This was from one of the first nights, a couple of my new friends and I went out for a midnight food run. This must have been the 2nd or 3rd day.

This one is from the very first night of frosh week. We had literally just met for the first time seconds ago and in this picture we were all laughing so hard it came out blurry. I’m on the left.

On this day, we went for a walk through the city and explored our new home

Oovooing some of my best friends from high school. I kept a nice balance between new friends and old.

One of many drunken nights

and more

and more!

Merry Christmas from floor 7

and some harlem shaking!

and clubbing!

And some St. Patrick’s day vodka freezies

But mostly just love.

I lucked out and got the best floormates anyone could have asked for. Thank you to all of them for making this year great. I’m going to miss all these wonderful people over this four month long summer, and I can’t wait until next september when I get to see them again!

In 1966, in preparation for marriage, I began purchasing each volume of Woman’s Day Encyclopedia of Cookery as they periodically were sold at the grocery store. One of those volumes contained a beautiful account of how her family made pasties. About thirty years ago, I began making them every year for our family’s St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. I loved reading her story every year.

My copy of that volume was lost in a flood some years ago, but we have continued to use the recipe. Although we have changed it somewhat over the years, basically they are the same and we love them hot or cold. My son Michael has taken over creating them the past few years and he is a lover of butter.

As you can see by the photo, Michael uses cold butter to make the crust which is very flaky and tender. He also refrigerates the flour, water and bowl and utensils before preparing the crust.

After rolling out a piece of dough to about 8″ round, the construction begins.

First, lay thinly sliced round steak on to one half of the dough, leaving an edge around it. Then lay sliced onions on round steak. Next is a layer of sliced or shredded potato and a layer of thinly sliced turnips. Begin layering again with sliced lean pork, onions and potatoes. Final layer is fresh or dried oregano and thyme. Dot with lots of butter. Fold crust over and seal with egg wash. Make a few slices with a knife on top. Egg wash top.

Bake for about 45 minutes or so at 350 degrees until crust is brown.

Ingredients for 8 pasties (pasty making isn’t an exact science, but this is a good start)
1 recipe of your favorite pie dough
1 pound round steak cut into strips or cubes
8 ounces lean pork cut in strips or cubes
3 cups sliced or shredded potatoes
1 cup sliced turnips
1 cup sliced onions
Oregano and thyme to taste
Salt and pepper to taste
Dots of butter to taste

May the Luck of the Irish be with you as you enjoy this creation.

Grand Avenue was closed around Wilshire Boulevard and the restaurant to make room for the Festival. You had to arrive before 1PM to get in for free. After 1PM, the admission fee was $8.  A VIP pass was also sold for $20, but that’s not very budget friendly! There was a long line so unfortunately we ended up having to pay. All day long there were games and giveaways supporting the Arthur Guinness Firefighter Foundation. We played toss the bean sack for a clover necklace and won! We also wrote our names on the large chalkboard and took pictures with costumed people and cut-outs.

In the morning, the restaurant served Lucky Charms, eggs, bacon and toast. We got there later in the day and sampled bratwurst, potatoes and corned beef sandwiches. Drink of choice was iced Irish coffee, green beer, or black Guinness! Over 500 kegs of beer was available to all guests, so there was no chance of it running out!

Sets from tribute bands The Potentials, Hollywood U2, Police Experience and Fan Halen played all day. We found the music a bit on the slow side and difficult to dance to. But overall we still had a great day at the street festival. Highly recommended for your St. Patrick’s Day shenanigans!

Be sure to take a look at all of our pictures from the festival on our Facebook page. Don’t forget to follow our Twitter account @SurvivingLA for all of the inexpensive events coming up each week. Next up we have a post on the Melrose Trading Post in West Hollywood! Stay tuned!

Anyways, basically the main reason I’m even updating is because that’s clearly what I like to do during finals week – cling to any sort of distraction. Plus, I have a full 8-page newspaper due tomorrow that I still have to finish designing and I’ve been awake for over 40 solid hours, so I thought a break was in order.

Starting with this post, this blog will be turning into a photo-ish blog, because that’s basically what it kind of already is. A lot has happened this semester and I feel the need to highlight some of the big moments, so here goes nothing.

January to now in review!

I started the year off in England. I had originally planned on posting pictures and what not on here when I got back, but then my flight got cancelled and I was busy making up for the week and a half of classes and internship that I missed, so I didn’t really have time.

I’m obsessed with Big Ben.

I couldn’t go to England and not show Brooke the dreaded Mill at least once.

This is the only picture I actually got of Sam and I – laughing in Dallas about Harvey taking a picture of the homeless man in the background.

I took Brooke on a little walking tour of Kingston, Surbiton and Tolworth. Me forcing her to troop it out in the cold and rain made her sick. My bad.

Marius’ 21st birthday celebration part one – still kind of alive.

And then dead.

I was going to post more from England, but the others aren’t going to upload the same size and I’m just weird and that would bug me.

I was in the Padnos International Centers study abroad promo video.

I have no broadcasting skills what-so-ever, which provided them with a lot of footage for the blooper reel. I’m posting it in hopes that nobody will actually read this. I was sick and nasty, but oh well.

I went to Chicago for a night over Spring Break with Amy and Courtney. I was literally dying of the flu caused by my life being a fail. I don’t know how that happened, but it did and it sucked. I could hardly even walk, but I think I managed to pull it off rather well if I do say so myself.

