That one time we got farted at in Dublin

For the record...

When in London, it's necessary to do the quintessential British things. (Or rather, the things that we foreigners/tourists deem to be British from what we've seen in movies: photo ops in red telephone boxes, eating crumpets (nasty, by the way) and having bad oral hygiene. (O.k., no one wants that, but we keep our eyes peeled for it.) I've just returned from a very Sex and the City-like high tea with 3 of my fellow future inhabitants of Clarendon 560 at Kensington Palace, where Princess Diana used to live. (Champagne, a pot of tea, smoked salmon sandwich, a scone with winter berries and creme and of course the Belgian chocolate cake.) There was talk of suspicious doctor's appointments, gongs and of course making plans to go out this evening. It's sort of a farewell weekend for the fashion girls, who are already going to be headed back to the States soon. I'm sad to see them go, but senior year is fast approaching--when we'll all be living together in the best houseful Syracuse has ever seen!

I'm going to keep this one relatively short because I have to go work on a paper about land mines for Professor Serb (Paris trip in T-5 days!) But as I promised earlier, here is a quick recounting of the Dublin debauchery. O.k. so when we were in Dublin, we got really lucky and stumbled upon a really cheap but also extremely nice hotel in the small town of Tallaght, just outside of the city. We had to take a little tram called the Luas to get into and out of Dublin, but that beats 40 pound cab rides from Brighton to the Hickstead Travelodge last weekend! We encountered a lot of interesting characters on those many tram-rides we took, particularly when it was late at night. When we were there at the end of February, they were in the midst of the 6 Nations tournament. We encountered one particularly happy Irishman who led the entire tram car in song (he thought more people were singing, but it was just him) and another who took song requests for his harmonica. We toured the Guinness and Jameson factories, tooled around the Temple Bar neighborhood and walked along the River Liffey. However, the ultimate moment, or the piece de resistance of the Dublin experience, happened around dinner time on our last night. We were walking around downtown--bidding Dublin adieu before catching an early flight back to London in order to make it to class on Monday afternoon, when we encountered a man who was urinating on a building, on a crowded street. (I mean we all know the Irish like to drink, but come on!) So I said to Katy..."Ew that guy's peeing!" So we started to hurry past, and just as we were passing him (you could draw a straight line between his back and my side at this point) he let out the loudest fart I have ever heard in my life. It was as though it was on purpose, as if to say 'yeah. I'm peeing on the side of a building, what are YOU going to do about it?' Probably the best way to describe it was, in Katy's words "vindictive." We broke into a run, laughing yet also very disturbed and appalled--"dude...that guy just farted at us!" was most likely uttered. We passed him on our way back down the street, stumbling, and it all seemed to make a bit more sense. Part of me wishes I had an audio recording of the sound to attach to this blog. The other part of me wouldn't want to put anyone else through that experience. At high tea today, being the distinguished ladies that we are, we began pondering what actually happened. For instance, did we actually break into a run? Or did the force of the fart actually blow us down the street? I'm so glad my friends are as o.k. with such meal time subject matter as I am...it takes me back to the family holidays on the Kowalski side of the family when bathroom festivities (the euphemism to end all euphemisms) always seem to come up at the dinner table. (Weird and gross? Yes. But I wouldn't have it any other way.)

So there you have it. I've put of the Professor Serb paper for long enough, and I've probably disturbed the readers, so I will sign off.

Thanks for listening.

~Jamie

Home?

For the record...

The abroad experience has been amazing and London feels like home. As much as I am trying to savor every second of it, however, I'm going to be ready to go once May 2 rolls around. I've done some research (a.k.a. talked to some of my fellow Syracuse London abroadites) and we've agreed that it's getting to be that time. We talk to people at home who always say 'what are you talking about...you're in London--how can you possibly want to come home?' But lets be honest, the people at home have never gone through the agonizing process of looking at prices and then mentally doubling it to figure out what it sets you back in U.S. dollars.

