Life with the Liverpudlians

I see a skydiving trip
gone bad... what about you?

After months of anticipation, the long-awaited reunion of the Vincentian Volunteers occurred this weekend. Volunteers from England and Scotland met in Liverpool for our first meeting since our induction back in September. We knew it would be a chaotic and energized few days.  Central to the retreat weekend was the Myers-Briggs personality test, which we would all take and be scored accordingly. I was quite excited at the idea of taking a personality test. I am one of those people who highly enjoy taking the silly little tes\ts on Facebook: “Which Disney Princess Are You?” (Belle, of course), “What 80’s Song Represents You?” (I was told Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money” but I will contest that one), etc. I had enjoyed inkblot tests as well until Freud interpreted my results a bit disturbingly. The Meyer-Briggs test is greatly esteemed, though, so I looked forward to my results.  Besides, I thought it would be nice to have official results stating how highly sociable, cool and, basically, perfect I was! (No sarcasm there at all).

Friday turned out to be a very long day for us. The Scottish volunteers and I had been travelling from 7AM well into the late afternoon. Then we were prepped for a good few hours on the importance and reasoning behind the test (I could write my own book on the subject now). By the end of the first session, around 10PM, I was ready for bed. It was not to be early night for us, though, for how could we pass up the first day of Harry Potter madness in the very nation where Potter first flew his wee broom?

I thought that we would still be home at a decent hour, forgetting how long each of these movies has become. The late hour added to the effects, however, because our extreme fatigue made the rather dark film even more suspenseful. I will admit that there was a point where I covered my eyes. Since when did children’s films become so frightening?! The best moment, though, was the breakdown of the heartbroken girl sitting behind me in the cinema. You would have thought she was watching her grandmother die, the way she was carrying on at Dobby’s death scene. Heaving sobs, whimpering, and the soft, “No! Not poor Dobby!” Some people cross the boundaries of reality and never return, I think. We finally crawled into bed around 2:30am, getting a few hours of sleep for the next early morning.

Saturday proved long, but just as eventful. Despite the long yawns, we were eager to get our test results back. The enthusiasm, in hindsight, was a bit silly, as we were basically getting excited to see a piece of paper tell us “who we are”, which I’m sure we already knew. But I digress. I will reveal, here and now, that I am ENFJ, which of course means I am perfect. The others weren’t so lucky, but better luck next time, guys.

 After the big revelation, the session ended early and some of the volunteers and I began Phase 2: The Best Goo Goo Dolls Concert Ever! If you are reading this and wondering which band I just mentioned, you need to a) Get out from under your rock, b) Find a computer, c) Download every Goo Goo Dolls song ever recorded. Their biggest hit is “Iris,” which was the theme song in the more forgettable movie City of Angels. The concert was in a small venue, and audience participation was highly encouraged. I’ll never forget a huge Liverpool man with the roughest accent yelling out, “I LOVE YOU JOHNNY!” in the middle of the gig, both terrifying Johnny and making him burst out laughing. (If you haven’t noticed, I have a slight crush on Johnny. “Sex on Eggs,” as one Liverpudlian yelled out last night). We ended the night with wine, liqueurs, and introducing the Indonesian volunteers to David Hasselhoff. (Remember: “Don’t Hassle the Hoff”).

Johnny and Robby on guitars

As always, our reunion was hectic, loud, and sociable, but we loved every minute of it. We learned more about ourselves than planned. We also discovered the hidden secrets to our Liverpool Volunteers’ lifestyle, such as the fact that their house is literally next door to a popular club (now I know what they do every night), and they have a REAL coffeepot! Non-Americans will not understand the significance of this, but someone like my Mom certainly would. The British willingly drink inferior instant coffee here (I know, disgusting!), and they’re perfectly fine with that. It’s actually very difficult to find a true coffeemaker here for a decent price. Impossible, some might say. So, this discovery and use of a luxury good was the cherry on top of my wonderful weekend in Liverpool. I hope to return soon!

Bombs, Beers, and Bright Lights

     There are many enigmas in this country that I simply cannot comprehend. Some of you may remember my conundrum a few months ago with a British can opener. What is it about the way they are made here that is so vexing?

I battled another can tonight, only to end in the same way – with sliced fingers from mangled cans and me hungry from a lack of tin food (the extent of my culinary skills, I’m afraid to say). But confusing kitchen appliances are not the greatest of mysteries here in Scotland. Why do electric outlets need to first be flipped on every time you use them? What exactly is in "Meat-free Sausages"? Why do you have to add water to your juice instead of drinking it straight from the bottle? Why does the dentist not properly clean and polish your teeth on a regular visit? And why must I be given a “Wheel of Guilt” on every food label, color coded from mellow green (healthy) to sound-the-alarm red ("FAT! SALT! RUN AWAY! THIS SANDWICH HAS A CHANCE OF TASTING DELICIOUS!")?

One of my biggest questions, however, is why Britain annually condemns a terrorist by recreating the bomb he was never able to set off. Known as Guy Fawkes Night or Bonfire Night, this holiday occurs every 5th of November (“Remember, remember, the fifth of November/ The gunpowder, treason and plot…”). For my fellow Americans, Guy Fawkes is famous for the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605, (as well as being the smashing costume in the movie V for Vendetta). Fawkes and his fellow revolutionaries had intended to blow up the Houses of Parliament but were foiled at the last minute and hung for their intentions. Four hundred years later, Britain celebrates Fawkes’ failure… with fireworks and fire. Talk about irony. Every November 5th, British citizens gather to a big park, light bonfires and watch hundreds of fireworks explode above their heads, a long lost reminder of the explosion-that-almost-was. I’ve been told that it is common to burn an effigy of Guy Fawkes as well, but I did not see any burning bodies at my Bonfire Night. What I did see, though, was just as interesting.