St. Patrick’s Day weekend! Obviously had to celebrate one of my favorite holidays and my McNaughton heritage.

Plus, I interviewed Kate Nash for Revue and got press passes to her sold out show. The concert was on St. Patrick’s Day! My life is pretty much complete.

I’m just going to leave it at that because that was obviously my biggest accomplishment.

If you actually read this, give yourself a pat on the back. And, I sincerely apologize for any time that was wasted reading about the lovely recollections of my life.

The End.

Today was St George’s Day – the national day of England.

What’s that, you say? You had no idea? Sadly, I fear that may have been the reaction of many people today.

Living in Australia for so long, Australia Day was always a major landmark on the annual calendar, a public holiday and a cause for ceremonies and celebrations (as well as the odd bit of controversy and conversation around the future of the nation).

Think of other countries and many of them also have a day that is uniquely their own – Bastille Day, Thanksgiving, Chinese New Year, St Patrick’s Day, St Andrew’s Day…the list goes on.

These days all give the residents of that particular country an annual opportunity to show their nationalistic pride. And boy do they take advantage of that opportunity.

So why not the English?

We saw last summer with the Queen’s Jubilee and the Olympics that we Brits can celebrate and wave flags with the best of them.

Now I know there is a distinction between being British and being English, but I doubt that the Scots, Welsh and Irish would be too upset if we showed a little more interest in our very own dragon slayer on one day each year.

But whilst there were a few isolated articles in the newspapers today and a few relevant tweets, overall, the silence was deafening.

But why?

I guess it could be down to apathy or modesty, but I fear it may be to avoid upsetting the politically correct brigade – those who think we shouldn’t wish each other ‘Merry Christmas’, or that teachers shouldn’t use red ink.

For those killjoys, the whole idea of having a day of unashamed English national pride might be just a bit too much, even if it is just for one day.

(There was even one group of people on Twitter describing the day as racist for heaven’s sake).

I hope I’m wrong, but sometimes I do wonder. Maybe next year will be different and we’ll have a national holiday, complete with rousing choruses of Jerusalem and plentiful bunting, of course.

But for now, let me be potentially the first person to proudly wish you a very happy St George’s Day.

After our passports had been stamped and entrance fee paid, we transferred to another bus that took us to San Pedro de Sula, the second largest city in Honduras (and the most dangerous city in the world apparently…eek!). It was so strange when we got there as I really felt like we could have been in an American city, the streets were lined with Applebees, Wendy’s, McDonalds, Burger King and Pizza Hut. Since the beginning of the 20th century, the United States has had more influence on Honduras than any other nation, dating back to when US banana companies began expanding their presence on the northern coast.

In San Pedro de Sula (which as well as being one of the most dangerous cities in the world, also has the highest rate of AIDS in Central America too), we were dropped off at a bus terminal/shopping mall where we were able to withdraw some local currency (Honduran lempira) and get the bus to La Ceiba where we could catch a taxi to the ferry for the Bay Islands.

I was really in two minds as to whether to  go to Utila or Roatán. I read in my Lonely Planet that there wasn’t much else to do on Utila other than dive and I wasn’t planning on diving, nor did I really want to. However, Roatán was supposedly more expensive and so the cheaper option won out in the end. I met a few others at the ferry port to Utila, including a girl I had met in Flores, so we took off on the ferry aka the Vomit Comet, and made our way to the island! The cost of getting to the islands isn’t cheap, to get to Utila it cost about 448 lempira (about $24) each way and the ferry to Roatán is only slightly more expensive (and MUCH fancier!). The ferry to Utila isn’t called the Vomit Comet for nothing, it was seriously rocky and there were plenty of very sick looking people! Thankfully I didn’t feel too bad and after about an hour, we had arrived.

Upon arrival in Utila, you’re accosted by lots of people calling out to you to stay at their hostel or dive centre, but having read up about the Mango Inn, the group of five of us who had met on the ferry decided to check that place out. The Mango Inn is the hostel associated with Utila Dive Centre and so they cater for divers primarily. As I wasn’t planning on diving, I was told that I could stay there for a night (which was free!) but I would have to find another place to stay after this as they took on divers as priority – usually the dive courses include your accommodation in the fee. I have to say I felt that this was a little unfair but decided to just go with it and see what my options were the next day. The manager Sarah showed us around and brought us down to the dive centre, it was actually really nice to get a tour around the place (which is very easy to do as Utila is pretty much just one main street!) and get some recommendations on places to eat. However, I was told in no uncertain terms that if I wasn’t diving, there was pretty much nothing else to do. I think lie in a hammock was a suggestion..!

At the dive centre, Sarah showed us around and explained what each course would entail (a few of the group were beginners so would be doing the Open Water PADI course and one of the others was planning on doing the advanced course). I have to say, I began to wonder whether I should just do it as I was there, and there was a certain element of peer pressure too! Not one to give in to that sort of thing, I decided to find out more information and then make an informed decision the next day. We were invited later that night to the barbeque at the dive centre, and after a few beers I was pretty much talked into it! When in Rome, etc etc.

The night continued on from the Dive Centre to Treetanic, a really cool bar connected to the Jade Seahorse guesthouse. The bar is fashioned after a shipwreck that has sunk in a patch of mango trees and covered in mixed media mosaic. Open since 1998, the bar has been continuously decorated since then by the artist. Later on we made our way to Coco Loco, a bar built on a wooden dock just over the water. I definitely began to understand that there were really were only two things to do in Utila: dive and PARTY.

