"Like the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end."--Sonnet 60, William Shakespeare 

Dear memories,

It all ended so cleanly, like sealing a compressed letter inside an envelope.  My flight took off at 10 am on Saturday; I saw on my ticket that my destination was Charlotte Douglas International Airport.  I didn't realize this was my last time drinking actually decent English breakfast tea, or that I had made my last purchase at Portobello Market last Saturday, or that I would never step foot back in LAMDA (the current building is being torn down for a snazzy, remodeled version).  London molded me, made me into a city person who is too impatient to take the bus and walks instead, or takes the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.  Suddenly I realized I'd be stretched back out to my previous form, and would have to drive everywhere in Charlotte, would have to be courteous to pedestrians instead of being one of those bouncing walkers.  My mom would be cooking meals for me, no more microwavable 2-minute Uncle Ben's rice.  Is it odd that I grew such an affinity for instant rice?  Is it odd that I enjoyed concocting my own meals and washing my own dishes in the sink, not with a dish washer?  Then again, I would be back in a comfortable mattress (no thanks there, NIDO), my feet would wake up to fuzzy shag carpet, not freezing wood floors.  Bubba, the faithful body-wagging lab, would greet me at the front door, inspecting every element of my being, down to my vintage ring from the Vienna marketplace.   I thought I could handle the transition, as huge as it was.  I figured I'd just relive my London memories in a hazy day dream for a few minutes every day.  Well to be honest, it's a lot harder than that.  It's hard to pick up the life you've crafted for three and a half months, all the habits and patterns, all the friends from LAMDA and silent acquaintances on the tube, all the meals at the Polish cafe and the grocery store runs after a long day at school.  It's not even that I've picked up my life that I established, I literally just dropped it.  I sealed it away in an envelope that I keep neatly filed in the back of my mind, and I dare every once in a while to open it just a pinch and let a few memories hop out for a dance.  I know that envelope and the document it holds so carefully will stay crisp and clean.  And every once in a while, I'll read it again and indulge in that life I so dearly miss and treasure.  

I'll love you forever, London.  I'll love all those who were my partner in the Breathing Station exercise in Stevie's voice class, who endowed me behaviors and characteristics in improv scenes, who let their breath synchronize with mine during movement class on Fridays.  I'll love the addictive hot chocolate in the common room, and the 23 bus that dropped us off directly at our apartment.  I'll love the Portobello Market and the entreating vendors.  I'll love the fast dances at the Archangel Club, and the slow hugs in the hallways at NIDO.  I'll love loving those moments.  

Cheers, 
Katie 

P.S. I'll see you again soon.  I promise.          

"To Ireland, I."--Macbeth 2.3, William Shakespeare 

To Ireland went Maggie O'Brien (a spry and big-spirited, yet petite lass), Julie Brannon (my two-time travel buddy--see Vienna blog--and master packer--she fit everything inside a should-strap leather bag), and the Greek girl.  So perhaps my two good Irish friends, Maggie and Julie, had their own cultural reasons for visiting their families' country; I was going to Dublin, Ireland to experience the land of shamrocks, fiery redheads, and Guinness beer.  Little did I know, Ireland is also home to gaze-stealing architecture, sports bars galore, and the friendliest and most kind people in Europe.

EXCITED FOR DUBLIN!