The first “celebration” I attended was in a sketchy field behind a row of dark homes. I could see flames rising above the houses from the main road, but I did not realize how high they would be until I stood before them. There, in the middle of the field, with small children running around its base, was a great mountain of flames. Rising fifty feet in the air, the fire was fed by what looked like an entire industrial warehouse. Engulfed in the flames were scaffolds, gigantic crates, wheelbarrows, car parts – I could have sworn I saw the skeleton of an old Ford Fiesta just out of reach – and God knows what else the people of Glasgow had sacrificed to the spirit of Guy Fawkes. Rudimentary fireworks were being set off all around the bonfire, which was impressive since the wicks were sinking into six inches of mud from a recent downpour. Spectators were “heavy on the bevy”  (translation: drunk), and the whole scene seemed perfectly set for disaster. Nothing spells a fun night like alcohol, fire, and bombs. We left soon after we had arrived and went on to the main celebration at Strathclyde Park.

Thousands of our closest (and drunkest) friends were awaiting us as we pushed our way into the park. Guy Fawkes Night at Strathclyde Park is unique in that the River Clyde divides the park, and people were lined up for miles on either side of the riverbank. Floating in the middle of the water was a modestly sized bonfire, small and out of the way of the public (unlike our previous one). Carnival foods and rides dotted the background. National radio DJs set up stands and blasted music, spurring spontaneous dancing around the water (an amusing sight, especially with that slippery mud just waiting…). Everyone stopped in their tracks, however, when the fireworks display began from the center of the river. The ritual may not make sense to me, but then again, most British citizens could not tell you the history of Bonfire Night anyways. The facts and history have long since been forgotten, and in its place is simply another fun excuse to drink and blow things up. And let’s admit it, it does sound quite fun. It was just another typical night in Glasgow.

Bonfire in the River Clyde during the Fireworks

Blasts that would have made Guy Fawkes proud

Pink is Power

You may not realize this, but October is a very special month. Not only are the leaves exploding in color, and we finally have an excuse to wear clothes we bought on a Clearance rack by mistake and can pass them off as “Halloween costumes,” but October is also a month-long celebration of something very close to my heart. Officially it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and tomorrow, October 29^th, is Wear It Pink Day! On this day we ask everyone to wear pink and donate a minimum of £2 ($3) to the Breast Cancer Research funds (to donate or find out more talk to me or go the website here: http://www.wearitpink.co.uk/ )

To me, the word “cancer” was like watching a horror movie – if I covered my eyes, it would disappear and not affect me. That was, until it invaded my own life. Almost two months ago, my mother, our Warrior Woman, was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer. The diagnosis could no have come at a worse time for her, either. I had only left for Scotland a week before, and my sister had left for university three days prior. My dad, our Superman, was and is an amazing rock of strength. But the fear of the unknown was strong, and none of us knew what we were heading into.

To give a little help, I flew home last week to surprise SuperMom right before her first chemo treatment. Dad and I had been planning the visit for weeks, and we were bursting with excitement to finally execute it. Before we arrived at the house, he dropped me a block away so that he had time to return to the house like normal. I walked up and rang the doorbell, giggling with excitement to surprise Mom. The door opened, and Mom stood behind it, calm as ever.

“Hey! How are you?” she asked, as if I was the friendly neighbor just dropping by. Her calm reaction threw me a bit off guard.

“Hi Mom… I’m good…?”

We stood there awkwardly for a long pause before the shock hit her. Slowly she asked, “Wait. What are you doing here?!” I was then allowed inside the house, where Dad was cracking up in the background. It turns out that poor Mom had taken a good few muscle relaxers just before I arrived, and she can now vouch for them and say they can mellow any situation!

None of use knew what to expect when Mom started the chemotherapy treatments. Personally, I was not prepared for the long Infusion Room lined with rows of reclining chairs and IVs. I had imagined a private room, not a party of patients. On the one hand, the sight can be heart-wrenching. Patients in all stages of cancer and treatment are there, from the very elderly to the elementary school children. Seeing a six-year old cancer patient hooked up to a million IVs will change your life perspective immediately.

On the other hand, each one of the patients is fighting for normalcy, but willingly and gladly. The atmosphere in the long, white room is not depressing; instead, it’s encouraging. Patients and their families bring in cakes and drinks to share; everyone shares their stories as well, and after the nearly six hours of Mom’s chemotherapy I walked out with an entirely new perspective on my life. For example, the patient sitting next to Mom, we’ll call him Gerry, was with his wife. They cracked jokes the entire time, swapping stories about Gerry’s bad reactions to morphine and experimental cancer drugs. Even though I watched the chemo meds slowly drain Gerry’s energy as the hours passed, he never stopped smiling, and took a sincere interest in my family, even sending me a wedding package the following day. Later I learned that the couple have two young children, and that Gerry is suffering from melanoma cancer in his brain and have yet to find a cure. This man has no idea when he will be able to leave the hospital or live a normal life with his family, yet he still finds something to laugh about every minute, even regarding his own failed treatments. It made me ashamed of how I have treated my own life: of any complaints I’ve ever made, of any negative comments I’ve ever voiced. Gerry still walks everyday with God and with laughter, just like my Mom. They are such an inspiration, like modern-day superheroes. They taught me that each of us must face a storm or two in our lives. For Gerry and my mom, it’s more like a hurricane. But ten years from now, we will all be able to look back on this. And when we do, we can either remember the storm clouds or remember how we danced in the rain.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for reminding me of that.

