Cancelled.  As in, no flight.

I’d travelled 3 hours by bus already; my ticket was booked; I had plenty of time for security; my (massive/heavy/deadweight) bags were packed; the passport was on hand.

What could go wrong?

I’ll tell ya what.

As I’ve mentioned before in previous posts, I've had a bit of a struggle with international flights in the past.  Random things, here and there. At the beginning of our trip, the Dutch KLM airline lost my bags, which I finally recovered 5 days into my trip.

This time, however, it wasn’t baggage or my neighbor's overpowering body odor that was the problem.

As I stood at the Air Canada Desk, I’ll be honest about my first reaction; I just wanted to burst into frustrated tears. This was the last thing I’d expected, and I was scared.  

Fortunately, I stayed composed, and spoke with any attendant I could find. There was a flight leaving at 11:05 am—one hour earlier than my cancelled flight—and I quickly requested the standby list.  “Please,” I said urgently, “I need to be on that flight.  Please.”  The next flight probably wouldn’t be until the next day.

I lingered around the desk, talking rapidly to my parents on the phone about my options.  At 10am, the main attendant asked for my last name, and I felt a ray of hope. 

Our prayers were answered—of the four passengers they selected from standby to get on the flight, I was among them.

I quickly checked my bags, and looked at the clock, with the words of the attendant repeating in my head. Better hurry.

Well, forget British propriety. I hurried down the terminal hall, and snuck into the separate rapid security line, for "priority" travellers only. More like "priority travelers" and one crazy American college girl. 

Once I got through, I took off, running through the crowds.  My gate was a 20-minute walk, according to the sign.  Well . . . I always knew staying in shape would come in handy . . . .

And so I ran as fast as my bags would allow, ignoring all sense of pride, past Heathrow’s posh stores—Burberry, Gucci, Miu Miu, Harrods, etc.  I arrived at the gate, breathless but exuberant; the lady scanned my ticket, while I smoothed my hair nonchalantly.

“Enjoy your flight,” she said.

Oh, I will.

So I guess international flights just have a way of keeping me on my toes, right when I think I'm in control. But that’s not always a bad thing. Because KLM lost my luggage, I can say I backpacked across Europe because I lived out of my bag for several days . . . right?

And because Air Canada cancelled my flight, I got to weasel into the rapid security line and show off my fabulously speedy skillz through the Heathrow airport.

It’s the important things to keep in perspective, as always.

Also, the British version of Dwight Schrute sat next to me on the plane...but that's a story for another time.

Keep calm, and run fast.

Cheerio. 

Top O' the Morning

My mornings at Cambridge are, in all honesty, absolutely perfect. 

After morning class, I have a very specific routine: I take my laptop, cross the street, buy a little bar of dark chocolate at Chocolat-Chocolat, and then go to Costa Coffee down the street and order a medium Americano. 

With British chatter murmuring in the background, I perch at a little table with the laptop. Take a sip the black coffee, nibble on the chocolate, breathe, and begin to happily type away at the keys. 

What do I write? Anything, really. Some days I blog, others I do class assignments. For one hour, I can process, record memories, and untangle my strands of thought. No distractions, no running around. Just a bit of peace and a keyboard. 

I listen to music, watch people go by, observe those sitting around me. I've mentioned before that I'm a total workaholic when I'm home, but here? 

Here, I can be still. I can enjoy every morning, sitting and tasting a bit of life. It's pretty lovely, if I say so myself. 

Cheerio. 

God Save the Queen

Imagine an elderly British lady with iron gray hair, thin lips, and a tightly buttoned collar. Her voice is high, pinched, and very British.  

Imagine how she'd speak, if she were to say something regal, proper, and exceptionally sophisticated, like "God save the Queen." Or, for our purposes here, "Punting on the Cam." 

Punting is a purely English boating tradition, steeped with history, in which one stands on a low boat with an enormous rod, and pushes it against the river bottom to move forward. The sport is extremely popular in Oxford and Cambridge, as are rowing and other water sports.

We decided to go as a group on one beautiful, sunny afternoon last week, and I was more than excited to indulge in some proper river-ish culture. I donned my most festive attire: Chacos, sorority t-shirt, jean shorts (read: american) with my swimsuit and sunglasses, and off we went. 

It became clear, however, that things weren't quite as easy as they seemed.  The boat is extremely difficult to navigate--you could shoot off to the left or the right of the river with a slight turn of the rod.  It took at least ten minutes for our group to leave the dock, but no matter. We were exhilarated with the sunshine and fresh air. 

However, when it came my turn to have a go at the punt, I wasted no time. I punted away, and decently managed to move our boat upstream.  One can't help but want to sing while punting, so I began to hum bits of Pocahontas' "Just Around the Riverbend" and the great philosophical ballad, "I'm On a Boat." Jolly, lovely, all that. 

But the Cam is a rather narrow river, and there were tourists everywhere--so when one got in my way, cut me off, or blocked the river by paralleling the shore, to my surprise, something inside me snapped. 

OH NO YOU DIDN'T.

I had no idea, but I have a healthy case of river rage. 