The next day, after a slight panic attack at sight of my bank balance, I decided to go with my gut and that I really didn’t want to dive and I wasn’t crazy about Utila, it wasn’t worth my while to stay there for the week. The Open Water course here is supposedly the cheapest place in the world to do it, costing $299 for 3.5/4 days which includes introductory videos, first day of theory and test dive in shallow water, then a full dive practicing skills you’ve learned and then finally the last day is a fun dive. This is with the Utila Dive Centre and if you’re doing the course you can stay in the Mango Inn free of charge and two breakfasts (toast and coffee!) are included. 

I was very unsure of what to do and feeling quite indecisive but I decided to just go with my instincts and spend my money more wisely on activities I actually wanted to do. I celebrated St Patrick’s Day on Utila as well, which was an experience! At Underwater Vision (another big dive centre and hostel) there was a huge Paddy’s Day party which included a ‘Beer Olympics’ with volleyball tournament, drinking games, a chicken fight (which wasn’t with actual chickens thankfully, just people hopping around on one leg in a circle trying to push one another over). I have to say, it was fun but it also confirmed it for me that I didn’t want to spend much time here, the place was what I imagine a big American frat-house would be like, just lots of parties and also quite ‘cliquey’. Everyone only hung out with the others in their dive centre, and diving was always pretty much the only topic of conversation. I just knew that it was not for me!

There was also the ‘three lies that you tell in Utila’ which I thought was ridiculous…so the first lie, “I’m leaving tomorrow”, the second lie is “I’m not drinking tonight” and the third lie is “I love you”. In that case, “I love you, Utila!”.

After three nights there, I said “I’m leaving tomorrow” and meant it!

I live in Great Britain and overall it is great.

Great Britian is made up of: England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland (northern)

In the arena of sport, we individually support our nation.  So then for cricket, football, rugby etc if you are from Scotland that is who you support, if you are from Wales, you support the Welsh and so on and so forth.

This is where it stops as far as England is concerned.  As far as Europe is concerned we are British, well yes I am British BUT I am also ENGLISH and damn proud of it, but not allowed to say it……

Ireland are very proud to be Irish and on St Patricks day, they like to shout it out loud and good for them, but as an English person St George’s day is not celebrated in the same way and actually I don’t think St Andrews day (Scotland) and St. David’s day (welsh) are either.

As Great Britain, we come together as a great nation, but we should be able to tell people that we are : English, Scottish, Welsh or Irish without being called predjudice. we should be able to stand up and be proud of our heritage.

On forms, there are so many boxes to tick depending on your nationality, which is fine as we are a multicultural nation, but I would like to see the option of English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish ( actually ) I think there is a box for Irish.

All we get is a ‘other’ box.  If someone wishes to tick British that is fine, but some of us might just wish to put English etc

So then, as today is St George’s day, I ask you to stand up and be proud to be English and I hope that our Welsh, Scottish and Irish counterparts also stand up and be proud on their Patron saint days.

Actually NO…… Stand up everyday and be proud of who you are and where you are from and don’t be herded into a generic term.

LET’S ALL BE PROUD OF WHO WE ARE

For all the English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish people out there xx

Actually just realised, that all the country’s in Europe such as France, Germany,Spain etc are not all known as Europeans are they, they are known as French, Germans, Spanish etc

Edited with BlogPad Pro

And they also recognise his flag, of course.

Personally I think St.Aidan should be England’s patron saint. As the Apostle to the English, and with a little more verifiable information available to us, I think he has the greater claim. I love the history and stories of all the Celtic and British saints that have walked these same scattered islands that I do now. Among my favourites are Aidan and Cuthbert. But that’s for another day.

There was a time, when asked what my national identity was, I would reply “English.” But then I began looking into my own family history. What I have discovered, up to now, is that I am at least the fifth generation of Murray born in Manchester, England. Also that I have four different lines of Irish ancestry, and that my surname originates from Scotland.

Now, when asked that very same question about national identity, my answer is decidedly “British.”

It goes further. Having the Y-chromosome of my DNA analysed, that is my paternal line, I have discovered that my genetic signature belongs to a group that is prevalent in Ireland and northern and western Britain. I am from probable Celtic descent, with strong similarities to the genetic signature of the Basques of Iberia. This suggests colonisation of Britain and Ireland by ancient maritime migrations along the Atlantic coast of Iberia, France and Brittany. A journey can be traced through western Europe and the Middle East right back to a particular man who lived in Africa 80,000 years ago, to which all  men alive  today can trace their paternal line. I have not had my maternal line analysed yet, but with the female, mitachondrial line we  can go back even further. Everybody alive today can trace their maternal line back  to a single woman who lived in Africa between 150,000-200,000 years ago.  So, although they never met, and lived thousands of years apart, we have our Y-Chromosome Adam and Mitochondrial Eve.

Back here in the present, I know someone who was very anti-Celt, claiming to be of Anglo-Saxon origin. He immersed himself in the history, writings and culture of that race. Much to his chagrin, he later discovered that he had Welsh ancestry. Of course, when we talk about Celt, Anglo-Saxon, Viking, whatever, it is all a romanticised perception that we hold. But the point is that we cannot be sure of our blood. There is no such thing as a pure race. These islands have for thousands of years been subject to incoming waves of people of all races, either with intentions of peaceful settlement or of conquest. We truly are a mongrel nation. Go back far enough and we are all related. All connected.