Wear It Pink Day is Friday, October 29, 2010. Please wear pink, donate money, or at least say a prayer to raise awareness and to help find a cure for all our superheroes out there. If you would like more information on how to help, contact myself or visit this website:

http://www.wearitpink.co.uk

Hidden Secrets of Heathrow

When you were a kid, I’m sure you were the same as me – staying up late, fighting sleep, thinking about what a party your parents must be having when all the kids go to bed. I just knew that’s what all Mommies and Daddies did when they put their kids to bed – have one big party, like a Ringling Brothers Circus in the living room with all the other Mommies and Daddies.

Now that I’m an adult, I know such musings are ridiculous. What goes on in an airport after hours, however, is a legitimate intrigue.

I arrived on the 19:50 flight from Glasgow to London preparing for a long night. Due to a technical error (ie late booking), my flight included an overnight layover in Heathrow before heading on to sunny Texas for a visit to the folks. After a “mechanical delay” (which never instils confidence in an airline), I arrived in Terminal 5 at 20:30. Since my flight to DFW was not scheduled to depart Heathrow until 10:30 the next morning, and since I was completely skint, I decided I could easily stay the night in the delightful lounges of Heathrow Airport.

Upon arrival in Terminal 5, two separate employees told me Terminal 3 was where I should be. Naively, I followed their guidance. Here begins the wonderment of miscommunication in Heathrow. I waited for a bus to make the 10-minute drive to Terminal 3, where I had to go through security for the second time that night. After I had stripped down and up again, I stumbled to the ticket counter to get my boarding pass.

The two at the desk were pleasant, and as the one printed out my ticket she smiled and said, “Oh, but you can’t stay here. Terminal 3 closes in 2 hours, but Terminal 5 will be open and very nice.” Another big smile.  I managed to thank her and return the sentiment, but by this time I was feeling the weight of my luggage. Oh yes, I have not mentioned that I was lugging my laptop, a week’s worth of clothes, and my wedding dress because I didn’t trust the airport people not to toss it in the air like a lead balloon.

Stumbling a bit more but still confident, I took the 10-minute bus back to Terminal 5. I had not made it 20 steps into the terminal when two security guards told me I was not authorized to return to Terminal 5 and would have to make my way to Terminal 4, where a “pod hotel” was located. “It’ll only cost, say, 7 quid an hour. It’s great!” the guard promised me. He lied.

The so-called “pod hotel” seems to be completely unknown to any member of staff in Heathrow airport. I know because I had a member radio out for more information, and it seemed every staff member with a radio was stumped. (I later found that there was a “landside hotel” rather cheap, but still £45 for a minimum 5 hours.) Since the last Terminal bus was leaving, I decided to take a chance and go to the only other terminal I had been told might help: Terminal 1.

After another 10-minute bus and a third strip search from security, the clock was pushing ten o’clock as I entered Terminal 1. The first thing that struck me was the quiet – I could see no rushing passengers, no radio-talking staff – not a soul to be seen. Finally, a small female staff worker came into sight, and I pounced (or I staggered, as my wedding dress was really dragging me down by this point). “Please ma’am,” I gasped, “where is the overnight lounge?”

She gave a sly smile and came close, as if to share an important secret. “You’re looking to stay overnight?” She looked me up and down. “Right, follow me.”

As we walked, I saw zombie-like passengers waiting in long queues all over. I prepared myself for more lugging, but my guide suddenly made a sharp turn down a hidden hall on the side. The lights were dim, and the walls were frosted glass. I felt like we were going into Batman’s secret lair. We came upon a lone guard, who started to question my presence in this obviously elite area, but my little guide cut her off.

“She’s an all-nighter.”

The guard immediately closed her lips and let me through into another deserted corridor.

Down, down, down we went, and if I had not been sure she was staff and that I could easily tackle her, I would have questioned the intelligence of my decision to follow.  But, I was curious as well. Is this what happens in airports after hours? Am I being led to a room full of other curious tourists where we will meet Saw-like fates to pay for our bad life decisions? Maybe this is the “pod hotel” – of doom!

A buzz of voices slowly became audible, and, as there were no screams of terror to be heard, I began to relax. Civilization! Praise the Lord! And not only were there people, but there was food! And seats! And my guide…. Had disappeared. Vanished into thin air. But no matter, because I could finally rest. Or so I thought.

Not one hour had passed when the overhead lights suddenly went out. No warning, just BOOM! I don’t think a horror movie has been made about airports, but if they ever do it would start like this.  A lone figure with a big flashlight appeared, herding all the sleeping passengers into a coma-like creep through the terminal. That’s right – Terminal 1 was now closing. “But don’t worry, we have a nice, quiet room for you, away from the crowds and the lights…” I have never been more terrified.

There were about 20 of us victims, standing nervously in a line before an “access only” door, which could have led to a vengeful reaper or a pit of snakes for all we knew. The lone figure swiped her card and punched a few codes to finally gain access to the “restricted area” that she ushered us into, all the time sickeningly repeating, “Almost there, almost to your nice, quiet room…” She may have cackled.