Crazy tourists, blocking our boat. I don't really have road rage when I drive cars, but on the river? 
No sir. Get out the way. 

I don't see America putting in a river transportation system anytime soon, so for now, the beast will remain caged. 

We had a lovely time, and I couldn't help but think of all the lovely symbolism of being on a river, adventure, "Around the Riverbend" . . . my blog, boat, river . . . yeah.  I'm not a nerd or anything. 

God save the Queen, and 

Cheerio. 

We Are Now B.O.arding

He looked kind of strange from the moment I laid eyes on him. He sat at the edge of the aisle, in the large plane that would soon be taking off across the Atlantic.

My family was on an international flight to Amsterdam last summer, and I was beyond excited. . . mostly because I'd be on an airplane. Why? 

I love flying on airplanes. 

Strange but true. There's something totally invigorating about the whole flying experience: airports, bustling people, excitement, business suits, briefcases, departures, arrivals, free peanuts. 

In my travels around the US, I've had some pretty interesting flights, but international voyages have proved to be a bit more eventful.

So as I slid into the seat, with my older brother and younger right behind me, I couldn't help but size up the man who would be sitting on my left.  

He sat, motionless, wearing nothing but black from head to toe.  Black shoes, pants, short-sleeved collared shirt. Even his watch was an industrious shade of charcoal. He had a medium, square build, short hair, and tanned skin. But what really got me were his sunglasses: a pair of shiny, square shades, which made me totally unable to read anything in his expression or body language. Which I have a habit of doing, so this was fairly unsettling, because the man wasn't moving a single muscle. 

I buckled into my seat, chirping away as my older brother pretended to listen, and kept a wary eye on the man. He'd have to move sometime. Five minutes passed. Nothing. 

But after a few more moments, something caught my attention. Or at least my nose's attention. 

"Hey," I said, leaning over to my brother. "Did you forget to put on deodorant this morning?" He looked at me, and shook his head.  I scrunched my eyebrows. Maybe it was just me. 

But a minute later, I knew I couldn't be wrong. I could smell something, or someone, with a powerful, oppressive odor.  The kind that is distinctly human, of sweat, garlic, dirt . . .the kind that seems to seep into your skin, and cling to your nose. The really bad kind.  

I leaned over again, sniffing my sibling suspiciously. "Are you totally sure?" I said, eyeing him.  He usually uses Old Spice, but ya never know. He rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sarah. I'm totally sure." 

"Do you smell that?"

"Nope."

Five long minutes later, my brother looked at me with surprise.

"Do you smell something?"

"Oh yes." I rasped in reply, as I had been trying to breathe with my mouth. 

We looked around, bewildered at the mysterious scent.  It seemed to grow stronger by the second, but I had no clue as to its source. We tried to inhale through our mouths, or take large gulps of air. Several minutes passed, and the scent didn't go away.

I thought of soaps, showers, perfumes, deodorants . . . what could possibly be missing here? How could something smell so bad? We were totally trapped. You can't just leave an aircraft. I glared at the "fasten your seat belt" sign, as if my eyes could melt through the ceiling and let in a blessed gust of fresh air.

After minutes of desperation, my brother and I pressed our pillow cases to our noses to try and dispel the odor. I'm really not kidding--this was one of the worst scents I've ever smelled in my entire life, and it only seemed to get worse and worse.  My head began to swim a little from my erratic breathing patterns. 

Just then, the man next to me actually moved.  He stood suddenly, and lifted his arm up to reach his suitcase. 

Then came the Wave. The wave of body odor, intense, inescapable, and straight from the man sitting next to me. 

"OH...oh my gosh," I whispered fervently to my brother. "It's him, it's him, that's the smell . . . ."

We looked at each other, panicked. It felt like we'd been sitting there for hours. 

In reality, it had only been 45 minutes. This was an 8 hour flight, and I'd surely pass out from oxygen deprivation by the time we landed in Amsterdam.  So we did exactly what any rational person does when presented with an inescapable problem. 

With a little bribery and cunning, we snuck into the aisle four rows up, straight to the Promised Land.  Pure air has never tasted so good. So we watched Juno simultaneously on our little TVs, congratulated ourselves, and ate free peanuts.  

One thing I may love even more than airplanes? Deodorant. 

Keep it classy, keep it clean. That's my travel motto. 

Cheerio. 

The Sea of Faith

That, I thought, is a very old painting.

I was in the middle of London's famous Victoria & Albert Museum, standing with my chin tipped toward the ceiling, staring at an enormous piece of art. The Queen herself had lent this original Raphael painting, "St. Paul Preaches in Athens," to the museum--and Raphael is a majorly famous Renaissance artist. As I stood, transfixed, something gradually grabbed my attention: the sounds of rapid-fire foreign languages buzzing all around me. I leveled my gaze, and took in the scenery. In the large museum, droves of people from every corner of the globe--Asia, Africa, the Americas, Europe, both old and young--were jostling to catch a glimpse of ancient historical artifacts and displays, including the painting that held my attention now.

I can't help but wonder.

What in the world are all these people doing here?