What a revolutionary, healing concept this could be, if people would only grasp it. Everybody alive today and tomorrow are descended from the same place, from a people of one skin.

The Irish contingent here in Manchester put on a great show on St.Patrick’s day. Every year it gets bigger and bigger, the town center being transformed into a great sea of green. The English by comparison no longer really embrace St.George’s day. Apart from isolated pockets, it mostly goes by unacknowledged. A few flags fly outside pubs and shops, desperate to drum up trade.

Among the ex-pats throughout the world though, there seems to be more enthusiasm to embrace St.George’s day. Perhaps being cut off from your roots creates a need to continue your traditions, to celebrate your cultural heritage.

Without roots and tradition we become disenfranchised. We drift.

I think we should always be proud of where we have come from. And also of what we contribute to the place where we are now.

Happy St.George’s Day to all of the diaspora, wherever this day may find you.

Pint after pint,
with no shamrocks in sight,
they drink their green beer,
then fights they’ll incite.

Celebrate independence
by burning down your fence.
Fireworks are good for starting
a war as intense.

We can’t always observe
in ways so absurd.
So let’s recognize the spirits
in actions more than words.

As college students we have our whole life ahead of us, the world is our oyster! Every new experience will symbolize growth in our lives. So where do you start? Where do I belong in the world? I find myself asking this question all the time. The best way to answer this question is to go see what’s out there yourself. To help I made a list of “once in a lifetime” things I want to do before its too late. I’m a mere 22 years old but since I’m aware of how precious life can be I put together a mini mid-life bucket list, let’s call it “Kick the 30 Year Old Bucket.” Here it goes.

1. Go Snowboarding in the Swiss Alps.  Considered to be the most beautiful mountain range in the world. Spend one full day shredding the powder filled mountain. No hesitation allowed.

2. Learn How to Surf.  One of the more difficult sports to learn but I’m not scurred. Plus, wetsuits really accentuate my curves.

3. Shower Under a Waterfall.  Let the clean crisp water cascade down my body and get that clean out of the water fall feeling. I don’t care whose looking.

4. Bungee Jump.  First step is to admit that you have a problem. I admit that I’m an adrenaline junkie. Second step, jump off a cliff.

5. Go Skydiving.  This confirms what I mentioned below. Adrenaline comes in all forms. They usually involve heights, harnesses and consent forms.

6. Go to the Top of the Eiffel Tower.  It will be romantic, right? Great, I’ll make sure to bring my dog and we’ll take some really cute pictures.

7. Ride a Camel in the Desert. I honestly like riding any animal and Camels look extra comfortable. Kind of like riding a Lion in Africa. Can’t wait until they set that up.

8. Spend St. Patty’s in Ireland.  Spending St. Patty’s in Boston is close but no. Ireland is the real deal. Get me there with a Guiness on March 17th.

9. Be in a Flash Mob. Spontaneous, coordinated and then over. I would love to be part of a Flash Mob, specifically in the New York Subway involving drums and water balloons.

10. Win the Lottery. I really added this because there is no way for me to complete this list without this happening first. Note: HIGH PRIORITY

Who knows what will happen after each of these experiences? Only time will tell, but possible scenarios include: visiting Ireland for St. Patty’s Day and falling in love with the perpetual cloudy weather. After learning how to Surf, go pro. I’ll be in a Flash Mob and a scouter will see my amazing dance moves and hire me. After planning my first trip I noticed that successfully completing this list involves complicated planning and coordination. Consider using a student travel company like Bus2alps to ease the worry and hassles that you experience when planning an excursion. Plus it’s a great way to meet fellow comrades in the journey of self discovery. Who knows, you might even fall in love. It’s happened before.

So thank you friend, you know who you are! But seriously, no gelato for you now, ever!

So during my three weeks in Ireland I was very busy! I experienced my very first St Patricks Day in Dublin and rediscovered my love for Kings Crisps and all other Irish sweets. It was an absolutely amazing trip and I had the best time exploring Ireland in a way that I haven’t before.

My second home! Ahhh Dublin, I love you.

Ireland is my home away from home. My parents were both born in Ireland and most of my family still lives here, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. Being here feels like home. After nearly eight weeks since leaving Australia it was so nice to see familiar faces and speak to and be with people who I had not seen in nearly five years, which was when I last visited.

Study Abroad has been one of the best experiences of my life so far, but it has also been completely terrifying feeling so foreign all the time. I experience confusion, doubt and wonder every single day about the most mundane things, all because they are unfamiliar to me. But when I was in Ireland I felt a sense of familiarity that I have not felt since I left Sydney. It made me feel relieved and comfortable, and it was a nice break from all the strange new things that have happened since I started living in Italy. However being in Ireland also made me realise how much I kind of love feeling completely out of my comfort zone sometimes. You find out things you never would have, see new places, do new things. Putting yourself out of your comfort zones makes you grow, which I have done a lot of in Italy. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely did that in Ireland too, but my waistline probably did the most growing with my families amazing cooking!