After a short walk and a few more locked doors we were ushered into a small room. It was there, in those uncertain moments, we found… paradise! For, lo and behold, we had vending machines! Free toilets! And, best yet, RECLINING LOUNGE CHAIRS! We had straggled through the desert and found our manna, us 20 survivors. And I sit here now, in that same lounge, still a 10-minute bus ride and eight hours away from departure, but years from now I’m sure we will have Terminal 1 Survivor Reunion and reminisce the terrors of Heathrow after hours.

But now, the lights are dimming, and, is it me, or has our group of twenty been drastically reduced? If I disappear, Mom, know I was at Gate 2, eating out the ice cream vending machine… 

Carfin's Choir of Comedy

     We all have this friend. You know the one, the special friend who gets herself into ridiculous situations on a regular basis. The one who starts fights in night clubs due to a "misuse of a ladder" or who gets put into hiding in the backroom of a homeless shelter because one of the clients mistook her for the "tart tha ruined me an ma mates! Ah no, cauz yous never fergit ah face!" whilst chasing her around the kitchen with a teacup (all true stories). Well, in my social circle I am this crazy person. And yesterday was just another typical day.

     This year is the 350^th anniversary of the deaths of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Louise de Marillac. To celebrate, the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Daughters of Charity (who sponsor the VV program as well) hosted a large service at the Carfin Grotto, which is a replica of the famous Lourdes Grotto. A few hundred people were expected to attend, including many prominent Catholic leaders, such as the Archbishop who had ridden with the Pope in his Popemobile. As we pulled up I recognized one of the coordinators of the service (we’ll call her Karen). She must have spotted us as well, because before I knew it she was running in 4-inch heels towards the car. We had not even parked when Karen strutted up to the window and asked me to jump out of the car because she had a “special job” for me. Being optimistic on that rare, sunny day, I cheerfully (and naively) agreed and sprung out of the still-moving car.

Gardens of the Grotto, www.carfin.org.uk

     Through the throngs of people gathering, Karen led me to the center of the busy grotto where a stage was set up for all to see. Another man wearing an official-looking sash gave me a warm smile.

     “Ah, here’s the celebrity! And all the way over from America!” he teased. I laughed, and then realized we were standing directly in front of the microphone and our voices were echoing across the Grotto. We stepped away, and Karen quickly dove into the details as the official-looking man disappeared again.

     “We need you to lead the rosary during the opening procession,” she stated, her eyes scouring the growing crowds as she went through last-minute details in her head.

      I was a bit shocked, but honored as well. “Yes, ok, I can do that –“

     “Right, and we’ll be singing the hymns as well, so here’s the book,” she said as she shoved a large hymnbook into my hands, “and just keep singing until the procession is over.”

     As her eyes were still searching the crowds, she missed seeing my jaw-dropping state of shock. “But, I can’t –“

     “Great, thanks again!” And Karen ran off just as the bells began to toll, meaning the procession was to begin. I was left standing on a stage with nothing but a microphone and a hymnbook in my hands. I looked out to see over a thousand expectant pairs of eyes, and a scary realization made my stomach drop. These people had all heard the official man announce me as an international celebrity, although completely by accident. They were expecting the next Charlottle Church. And there I was, shifting awkwardly on stage and looking around frantically for someone to rescue me.

Mass at the Groto, www.carfin.org.uk

     The bells tolled again, and I could see the Archbishop beginning the procession, so I hesitantly started the rosary. Repeated prayers are easy enough, but soon I ran out of rosary beads. I could see Karen mouthing words to me, something about “SING!”, but I just held the hymnbook in my shaky hands. The silence began to grow, though, and I knew what I had to do.

     Lifting my eyes up to the skies and knowing that someone was having a good laugh, I started a hymn that looked easy enough. “Ave Maria, Ave Maria –“ Oh, wait! I have to sing it! “Aaaaaaa-vayyyyy MarIIIIIIaaaaa!” I looked around frantically. Surely, someone knew this song and would sing along so that I, the leader, could follow! But instead I only found very perplexed faces from the crowd. I tried again.

     “AAAAAAAAVAY! Ma-REEEEEEEAH!!!!” Nope, yelling didn’t help. Suddenly, I saw movement in the corner of my eye. Karen jumped on stage and grabbed the hymnbook from my hands. “Ahhhhh-VAY, ay, ay, Ma-ree-AH, ah, ah…” She smiled at me, but shook her head as I slowly backed away from the microphone. Sensing my escape, Karen, snatched my shirtsleeve and pulled me back to the microphone. Foiled again! For the remainder of those excruciating 30 minutes, I played back-up singer to Karen with hymns I had never heard, usually missing both the beat and tone.

     Afterwards, I was graciously thanked for my work. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun or the distraction of the grand procession, but no one commented on my failed performance, though I was not asked for an encore.

     All in all, I believe I get brownie points with the Man Upstairs for staying on that stage for Him. However, I don’t think I’ll be invited to join His choir of Angels.

Metaphor for Life

Maybe it's because I'm from the South (which, when I say that in Scotland, they usually say, "Oh, you're from Newcastle?!"), but to me a rainy day outside always equates itself with a lazy day indoors. Of course, I will have to get over this natural feeling to have a movie marathon every time it rains, because in Scotland that could mean I never go outside. Ever.

