All we are saaaayyyiiiiing....

Home now, but I'll leave you with this:

I'm not a particularly patriotic person, and if pressed to define myself, nationality wouldn't come into the picture for a very long time. However, because of the sheer amount of "in America" questions I received while living in Great Britain, I was forced to think more deeply about why I feel the way I feel about my country of origin. I tried to be fair in my responses, and I tried to be an ambassador, but it's very hard. Here's what I ended up saying:
America is very big. America is so, so, so much bigger than the UK. It's bigger than any single country in Europe and most of them combined. It's bigger than New Zealand, and it's bigger than most places I'll travel to before I die. It is therefore impossible for me to say that "people in America always" or "people in America never," just as it would be hard for someone living in Bristol to accurately describe what a family in Dundee feels and thinks on a day-to-day basis.

The UK gets an ugly picture of the states from their media and from the parts of our culture that reach them (Jersey Shore, Tea Party conventions, McDonalds). While every accusation I heard was, in some capacity, true of the US, there's a lot more going on here. We need to go there and they need to come here and everyone needs to go everywhere and just stay for a while, trying to understand the many different ways people live. THAT'S how to really prove to ourselves that other countries are made up of more than their traditions, their governments, and their media - bottom line, they're made up of individuals who eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, and appreciate a clever product like The Slanket (Sleeved blanket. How did it take 2000 years?).

Maybe I'm being sentimental, and maybe I just saw a staged version of To Kill a Mockingbird last night, but I don't think we're that different. Especially not from England.

(Speaking of sentimental - it has come to my attention that the last post read a bit sappy. I assure you it was tongue in cheek. If in doubt, please read the title of the linked youtube video.)

(air violin)

Before you read this, can you pull up another window and paste this link into it? Just start playing the video, then come back to this page and read on.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNvFPKujc5w

You were in love. When it ended, you knew you couldn't ever return, not really. As you left, a part of you that felt fulfilled and actualized somehow got ripped open. You grieved, you wallowed. After a while, you got better. You even started seeing others, recklessly at first, then with more and more control. You had just begun to feel your feet again when BAM. There they are, somewhere you didn't expect. They are just as amazing as you remember, but there's something else - there's a distinctive scent, a color, a tone; you didn't notice it before, but now it knocks you off your feet with memories. And you just want to go home and eat a hole in your wall.

Okay, stop the video.

Krymov's show was achingly, painfully wonderful. It made me miss Tverskaya, walking to school on the high street, Red Square, live theater four nights a week, but mostly, learning. Feeling like I had purpose, like I was getting better at something.

The show was very different and very similar to everything else I've seen of his, and I loved it. I think I over-talked him to Vicky, though, because she ended up not enjoying it very much.

The production was a Krymov-tastic adaptation of A Midsummer Night's Dream. He chose to focus on the Mechanicals (the group of players) because he, as a visual artist and carpenter, felt most kinship with them. Makers, not talkers.
Anyway, in Midsummer, as you may remember, the Mechanicals are rehearsing a production of Pyramus and Thisbe. Krymov's show was the staging of that production, but set in the here and now. It was very funny and self-deprecating.
 Pyramus and Thisbe were played by two enormous puppets, controlled by the actors. The staged audience kept interrupting the performance to say, "What did he say?" "I don't know, it's avant-garde," and things like that. There was musical humor, physical humor, potty humor, body humor... something for everyone. Maybe it didn't have the meat of Opus 7 (the first production of his I saw that left me speechless and drew me back two more times on my own dime), but it was charming and reminded me of what I love in theater. It reminded me of what kind of theater I want to make. Mostly, though, it just reminded me of Moscow.

Oh, Moscow. My first love. I will always, always miss you.
London for the rebound tomorrow!

Cornwall

Vicky's family has been surrogate to me this trip, from post-surgical care to family vacations. We went to Cornwall over the weekend to visit Vicky's dad's brother and that side of the extended family.

Cornwall's trade was mining. It was settled by a celtic tribe, so the accent has a little Irish twang around the "r's". Cornwall, apparently, is in strict competition with nearby Devon. I do not understand why. I guess Devon steals all Cornwall's traditions and pretends to have invented them.

Vick's cousin-in-law comes from a long line of Cornish miners. It's hard to imagine the sense of belonging he must feel, since he can trace his ancestry back literally thousands of years and never leave a twenty-mile radius.

My experience of traditional Cornwall revolved around meals. I had:

Item One - A Cornish pasty. These taste like a blend of spanakopita and pot pies. They're sort of oval... I guess more like a football shape than anything... hold on, I'm just going to link you. (Pasty) Can you all see it? If not, I just googled "cornish pasty," so it's not hard info to come by. Anyway, see the braided crust on the outside edge? Back in the day, miners used to make that inedibly thick. Then they'd hold the pasty by the crust with their dirty hands, eat the rich insides, and throw the crust to the birds. It was impractical to carry silverware, I guess. Also, there used to be a second, smaller pasty connected to the main one, but filled with jam. So their dessert and their main were all in one.

Item Two - Cornish ice cream (it's pretty much just frozen custard). The cows in Cornwall are proudly grass-fed, so they produce really thick, fatty cream. Of course it's delicious.

Item Three (associated with Item Two) - A flake. Oh you guys, FLAKES. This belongs in my food rant. Flakes are... what are they? They... you know shaved chocolate? Like, little chocolate curls that go on cakes or cupcakes? It's like a whoooole compact stick of them. You bury it in your ice cream, and then as you're eating along, you take a bite of the flake and suddenly, it's like your mouth was sprinkled with chocolate shavings, but UNLIKE with chocolate shavings or sprinkles, they aren't just there for round one of scoop-licking. They're in for the long-haul. In fact, you have to eat part of the cone, ladies and gentlemen THE CONE I SAY, before you get to the bottom of the flake. Since we're having a linky day today, I shall tempt you visually:  The Flake

Item Four - Cream tea. Finally got to the bottom of the clotted cream mystery! It's a butter/whipping cream hybrid. My poor arteries.
Cream tea is firstly a cup of tea, in whatever fashion you prefer it (plain, with milk, with milk and sugar, NO OTHER OPTIONS. Put that lemon away) and then a scone, and here's the important bit: on top of the scone goes jam and clotted cream (served in dollops), but in which order? This is a big deal. It's an intra-family debate, too... I saw a mom and son get pretty heated about it earlier in the month. To me, it's obvious... jam first, spread with a knife, and then a swap of clotted cream. But in some cases, there is no knife! So what do you do???? You can't dollop BOTH of them, or can you? Only you can be the judge.

I also had meringue and raspberries, which is pretty straightforward, but a favorite dessert of the English.

We went to Tintagel (tin-TAA-jel), the supposed castle of Arturian legend. It's in ruins and was beautiful. It's on an enormous, craggy cliff that overlooks the Irish Sea - the water is the same turquoise you get after rinsing a blue and green paintbrush in the same glass. There were patches of orange flowers scattered around, and from a distance, it looked like the mountain was rusting.
We couldn't stay for too long, because Cousin Allington has two little kids, but it was gorgeous.