So it was on this trip that I finally experienced my very first ST PATRICKS DAY IN IRELAND! Being from an Irish family I have always loved St Patricks Day and I have always wanted to be with my family in Dublin when it occurred. This year I finally got my chance! Now St Patricks Day was not just one day of celebrating but a whole weekend of partying, drinking, dancing and fun. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat!

So Chelsea and I arrived in Ireland on Friday to a King Crisp Sandwich and a glass of white wine. Now for those of you that don’t know, King Crisps are the most delicious Potato Chips on the planet. I just love them, and having them in a sandwich is kind of an irish delicacy. A very tasty one!

Absolutely. Delicious. Cheese & Onion flavour forever

On the Saturday night Chels and I went out with two of my aunts to Temple Bar, this strip of Irish pubs and clubs in Dublin, and it was absolutely PACKED with people. The pubs we were in were playing Irish jig songs and famous Irish songs from The Pogues, U2 and The Cranberries, pretty much all my favourite music!

So what ensued was an absolutely crazy night in which I met people from all over the world; Americans, Germans, French, you name it. I also met some Australians from Sydney, which was exciting until they declared that I lived in the worst place in Sydney. All of a sudden I was not so excited anymore! Where is the Aussie camaraderie mates?

Further incidents of that eventful saturday night included drinks, bar hopping, hat swapping, more drinks, dancing, decorative St Patricks Day wear stealing, even more drinks, learning french, irish dancing and a marriage proposal. So yes, it was a busy night to say the least. After the bars closed Chels and I finally ventured home for a King Crisps Sandwich and then collapsed into bed.

People who I will probably never see again but had the best night with! Love my crew!

On Sunday it was St Patricks and I woke up to snow. Snow! According to my Grandad this is the first time he has seen snow on St Patricks Day since he can last remember. With the Parade being on in town I was really hoping the snow/rain/general freezing cold would hold off until after it had finished and someone must have been listening to my prayers because the snow and rain both stopped just in time for Chels and I to see the parade. Which by the way was the strangest parade I have ever seen. I was not sure what to expect, but hardly any of the floats reminded me of anything Irish that I had encountered growing up, like Irish legends and Irish dancing. In fact some of them were downright weird!

Like this…what is this?

Chels and I at the parade!

All in all though the parade was great fun and I am glad that I got to experience it. After the parade Chels and I went home and indulged in some delicious Irish stew. Oh how I have missed homemade meals! We then headed out for another night on the town bar hopping through Dublin. We had another great night and actually ran into the group of people that we made friends with the night before! So what ensued was another fantastic drunken night of joviality, dancing, sing-a-longs and meeting various people from various places. For some reason St Patricks Day seemed to bring the best out in everyone that I met, the Irish definitely know how to put on a good party, they know how to celebrate in style! I had the best weekend of fun and partying and it definitely lived up to my expectations and more. Plus I also picked up some handy French phrases from the French friends that we made, Paris come at me bro!

The first tequila shots of the night…

We found some souvenir sunglasses, still have my pair on my beside table

During the St Patricks Day public holiday Chels and I went on the tour bus for Dublin, where you can get on and off at various tourist sites. I definitely recommend it if you want to see the sights of Dublin. I realised by doing this tour how much of Dublin I had not seen, even though I have been there many times. It was a nice change to be a tourist in Ireland for once, never thought I would say that I enjoy being a tourist! I saw some beautiful churches, famous historical sites and factories (Guinness and Jameson!) and witnessed parts of Dublin I had never seen, or paid attention to before. I learnt that Dublin has more that a great bar scene!

St Patricks Cathedral, the most beautiful church grounds.

So I believe my first (and hopefully not my last!) St Patricks Day in Ireland was a complete and utter success! It is so different from celebrating it in Australia, and the only thing I would do differently next time is have my whole family with me. So mum, dad and little bro, if you are reading this we need to plan a “St Patricks Day in Ireland” trip over the next few years. Okay? Good.

So this was only part one of my Ireland trip, and over the next few days I will update about what happened once the madness of St Patricks Day was over and I was able to just be with my family.

Ciao for now!

This is me pre-race. I was 1731. That means there were a lot of people.

I’m running to the finish. The only thing I can see when I look at this picture are my HUGE thighs. Ugh.

We love the USNWC because after you finish your 5K, they say, “Hey, what you need right now is a free beer!”

I didn’t get very green. Disappointing, until you realize that I have…

A green Hitler mustache!

Then I washed up and changed and drank more beer with J.

]]> http://therestorationtour.com/2013/04/21/day-222-and-counting-zombies-st-patrick-and-pure-romance/ Sun, 21 Apr 2013 20:00:56 +0000 The Restoration Tour http://therestorationtour.com/2013/04/21/day-222-and-counting-zombies-st-patrick-and-pure-romance/ http://shamsplanet.wordpress.com/2013/04/21/six-awful-toilets/ Sun, 21 Apr 2013 11:47:26 +0000 shamsplanet http://shamsplanet.wordpress.com/2013/04/21/six-awful-toilets/

this is a nice toilet

It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of hitting the road. By van or bus or strapping on your life in a backpack and going by foot. Every town and city, village, hamlet, reservation, township and pit-stop is going to offer adventurous food and curious drinks that will draw you in like a stupid fish to a rusty hook.

More often than not, however, that which is consumed will also have to be released, and this is when some of travel’s greatest dilemmas can occur.

‘Where can I take a dump?!?’