Casual view of a Dublin street

This time we didn't let the shoddy Irish (but financially friendly) Ryanair airline put any bumps in our travel plans: we printed out our boarding passes the day before our flight, and we were sure to get our passports checked before entering security--I will say, however, I don't think the lady behind the Passport Control desk even looked up to make sure my face matched my passport's picture.  Nevertheless, after an hour of staring at the backs of the hideous yellow Ryanair seats, we were in Dublin! We needed help getting to our hostel though; we planned on taking a local bus.  Perhaps it was fate, or maybe just a common last name in Ireland, but a friendly airport employee named Mr. O'Brannon (see Julie's last name above) gave us a free map and made sure we got on bus #16 towards Blessington Street so we could get off at Mountjoy Street.  What pleasant names for roads! Much to our horror, we realized after 3 stops on the bus that we had no idea when to get off: there were no street signs in sight and the bus stops didn't have names and the driver didn't announce the stops! A flashback to our trip to Vienna came to the forefront of my mind when we were on a bus to the main bus station in Brno and didn't know when we were supposed to get off; we didn't know what the words in German meant.  But, wait...everything is in English here (and Gaelic, but our cab driver informed us that only about 10% of the Irish population actually is fluent in Gaelic).  We should be able to figure this out.   Luckily, our Irish guardian angel happened to be seated next to Julie; her clothes looked like that of a teenager, but her smile lines revealed a much older woman in her 40s; her nails were the foundation for nail polish residue, and her sparkly bag artificially added spunk to the lethargy that comes with age and watching after two young children. She realized from our fearful eyes that we were terribly confused and told us we still had about 15 minutes left in our bus journey. I recognized from Julie's frantic patting of her jeans and jacket that something was missing: her phone. Our guardian angel also picked up on it, and she commanded her young son to stick his hand behind the fuzzy bus seat in hopes of a successful rescue. But alas, he failed. So our guardian angel then instructed Julie to pick up her side of the bus seat--this random lady practically pulled apart the bus to retrieve a stranger's phone!  With her help we got off the bus at the right stop, with Julie's rescued phone.  We made our way to our shelter for the next 24 hours: the Dublin Interntional Youth Hostel. While we weren't expecting much for our 18 pounds per person bed and breakfast, I'm glad we only used the hostel as a place to sleep and grab breakfast the next day; my bed smelled a little funky and the bathroom downstairs felt like it was on a run-down fishing boat. Like I said, it did the job.

We wasted no time; we got directions to downtown Dublin (a 15 minute walk from the quasi-fishing boat hostel) and searched for a restaurant to satiate our ravenous appetites. The Larder sounded like just the place...and it was! Once we were all fully replenished after a scrumptious meal (Maggie had fish and chips, Julie had her ultimate favorite Eggs Benedict, and I had a lamb burger), we headed towards Dublin Castle where, rumor had it, a flea market was going on. Turns out the market consisted of a few food stands (I was a happy customer with my slab of fudge!) but we also were greeted by the floating notes of a Christmas choir in the middle of the castle's handsome stone square.

After leaving the castle, we quickly found numerous markets that sold small photographs of Irish landmarks, vintage clothing, rings, and second hand books. We then went to the Porterhouse Pub for a traditional pub dinner--bangers and mash and a beer definitely seemed appropriate for our trip.  Pub vibes are very specific and yet simultaneously applicable to everyone: it seemed like it was Christmas Day and everyone had left their jobs or tasks to come have a good swig of Guinness, whether they be business men still in their suits or men in track suits who may not be able to count the number of drinks they've had on one hand, or a group of dressed up women laughing during their weekly girls' night out. Pub life in Ireland is legitimately a national hobby.

We started our next and last day in Ireland with a trip to the co-op, a market made up of local artisans and merchants, where we found desserts, vintage clothes, jewelry, art, old comic books and photos, and furniture. Seeing as how it was Sunday, we also made a trip to St. Patrick's Cathedral, a truly breathtaking structure that has been around for hundreds of years (I believe since 1400?).

So the two Jews and Maggie ventured through the praised church, observing the small wooden pews contrasting with the light-capturing stained glass and immensely powerful buttresses that held up the heavy stone ceiling. Even though I'm Jewish, there's something unarguably holy and grounding about being in a church that has been a haven for so many troubled people for so many centuries. However, the church gift shop fell in line with the other Irish souvenir shops, attempting to sell us shamrock-peppered cooking mitts and sheep key chains.  Trying to fully submerge into the Irish flow of things, we paired up our trip to the cathedral with a trip to the Guinness Storehouse, combining the Irish love for Catholicism and beer!