However, today it was fitting to sleep in and be lazy. And to keep my mind off the rain and other things, I watched a fantastically funny stand up comedian named Adam Hills. Adam is from Australia, and besides having natural charisma and ease (and being pretty good-looking, as well), I love his work because he always has a message within his routine. Having a disability himself (he is missing his right leg), Hills tries to make other people with disabilities feel welcome at his shows. He is known for having a regular sign language interpreter on stage with him so that deaf people can attend as well.

During his hilarious show "Characterful and Joymonger" (which is out on DVD and on Youtube), the running theme was what kind of world Adam wants his baby godson to grow up in. He ended his show with one of the best inspiring and funny stories I've ever heard, which I will post below. But you really miss the full effect if you don't see him performing (and dancing) himself, so I will post the link as well and highly encourage you to give up four minutes to watch (and another hour to watch the rest of the show, if you can!). Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17AdCAy1s4A&feature=related

Enjoy these words of wisdom:

“A friend of mine used to work in Cairo. He told me, in Cairo the traffic is so bad that it only takes one car to break down and you don’t move. You do not move for the next couple of hours. It’s not like, oh it crawls for maybe 20 minutes. You are stuck there. So the people of Cairo are so frustrated, so annoyed, and so hot, they get out of their cars, and in a fit of anger, turn on the stereo, climb on the roof, and start dancing. What a fantastic metaphor for life that is! It’s not a dance of joy; it’s a dance of frustration. ‘Everything’s turned to shit so I’m going to dance it away!’ And if there’s a point to this show it’s that, when things are going well, drum your tummy. But when they turn to shit, dance on the roof of your car!”

Swift Synopsis

Scary Red Squirrel in the Highlands

Well, it was inevitable, wasn't it? Here I was, doing so well. "Look at me! Look at me! Once a week and still going strong!" Well, I've broken that. But, the difference between my last blog and this one is that I came, back, now didn't I?

So, to catch us back up, I will provide a swift summary:

• Nuns
• Nudes
• Seagulls
• "SuBo"
• Buses
• Birthday Cake
• Gangfights
• Pope
• Popemobile
• Pink Ribbons
• Zumba
• Neds
• Naan Bread

Yep, that about covers everything. I'm glad we're all caught up now. And here are some pictures to prove it:

2010-2011 Vincentian Volunteers

Birthday Surprise

Greenan Castle, Ayrshire

Robert Burns Monument, Alloway

Bunch of naked men on Crosby Beach (look closely, way out to shore)

One for the kids. Only in Liverpool...

Susan Boyle sang before and after the Papal Mass at Bellahouston

Pope Benedict in his Popemobile!

Pope saying Mass

And to close... Who's the "Best Parish in Scotland"???

St. Philip's, Ruchazie!

Couldn't be more proud :)

" 'Avin a Buzz " in Manchester

No matter where in Britain you visit, Manchester has a reputation for being rough and tough and often incomprehensible. On Friday I arrived in this big city to meet my fellow Vincentian Volunteers. We are staying in a house on the West End of Greater Manchester, and I can't complain much, although the city does live up to its reputation. While Glasgow has been voted "Britain's Friendliest City", Manchester is slightly less accommodating.

As we boarded the bus to go into city center, I very politely asked, “How much for a return ticket?”

The grisly driver scowled at me and asked, “Return to where?” Well, the bus ends in Piccadilly – it doesn’t go any further than that. And we were in Eccles. It seemed like a simple question, really. But, being in a good mood, I simply smiled and added the necessary details. “£4.10” was his only reply.

“Why, thank you sir, you are very kind.” And I handed over the exact change and skipped away merrily to my seat.

“Grab your ticket! Oi! GRAB YOUR TICKET!” the driver yelled back at me. I mean, really, whatever happened to common courtesy? (It’s not like I am biased towards Glasgow or anything of course…)

Manchester city center was not as impressive as I’d hoped, especially after the long bus ride surrounded by suspicious-looking passengers and my loving friend of a driver. The other volunteers and I made our way through Chinatown, which was really only 2 blocks of “International Buffets.” Piccadilly Gardens was charming, but again very small. It was more like a plaza with a fountain you can run through. I can do that in Mike’s back garden if I really wanted to.

My favorite part of city center was the western side, by the canal. There is a nice area next to the ruins of an old Roman fort where a very modern-looking suspension bridge stretches across the waterfalls of the canal. Narrow canal boats dot the water, and in the warm sun many owners were lying on the small boat decks (or roofs), taking in the sun.

By 5:00, though, I was beat and ready to crash at the house. Luckily, so were all the other volunteers. We returned and made dinner (for the record, that is twice I’ve cooked a real dinner from scratch here! Look out world!).

On Saturday night one of the volunteers, Dana, who is also from Georgia, introduced us all to the game Mafia. With the language barriers (many of the volunteers are from Indonesia) and cultural differences, this game was intense and absolutely hysterical. The killers could never keep a straight face, and I think we giggled throughout the entire game. But we have been having a fantastic time, and we have all really bonded. This year’s Vincentian Volunteers are top notch, and I am very excited to grow more as the year progresses.

Tomorrow we leave for Liverpool to begin our official induction and training. As you can see, I still don’t have my battery charger for my camera, so there are no pictures in this post. However, I will leave you this pic of a funny poster I found online of a kitten being chased by angry-looking brownies. No copyright infringement intended. Now, if you will excuse me, Patrick has brought out his guitar and spontaneous karaoke has erupted downstairs. Dana and I have promised to give our rendition of “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, and I’d hate to let anyone down.