If you’re in a warm climate and stick to the coast, the ocean can usually double as the world’s largest toilet and comes with a built in bidet if you’re out of other options. But more often than not this won’t be the case, and you’ll need to follow your nose. Sometimes just knowing how to say el baño, das bad or phòng tắm won’t completely overcome your problem, because just locating the latrine won’t automatically make it fit for use.

These are the unusables, the nightmares, the worst excuses for a lavatory I’ve had the displeasure of experiencing. In no particular order…

Bus Terminal, Montreal, Canada

In a wealthy, western, first-world country like Canada I expected the public facilities to be more or less adequate. They more or less were, but a bus terminal can sometimes be a world in itself.

Why someone would want to lay a cow pat on the toilet seat instead of inside the bowl I will never know, but one deranged, inconsiderate French-speaking knob thought he’d like to preserve his creation instead of sending it away, and there it sat, dominating the aroma of the empty room. Now I knew why the terminal’s other restrooms had lines stretching out the door.

I sat outside the restroom in the terminal curious if anyone would attend to it. A stone faced, unhappy, female janitor walked in. Janitors generally don’t look too chirpy, but when she immediately came back she looked suicidal, snapping her rubber gloves off and throwing them on the ground in one motion before walking through the terminal’s exit, possibly never to return. I didn’t blame her, I couldn’t imagine anyone who would have done otherwise.

Asia

Asia, Asia

All of Asia should be ashamed of those bloody holes you have to squat over. Taking a dump should not feel like a fitness class, it should be relaxing and comfortable. Spending one minute over those things is stressful, spending half an hour with a sweaty, cramping case of the runs is a nightmare.

And with a knee injury that prevents one from squatting it’s not only uncomfortable, it’s almost impossible. Eventually you have to concede defeat, wipe the edges (which are always wet) and sit on the damn thing.

Camp Reception Building, Palenque, Mexico

After a 12-hour bus ride we were dumped at the steamy outskirts of a Mexican jungle camp. The bus ride had been preceded by eating street tacos and drinking Coronas then had intermittent stops of eating more street tacos. Needless to say a toilet stop was first on the agenda.

The first building after entering the gates and walking down the driveway was a closed reception office with a door out the back creaking open to a sorry looking toilet. Looking at the trees around us it was hard to tell how far it would be to the next facility, this would have to do. My friend Ralph went in first as I crossed my legs, squeezed the cheeks, leaned over and waited.

After two minutes of muffled groans of discomfort Ralph emerged, white as a ghost and teary eyed, gasping for air.

‘That’s fucked, man, oh my god, that’s unbelievable,’ he panted with hands on knees.

The smell wafted over me like a wave and made me lose balance. The thought of shitting my pants was actually preferable to using this toilet. It was that bad. It was too dark to see exactly what lay within and the smell was like a force-field preventing me from getting closer. Flies buzzed out gasping for air – no shit. I turned away and optimistically walked towards the jungle searching for an alternative.

Our Apartment, Cancun, Mexico

This was our own doing. It was a perfectly fine toilet when we arrived at the apartment, but after two weeks of facilitating six males in Cancun it finally gave up and committed toilet-suicide. Being in Mexico we felt it fitting to have a Mexican stand-off with the toilet-paper bin and who would have to empty it, in the end it was a six-way tie when nobody did it, and soiled tissue rested stress free on the tiled floor.

The death blow came via a pyramid of Screwdrivers (orange juice vodka drink) that were consumed by one person in succession without a break. Later that night the windowless bathroom received his body’s violent rejection of the alcohol and by the next morning boasted an impressive mountain of vomit in front of a toilet so blocked that nothing floated anymore, it just sat there as a solid entity. Nobody collected their toiletries that day; a trip to the chemist to buy new supplies was a better option to having to survive the stench inside.

As we hurried away to avoid having to explain ourselves I wished I could have seen the building manager’s face when he entered the apartment and saw what he was up against. That’s sounds harsh, but it serves him right for never turning on the gas or hot water.

Cancun

Pamplona, Spain

The opening ceremony of the famous Running of the Bulls attracts upwards of 90, 000 visitors each year, almost doubling the population of Pamplona. The opening day is a blur of food fights, water-bombs and thousands of people drinking dangerous amounts of sangria.

The more that is drunk – obviously – the more has to come out. Pamplona’s plumbing is not built for such an increase in waste and by early afternoon it had given up. Seeing other drunks urinate in trash cans, on park benches and on trees, I decided to do the civil thing and use the underground public toilets. When I arrived the attendants were standing at the doorway, looking in and shaking their heads at the overflow.

A puddle of piss had become a pool, totally submerging every poor tile that had been placed in the doomed facility. Males still splashed in, aimlessly relieved themselves in whatever direction they chose, and triumphantly splashed out. I never even looked in the cubicles, but I still wonder what they could have looked like.

Party Bus to Dublin, UK

It’s one thing when men lose the desire to aim properly at the toilet, when women do it alarms bells start ringing. This is what happened on a bus from London to Dublin to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.

St. Patrick’s Day is the world’s biggest drinking celebration, so if you put sixty-odd twenty-somethings on a bus on the way to the home of St. Patrick’s Day they are not going to hold back. Then the tour company provided alcohol for the five-hour bus ride.