The family leaves tomorrow, and I'm gutted (great expression, right? Really good image). I've had a wonderful time with them and don't know when I'll see them again.

But...

KRYMOV SATURDAY.

The Pool of Life

Liverpool is the pool of life.
-Carl Jung (1926)

(I added that because it was engraved on about 700 thousand buildings)

Liverpool feels a lot like Chicago. It's a brash Union town with some roughhousing and wild nights, but overall, the people are genuine and the atmosphere is welcoming.

I left you after a series of sleep-deprived nights. Since I had limited time in Liverpool and only enough stamina for one attraction upon arrival, I headed straight for The Beatles Story, which is the famous Beatles museum housed on Albert Dock. It did not disappoint. Narrated by John's sister Julia, the museum is a very interactive and well-funded walk through the early successes and failures of my four favorite Liverpudlians (let's find as many excuses as possible to use that amazing word). It included replicas of their Hamburg venue, The Cavern Club, and an early chip shop they used to play, as well as terrifying wax statues of a band apparently composed of the Beatles' inbred cousins.
The coolest thing about all the Beatles hype is that you KNOW the boys would have loved it. In their hey-day, hero-status is exactly what they were aiming for. As opposed to Gandhi or Che Guevara, who might not have been so keen, every time you see a poster with Paul's bopping head on it, you know it's exactly what a little boy back in the 50's was dreaming about at night.

I then went back to the hostel for a quick nap. The hostel, by the way, was formerly the consulate of Venezuela. It's a gorgeous Georgian building, really enormous and well-renovated.
I didn't find that out until later, though, because my quick nap lasted 16 hours. I don't think I've slept that long in one go since I left the womb. But I woke up the next morning feeling AWESOME and tore up the place, seeing every free exhibit available.

First stop was the Museum of Liverpool. Here, I learned about Liverpool's many ties to America; a major reason it feels like Chicago is because they shared some of the same architects. I didn't write down their names (still getting the hang of the travel writing thing, guys, cut me some slack), but there were two Liverpudlians (2nd usage) who moved to Chi in the 20's. The difference between Chicago and Liverpool, though, is that there isn't a bunch of nasty 90's architecture muddling the place up. Chicago will have one awesome, brick-heavy street and then one gross minimalist glass street; Liverpool just has the brick and shit-tons of Georgian columns (I know! When did I get so interested in architecture? Where did I learn this lingo? I honestly cannot remember). Also - as you probably know (but I did not) Liverpool (a port and fishing town) got a lot of it's fame and early wealth through the slave trade, and after slavery was abolished in the UK, through importing cotton from the American south. During the civil war, Liverpool not only flew confederate flags, but converted cargo ships into military vessels to aid the south in maritime warfare. The last ship captured by the north was, in fact, originally a Liverpudlian (3).
The museum openly shared these facts, with no attempts to glaze over or embroider them. There was an entire section on the horrors of British colonialism and the attempts of colonized nations to fight back. It was VERY refreshing to hear a different historical voice.

Then I went to Tate Liverpool, right across the dock. I'm very glad I did. It's a modern sculpture gallery, and I usually have little interest in sculpture. I feel like I've gained a new appreciation for 3-D art.

THEN, following in The Beatles pointy-toed footsteps, I headed to Mathew Street and the Cavern Club, neither of which were bursting with Beatles spirit- just Beatles paraphanalia. I got a beer in the Club, wherein I met two American Harley fanatics who are of little note except that they made me not want to go home.

I checked out St. George's Hall, except not the actual hall which sort of defeats the purpose, but I saw a really brilliant exhibit on Victorian prison life.

So there I was, sitting in a park, eating my lunch, when an Italian guy comes up and asks for a cigarette. I said I didn't have one, but he sat down anyway.
"Are you Italian?"
"No."
"You look Italian."
(silence)
"Do you play tennis?"
"No."
"You look like someone who would play tennis. Can you take off your sunglasses?"
"No."

He ended up following me to the science museum, where I amused myself deeply by walking into big crowds and trying to lose him. He, however, would not be lost, and I finally had to tell him to go away. This left me pondering. Because I felt guilty. I had done NOTHING wrong, and I felt like I was a bad person. Why does this happen??? Vicky and I pontificated on the subject yesterday. We both magnetically attract bizarre, old, or slightly autistic men, but we feel guilty when we tell them to buzz off. I want to write a play about it called, "Flattered, but Uncomfortable: A Tale of Avoidance in the Modern Age."

Anyway, then it was time for my LIVERPUDLIAN BUS TOUR!!!! It was... g... it was a good bus... t... have you been on those red bus tours before? They're in every city. It was... just like those. Except in Liverpool. OHHHHHhhhhhh and with a REALLY awkward first date happening in the front. A young mom was on a date with her new boo AND her toddler. The guy was clearly souring on the whole situation and she, in desperation, kept trying to snuggle with him, but the toddler, ALSO in desperation, kept trying to attract her attention by shrieking shrilly, causing her to yell and the guy to be like, "calm down," and then her to yell at the guy. Luckily, they got off about halfway through.

The next day, I managed to squeeze in a cathedral, another trip to the Museum of Liverpool, and a visit to the Walker Art Gallery before I had to book it.

In the end, it would have been a lot more fun but a lot less informative if Vicky had been there to guide me around, but I had a great time nonetheless. Never took a ferry 'cross the Mersey, though! If I'd had my head on straight...

NO TITLE.

You guys are OUT THE LOOP. I'll brief you.

Warwick, charming Warwick where I've been staying, hosts this great folk festival every year at the end of July. Quite well known, actually. Vick and I worked up about five songs that we intended to whip out at jam sessions, ultimately in the hopes of impressing many old and woollen-capped gentleman. We did end up going to a jam, but while we had worked up the songs, we had apparently NOT worked up the courage. We sat silently in a corner for over an hour while people around us played and sang. Vicky optimistically decided we were cultivating an aura of mystery. A very drunk little flautist kept unintentionally boxing us out of the circle every time we were about ready to propose a song. As the evening wore on, more and more legitimate musicians started turning up and fewer people were singing. Finally, as it became clear that the jam as we knew and loved it was dying, we asked a nearby banjo player to accompany us in a rendition of Hard Times. No sooner had we opened our mouths than Fluty McGee toddled over and started singing louder than both of us combined. We thought her enthusiasm would encourage everyone to join in, but no. The rest of the circle sat around and watched Vicky and I try to belt our carefully rehearsed harmonies over her drunken warbles, the only discernable words of which were "hard times" (though they rarely coincided with the songwriter's original placement).
We did end up going to the Warwick Folk Club open mic night after the festival had already ended. We played three songs and were the toast of the evening. We were also a good forty years younger than the next youngest person. Everyone thinks we're a sister act!