Mamma Mia, It's Italia!

Rome, Day 3

            You can always tell when Mike starts to get bored. He becomes shifty, runs around in circles a lot, and pulls out his Iphone to play games, call random people, or take spontaneous videos. As we were waiting in the 30-minute queue to get inside the Coliseum, Mike chose the latter. So Mom, you can thank me now for the 15 videos I will be sending you of Mike narrating his own history of the great Gladitorial Monument.

            Despite Mike’s initial boredom, we were both astonished by the detail and craftsmanship of the ancient stadium. The Coliseum has layers upon layers of maze-like alleys underground, which can be seen clearly when viewed from overhead. I stood over one of the ledges where the Emperor himself would have been seated and, drowning out the noise of the tourists, I tried to imagine Rome in its prime and the heat of battle directly in front of me.

            The Romans had quite the taste for gory entertainment. While gladiators fought other gladiators, they also fought wild beasts and exotic creatures. One plaque described a day when hundreds of ostriches were set loose on the stage, and surrounding archers shot them all for the crowd’s entertainment. Bets were taken on beasts fighting other beasts, and the entire setup was quite theatrical. The gladiator wore extremely overdramatic costumes with bright feathers and shiny metal armor. It is hard to imagine such spectacles today, however. The closest similarity I can think of is a bullfight, but even those are tame in comparison.

Tour Guide Mike discusses Roman Culture

            After the Coliseum we made our way over to the Forums, which are an impressive amount of ruins of the Emperor’s palace, marketplace, and more. Essentially, it was the hub of central Rome. It still amazes me that many parts of these buildings are still standing and preserved 2,000 years later. As an American, anything past 50 years is considered ancient; anything beyond a few hundred years is simply incomprehensible. I would say more about the Forums, but by that time we had been in the sun for hours and were exhausted. We made our way back to the hotel, but had about an hour to kill before catching the bus to the airport.

         “I still have 15 euro left,” Mike announced, which meant 15 euros were about to be set loose on several gelato counters. We decided that we would help humanity by taste testing every gelato shop around the Trevi Fountain to find the best one. To this day we cannot give a definite answer, though we did put in our best effort. Mike worked so hard, in fact, that he needed to give his scientific testing some thought, so he rested his eyes on the edge of the Trevi Fountain for an hour to think it over. I watched as the walking policia blew their whistles at anyone misbehaving near the fountain. My particular favorite was when a French woman tried to give her naked baby a bath in the not-so-clean water of the fountain. After being persistently whistled, she decided to stand next to the fountain in the crowded area and wash her baby with a bottle of water for all to see. She wasn’t bothered, and neither was I. What can you say but, “when in Rome…”

Sunny Coliseum

My gladiator face (I even scare myself)

Mamma Mia, It's Italia!

Rome, Day 2

The sound of a loud foghorn interrupted my dream of Italian men on vespas. “EEEEE-OOOOOOOO!” Sirens began to follow, and the smiling Italian men in my dreams disappeared. It was 7:30am, and my alarm was on full volume.

Those of you who know me know that I am not a morning person – I still consider 10AM to be the wee hours of the morning. However, when I’m on vacation I become a drill sergeant. “Seven hundred hours – rise from the cots! Eight hundred precisely – march to site!” I don’t think Mike was properly warned.

An hour later, I dragged Mike out of the hotel and we made our way to the shining Vatican City. We started with the Vatican museums, and I felt a bit in awe to be standing inches away from a Bernini model, a Michelangelo statue, Laocoon, and a million other pieces I have studied since high school. Knowing that Mike gets antsy in museums (“too many people and too many old things”), we quickly made our way through the Apostolic Palace. Inside was beyond one’s imagination. Every inch of every room was covered in the most minute details. Sculptures, paintings, frescoes, tapestries, woodwork – every available space was used as a canvas. The colors were bold and bright – deep reds and blues were as bright today as they were 500 years ago. The sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows made the abundant gold flecks throughout the room flicker and shine. In a word, it was stunning. And then we entered the famous Sistine Chapel.

When you step into the chapel by the altar, your eyes immediately jump upwards, and what you see will amaze you. Michelangelo has never ceased to astonish me, but I was speechless as I stood under The Last Judgment. The countless characters on the wall are not simply painted – they come alive. You can almost see them moving, their robes shifting as they point and their eyes shining as they speak. What’s more, they seem to be coming out of the walls. Repeatedly I kept rubbing my eyes and saying to Mike, “They look 3-D!” I’m still amazed how Michelangelo managed to make each character come alive, all leading to the climatic centerpiece in “The Creation of Adam”.

It took Mike leading me by the hand and pulling me out to continue onward. I had no idea I was about to see something even grander, even more profound and impacting.

                                                *****

No matter what perspective you see it from, a simple glimpse of St. Peter’s Basilica will give you chills. It possesses both beauty and a determined power that instantly earns your deepest respect. Seeing how Mike and I always do everything backwards we started touring the Basilica not from the ground level but from the roof. I highly recommend this, though. We climbed the 551 stairs (Mike counted each one) up to the cupola. From there, you are standing on the inside rim of the dome, miles above the crowded Basilica below. As we looked at the beauty beneath us, we could hear the faint singing from Mass being said just below us. One of the most overpowering moments was closing my eyes on the cupola and listening to the beautiful Alleluia being sung. Standing so high in the air, it felt more like we were listening to the angels in Heaven singing a joyous praise. I did not think St. Peter’s could surprise me anymore. And then it did.