Even sober males standing on steady ground can have trouble hitting the bullseye at the best of times, so a pissed male on a bumpy bus is no chance, and even less chance of cleaning up after himself. The female passengers took this inconvenience in good spirits and joined in and soon the small box of a room resembled a washing machine, but instead of soapy water it was human urine sloshing about, dripping off walls and the ceiling. Eventually the bus driver had to pull over by the side of the road for group piss-stops. We were lucky to catch the connecting ferry to Ireland.

In the middle of March, we decided to celebrate our final weekend together in style. It began with a super fancy lunch on Saturday the 16th on the 52nd floor of the Park-Hyatt Tokyo hotel, famous for being in the film Lost in Translation. Since it was a high-class ordeal, eight of us dressed up and ate the most expensive meal that we had ever set eyes on. For a set fee, we were given access to appetizer and dessert buffets, an entree, a glass of sparkling white wine, and post-meal coffee or tea.

From L-R: Courteney’s hand, Taiki, Becky, Lauren, Kate, Kris, and Jess’s hand.

The view from my seat.

Group photo, taken by our waiter on Taiki’s camera

Awesome tortoise building in Shinjuku.

After lunch, we walked over to Yoyogi Park to sit and enjoy the afternoon before heading to Kashiwa to meet some of our friends for a farewell party. It was wonderful to see them again, since the last time we saw each other was before Christmas! We sat down for our second giant meal of the day, and took loads of pictures between lulls in conversation and playing games. When our time was up at the restaurant, we quickly took group photos at the プリクラ (purikura) booth, and hopped on the last train to Kamagaya for a giant sleepover at Kris’s place.

Fun times, taken on Taiki’s camera by our intoxicated neighbors

The next day (St. Patrick’s Day!) we got up, lounged around for a little while, and then went to Omotesando to watch our friend Kate perform her duty as Parade Queen at the St. Patrick’s Day parade. This particular parade is the largest St. Patrick’s Day celebration in all of Asia, boasting an attendance of over 50,000 spectators.

It was a little hectic trying to find everyone we were supposed to meet, but once we gathered we hurried to watch the parade. It turned out to be perfect, since the spot where we ended up happened to be the ending point of the parade so once Kate finished leading it with important people such as the Grand Marshall and the Irish Ambassador to Japan she was able to stand with us and watch the rest.

Kate sees us.

Group photo with the parade queen, taken on Taiki’s camera

After the final participants of the parade crossed the finish line and wandered away, we stopped to buy some lunch and then carried it over to Yoyogi Park to sit and simply enjoy each other’s company. After a few hours of conversation, pinecone throwing, and pictures it was time for the Koga crew to head back to Kamagaya to get our cars and head home to prepare for school the next day.

It was a wonderful last weekend to hang out with everyone, and I can’t imagine it going any better than how it did!

• Bright green vintage dress, ca. 1970s. Apple Annie’s Vintage Clothing and Jim MacDonald’s Antiques, purchased March 2012. This is a handmade dress that I believe also belonged to my vintage doppelgänger. I luuuuuurve this dress. The fabric is really heavy, and it drapes so nicely. And the color is wild. Naturally, I wore this on St. Patrick’s Day!
• Hose, Meijer, February 2013. These are textured, with a diamond pattern woven into them that you cannot see here at all. These are quite a daring break with tradition for me, because since I was 12 my mom has been telling me not to wear flesh-colored tights/hose. She is vehemently against them for some reason. But you guys know me: always a rebel.
• Navy flats, The GetUp Vintage, spring 2012. These are leather, with a braided/woven border around the top and the tiny-tiniest of kitten heels (they are flats with a little heel nubbin on the bottom). The plastic heel on each shoe shattered the first time I wore them, but I took them to Ann Arbor Shoe Repair  and they were fixed, basically instantly.

• Bright orange/salmon pointelle dress, Old Navy, Fall 2012. This is the sister dress to the one I wore in my very first post but this one is sleeveless. Mysteriously, even though I bought the dresses in the same size, the other one fits perfectly while this one is too big. The armholes gape and hang, so I have to wear it with a sweater. Which, you know, is fine, because I don’t exactly have Michelle Obama arms, plus I’m cold all the time anyway. 
• Black pullover v-neck sweater. Probably Mossimo? Which would mean, Target. Maybe ca. 2007? Suffice it to say I have had this one a long time.
• Black knit belt snagged from another outfit.
• Black tights of mysterious origin
• Ye olde black boots, DSW, Fall 2012

• Brown wool 3/4 sleeve dress, The GetUp Vintage, September 2012. I bought this dress when Anne came to visit! Uggggh, this is the worst brightening job of all time. The quality is terrible and you can’t see anything about this dress, which I love so much. It has some buttons down the front (decorative only), a tie belt, and a weighty-yet-swingy skirt, just like the green dress above. But also a tiny, tiny waist. I can wiggle into this one, but when I climb out of it at the end of the day, my ribs cry with relief. 
• Brown tights, Target, 2007. These tights are not of mysterious origin. I know exactly where they came from. I bought them right before Halloween in 2007. They are supposedly made of bamboo. And they have held up marvelously. I recommend bamboo tights to one and all.
• The boots! These are the boots behind Chameleon in Boots. I bought them in Rome in 2004 in a store on Via del Corso, near Piazza del Popolo. I have no idea what it was called. They are brown in some light, burgundy–almost purple–in other light. Probably my most beloved footwear ever, these too were resurrected at Ann Arbor Shoe Repair, where last year they got new insoles and new…outsoles? New rubber on the bottom. Whatever you call that.