Spent the last two days in Edinburgh. I sat next to a woman from New Zealand on the bus; she and I got on quite well and ended up hanging out a lot.
Guys, I haven't liked a city so instantaneously since Russia. Edinburgh is beautiful. It actually literally is Hogwarts (J.K. wrote the books overlooking Edinburgh castle and a walking tour took us through a cemetary she visited a bunch, wherein one finds Tom Riddle's grave, except it's spelled "Riddell"). I hope everyone goes at some point. The town was so mellow, so welcoming. Like, if cities were teenage boys, Edinburgh would be that cool punk kid who chain smokes and listens to The Clash but also wears sweaters his grandma knits him (unabashedly) and anually participates in the church Christmas pageant as Joseph. I'd love an excuse to live there for a while.
Cat (my New Zealand bus friend) and I saw several shows at the Fringe - Edinburgh's very famous Fringe Festival was just kicking off when we arrived. I've been to the New York Fringe before, and it's very hit-or-miss, but out of the four shows I saw in my two days, I enjoyed... four.

But, most importantly, The Now. I'm in Liverpool in the coolest hostel ever. It's run by a father-son team, Kevin's Junior and Senior. Kevin Senior is infamous locally for having beaten The Beatles in an audience-judged competition waaaaay way back before Paul grew the mullet. I stumbled in at five a.m. after a garish night train ride... Night trains, sort of like butterscotch toffees, sound more glamorous than they are. Because they AREN'T. I've been Mr. Bean-ing it since London; I bought a tiny, tiny alarm clock that I've been carrying in my purse and setting for ten minutes before my transport leaves, and let me TELL you, that does not make you friends on a night train. But when you DON'T set it, the train conductor yells at you for not getting off the train because you're belligerantly asleep because you're SO TIRED BECAUSE WHY ARE TRAINS WITH BEDS SO EXPENSIVE.

But that's neither here nor there. I'm in the best place ever now, greeted by a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich prepared by Kevin Jr., about to have my first shower since Tuesday... things are great. I'm looking forward to checking out Liverpool.

MORE LATER, LOYAL READERS!

My Love Affair With English Food Culture: By Amalia Mathewson

  I'll start by saying that I don't particularly like traditional English cooking. The veg tend to be overcooked, the desserts a little too sweet, the spices a little too bland. What makes me prefer the English eating experience to an American meal is the description of this limp, often greasy cuisine. I think if we put the adjectival effort into labelling our own food, we'd be much happier in our obesity.

What do I mean? Here, let me give you some examples:

       

 People use the word "gorgeous" to describe things like fries and burgers. It is so appealing. Imagine the difference: 

1. Someone pushes a plate of fried potato wedges towards you and says, "Try these! They're good!" 

You may or may not try the fries. You'll know what to expect.

2. Someone pushes a plate towards you and says, "Try these! They're gorgeous!" 

You will try the fries, thanks. They'll probably taste like any other fry, but you won't care.

Everyone seems so excited when their food or tea is served. They say, "Oooooh, that's lovely!" And it sounds like the food or tea has genuinely surpassed their expectations significantly. Even if I've ordered the same thing they have, it makes me want theirs instead of mine because theirs sounds a lot more fun. 

 I have never particularly enjoyed animal crackers before. Digestive biscuits and rich tea fingers are basically circular animal crackers, and I eat them whenever I can just because it is SO FUN to dunk them in tea. It's like a sport! Will it dissolve before I can get it to my mouth? ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT! 

 And sandwiches! Firstly, saying, "widge" instead of "wich?" Bingo. "Want a sandwidge, love?" YES I DO THANK YOU. Secondly, they're always cut into little sailboat triangles. It is very nice to eat something shaped like a sailboat triangle. Thirdly, they're simple, but so exotic! Cheese and pickle. Cucumber. Rocket and cheddar. Prawn on toast. PRAWN! ON TOAST! Again, this is a food that I usually ignore in the US. Sandwiches... psh. Middle-school shit. But not here! They're posh and portable and moderately yummy! 

  It's not dessert, it's pudding. Pudding is one of my favorite foods, so even though I know that what will be served for "pudding" will almost certainly not be pudding or pudding-like, I get very excited.

 Cakes. Let's talk about cakes. The pluralization of the word "cake" is enough for me, frankly. Cakes and coffee, tea and cakes... I feel free to have as much as I want because it's already assumed that I'll be having more than one of whatever it is. The word "cake," while never unwelcome, has previously conjured up images of large, heavily iced birthday confections slurred with slowly melting vanilla ice cream. It's a once-a-year kind of thing. If someone said, "tea and cake," I would probably pass because I'd be picturing a slightly stale version of the above. But adding that sweet little "s" takes a crusty party food and turns it into a light, airy dessert that can be had not once a year, but once a DAY. No longer is it thick and chocolate-y; now it might be flavored with orange or lavender.

Basically, the whole tradition of evening tea bodes pretty well with me. It's snuggly and pleasant, and it fits the weather. 

But most of all, my love of English food comes down to one glorious word:

Squidgy. 

Just say it out loud, I don't care where you are.

Squidgy. 

Feel that "squ?" S-kh-ww-. It feels like saying a hug. It is the hug of words.

This is used to describe a texture that I honestly haven't found elsewhere. There's a type of fruit bread called Soreen that is the embodiment of squidgy. I don't know if it's sold in the states or not. It must be felt to be understood, so I recommend checking your local grocer. 

I like my surgery like I like my eggs... ovaries-y.

I didn't spend the fourth running drunken through the streets wearing an American flag as a toga. I didn't even make my hosts classic American junk food. Instead, I spent Independence Day completely dependant on Great Britain and her National Health Service.

Sunday, I was admitted into Warwick Hospital's A&E. My body had been giving me warning signs of my impending womby doom as early as Friday, but by Sunday morning, I couldn't stand, sit, OR lie down. The best I could do was crouch in a worshipful pose and crawl from room to room like a lizard. At this point, after deducing that cutting beans from my diet wasn't going to put an end to the pain, I begrudgingly called a cab to take me to the hospital.

Never having been admitted to an American hospital, I can't compare the speed, price, or efficiency of the two health care systems. However, my time in Beaumont Ward brought to light two concrete differences between England's hospital system and all my experiences with medical care in the US. One; tea is administered as strictly as medicine. I was reprimanded for not finishing my tea on not one, not two, not three, but four separate occasions.
Two; awkward British politeness knows no bounds. Originally, I was admitted to the emergency room under the erroneous diagnosis of "bladder infection." This was because, as I crouched in front of the nurses trying to form coherent sentences, one had said, "Oh, love, is there something funny with your bits-and-bobs?" Thinking "bits-and-bobs" meant innards, I nodded feverishly. Apparently, in so nodding, I had just agreed that I was having difficulty urinating because of bacteria. The term "bits-and-bobs" was used to refer to my vagina and uterus by even the senior radiologist, who will enter this story in just a moment.

Since the staff thought I had a bladder infection, I was in the waiting room much longer than I should have been. By the time a doctor saw me, I was a literal hot mess. I stumbled into the cubicle and promptly puked on the floor. After several rounds of vomiting, the very surprised doctor told me he was going to get a specialist. I puked in relief.

I don't remember a lot of what happened next, though I do remember being obnoxious. Eventually, I got morphined and shut up a little. I had all the signs of appendicitis except infection in my blood (or something), and they were just gearing up to remove me old vestigial when one of the two specialists who were assigned to me (must have been a slow night) suggested that it might be an ovarian cyst.

You know how when you watch House, you feel like you're one of the doctors and it's really fun? Not as fun from the patient's perspective.