At the Guinness Storehouse!

I feel bad for underestimating the legitimacy of the Guinness Storehouse because they explained so much to us! We learned about the influence of Arthur Guinness' company on the Irish economy, since 90% of the barley and hops used in the beer is from Ireland! Imagine being an Irish barley farmer! Cha-ching! On the tour, they also took us to a tasting room that looked like it had been imported from Willy Wonka's factory; it was an all white room (meant to heighten our senses) where we were each given a sample of Guinness, about 1/5 of a pint in a mini pint glass. We, with mini pint glasses in hand, were then instructed to enter a room of deep mahogany and maroon curtains. This was the room where they would teach us how to drink Guinness properly: 1) assume a proud stance 2) bring the glass to you, you never go to the glass! 3) inhale through your nose 4) sip in the beer, swallow 5) inhale again through the nose. Follow these and the dark, smooth Guinness, "that black stuff," tastes magical!   After 6 floors of Guinness ads through history, a thorough explanation of the beer making process, tasting instruction, and drinking IQ tests, we arrived at the famous Gravity Bar. A circular bar counter captures your attention immediately in the center of the disk-shaped room that has windows all around, providing a complete view of Dublin's landmarks and brightly lit windows from the largest pint glass-shaped building in the world. We enjoyed a pint of Guinness, which we thoroughly enjoyed due to our new drinking technique, as we pointed out some of the buildings we had ventured into earlier that weekend.

Sadly, our time in Dubin was up.  We got back to our London flats around 2 am, just enough time to catch a few hours of sleep before starting our last week of classes at LAMDA.  I would describe Dublin as London's younger, hardier, more down-to-earth cousin.  At times I can see myself living there someday; but for now, I'll remember Dublin as a city I loved visiting with two good friends over an adrenaline-packed weekend!

"I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks."--Twelfth Night 3.3, William Shakespeare

For the past 17 years, I've spent Thanksgiving with family, on holiday from school and devouring cranberries, turkey, mom's delicious au-gratin potatoes and her sweet potato dish topped with candied pecans.  But this year, I was the only one in the family missing from the long table (constructed from three smaller, slightly mismatched tables) in my grandparents' dining room as they celebrated Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, my mom's birthday, and my cousin's birthday a few days early.  While I missed all of them dearly, LAMDA ensured that all the Americans and international students would still be treated to a proper Thanksgiving!  The food making process may not have been as organized as my mom's typical strategy of making a long list of the foods and then adjacent to the names of the food is what time they need to be put into/removed from the oven.  Instead, we all posted on the Facebook event page what we wanted to contribute to our potluck dinner; we had some nommy dishes: Mac and cheese, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, stuffing balls, cranberry sauce from a homemade recipe, and tons more.

Upon entering Hogwarts, the large and majestic room we were allotted, we were struck by a warm and inviting environment full of four long tables with white table covers and dozens of lit candles with dimmed chandeliers overhead. Rodney, the professor who always walks around barefoot (now that it's so cold he wears socks), walked into the room and gave each table three bottles of red wine. We all went around and reminisced with our new best friends, whom we didn't even know three months ago, about our favorite Thanksgiving tales and stories. I'd been close with these people (felt their diaphragms expand in Pure Voice class, seen them roll on the ground in Movement class, and pretend to be in a glass elevator in acting class), but I felt like I understood them all so much better after hearing these little snippets of their lives back home. We laughed and ate our hearts out all night; my friend Julie made her first batch of latkes away from home, and they reminded me of my mom's.  My friend Erika made her mom's cranberry sauce from a family recipe, and that also brought back the taste of my mom's boiled cranberries. Sometimes it's hard to move on from a tradition, like having turkey at Thanksgiving dinner, or being with family back in the States, but every tradition was new at some point. So here's a toast to new traditions: may you remember the old, embrace the new, keep what works and forget the rest!