When we actually entered the Basilica through the ground level entrance, I was in awe. Like the Palace, every single inch of space, floor to ceiling, was an artistic tribute to the power and beauty of God. But every fresco, every ounce of gold, every detail was lost when you looked upon the huge wooden altar in the center of the church. It is simple, in comparison to the jewel-encrusted walls surrounding it, and yet it stands over something infinitely more valuable – St. Peter’s tomb. As I slowly approached this striking feature, I heard a voice, loud and distinct: “Upon this rock, I will build my Church.” This Scripture echoed repeatedly in my head: “Upon this rock, I will build my Church; upon this rock, I will build my Church.” How many times had I heard this spoken in Church before? Countless times, but never had it become more real than in that very moment, when I stood face to face with that Rock, protected in that Church. There, right in front of me, was the heart of the Church, the same Church that Jesus began and the same Church that continues today. It was beautiful – magnificent – so beautiful that it brought me to my knees in that very spot. And as I was falling, I noticed that I was not the only one so impacted. All around me, people had heard the same call and had fallen to their knees. It was one of the most profound experiences of my life, if not the most profound. I knew, beyond a doubt, that I was in the presence of God.

After that climatic experience, I walked out with a deeper sense of self and my place in the world. Mike and I walked out of Vatican City slowly, allowing the powerful experience to linger as long as possible. But, hunger eventually swung our minds in a new direction, and when Mike saw a stand full of sweets, the silence was broken. We took our bountiful feast into the shadows of Castel Sant’Angelo and ate in what was the old moat surrounding the castle. Our sightseeing was not over yet, though. After our rest, we hit the Piazza Navona, which holds Bernini’s famous “Four Rivers” fountain (which plays an important role in Dan Brown’s book/movie Angels and Demons). The water in the fountain is ice cold, which felt amazing in the 90-degree heat. We put our feet in the fountain and ate what is considered the best gelato in Italy. This is also where I discovered granita, which is like a snow-cone but a hundred times better.

After hitting the Pantheon, which is nestled randomly in the middle of an intersection, we went back to the hotel for a much-needed rest, and decided to call it a day for sight-seeing. We had seen a surprisingly large amount of sights in one day, and I was very impressed with us (especially with Mike, who typically despises sight-seeing of any kind. I suspect he was tagging along just for my sake, but I appreciated his tolerance all the same). I let him off the hook for the rest of the day, as I secretly had another day of sight-seeing planned tomorrow.

The Vatican

Spanish Steps

Below the Spanish Steps

Mamma Mia, It's Italia!

Rome, Day 1
They told us it couldn’t be done. They told us we were crazy. But ladies and gentlemen, we have proven the impossible – you CAN do Rome in 48 hours! You will also be exhausted beyond relief, but every ounce of energy drained is well worth it.

Our schedule was unconventional, to say the least; we left Wednesday evening from Glasgow, Prestwick (which isn’t actually in Glasgow, but an hour outside the city, on the coast) and arrived in Ciampino, which is a good 40 minutes away from central Rome via shuttlebus. All of the airports we flew from were out of the way because we flew Ryanair, and I should stop here to make a few comments about this often evil airline. Ryanair is famous for cheap flights and proof of humanity’s desperation. We are willing to give up all comforts on a flight, such as free food and drink and reclining seats, for cheap airfare. To be fair, if you can buy a $20 ticket to Paris, you won’t complain much. But if you don’t follow the rules exactly, they will charge you extortionate amounts. We forgot to check-in online. The penalty for not printing out 2 pieces of paper? £80, or about $150, which, I should point out, was twice the amount of our actual plane ticket!  We fought and argued this for over an hour, but to no avail. After this kink, though, our trip was perfect, even in its mistakes.

We arrived at the Hotel Trevi around 11:30 at night, exhausted and a bit stressed after the initial hassles from lovely Ryanair. At that point we had been travelling by car, bus, and plane pushing nine hours. All I wanted was a massive glass of fine Italian wine and a big plushy bed to collapse into. I also wouldn’t have said no to some chocolate gelato…. Mmmmm. When we arrived at the hotel, were no rooms. Luckily, they drove us to another hotel for free, and even though it was not in the city center, the rooms were very nice and the staff was friendly. Even though it was late (just past midnight), I somehow persuaded Mike to go out and explore the city (which is saying a lot, since Mike’s normal bedtime is 9:30).

Our new hotel (optimistically named Hotel Stylish) was right off of Via Condotti, the Rodeo Drive of Rome. Even though it was late, Rome was in full swing. Every restaurant we passed was open – and full! After a short walk we found a place to eat just off Condotti in one of the countless winding alleyways. Four older Italian men were standing outside, and when we gave an interested look they pounced.

“Ah, si, come-uh and sit-uh down-na! Dees is the finest Sicilian food in EEETtaly! No one else make-ah Sicilian food uh-like-ah dees!”

Well, how could we argue with that? It was 1AM, we had not eaten in ages, and on the candlelit table was my beacon of hope– a huge bottle of “dee best Sicilian wine in dee world!”

After the long, arduous day of traveling, we ended on a high note. The food was amazing, as was the wine, and of course we had to end with heaps of “Sicilian gelato”.

What's Cookin'?