"Ithinkweshouldrunhertoradiologyandgetanultras..." "WHAAAAT'S HAAAPPENINGGGG. CAN I HAVE MR MORPHNNNN (sob)"

I would much have preferred to be the cool, collected doctor in the sharp pantsuit saying, "This is crazy, House. If it works, you're a genius."

So against EVERYONE'S better judgement, apparently,  because most of the staff thought my appendix was rupturing as they spoke, this one doctor convinced a senior radiology member to stay on his shift a few minutes late and do a quick ultrasound of my belly, just in case it was an ovarian cyst after all. I was whisked away, blubbering and tripping on pain meds. The radiologist was called Dr. Hughes. I heard it, I saw it on his tag, but what came out every time I tried to ask anything about the ultrasound? "EXcuuuse me, Doctor Who, but is that my lungs?" "Doctor Who, is that my kidney?" The staff couldn't stop giggling, which was infuriating and made me cry harder, which made them even more patronizingly tell me that my bits-and-bobs would soon be sorted out.

Thankfully, the other specialist was really kind, and while the rest of the team was busy looking something over, he took a few minutes to explain to me what was happening. A cyst had either formed around or near my right ovary. It had been growing for three to six months, and within the past few days, it had somehow twisted itself around the old eggsac and that's where my pain was coming from.

There was a good chance I would lose my ovary, because they could tell the cyst was pretty big. Mom and Dad were called and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and groggily trying to focus on a picture that was being shoved in my face.
"It was as big as a football! I've never seen one that big before!" The picture is disgusting. The cyst was over six inches and looks like an alien baby turned inside out.

From what I ultimately gathered, my body tried to released an egg which an Indian doctor referred to as "bery, bery stubborn." It clung to my ovary and grew and grew. I like to think it was trying to fertilize itself, the independent bugger. The surgery didn't damage my ovary. Yay?

Here's the weird thing -
You know those moments before sleep where you're not unconscious but you can't quiiiite control your dreams? Well, in the past few weeks, I've imagined myself in a hospital probably six or seven times during these pre-sleeping moments. I mean, I've had the thought before, what if I were in an accident, you know, but I don't remember ever vividly imagining myself in an intensive care ward prior to a month ago. I'd chalked it up to my subconscious processing being in a strange situation, trying to do something I've never done before, but after hearing a BBC 4 broadcast about the connection between nerves in your gut and nerves your brain, I'm wondering if my body knew something was seriously wrong before my mind was willing to accept the news.

Does this mean the end of this summer's show, everyone keeps asking? HELL NO, everyone. The show will be adapted, yes, but keep checking in with us.

Unfortunately, due to completely different but weirdly timed circumstances, our London venue fell through yesterday. So it's just the Warwick show.

I gotta go to bed, y'all. More updates later. I AM NOT UNHAPPY. 2012 BEST HAPPY SUMMER FUN TIME.  Hey, I'll get a cool scar out of the mix, anyway. Which is all a girl can ask for.

Depends on the hawk, depends on the handsaw.

This has been a wonderful week, in terms of both business and adventure.

Last weekend, Vicky and I decided to stay in the midlands again to save money. She suggested we go on a hike. My only real hiking experience being an infamous ascent of Half Dome last summer,  I dug through my gear to find the most comfortable socks, stretchy-but-not-too-stretchy pants, several layers of shirts for those waves of exertion, and band-aids.

I would have done better just to find some rain boots.

Hiking here compares to hiking in the US similarly to how snuggling a medium-sized teddy bear compares to snuggling a n eight-foot tall grizzly.
It didn't rain on us as we traipsed through cow fields and cozy wooded groves, but there were some nasty puddles for which my carefully selected running shoes just weren't equipped. In FACT, what we WENT on is, I believe, commonly referred to as a "stroll."

The following morning and afternoon saw us enjoying one of our many "duvet days," which consist of us, tea, various sundries and savories, and some sort of BBC period drama. The one in reference happened to be Pride and Prejudice, but we have since completed Bleak House and let me say, if you have yet to see it, bump it to the top of your list. I vouch whole-heartedly and so does the small pile of tissues that I blew through in the last two episodes.

But on to our London trip, lest you get the impression that all we do is posh out on the couch (I just made that expression up. Use it at your leisure).

We've been in a frustrating bind for a few months. Since February, we've had a location and performance dates dangling right in front of our faces with us unable to solidify them. The organization we've gone through to get a venue is a truly great NFP program called "somewhereto_" but they're swamped with the Olympics and just general, so although they out-and-out guarantee the venue will host us, conformation of the dates we've proposed keeps getting postponed.

Monday was our chance to see the space and ask any questions, and although we stiiiiiiiiill weren't able to confirm our dates, we did fall in love with the theatre. Honestly, it's more than either of us hoped for. We'd almost decided just to settle for a few shows here in Warwick and scrap the London bit, but seeing this space fired us up again.

Monday night, we stayed with a friend in Greenwich after seeing an angsty, vaguely racist coming-of-age flick for 60+'s called The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. If you feel a terrible urge to share the experience, I recommend going to your nearest Indian eatery and watching locals think they're more civilized than the wait staff. Simultaneously, listen to BBC 4.  That should produce a similar effect.

We spent the first half of the next day exploring Greenwich and its many cheap bookstores and vintage shops. There was a particularly dusty one that had all sorts of hats... I'll take this moment to say that sometimes, in our general youthful merriment, Vicky and I lose track of the volume of our united voices. Though it occasionally makes us friends, it often seems to unnerve people. Luckily, in this instance, we charmed an older gentleman who took to popping out behind shelves with different hats on, where he was received with gales of laughter, especially when he unearthed a red-sequinned showgirl's headdress.

A very embarrassing address mishap (someone had pulled up two pages on her browser and inadvertently google maps'd a random address instead of the theatre she was looking for) found us in the entirely wrong part of London, so we had to go into a library to use the internet. England THROWS library cards at you. They cannot WAIT for you to get library cards. I have three already. They also seem to only hire extremely strange and mystical librarians. My first day here, while I was dragging my jet-lagged carcass around to keep from falling asleep before my train got in, I stopped in a library in Westminster and was greeted by a delightful fellow named Neil that I, a layman in the field of magical woodland folk, easily identified as a bridge troll. In Angel Islington, Vicky and I met yet another enchanted bookkeeper. At first he just seemed like a sweetly nervous man. He had us fill out our card forms and was making small talk when I, off the cuff, referred to Vicky as Allington, which is her surname. We often call each other Mathewson and Allington, so neither of us could figure out why the librarian had stopped short.

"Did you just call her 'Allington?'"
"...Yes..."
"But that's her surname."
"...Yeah..."
"But ANYONE could be Victoria Allington. Anyone off the streets!"
"......"
"They used to ask for more forms of identification!!!"
"........"
"But now they don't!!!!! Do you see????"

The more confused we got, the more worked up he became. Understand, he was by no means angry. In fact, he seemed almost delighted. We had and have absolutely no idea what he was talking about or what brought it on, but we agreed afterwards that it felt like the start of some sort of quest; like he was the gatekeeper of some amazing journey and was about to hand us our faded canvas maps and leather satchels.