And lets be honest. We all miss the 'Cuse a little bit. The familiar faces, house parties, basketball, sushi/bubble tea...(ok maybe that's just me), being greeted with a searingly painful shade of orange everywhere you look...And then there are the general U.S. things. Anybody who has spent the semester flying Easyjet and Aerlingus (that's what she said) and of course good old Ryanair, will probably feel my pain when I say that as I was sitting on the runway at Heathrow heading to Dublin for the weekend and the pangs of familiarity when I saw a United Airlines plane taxi up behind us brought tears to my eyes. I mean, it will be nice to get on a plane again with an assigned seat or the fear of unruly Irishmen needing to be physically restrained on the plane. Once upon a time...while catching a flight to Barcelona for spring break, we were standing in line at one of London's out-of-the-way airports, when a group of Irish guys spanning in age from early twenties to mid-fifties got in the line to check in for our flight whilst drinking beer. (Keep in mind there isn't an open container law here. Also keep in mind that it was 11 a.m.) One of them tapped on my shoulder in line and asked...'how old are you?' without any other sort of interaction. (I just gave him the stinkeye and turned back around without answering.) At any rate, we were worrying as we waited for the flight that we'd end up sitting near them. Well...since my buddy from check-in was too large to fit into his original seat, the flight attendants decided to put him in our little row of three. (We were thrilled.) At various times, he passed out with his legs facing into the aisle, which made maneuvering the drink cart difficult, he started walking around when the fasten seatbelt sign was on. Finally after chugging another beer on the flight and hollering back to his equally drunk friends across rows and rows of seats, it was time to land. In the mountains. It was at this time that he decided it would be a good idea to walk around. After about 20 times of telling him to sit down, the flight attendants finally told him that if he didn't sit down the police were going to meet us on the runway to arrest him in Barcelona (a.k.a. in the middle of nowhere 2 hours south of Barcelona.) Ahhhhh yes....at any rate, the point is that flying the European budget flights isn't necessarily living the life.

It's been great, but it's going to be good to get home. I'm sure the Dublin story (a.k.a. getting 'farted at' on a busy city street will come up at some point in the near future.)

Have a great weekend everyone, and thanks for listening.

~Jamie

London.

For the Record...

Oh, Foggy Londontown, where do I begin? It's been over two months and sometimes I still can't believe I'm living here. Free museums, cute accents, the tube, fish 'n chips...and oh the shenanigans. I don't even know if I can possibly even begin to blog about the past two months because there's been so much--but I can at least provide you with some humorous anecdotes, a greatest hits list, if you will, as I sit here on my bed, listening to NPR and breaking in my new 9 pound pumps. (O.k....maybe I'm just admiring them.)

O.k. so...here goes. At the sweet little building/high school-esque establishment that we call Faraday House, a.k.a. the S.U. London Center houses the craziest professor that has ever walked the planet. We'll call him...Professor Serb. I just so happen to have a list of quotations that this fine man (who our class is traveling to Paris with a week from today) has uttered during class over the past two months. Sit back and enjoy the following:

