Does anyone know where Harrow Road is?

Well, I finally had a royal fuck-up in which I wrote down directions to a hostel that is NOT the hostel that I'm staying at and then traveled clear across London only to stand outside in the cold and wind at a six-way intersection wondering where the fuck I am. Why I wrote down directions to the wrong place, I'm not sure. But right now I'm at an Internet cafe getting new directions to the correct hostel and mentally preparing myself for a journey that will require three train transfers and numerous back-breaking slings of my thirty-pound backpack over my shoulder. I've been on and off trains for three or four hours now and my spine is ready to break and all I've eaten since breakfast is a pack of peanut M&Ms. I'm entering the part of my journey in which I'm not on my way to meet anyone I know and it might be a while before I come face-to-face with someone who can remember my name. I'm tired and thirsty and I have to pee and this backpack is fucking killing me but I haven't broken yet and I'm ready to grab London by the balls and tapdance all over its face.

SO. Wish me luck.

Wednesday in Manchester: A Photo Essay

Woke up late and took a morning stroll. I ate an apple on that bench.


Then I spent a few hours in the Whitworth art museum.


Afterward, it was hot cocoa in the museum cafe.


And a stroll through the city.


That evening we rode on the Wheel of Manchester.


And went downtown to a dimly lit, smoky jazz club.

It was a good day.

Last night in Birmingham

There's definitely a feeling that goes along with traveling ... a feeling that always keeps you on your toes, even while asleep or daydreaming. It's kind of similar to daydreaming actually, because you don't really feel like you're in your own reality. It's as if you stepped into someone else's world for a while, a world belonging to some transient globetrotter ... some homeless backpacker who happens to have all of your memories and insecurities and habits.

I'm still trying to decide if I like this whole traveling business. Do I mind crashing on other people's couches, entrusting my fate to buses and trains, and hoarding bottled water like it's some sort of precious, magical serum? Does it bother me that I'm not sure where I will be sleeping in five days or that the three shirts I have in rotation are already becoming my three least favorite articles of clothing?

It's only been one week and already I've met more people than names I can remember and been sicker than I've been in a year. And I'm starting to learn a little bit about myself. For example, it's more important to me that I talk to strangers and make friends than it is for me to visit historical sites or shop for souvenirs. Sure, I'm interested in ancient buildings and exotic knickknacks, but so far the thoughts that keep me awake at night are about conversations with cute foreign boys and how in the hell I'm going to communicate with French people.

This trip seems to have evened itself out so far. For all the things that have gone wrong (laptop malfunctions, phone problems, uncontrollable vomiting, etc.), there are just as many things that have gone right (relaxing with Jo, falling in love with Germans, listening to my favorite music while England blurs past my train window, etc.) Even though I'm already out here and I'm doing exactly what I planned to do, I still have moments where the scariest thing I can think of is continuing on this path for eleven more weeks and I can't remember a time in my life when I've ever longed for my own bed more.

But man ... there is NOTHING like riding around a city that is in an entirely different hemisphere than the only one you've ever known for your entire life, or counting out change for an impatient cashier by flipping over every single coin to read its tiny, metallic inscription while trying to calculate its worth in dollars to make sure you're not being ripped off, or touching the walls of a castle and trying to remember the last time you felt something that was older than the United States of America, or noticing that the streetlamps here have orange bulbs and the cars are all smaller and the people dress better and the bartenders don't expect tips. I've never experienced experience like this before. It may sound hokey, but I've got no better way of putting it. There is no way to sleepwalk through this trip. I don't get to hit pause and I can't retreat to my bedroom for a mind-numbing game of Snood or a couple hours of surfing the Internet. It's beyond uncomfortable, but once it's over, that's what will have made it awesome. I guess I never thought I'd see the day where I force myself to do something largely for the purpose of BUILDING CHARACTER, but alas, here I am and I seem to be doing just that. I suppose it needed to be done somehow. And it doesn't really hurt that I'm enjoying myself in the process.

I hope I run into Ozzy Osbourne and he spits a bat head at me.

I checked out of my hostel and took a train to Birmingham this morning. It was my first time being on a real cross-country train and I loved it … except for the part where a uniformed man asked me for my ticket and then demanded ten pounds from me within seconds after the train started moving. I had no idea why he was asking me for money until he told me that I was sitting in a first class car with a second class ticket. Luckily he didn’t make me pay to upgrade and instead I was forced to do the walk of shame back five cars to second class.