Buuuut he didn't. He just gave us library cards which got us refreshed directions to the theatre. Trains. Are. SO expensive. They're four pounds thirty for a ride, which is roughly equivalent to eight dollars. FOR A SINGLE RIDE. ONE WAY. ANYWHERE. COULD BE JUST ONE STOP. Woof.

The reason we'd stayed overnight in London was to see this show, which I mentioned before, called "The Rest Is Silence." It's part of the World Shakespeare Festival and premiered in Brighton, but now it's in London and it'll close in Newcastle. I badly wanted to go because the reviews were good and the press photos looked AMAZING.

The show was an adaptation of Hamlet. Elements of it were really interesting and some even were amazing, but overall it fell a bit short. The production was hailed as "ground-breaking" and "innovative," and the concept truly was, but the actual production was, honestly, a bit boring and timid. I had been geared up for 90 minutes of pretentiously absurd performance art, which I normally hate, so you can imagine my disappointment when after all the pre-show pep talks of, "Try to see THEIR vision, Molly," and, "It's good for you to branch out artistically, Molly, realism isn't the only way," the show was roughly 20% funk and 80% daytime soap. Womp womp.

The last two days, we've had a lot of good progress in rehearsals. I think seeing a mediocre show made us more excited to make the best thing we can. I feel very proud of what we've accomplished so far and what I think we will accomplish. Our reason for creating this particular piece gets more valid to me every day - it's our way of addressing our individual fears, concerns, and hopes of/for where privacy and human identity will go in the course of our lifetimes. (See? The Hamlet didn't need to be pretentiously artsy. I did it for them. Sorry, I really don't mean it in a douchy way. This is a big concern for me right now, especially after the credit card fiasco and recently learning that even this blog, which I THOUGHT was privacy-protected, can come up in a search engine for the whoooole wide web to see).

We're seeing Julius Caesar at the RSC tomorrow night!!

OOOOOOHHHHH. So. I really don't know who my readership here consists of, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and post a link to Vick and my youtube page. Look, you have to use your best judgement. If the very idea of me cross-dressing, parodying Christian folk music/the Irish, or graphically depicting menstruation makes you uncomfortable, I offer this advice: don't follow the link. If you DO and what you see upsets you, don't come back to the page because we'll be posting weirder stuff as the weeks go by.

Also, just for the record, the characters shown here aren't part of our show. These are sample videos for a very small recorded segment; we were hoping they'd inspire our friends to make some similar vids for us to use instead of these, but we've begun to surrender that hope.

http://www.youtube.com/user/musclefleaeffect?feature=results_main

Lay'aaaazzz.

Tree

ONE: Here is our official teaser synopsis!


"Fact: Somewhere in the ocean, there is a whale who swims alone, calling out to others. It cannot be heard by migrating pods because it sings at a frequency several octaves higher than any other known whale. Although never spotted, this whale has been tracked by scientists for twenty years. It has been dubbed, "the loneliest whale in existence." 

In a fictional (but familiar) world, Mister Max, the most successful mogul in the entertainment industry, has captured the whale because of it's beautiful song.

On display 24/7 and forced to perform to a steadily increasing public, "Lolo" the loneliest whale becomes star of "The Binji and Buddy Show," and is evolving into a huge pop culture phenomenon. 

When the story of Lolo's song's origin is revealed, however, Mister Max and his staff are forced to make a very tough decision.

"The Loneliest Whale" is a story of privacy in the modern world, the differences between being "alone" and being "lonely," and the need to be part of a community. The finalized dates and venues will be released shortly, so stay posted!

(Brought to you by Muscleflea)"


TWO: DMITRI KRYMOV IS DIRECTING A PRODUCTION OF MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM FOR THE WORLD SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL. IT WILL BE PERFORMED IN STRATFORD, MERE MILES FROM WHERE I AM. I WILL BE IN THE BIGGEST ATTENDANCE. I'm seriously considering making an "I (heart) Krymov" shirt. I've known about this for a few weeks, but forgot to mention!


Three: Prince Phillip got hospitalized after the Jubilee and apparently several audience members suffered hypothermia. (Sound of crowd going, "oooooooooh...") Jubilee fail, Queen Elizabeth's event organizers. Jubilee fail.

Who needs trains? We've got a friendSHIP. (Cymbal crash... cricket)

So, as frequent readers may have surmised, it's been raining quite a bit. Vicky and I were getting really overwhelmed with working on the show, so we took a longer weekend than normal.

Friday, we spent the day in Leamington. We went to the old pump rooms, which have been turned into art galleries and are very well preserved, and we had some of the famous "healing" mineral water which was running from an old stone fountain. It made my teeth feel weird, but basically tasted like water, which is to say nothing (or everything. ooooommmmm)

Saturday, we went to London. We'd planned to go to Kew Gardens (not totally sure what they are; Vick swears they're amazing) but since it had been raining so much, we thought the British Museum might be a better choice. I didn't absorb very much in the museum. It was actually quite stressful! There are approximately a billion exhibits and we ended up sort of half-assedly rushing through. And then we realized that the whole time we'd been in the museum, the sun had been shining outside. So we promptly exited. My favorite bit, since I know you're dying to hear, was in the Roman invasion section of the Great Britain timeline exhibit (was that confusing? The exhibits are set up chronologically based on geographic area. They also have a little drop-down guide giving you a world context for whatever item you're looking at - "This Egyptian pot was being crafted around the same time Stonehenge was erected. To see more on Stonehenge, visit exhibit 3, room 5." USEFUL, ENGLAND. Well done.) ...I've lost myself with the parenthetical. My favorite bit. Yes. They had found well-preserved letters from, god, must have been 90 A.D. or something, written in Latin. Scholahs (scholars, but read it with a really pompous accent... ssss-kOHluuuuhz) translated them into English.

(To the best of my memory)

"Dearest Brother,
Father has been writing me about the location of the spindle. I have said to him that I do not have knowledge of it, but he will not believe me. Sparitus claims he did not even know the spindle was missing. Please send me four bags of grain so that I can replace it, or Father will continue to write. You owe me four bags anyway from your visit."

"Dear Sister,
I am writing to invite you most humbly to my birthday party, which will be held 11 September. Please respond if you are able to attend."

How humanizing. After 2,000 years, we're still pretty much writing about the same things.

After we left, after we loafed around a park for a while with Vicky reading sections of a cheesy 60's yoga book for housewives ("yoga can help develop your delicate feminine beauty, as well as give you strength to complete those stressful household chores!" -real quote) we met up with one of my best friends from days gone by. All the way back in little Athens, we used to watch Harry Potter and talk about how we'd go to London and Scotland, and it's so fitting that the first time we see each other in four years would be on Oxford Street. Sara's one of those friends - you know the ones - where there isn't the awkward re-get-to-know-you thing. It felt like we'd just seen each other a week ago.

So we left dinner early to catch our train, but hey, guess what? We missed it. Because that's what we do best. We were both a bit, "Whelp, time for the old hair shirt," but it's hard to beat yourself up for too long in a place as cool as London, with sunset as late as it is and the weather so nice. We met some cool girls from Athens, Georgia in the hostel and walked around getting snacks from various convenience stores until we felt sick. And may I say, Cadbury eggs and Ribena, though you'd THINK it wouldn't be, is a delicious combination.