Why does the ancient tradition/sculpture/painting/relic/artistic tradition of the Italian Renaissance matter one bit to me? Or anyone else, for that matter? Isn't life all about progress, pushing forward, and generating the new?

I took in the awed stares of the tourists' faces, the respectful murmurs. Something. Something here matters. They're here, I realized, to find meaning. 

I believe that hope, and purpose, are integral for the spirit, and without them, people lose something unseen but very real. We must place our hope in something, no matter what that thing is.

The critically acclaimed play, “Endgame,” by Samuel Beckett, makes a very poignant exploration of death, duty, and nothingness. Life is just that--an "endgame." We're here for a while, and just like that . . .gone. Many notable philosophers, like Camus and Sartre, and writers like Dostoevsky and Stoppard, explore absurdist/existentialist philosophy and the vain struggle of life. Their conclusions are simple: there is no conclusion, because there is nothing.

As we sat on the cliffs of Dover—in our first weekend in the UK— I recalled the famous poem, “Dover Beach,” by Matthew Arnold, in which he speaks of this very idea to his lover as he gazes at the white cliffs.

“The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night” (21-37).

Arnold is betrayed by the richness he sees, and struggles with the bleak emptiness. Yet he still grasps at something—-he asks his lover to remain true, because Arnold needs something to hold onto, some form of hope.

So it must be.  We cannot exist apart from some unseen, sustainable force.

This is why I believe. This is why I have faith.

I don’t place my trust in my own knowledge, and my own experiences—even my acquaintance with grief and joy.  I’ve met too many people, and heard too many stories, to pretend for an instant that I alone, in my small brain, hold ultimate knowledge.

I don’t place trust in intellect.  I’ve seen too many faulty theories, “supreme knowledge,” like the humeral system, bloodletting, flatness of the Earth, “scientific racism” (that justified the Holocaust), among hundreds of other failed but popular ideas.

I can do nothing, at this point, but to put my faith in something I cannot see, but feel—in every fiber of my being—in the quiet moments; when the mind fails, the heart hurts, and the body is tired.  In these moments, I am profoundly aware of my own inability to sustain or answer my deepest questions and feelings.  But one thing, I do know: I am a being, and I feel, I think, I sense, I exist.  The universe, perhaps, has no obligation to me, but someone—something— does. That someone is God.  A God who sees me, hears me, created me with a profound sense of purpose, and an incredible ability to love; and this is the path I choose. This is where I choose to place my life and my hope. If I’m right, then I shall live in eternal light of this love. If I’m wrong, then I shall die nobly—if ignorantly—believing in my soul that I have lived life to its fullest, in the love of a God who hears my heart, and sings the melody of life,even when I've forgotten--or refused--to hear the words. This is faith. This is the journey. Cambridge has helped me to see that. 

Cheerio.

Today Was A Fairytale

Somehow, this afternoon still doesn’t seem quite real.  Not even a bit.

Every once in a while, there are days that are so perfect, you want to capture the moments—hold them like pearls in the palm of your hand, carry them in your pockets, let them whisper in your ear. 

This was one of those days. Tea parties are a big event for little girls, but don’t let age fool you.  No matter how old a girl gets, there’s something quite special about teatime—especially at the Ladurée patisserie and tearoom.  The French confection shop, world-renown for famous macarons and tea, nestles in the side of the iconic Harrods department store in the heart of London .  On Sunday afternoon, when my mom and I walked by on our way into this fashion mecca, I didn’t even think about stopping. I just stared wistfully at the elegant people lounging in the Ladurée tables, which were covered with silver teapots, delicate china cups, and beautifully designed confections.  A pure blend of tradition, culture, and taste—London and Paris, sweet and savory, all in one place.  Flawless. 

But two hours later . . . .

My mom and I were leaving Harrods when a café caught her eye.  She asked a man nearby about “Café Rouge,” a restaurant across the street.  He shook his head no, quite enthusiastically.  “No, madam, no,” he said with a French lilt. “You go there, across the street, you might get hit by a bus or a cab.”  We grinned. “No. You must go here.”  He gestured to the left.

It’s then that I looked more closely at his distinguished attire: this man was clearly is the manager of Ladurée, the small heaven itself.  My eyes widened with astonishment as he lead us into the elegant tearoom, told the guards that our travel luggage would be placed behind the counter (a rare exception), skipped over the hordes of people waiting, and seated us in the best seat in the house in a matter of seconds. 

Two minutes later, my mother and I were sipping Marie Antoinette tea in this gorgeous tearoom, on a Sunday afternoon in London, at 4 o’clock, in high tourist season. Just like that.

These sorts of things don’t just happen.  You don’t just waltz into an internationally acclaimed patisserie and just get top treatment from the manager and wait staff.        It just doesn’t. But today—today, it did.

I was stunned the entire time, and murmured witty phrases, like Wow. This doesn’t feel real. Amazing.

 That about covers my coherency.  I kept shaking my head in disbelief.  The croissants could not have been lighter, and the macarons? No words.  The shop practically dripped with class, and I could hardly believe I could be a part of it.  So, I raise my teacup, to a magical, perfect, sugar-sprinkled afternoon.

Cheerio.