Who’s ready for summer dresses!?

Reblogged from Stan M Rogers:

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

St Patrick's Day dawned bright and sunny and I awoke with a strong urge to eat corned beef and cabbage washed down with green beer. I tickled my lovely coleen awake and bounded from my bed ready to do justice to the great day.

I arose and looked for me pipe but none was available so I had to make do with a cigarette.

Read more… 795 more words

My son and I were sober of course, as moms and sons often are. Most of the crowd was not. No big deal. It was a gorgeous Saturday in the spring.

I wasn’t walking well at all yet (post-surgery) and shouldn’t have thought I could manage a six year old at a parade and a giant puppy— by myself. But I hadn’t been to watch a parade in several years. I don’t think I’d ever been to watch a parade with a kid and a puppy– by myself.

Skip was working, the twins were at a birthday party, and it was so pretty out. I wanted to do finally what normal parents do with their kids on Saturday mornings and, I guess, what festive single people do with their friends on Saturdays around St. Patrick’s Day in Raleigh, North Carolina.

We were walking slowly. We were trying to make it to our group of friends. Parking was bad, but the crowd was sparse. The parade had already started. The row of people watching from the curb was only one-person deep. The sidewalk was pretty much empty. I had the dog on her leash. Our son was walking with me on the sidewalk, just a few feet to my right. We always hold hands, but we weren’t holding hands— for a second or two.

We NEVER walk together without holding hands. It’s not a safety thing for me— holding hands; it’s just kind of my thing. As long as our kids will hold my hand, I want to be holding hands. Same with Skip. Holding hands with Skip grew to be a necessity before and after I got double hip replacements. I lost so much stability through all that. I lost confidence. I stopped feeling I was even safe to move without holding someone’s hand, even if that someone was only a six-year-old child. But my son and I were not holding hands that Saturday morning last year— at exactly the wrong moment.

We were making our way towards our friends’ spot several blocks ahead. Suddenly a giant crowd poured out of a bar called The Hibernian right as we walked past it and right as a big band in the parade started playing again.

I lost sight of him. I called his name. The band was loud now. I couldn’t even hear myself calling for my baby.

The people and the noise had suddenly filled all the space between us. Our son was so little. He couldn’t see or hear me. I couldn’t see or hear him.

Immediate nausea. Immediate loss of many of the senses I’d be needing to find our son— our lost son.

It was like a tsunami of people had just washed right up to us, and my baby had vanished… instantly.

I couldn’t find him for 10-20 minutes. Well I don’t know for sure. You know how time stows during awful things like car crashes or bad falls or things you don’t want to happen, and how you lose your hearing for a little bit? It was probably only two minutes… I dont know really. It was AWFUL. That’s all I remember.

I kept calling for him. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t hearing, “Yea, Mom?” like I’ve heard every other time I’d ever called for him. That time between when you call for your child and when you hear his answer— I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but you actually hold your breath as you wait to hear that voice that has your heart splattered all over it. You hold your breath, whether you know it or not. You won’t start breathing again until you hear, “Yea, Mom?” It’s true.

So I had stopped breathing. To my ears now, everything was quiet, until the first woman walked up to me and said, “Do you need some help?” Then her friend looked at me. Then two guys, sweaty from being in a crowded bar for a few hours I guess, completed the first circle that formed around Blizzard and me during those 10-20 minutes. Within minutes at least 50 people had stopped their partying and had immediately started helping me look for him— calling his name, describing him to other people in the crowd, running to get police, forwarding his picture from my cell to theirs and on to their friends in the crowd.

The whole day of partying stopped. A little boy was lost.

Someone eventually found him. I hate that I can’t tell you all of their names. A group of people brought him to me. I was so busy trying to console him, I didn’t even think to ask anyone where he’d been found. Strangers in a crowd had stopped, had found my baby and had brought him back to me. What else mattered?

I don’t have to tell you how grateful I was and will be forever to those people. I was too shaken to offer a proper thanks to anyone. I will never forget what they did though. All of them.

For every bad person out there, I believe there are four million good people out there too about whom we never hear.

I just thought tonight might be the night that you might want to know about one little boy who got separated from his mom in a crowd one time and made it home that night. I wanted to put it on the news, but you know how it goes. A child being lost for a little while and then being found— well that’s not news, right?

But anyway—

I just wanted to say thank you, good people. Thank you.

When you feel scared or worried or sad, as you most likely should right now, i want you to consider channeling that energy into looking around at what’s right in this world instead of worrying about how to stop what’s wrong, because honestly I don’t know if ever we will be able to fix very much of this. Pessimistic of me to think that way, I know. If you don’t see enough that’s right though, look for one little thing that can be done every day, every hour, every minute, to make some of it better. Stop, and just do that. Do it again. Do it again. And again. If a bad guy’s actions only inspire more of us to be better to each other, then maybe—

My husband said it tonight: what made this country great is still out there. I think what makes people great is still out there. The good guys win. They will. They have been winning. They always will. It’s not lauded, but it’s happening every day. Don’t give up on the good guys. I’ll bet you are a good guy yourself. You guys are everywhere. My baby and I saw a whole bunch of you last year, and you guys are all I could think about today as I pet the dog and talked with our now seven-year-old little boy.

Good guys win. It just doesn’t often make the news. It happens a lot though. Don’t forget that.