Bop bop, we got back, all was well. Perhaps pockets a little lighter.

Our SHOW, which I've weirdly talked very little about, is taking shape. Vicky's sister found an article over the winter about a whale that sings higher than any other whale and can neither hear, nor be heard by, other whales. It travels alone, and has been dubbed, "The Loneliest Whale."
At first, we were drawn to it because of the romance of being a lone mammal, lost in the ocean. We felt like we, too, were lost in the waves of new technology, new ways to "connect."
The more we thought about it, though, the more we got interested in the glamorizing of... I mean, of a whale. It's "the loneliest." People write poetry about it. A group of deaf Americans suggested that the whale might be deaf, and a mother whose child has autism wrote about why the whale was autistic. People are projecting their problems onto this whale. And no one has ever seen the whale. For all we know, it might NOT be travelling alone. Maybe it's companions are just really quiet.
Anyway, that (and my credit card getting hacked) got us thinking about how even things and people who don't know they're being observed ARE being observed. Privacy in the age of facebook and all that.
We scrapped most of what we were working on before, very willingly, and now have a skeleton of scenes and characters that we'll be fleshing out over the next few weeks. We'd planned a showing on the 30th for friends, but NAH WAY is that gonna happen without us ripping each other's throats out, so it's the shows in August and then hopefully a few fringe festivals next year if we like what we've made.

I'm going to make a quick playlist before rehearsal, and I thiiiink I've exhausted our adventures anyway, so ta ta for the moment.

Love to you from across the blue.

My news update?

ALL IT EVER DOES IS RAIN.

The reign, the rain

Hay-On-Wye is sleepy, mossy, thatched, and perfect for splashing through on a chilly day. There are over thirty second-hand bookshops in the tiny village, one of which is inside a Norman castle. We, like hundreds of other from around the world, were drawn there by the Hay Festival. The festival spans over ten days and hosts hundreds of speakers who may be promoting a new book, debating a popular topic, or just lecturing on a cause dear to them. Stephen Fry is a yearly guest!

We had to get up around six in the stupid morning to get to our first event on time. We did catch our train, but it was raining and the train got stopped, so we had to journey by bus, a journey dripping with endless transfers and confused drivers.

So there we were, slowly rolling our way across the Heart of England (I just re-read that, and I've misrepresented the tone of our trip's first leg. We were having so much fun. We drove the rest of the bus crazy trying to harmonize "Ain True Love" from Cold Mountain, which has a really difficult harmony part. And our picnic was really yummy). The countryside is so green right now, it's unbelievable. I have tinted sunglasses, and usually they make my surroundings more colorful, but here? Nope. Can't outdo old Mama Earth in her glory.

Blah blah blah, Hay-On-Wye. So we're there now, we make it in time, we love it, it's full of FULL of full of old books. I bought some of you all really awesome presents there*! The festival was about a ten minute walk outside the village (did you guys know about the many distinctions between towns, villages, and cities? Because everyone here does, and they're happy to correct you). The organizers had built a makeshift... hamlet? out of enormous white tents, with open-air passages in between and large garden and lawn space in the middle. Very Grecian, she said pretentiously. We saw two presentations - one was by an author called Oliver Bullough on his new book, the title of which I forget (why am I not just googling it? Seriously, it's so easy... aaaaaaaah, fine, for YOU guys muttermuttermutter IT IS AS FOLLOWS: Just Send Me Word, A True Story of Love and Survival in the Gulag) and the other was a debate between a scientist and a journalist on the role science should be playing in informing the public about global warming/climate change; also, what terminology should be used when discussing it.

The Gulag one was really touching. I'm not ashamed to tattle on Vicky and say that she got a little misty (WHO ME NEVER I AM MADE OF IRON). The book archives the correspondence of Svetlana and Lev, two physicists who met at Moscow University and were growing into friends UNTIL! Lev was accused of being a spy and imprisoned in the Gulag! Listen, guys, calm down. He tracked down Svetlana through sneaky letters to his aunt inquiring about her and they finally started writing directly to one another, continuing to do so for the sixteen years of his imprisonment. The letters are definitely love letters, but since they're both scientists, the way they express it is really quirky and practical. Svetlana was incredible. She kept sending him really elaborate packages, but instead of the typical early romance chocolates and books or whatever, she sent underwear and wool socks. And eventually, herself. She befriended a Soviet officer and visited Lev five times before his release. How does it end? You'll have to read for yourself! Svetlana sounded like Abby (cousin Abby to you DeKalbians); fiercely loyal, very resourceful, smart as hell, full of love.

The debate was aaaaaaah! I don't know who I sided with! Vick loved the really passionate journalist, who was like, "PEOPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW" but British so "PEEP'W HAHV UH ROIT T'NEHW" but the scientist just kept re-iterating that it's unfair to make scientists milk more out of the data than is there, because the job of science is simply to present available information and not to emotionalize it. He made the more valid arguments, but he got screwed in terms of presentation - the journalist was a much better public speaker, more attractive, and seated in the center of the three people onstage, so even his lighting was better. The scientist? Reeeeally monotonous voice. Really, they were sort of debating different things. VERY eloquently. With LOTS of rhetoric.

Dinner at pub, train, guys do cocaine in train bathroom, walk home in pouring rain at midnight, sleep! Wake up! TODAY! The Jubilee!!!! Everyone's been going BONKERS about the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, celebrating her 60-year reign. Preparation has been happening since I arrived three weeks ago. Vick says that since the country's in a recession, the government and media are trying to give them something to get excited about with this and the Olympics. Anyway, maybe you heard about it, but they had this massive flotilla organized with something like a thousand boats flanking the Queen's, and music and fireworks, but it absolutely poured today. Warwick was planning an outdoor barbeque in the Town Centre, which they had to cancel. The proceedings as we saw them on TV were sweetly pathetic. Everyone was miserable, clearly. It's so fitting - part of the hype for the Jubilee has been in the form of red and blue posters saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On," (parodied on t-shirts and mugs with cheeky variations like "Keep Calm and Party On" and "Sod Calm And Get Angry") and that's exactly what everyone did, from crowd to Queen. They just stood there, patiently, in the rain, until the whole thing was over and they could go home.

Not sure what next weekend will bring! Send me news from home, my loves. I'm a little homesick this week.

*Awesomeness of presents is subjective

A Molly's Saturday in Wales

We've had a nice full week of rehearsals. The sweet bartenders and waitstaff at the Rose & Crown think we're a dance team - we haven't corrected them. Though I do wonder what they make of our medieval chants and whale noises...

I have a library card now, and a 16-year-old admirer who works at the local Party Tree/Dollar Store hybrid. He woos me with cashier-related feats of wonder. There's a big magnet on the desk; he puts his palm on it and then places a quarter on the back of his hand, and he can make the quarter flip over by flexing his fist. He also pretends not to be irritated by my infantile counting of change. WHY DO THEY HAVE SO MANY COINS??? WHAT'S WRONG WITH FOUR? It's like it's intentionally confusing.