"All Serbs rape all the time."
"AND...YOU...ARE...A...LESBIAN!" (making believe he was talking to his female "pahtnah")
"Rich people go to hell because they are all bastards! His mother had to screw somebody to get millions!"
"I have a thing about red-headed people. I think they're all stupid."
"Germans don't drink tea with milk! Only perverts do that."
"...I have a weakness for handbags. I'm a cross-dresser on the weekend."
"You don't push your grandfather down the stairs and say 'why you walk so fast, grandfather?'"
"Those Arabs. They're dodgy people."
"I was born a Catholic Jew."
"You peasant!"
"Switzerland's a nice country, but what is this?...yodeling up the mountains?"
"I know our kids have taken E and smoked dope, but I think they just shouldn't do heroin or coke...you know?"
"Holland is a nice country full of wooden clogs, tulips and dope."
"A. Yes. B. No."
"What does Hungary provide N.A.T.O.? 15 soldiers and a gun."
"I will get them a present from Body Shop."
"Then you ask questions. If not, I kill you."
"You know Oscar Wilde, that homosexual?"
"There are few places where you can make millions. Prostitution, drugs, gambling, buying and selling Cuba."
"The Germans say no no no the Ruskies are stupid--they drink out of toilets!"
"I am a caring sharing German."
"You have a tattoo on your foot? Nice one. I have never seen an American with a tattoo in a classroom. Maybe they have them on their bottoms or what."
"Don't tell me your life."
"I know you are a cool hip hop dude."
"I just explode inside because they are fat bastards!"
"...especially the Mexicans. Crawling across the Arizona desert, these guys."
"Single mothers. They deserve to be hammered. They never work, the bastards."
"I made 16 copies--you want them for toilet paper or what?"
"Kick her."
"Don't be German."

...Hours of entertainment. More London anecdotes and Professor Serb quotes to come in the future.

And a happy 10th birthday to my puppy!

Thanks for listening.

~Jamie

The Origins

For the Record~

When faced with the daunting task of starting a blog, usually the first question the blogger (or bloggeuse, if you will) has an answer to, is what it's going to be about. However, it has taken me a while to figure out where to begin. And then...eureka! it came to me...I'll start at the beginning.

I was born a chubby baby girl in a northwest suburb of Chicago, Illinois, and I moved to Connecticut at the gawky, awkward (gawkward if you will) age of 12. Then I began studying at the illustriousish Syracuse University in good old upstate New York as an aspiring journalist. (We'll get to that later.) Additionally, I spend what many might deem an unhealthy amount of time in the Green Mountain State, due to my parents' decision to build a house on Lake Bomoseen in Vermont. At the moment, I'm abroad, studying in Fabulous and Foggy Londontown. My ultimate goal is to do my graduate work at Northwestern University, move to the Wrigleyville neighborhood of Chicago, become a star legal reporter for The Trib and live happily ever after with my adopted Guatemalan children. (Just in case you wanted to look me up in 15 to 20 years, now you'll know where I'll be and what I'll be doing.)

This talk of origins brings me to the utter confusion and sometimes madness, that I feel when someone asks me where I'm from. Ever since I went away to college 2...almost 3 (holy crap!) years ago, it seems like everyday someone is asking me where I'm from. Particularly since I've been living in Europe for over two months now. These Brits won't stand for an answer of "the states" to that age old question "where are you from?" Sometimes they're so inquisitive that I'm surprised they don't pull out a frickin globe so I can point it out to them.

I mean, what am I supposed to say to these people? Technically I'm from Illinois, but I've been living in Connecticut for 8 1/2 years and now I consider myself to be from there too. Everything is made even more complicated by the fact that I'm actually not going to be living in Connecticut when I go home anymore since the P's are moving up to Woodchucksville on the lake for good now that my pesky sister is college-bound and whatnot. And to top it all off, going to college in Syracuse means I've sort of actually been living there for the past several years. (If you consider dorms "living," that is.) I guess I could be really lame, yet also semi-clever and tell people I'm from "Illinnectimontacuse" like that cell phone commercial that I saw roughly 9,000 times during football season last year. (For the record: I'm going to wait until Pats' training camp starts up in July to blog about them because I am in fact still recovering from the Super Bowl. Unless Tom and Gisele get engaged or pregnant or something, then I'll have to address it.)

The point is: I don't really know if anyone can really get me unless they know that I'm from Illinnectimontacuse, or at least Illinnecticut because both of those places matter so much to me. Before I go totally sentimental on this post, I'm going to sign off. But next time some bloody Brit asks me where I'm from, I'm not going to choose one spot, I'm going to lay it all out there.

Thanks for listening.

~Jamie