When announcing a visit to Britain, one of the first comments an American will make is a grave warning of the many dangers the unprepared visitor will encounter. This may include, but not be limited to: rain, fog, knives, NEDs, socialism, and black pudding. While these dangers all exist, I knew Britain had more to offer than perils to my dry clothes and capitalistic upbringing. Consequently, I went on a mission to unearth this jewel of a culture and decided to tackle one of Britain’s most negative stereotypes: its food. (I will admit – I was also trying to disprove my fiancé’s negative stereotype of my culinary capabilities following a recent smoky upset in my own kitchen. The fire detectors only went off twice, and despite the small flames, not even worth mentioning, the oven still works. Needless to say, however, I had a reputation to save). I found my chance after a girls’ night out with my friend Christina, who lives in Glasgow. The following morning I discovered Christina in a rush to get ready for her cousin’s wedding.

In an effort to help and to reclaim dignity, I begged, “Please, let me cook breakfast!” But apparently local fire reports had reached international tabloids, and Christina hesitated.

“Oh, no… no, you don’t need to cook! We could have a professional make it… and not have the Glasgow Fire Deputies on standby.”

With time pressing for Christina to get ready, however, I managed to successfully convince her that my culinary skills had only flourished from every failed experience. (Isn’t it funny how, in a girl’s mind, makeup always trumps food?). Rushing down to the Tesco Express, we grabbed what Christina told me were the bare essentials of a “small Scottish fry-up”: eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, beans, and haggis (a lovely blend of sheep innards and herbs, mashed to a pulp and served with just about anything fried in pounds of cooking oil).

The mountain of food and the pressure to impress a native was a bit alarming, but the challenge had been set. I couldn’t have argued anyways because Christina had long since run away to start the arduous hair and makeup duties. I was on my own in a kitchen with zero adult supervision. It only took 10 minutes to discover that the stovetops were gas and required matches to be lit, and another 5 adrenaline-pumping minutes of discovering the “whoosh!” sound of starting a gas stovetop, to my ever-growing amusement. (There’s something exciting about the small element of danger in starting a gas fire. If you turn the ignition on full, the flame could be too small to matter or big enough to singe your eyebrows off. I liked living on the edge of the unknown).

It took another 30 minutes to open a can of beans. Can openers here, it should be stated, are made by the devil. They start off working wonderfully, and then after 3 cm of opening, they completely stop working. I cannot explain this phenomenon, but it happens every time I try opening any can in the UK. (May I say I am quite the expert can-opener back in the States). The small hole taunts you, being not even large enough to fit one small bean through.

As I was fuming about this, Christina walked into the kitchen to check on my progress. What she found was a crazed American screaming at a tin can with scissors in one hand and a sharp paring knife in the other, desperately banging on the lid and denting it into a pathetic, hole-less, blob. Giving a big, annoyed sigh, Christina in one fell swoop reclaimed the sharp weapons in my epic battle against The Beans. She flipped the can over, made 3 sharp clicks with the opener, and rushed back to finish her hair.

Another half hour later, the bountiful brunch was complete. The bacon was crackling, the teapot was whistling, and the sausage was brown (if not a bit black, in some places). However, the encouraging discovery was that it was edible; in fact, it tasted quite good. In that shining moment of triumph, amidst the scattered remnants of my gastronomic battle, I learned a valuable lesson: you will never appreciate British food until you have personally put your sweat and blood (and various metal objects) into a home cooked fry-up of your own.

Oh, and can openers should be left to the professionals.

Say what?

The UK is well-loved for various reasons (food not being one of them). The very name of England inspires images of quaint towns along a lush, green countryside. While these images certainly exist in reality, the problem a tourist (or even many Britons, for that matter) will have is in getting there. That's right. You must be able to pronounce the name of that cute cottage inn first.


Town names in the UK are a mystery to foreigners. Humor me for a moment. In Wales, hidden along the northern railway, there lies a small town of a population around 3,000. The town does not publicize a famous history -- no war crimes or witch trials or mystical Celtic grave sites. The only attractions listed are a tourist shop and a climbable column. What makes this town so unique? Its name: 

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

Try saying that ten times fast. The town, locally called Llanfair PG, is the longest town name in Europe. The translation from Welsh is, "The church of St. Mary in the hollow of white hazel trees near the rapid whirlpool by St. Tysilio's of the red cave". Poetic, yes. Pronounceable, no.


Not to be outdone by the Welsh, unpronounceable town names are scattered across the rest of the UK as well. My fiancé, who is Scottish, likes to play the game "Make Me Laugh by Trying to Pronounce This." Somehow he always wins... Here are a few he's tried on me:
-Balluchullish 
-Milngavie
-Kirkcudbright


Say them out loud. Do you feel confident? 
-Balluchullish is pronounced "ball-a-HOOLlish"
-Milngavie is "Mill-GUY"
-Kirkcudbright is "Kirk-COO-bray"


During my student orientation at the University of Glasgow, the Scots decided to divide up all the international students and give each group a name to attempt to pronounce in front of everyone (public torment is still an acceptable form of punishment in the UK). Ours was "Isle of Islay." Needless to say, we were a bit off. It's pronounced "Isle of EYE-la", which, when said quickly in a Scottish accent, sounds like Isle of Isle. Very crafty, Glasgow Uni...


Great Britain has countless more difficult town names, but it could be worse. Thailand holds the record for the longest town name. Bangkok pronounced in Thai is a succinct 163-characters:

Krungthepmahanakornamornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnopparatrajathaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimarnavatarnsathitsakkattiyavisanukamprasit

Try fitting THAT onto a railway sign!