We went to Gifford's Circus with Vick's mom's friend. It's a travelling circus that trains during the winter months and tours over the spring and summer. The ringleader majored in English Lit at Oxford, so the performances usually have a theme like War and Peace or Canterbury Tales. The one we saw was Victorian, based on a monthly publication called "The Saturday Book," which sounds like a variety magazine? Maybe a little risque? We saw a matinee and the last performance in Chelternham before the Gifford's Caravan moved on, so things were a little lackluster. It was still a great show and we had a lot of fun. I like seeing non-scripted theater. After spending four years so intensely scrutinizing acting and being scrutinized, it's often hard to enjoy movies or traditional stage plays because instead of seeing the overarching plot, I'm paying attention to the actors' tiniest moments. But the circus! No acting to be seen. Just a lot of very strange people being themselves and doing incredible things with their bodies.

Tomorrow, we're leaving at six thirty to go to a literary festival in Hay-On-Wye, Wales. The town is supposedly just jam-packed with books. AND STEPHEN FRY. Eyes will be peeled.

Love y'all.

Oxford

OXFORD!!!

Sooooo ooooooold. There were literally men in the cape things that you expect Oxford professors to wear. Some sort of graduation ceremony was going on, and may I say, if you want your audience to take you seriously without strenuous effort on their part, do NOT accessorize with a powdered wig. It's quite counter-productive.

We found an amahaaaaazing exhibit. I haven't googled it yet, but try searching something like "Oxford Story Museum" or "Alice Day." It was so magical! Local artists and poets had converted an old warehouse into a children's/fairy-tale lover's art installation. Each room had a different theme.

My favorites:

The Room of Secrets, which featured locked boxes and keys with little tag lines on them, such as, "Long story short, I wouldn't recommend waking up on the pavement in just your boxers," and other cringe-worthy insinuations; when you matched the key to the box, the rest of the story was inside. They were real-life stories donated by real-life citizens. I added one to the post box, but you'll never know which!

The Room of Lost Objects - aaaaah, I would have stayed there all day if it weren't the size of a generous closet. There were little nails and screws and shiny bits-and-bobs all over. They were made into sculptures, hidden in secret compartments in very tiny boxes, AH! Everywhere. And in the middle of the room was a big safe with lots of small manila envelopes inside - visitors take one and then e-mail a story about it back to the museum.

It was just awesome. OH and there was the SNEEZE factory! Ah. God. Sometimes I want to borrow a kid so that it's socially acceptable for me to stay in places like that longer. But it was a little adult, too. It wasn't totally for kids.

Anyway, we also saw The Ashmolean, which is, like, Britain's oldest art museum or oldest... bah. I don't remember. Oldest something. It was great and chock-full, but we only had 30 minutes. Poor Vicky had to spend it being hit on by the most socially awkward man... very full ginger beard, kind of popped up out of the woodwork. She was looking at a violin and he goes, "Do you play?" "Nope." "Have you ever... built an instrument before?" "N... no, I haven't." "I have! A fender stratocaster! (launches into story)"

I abandoned her to that and ran around to find the Pre-Raphaelites, a movement I am quite proud to know by name! Thank you, Art History 102. I really like Dante Rossetti, because he paints strong women that I feel related to. I mean that literally, not poetically. The room I was looking for was a "smallest chamber, tallest tower" situation, so I got there, out of breath and sweaty, just in time to locate and photograph one of my favorite paintings of his ("Persephone") before the steward shooed me back out. I rebelliously found my exit through a bunch of other exhibits, claiming I was lost whenever approached. I reeeeeally want to go back and spend the day there. They have a medieval exhibit with swords and crowns from maybe 900 a.d.! WHAAAAAT!?

And then. Fatefully. We wanted to see a show - the only one playing was Anne Frank. Anne Frank, right? Can't screw that up too much, right? Wrong. It was spectacularly bad. When Hitler's forces (or rather, Hitler's force, in the singular) raided the annex in the end, Vick and I were crying with laughter. See, the Nazi, the lone, very effeminate Nazi had been sitting onstage for the entirety of the show with a bright light shining on him, not moving and ruining all dramatic, low-lit moments. Finally, after all that build-up, he just walked into the attic and started shouting "Ssssssschnell! Sssschnell!" in lispy, surprisingly tenor German and poking people in the head with his gun. The Franks and Van Damms, who weren't bad actors in their own right, sort of obligingly shouted a bit and tripped over themselves, but their heart wasn't in it. 

Because of the atrocity we'd just seen, Vicky and I ran to the nearest pub for a post-show chat-up. And that's how we missed the last train out of Oxford.

But the hostel was nice! We stayed up until about three watching "Oliver!" with three very drunk men, one of whom was Russian, ("Hahahaha!!! They are sell him, like animal!") and then retired to our chamber. I passed out immediately, but Vicky said she had trouble sleeping because "one of the girls'" kept snoring and farting. In my defence, we had had a lot of beer and Lebanese food.

Tomorrow we go to Chiltenham to see Gifford's Circus, then back for an evening rehearsal. More. To. Come.

Eddie was right about the peacocks.

Vicky and I have rehearsed all this week and we're having stupid amounts of fun coming up with material.

There are little peacocks all over! Just chilling on roofs, mewling loudly. They really do mewl. It's the noise a kitten/monkey hybrid would make.

We popped into St. Mary's Cathedral a few days ago. I am continually stumbling across dates from 1320 a.d., 1240, 1150. Ancient. I share every inch of ground I stand on with thousands of years worth of spit, blood, sweat, gum. And the churches have big graveyards in the front lawns - ivy-covered above-ground caskets with crumbly feet, just free to be touched or graffiti-ed. I guess it would be impossible to protect all the history here. And the vandals are probably bored of it.

We'll go to Oxford tomorrow.

Stratford? Stratford was sweet, if a little underwhelming. We saw King John at the RSC for a mere five quid and hope to see a lot more there for the same price. This summer, along with the Olympics, England is host to the World Shakespeare Festival. All of Shakespeare's works will be produced, mostly by international companies (to my fellow Russophiles - Vahktangov's Measure For Measure is their ambassador. TAKE THAT, REIKEN!) at various hotspots; Stratford's RSC is one, The Globe in London is another, Brighton... I really want to see Japan's Coriolanus, but I don't know if we'll get to. There's also a really cool-looking piece called "The Rest Is Silence" playing in Brighton - an adaptation of Hamlet stretched out across a warehouse. But what I'm truly keeping my eyes peeled for is an amateur production of Grease. I will drop everything for that. A lusty Danny Zuko played by Wesley Frothingham of Snitterton would be the highlight of my summer.

Aside from the occasional day-trip, Vick and I have been very anti-social. We don't know anyone our age here and we're both a little shy when it comes to making friends. We've also built ourselves a pretty tight schedule, so we've only gone out for a pint a few times. FOR A PINT. It's so novel! PUDDING. PINT. BISCUIT.
Oh, yeah. So I bought a box of "Wheat Bisks," using my serious Brit Slang knowledge to deduce that I was about to enjoy some whole wheat cookies. Upon opening, I found in my hands two sleeves of something that looked like the horse treats I used to feed Sally, our old pony.
"Psh," said I, "clearly a 'bisk' is distinct from a 'biscuit.' Using my powers of reason, I shall conclude that this is, in fact, a very thick cracker."
I plopped some honey on it and set about munching. It was very thick.
Several days later, Vicky asked me why I never put milk on my wheat-a-bix. It's cereal. Like, you put it in a bowl and pour milk on it and it disintegrates. But at least it wasn't embarrassing.