So now I’m at my friend Jo’s house in Birmingham and it is fucking fantastic. My bedroom is cozy and warm and doesn’t have Australians and Irishmen crawling up the walls. The bathroom is clean and the Internet is free and I’m in heaven. Jo is a perfect hostess. We went grocery shopping today and watched TV this evening and I’m so relaxed. My stomach is still a bit unstable, but I’m not throwing up anymore and I think I’m almost back to full health.

Our plans so far include: going to Stratford to visit the home where Shakespeare was born, castle-touring, and pub-hopping.

Alternative Fashion Week in London

Went to a fashion show in Spitalfields Traders Market today. It was awesome. Check out my photos to see more.

German boys: 1, Irish boys: 0

Yesterday began terribly and slowly became worse until finally erupting in a ray of awesomeness.

Of all the people I could meet, I found the single most irritating Irishman on the planet and agreed to spend the afternoon with him walking around central London.


Ed is a small, nervous fellow with a shaved head and one front tooth. He’s annoying in the trying-really-hard-to-be-affable-but-coming-off-incredibly-obnoxious way. The perfect example of this was his insistence every thirty seconds or so that I smile. We’re standing on the train: “Smile!” We’re walking down the street: “Smile!” We’re sitting in a pub: “Smile!” It got really old, really quickly and my patience evaporated in less than an hour. “I DON’T WANT TO SMILE RIGHT NOW.” Also relentless was his insistence that I relax. I could’ve been laying on a beach, getting a massage, drinking a Mai Tai while angels sang sweet songs in my ears and Ed would still find it necessary to yell, “Relax! Don’t worry!” in my ear every five minutes. Needless to say, I couldn’t relax around him at all.

We attempted to see a movie in Leister Square, but it was very over-priced and we had just missed the closest show times. I couldn’t handle being around Ed any longer without a movie or something to drown him out, so I told him that I wanted to go back to the hostel and write. He decided to stay in central London and wander around, so I took the underground back on my own, went up to my room in the hostel and within five minutes met a couple of the coolest guys I’ve ever known.

Enter: Felix and Philipp, the Germans


Felix, 23, and Philipp, 25, met while studying abroad in New Zealand four years ago. It was there that they perfected their English and became good friends. They stopped in London on their way back from Ireland, where they were visiting Philipp’s sister and celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.

After spending an afternoon with Ed, I was losing confidence in my ability to correctly judge others, but I quickly determined that Felix and Philipp were hilarious, easy-going, fun guys. And it was only a matter of hours before I had developed a small crush on Philipp.

It is impossible to describe the kind of fun we had last night. I haven’t had that kind of an immediate connection with two complete strangers in such a long time. We hung around our room and talked to Jared, a sleepy Australian, before heading downstairs to the “Chill-out Room.” There, we played a ping pong tournament, making up new rules and using the one ball we could find until it broke from repeated exposure to surfaces other than the ping pong table. There was never a shortage of conversation, especially with Felix around, and I learned all about my new German friends. Philipp used to work in Ghana, helping children, and is currently paying for the high school education of a boy he grew close to during his year there. Felix wants to teach German to children, has abnormally large hands, and loves to joke about his handsome face. They both like Green Day and find it silly that Americans associate Germany with David Hasselhoff and The Sound of Music.

We stayed in the Chill-out Room for hours and the boys each finished off their eight packs of ½ liter beers, but neither seemed particularly drunk. Felix was not satisfied with having consumed a mere four liters of beer, so we decided to take to the streets in search of a pub. Little did we know, everything in London closes at 11:00 p.m. We wandered down cobblestone courts and I stared at the oddly-shaped taxi cabs and tall, packed-in houses. The boys playfully bickered and Philipp bit Felix’s finger so hard that it needed photographic documentation.


Felix began singing a line from a German song that had been in his head for days. They taught it to me:

“Doch so aufgewuhlt hab ich dich nic gesehen …”

We hollered it at the top of our lungs and didn’t care who we woke up. Soon the line was stuck in my head as well, even though I didn’t know what it was about or how to correctly pronounce the words.

Eventually we came across a pub that was open for ten more minutes. Felix and Philipp ordered cocktails and I got a Coke. We sat around a giant booth and talked, over-staying our welcome by about twenty minutes. I gave Philipp a pin from America that I found in my pocket. It said, “Foreplay is for pussies.” I hoped that he wouldn’t understand what it meant and would walk around with it pinned to his lapel, but he understood right away and laughed, slipping it in his pocket.

