Last year at this time, I was visiting Paris for the very first time (and witnessing Davidde drop very expensive camera equipment.) This year, I am sitting in a tiny tiny “dorm” room eating Cadbury fingers and searching a library catalogue. This year is far less glamorous than last year. I suppose it is kind of ghetto-glam that I have no income and can eat cookies in the middle of the afternoon. It is not any-glam that I can’t even afford to buy fun shoes. Instead I will have to dust-off my painful kitten heels from last year (that none of the men here even know how to appreciate) and hope that my slit-front A-line white skirt will serve as my wardrobe staple for the spring/summer.
Psycho-ex-best-friend’s visit is over. Much to the chagrin of my thrill-seeking Swedish flatmate, no girlfights broke out. Instead, I took the high road. If you can call the “high road” standing in two separate rooms at a party while each of us knew the other was there, and referring to any friends that entered her domain “traitors,” the evening ended with me very drunk and stuck in the same room. At which point I threw in the towel, and said “Hi.” It all ended pretty well and I caught up on some old high school gossip. Not only is half my class either married or pointless, but some of them actually own houses. I was happy to find out that the guy who was a big pothead and wore a stained t-shirt nearly every day, is now a happily married homeowner with twins.
In brighter news, after much debacle (don’t ever try to buy airline tickets with cash while living in Dublin, a city whose largest airline doesn’t even have an office in the city center) we finally bought tix to go to Prague at the end of April. I am very excited, as with the exception of Turkey and France, I am a Continent Virgin. Unfortunately, I will have to carry a backpack (insert laughtrack here). I am not a “backpack” girl. 5 or 10 years ago, maybe. Not now. Now, I want the Elizabeth Taylor-Richard Burton European Tour. I want at least a suitcase and not to “share” a bathroom with strangers. Also, I would prefer not to sleep on a bunkbed. Must the division between my reality and my fantasy be so obvious? There must be a happy medium somewhere above hostel and below 5-star accommodations. I just plain don’t like sharing. (Yes, I’m an only child). And, I especially hate having to wear shower-shoes in a shower the size of a phone booth. Eck. So, to make a long story short, this little camper is going to have to buck-up. Why don’t they have remote-controlled backpacks? Why are backpacks acceptable when not hiking, mountain climbing or running away from home? As travel carry they are pointless. To the Euro-traveller they are essential. To the lazy traveler they are an albatross. I feel like a big turtle just waiting to be topple, robbed and rendered useless as thieving so-and-sos steal my pajamas.
I want my gossip! - 2005-08-17
Goodbye, BGT! - 2005-08-08
hell hath no fury like a awriting workshop - 2005-08-01
My Love Don't Cost a Thing - 2005-07-14
Kiss My Grits! - 2005-07-06