Erm, let's seeeeeee... still on the list of things to see are Warwick Castle, which looks incredible from the outside (that's where all the damn peacocks are coming from), a Victorian mansion Vicky's been on about ("on about." listen to me. soooo fetch.), as many sites featuring historical re-enactors as possible because we're both the nerdiest, and STONEHENGE!!!!! For the summer solstice with Vicky's mom's hippie best friend! Can't wait. Apparently, when Vicky went last year it was just a bunch of stoned 14-year-olds, so my exciting Earth Mother naked dance scenario will have to wait for another occasion, BUT it's one of the few times of the year when tourists can get close enough to touch the stones. Eeeee! Aliens!!!

Whelp, it's 1 a.m. here, and for this little lady, that means bunkbed time. Love you all, miss ya. I've taken pictures! Maybe I'll post?

Mgootnait, fyemily yend fryends. 

Flapjacks. Not just pancakes anymore.

So the past few days have been spent grinding out details. One of our biggest concerns has been rehearsal venue - we'd booked a place that was too pricey in the hopes of finding something better when we arrived.

First on the list was the local Quaker chapter, where we met with the manager, a man named Eddie that I think Ricky Gervais wrote. He took us through the lovely building, which he kept insulting and describing stiffly as "the new one" until finally dropping the detail that it had been rebuilt in 1645 after "the old one" burnt down in the Warwick fire of 1644. Brand spankin'.

Then he showed us the gardens, which were everything Pride and Prejudice promised.

An Excerpt from The Garden Scene:

(loud cawing is heard in the distance)

Vicky: Was that a peacock???

Eddie: Ah yes, they fly in from the castle. Nasty birds, they are. Et all the flowers. But me dog scares them off.

(Vicky and Molly, ignoring this, both praise the garden's beauty)

Eddie: Yeh, it's nice an all. 'Course, underneath it is the Quaker cemetery (dumbfounded silence from V&M). Oh, they don't let us bury anyone here any more. Just the odd ash sprinkle on the lawns. (M quickly steps back onto sidewalk) See that bump there? 

And we DID see the bump. In the end, Eddie gave us a list of other venues, even suggesting renting pub space, which he seemed to find distasteful. We shook our heads at the thought of rehearsing in such company, declined his offer of coffee, and left vowing to visit every pub in town. 

This next bit... I'm a little nervous to write it in case I jinx us. Long story short, we went to The Rose and Crown, a nearby pub, and unless we both completely misunderstood, have secured a lovely rehearsal space for the price of a drink every hour we use it. We spent a good fifteen minutes coordinating our schedule with the very assuring and confident R&C employee, so we both feel pretty solid about its legitimacy. I'll let you know what the best Warwickshire cider is. I'll hopefully be trying them all, one at a time, every morning at nine.

Shiiiire.... Bagginnnnnnns!

I left you, dear family and friends, in the safety of a Heathrow cafe.

Moments later found me body-slamming a rapidly closing gate, a gate that stood between me and the London Underground. My midwestern charm was failing to dissuade the old bloke padlocking me out. I hate taking buses. 

Wendy had given me twenty pounds before I left, which was the only cash I had. Not really being familiar with buses, because I hate them, I boarded and thrust my twenty-pound note towards the driver, saying in a thin, falsely cheery voice speckled with hard r's, "One to Piccadilly Circus, please." 

His eyes met mine, and I swear, I felt a little squeeze on my throat as though he were trying to telepathically strangle me. Without looking away, he pulled out his own wallet and started counting change. 

I wasn't sure what to do, so I lingered in the cabin. A line was forming behind me. 

"Moo ow ta green, la," he said. 

I smiled pleasantly, hoping he would give me my change so I could put my big bag down. Another girl boarded, clearly as confused as I was. It turned out that we were trying to find the same hostel. 

The bus stared at both of us, her pointing at her brightly-colored map and speaking in broken English and me lurking next to the stairs as unobtrusively as an elephant in five shirts and a ukulele. We realized at about the same time that cutting our losses was the only way to deal with this. As he handed my change back and said, "Ma'am, please would you move out of the green zone, you're blocking the way," we scampered off the bus to a choir of exasperated sighs behind us. 

A middle-aged man with a greying mullet, probably named Ned or Reg, saw us trying to count our change. He descended and enthusiastically informed us that bus fare was two pounds seventy, but that we'd better not pay in paper because our stop was the first of the late run and the driver wouldn't have change yet; we'd put him in a foul mood for the rest of the night. Oops...

Ned/Reg ended up taking the same bus as us and chatted our sleep-deprived ears off about everything London and everything bus. He seemed to have the routes memorized and labored under the delusion that we wanted to know the intimate details of the N19 line, which... we didn't.

At the hostel, I tried to get some sleep, but since by body kept politely informing me that it was just about time to head home from the theater building and start making dinner, my best attempts were wasted. Instead, I left all my stuff tucked under the sheets like a very fat tourist and poked around the city until dawn. I watched the rising sun backlight Big Ben and drank a cup of coffee next to the Thames. Parliament is gorgeous. 

I made it back to the hostel via Trafalger square, slowly seeing the flaw in my romantic "spend the sunrise exploring London" scheme - namely... jet lag (dun dun duuuuun).

Getting to Warwick was a caffeine-laced hallucination. The surreal paranoia that I was still asleep in The Nook wasn't helped by a series of gag announcements broadcasting over Chiltern Station's intercom in the dryest of British voices, the most memorable of which was:

"Attention, we have a message for a Mr. Mowgly. Message reads : Ooh hoo hoo, I wanna be like yoou hoo hoo. That's a message for a Mr. Mowgly. Thank you." 

I sat next to a very sweet and cute guy on the train who's name was Ahmal ("What's your name?" "Amalia." "I'm Ahmal." "Amalia." "Ahmal." "You can just call me Molly...") and he, saint that he was, let me sleep and woke me up at my stop.

Vicky met me with her grandma and grandpa. We screamed like little girls when we saw each other and one of the conductors commented on the loveliness of our reunion. YES. IT WAS LOVELY. WE'RE LOVELY PEOPLE.

More to come! Sorry for the overload. Seeing King John at the Royal Shakespeare Company on Saturday for Vicky's birthday!!

No, guys, Marmite. WTF. The yuckiest.

-Molly

TARDIS. TARDIS. Come on, TARDIS... (Crosses fingers)

I'm in Heathrow. My flight was awesome - Midnight In Paris was the in-flight movie, my seat-mate was an adorable old man who slept with a blanket over his head like a tent, I got my food before everyone else because I checked the "vegetarian" box online...
Adele has been every other song playing since I sat down in this cafe. A cute tattooed guitarist called me "love" a few minutes ago. I'm grinning like a fool and about to hit London.
I'll see YOU fools in August.