After getting kicked out of the pub, we wandered the streets some more, singing our song and searching for food. We came across a bagel shop, so I ordered a falafel and Felix ordered a chicken sandwich. We walked back to the hostel and ate our food in the chill-out room. Eventually Felix went to bed and Philipp and I stayed up until 4:00 a.m., talking about politics and religion and the differences between our countries.

Once we finally went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. The night had been so perfect. It was exactly what I’d been hoping to experience in Europe. I smiled as I lay there, excited for days to come and thought about how incredible it is that I’m actually doing this, staying here, meeting these people, having this adventure all on my own.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew something was wrong. My stomach was gurgling in a way that wasn’t normal. I got up, after only having slept a few hours, and told the boys that I would meet them in the Chill-out Room after showering.

I threw up in the shower. Three times. Clearly I wasn’t going to be able to go anywhere that day. I told Felix and Philipp and they were disappointed, but understood. They asked if there was anything they could do and Philipp gave me his mobile number in case I felt better later on. I gave them both hugs and went back to bed.

Four hours later, I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door. I waited, and listened to see if the person would go away. Suddenly I heard a familiar melody:

“Doch so aufgewuhlt hab ich dich nic gesehen …”

I laughed and got up to answer the door. There were Felix and Philipp with an armful of bottled water, Coke, warm, fresh bread, waffles, chewing gum, and gummy rings. “We’ve come to see how you’re feeling,” said Philip. “And we brought you some food.”

I invited them in and they kept me company for an hour and a half before leaving to catch their flight back to Germany. We each put on a gummy ring and Felix declared us the “Ring Connection.” Philip was “The Mouth,” Felix was “The Finger,” and I was “The Stomach.” We stuck our fists together and vowed to keep the rings on forever. Or at least until they became too sticky and gooey to manage, which only took an hour.


I stayed in bed for the rest of the day after the boys left, waking only to sip some water and getting up to vomit.

It’s been a pretty emotional last few days … crying at the airport, frustration over failed technology, irritation with an Irish boy, laughing with German boys, and now vomiting in a communal bathroom every few hours. There are moments when I wish I was home - mainly when my face is hovering over the toilet - but I think that this is good for me. I’m going to tough it out and enjoy this extended vacation. I’ve got a lot left to do on my agenda and I have barely even begun to get to it all. After today, there are a couple more stops to add to my agenda while I’m in Germany. Hopefully additions like these will keep coming.

First day

- can't figure out how to get the wireless internet on my laptop to work. Posting from an Internet cafe.
- still need to get a new SIM card for my phone so that I can make calls. Got a phone card in the meantime.
- met an Austalian named Ben, an American named Lynn, and a German couple named Oliver and Jessica.
- went out to dinner with Lynn last night. Had a veggie burger with salsa on it and weird chunky, ketchup. It was decent.
- fell asleep at 9pm and slept til 2am; couldn't fall back asleep for hours. finally did and slept til noon. When I woke up, everyone in my room was gone. They get up early here.
- off to wander the streets now. Gonna take pictures, do some writing and hopefully make some friends.
- miss all you guys. Happy birthday yesterday, Mom. Hope it was awesome.

Terminal Five

“You’re going to miss your flight.”

The man behind the counter frowned at me. He was wearing a navy blue United Airlines uniform and a smug look on his face. “This boarding pass is for British Airways, not United. You need to get to Terminal Five.”

Instantly, my pulse quickened and I began to panic. “Where’s Terminal Five?” I asked. Fuck. This is not happening.

He pointed to his left. “That way. You’re not going to make it.”

A wave of cold prickles washed over my entire body and I started to sweat.

With his index and middle finger he slid the boarding pass across the counter. I snatched it up, spun around, and weighed my options. I could call my parents and cry; admit to them and to myself that I’m incapable of actually doing something huge with my life - that I will inevitably fuck up whatever it is I set out to do. But suddenly I stopped and listened to a tiny voice in the back of my mind - a tiny voice that reminded me of the dozens of movies I’ve seen in which mad dashes across airport terminals result in last-minute confessions and passionate embraces mere seconds before lift-off. The voice got louder.

I can do this.

I can.

Run, Mary.

Fucking RUN.

I scurried back to the seat where I’d thrown my thirty-pound backpack, hoodie, hat, scarf, coat, purse and bottle of water. As a cluster of other travelers looked on, I heaved the backpack over my shoulder and struggled to distribute the weight evenly across my back. I considered securing the waist and chest straps but decided that there was no time for proper fastening and slung my jacket, scarf, hoodie, and hat over my forearm instead. I threw my purse over my neck, grabbed my water bottle and took off running.

Terminal Five, Terminal Five, Terminal Five, Terminal Five. Where the fuck is Terminal Five? I scanned signs and followed the arrows pointing toward Terminals Three through Five.

Run.

Run.

Run.

I pushed my way past gobs of people, weaving through and around them. I can’t breathe. Why is this airport so fucking long? What time is it? Am I running for nothing? The United Airlines guy would know better than me how long it takes to get from terminal to terminal. What if he’s right? What am I going to do? Will I have to buy another ticket? What happens when people miss their flights? Do the gates of hell open up and instantly swallow them whole? Am I going to have to go stay in Chicago? Or worse, am I going to have to go HOME? Oh dear god, no. I can’t go home. I just had a fucking GOING AWAY party. I HAVE to go to Europe. I have to get on this flight. There is no way around it. I HAVE TO GET ON.

Gasping for breath, I reached the end of a long hallway of concourses, terminals, and gates. My lungs were on fire. Sweat poured down my face and onto my chest and back. My hair was drenched and matted against my forehead with big, fat droplets clinging to the ends.

I began to panic and my mind went blank. Which gate was I looking for again? Which terminal? C’mon, brain, don’t fail me now. I stopped in the main entryway that joins the concourses and stared at the sign above my head.

CONCOURSES B, C, D -->
Restrooms <--
Ticketing -->

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where do I go? I glanced around me and spotted a man wearing what appeared to be an airport uniform, pushing a luggage cart.

“Excuse me sir,” I said, holding up my boarding pass. “Do you know where I can find Terminal Five?”

“Terminal Five?” He looked at my pass. “You need to get on the train. Go up that escalator and you’ll see a red doorway. Go through that doorway and follow the signs to the train. Get on and take it all the way to Terminal Five and your gate is right there.”

“Thank you!” I yelled over my shoulder. I was already halfway to the escalator.

Run.

Run.

Run.

“Excuse me … excuse me … sorry … coming through.” I shoved past everyone in my path. Giant men with huge rolling suitcases, small clueless children, slow-moving shriveled old ladies, all of them. People saw me coming and jumped out of the way. I didn’t care who got hit with my backpack or how crazed I undoubtedly looked – I was going to make this flight if I had to trample through a sea of rabid, ankle-biting kittens.

After running down a series of escalators and startling more than a few unsuspecting travelers, I reached the platform and saw a train with its doors open to my left. There was a group of people filing off and heading up the stairs. The only other person on the platform with me was a uniformed man standing off to the side.

“Terminal Five!?” I wailed, giving him a look of utter desperation.

He pointed to his right and I turned just in time to see the train doors begin to close.

I lunged forward and wedged myself in between the doors, causing them to close on my backpack. Inside the train stood several people. They all stared at me. A girl near the window snickered. I pulled my backpack fully inside the train and leaned against the window, trying too cool off.

My lungs hurt. I started coughing uncontrollably. There was a burning tickle in the back of my throat that wouldn’t go away. I haven’t run like that in years.

Everyone in the train stared at me as I gasped for breath and coughed. Sweat continued to trickle down my temples and I knew that my t-shirt was completely drenched. Within seconds I was crying and had to use my hoodie to mop up the mixture of tears, snot and sweat that covered my face. I made a conscious effort to avoid my reflection in the train window because I knew that my face was beet red and my eyes were puffy and tired.

The train arrived at Terminal Five after a five minute ride across the airport. I burst through the doors and raced toward the nearest elevator. Pushing people out of my way, I tore up the stairs and found myself in a ticketing area. This meant that I would have to go through security again.

Fuck.

I ran to the nearest security entrance and happily, was the only person in line. The security officer working the X-ray machine was unfazed by my sweat-soaked clothing and inability to breathe.

“Do you have a laptop?” she barked.

“Yes.”

“Take it out and put it in a separate bin. Take off your shoes and belt and put them in a bin as well. What’s that?” She pointed at my moneybelt, which was peaking out from underneath my t-shirt.

“Moneybelt,” I said.

“Take it off.”

I fumbled around, threw my coat, hoodie, purse, belt, and backpack onto the moving belt, then bent down and yanked my shoes off my feet without untying them. I crammed it all through the X-ray machine and handed the lady my boarding pass. She took it, glanced at it, and nodded me through. I grabbed my belongings as they came out the other side, but didn’t bother putting everything back on. Instead I threw my thirty-pound backpack over my shoulder, clutched the rest of my belongings to my chest, and took off running again.

This time I didn’t have far to run. Mine was the first gate in Terminal Five. It was empty except for a man wearing a navy blue uniform that looked slightly different than that of a United Airlines attendant. He smiled at me as I stumbled up to the desk, arms full of shoes and clothing.

“Did I make it?” I asked. “Is this flight going to London?”

And then he uttered the magic words.

“Yes, it is,” his soothing British accent validating everything I had run so long and so fast to hear. “And you’re just in time.”

All packed

Who would've thought I could fit my whole life into three bags?

A small change

And now, all of the sudden, twenty hours before I leave, I've decided to bring a laptop with me to Europe. My father is generously lending me his three pound PC and I'm letting him use my iBook while I'm gone.

A giant weight has been lifted off my mind and replaced with a smaller, less pressing one. Now instead of worrying about how I'm going to write, store pictures and use the Internet, I need to worry about getting robbed. No big deal, right? Right.

Go Away Party

I had a going away party at Nye's last night. It was awesome. I never knew that I had so many friends. In attendance were: Adrianne, her date Miguel, Jennifer, Chris, Scott, Abbey, Brett, Tim, Jeanine, Kelly, Dave, Betsy, JD, Dave L., Roxi, Cady, Kass, Matt, Matt's girlfriend, Sarah, Addie, Addie's two friends, TJ, Adam, Kristian, Kristian's wife Megan, Holly, Jon, Jon's friend, and Zara. More than 30 people. Wow.

Pictures of the evening are here, here, here and here. I've also added a link to my photo album on the sidebar of this blog - check it out every so often and you can see what I'm doing in crazy ol' Europe.

P.S. My grandma is in the other room blaring Barry Manilow and I think that's kind of awesome.

What I'm Thinking About as my Departure Looms Two Days Away

1. Am I going to have to learn how to use a bidet?

2. Military time is never going to work for me. I can't successfully add 12 to anything.

3. What if the plane crashes on the way over the ocean and we land on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere and Matthew Fox is there along with the rest of the unrealistically attractive cast of Lost? Might that be even better than three months in Europe? It might.

4. Do they eat tator tots in Europe? Three months without tator tots might be difficult.

5. I guess I should start packing.

Taking the long way

I keep driving down highways and streets, trying desperately to memorize everything and frame it in my mind one last time before I leave on Monday. I'm not sure why I can't stop doing this - it's not like three months is forever, but right now it feels like three years and I know that when I get on that plane I'm creating a new era in my life: the post-Europe days. This era won't start until I return home again and the months I spend in Europe will probably seem disconnected from the rest of my life, too short to be considered an era on its own. Once I come back to Minneapolis all of my memories will be thought of in terms of before or after Europe and will remain bookmarked that way for years. This is strange to realize. But it's also kind of neat.

And the one week countdown officially starts now.

Minneapolis/St. Paul

Last night was one of those exciting, blurry nights that, upon recollection, seems hazy and lucid, like a smeary oil painting or crayon sketches on waxed paper. There were painfully loud bands playing screeching, slurred chords, pictures taken in golden bathrooms, cigarette burns on arms and shoes removed. An after-bar taco stop was made and I drew a big, angry face on the table and ate chips and salsa until my nose ran and my stomach felt funny.

Afterward, as 4:00 a.m. crept up behind me and I drove my truck down lonely, suburban highways, I thought about how much I'm going to miss this place when I leave. It's a frustrating town full reclusive people who would rather stay inside nestled under piles of blankets than face the biting winter wind and sunless skies, but when they do finally throw on their wool coats and warm up the car, it's always completely worth it. We have magical, electric nights that go on forever and result in emotional hangovers and dizzying crushes and I fall asleep with the afterimage seeping into my dreams, confusing what really happened with the stories my imagination creates. It's going to be hard to leave this all behind for three months, but I know it's something I have to do and something that I won't regret no matter how much it could hurt.

Countdown

I leave in two weeks. It's kind of hard to believe that in only 14 days I will be on a plane, heading across the ocean, leaving my home, friends, family, and comfort zone, embarking on what will undoubtedly be the biggest adventure of my entire life.

Surreal.

I can't wait.