Naked Ladies

We've reverted in someway to our childhood selves. We skip to the park and I roll in the grass laughing when she climbs the tree and hangs upside-down, her long hair shaking about like a mane or tail. With her weight a few plums drop to the ground, others hit us on the head or leave splotches of mush on our t-shirts. With the sheet, Zoe and I collect the fallen ones. Carefully making sure to pick out those with wormholes. A crowd of soccer players is watching us and we only laugh harder. We wander through paths that take us through creeks and hillocks, trees and meadows. From afar I hear a shout of gleeful discovery, "Come look at this! What is this alien?" With a skip in my step I approach her only to feel a bit of color drain from my face. For I know these plants only too well. 'Naked ladies', I tell her before heading off down the path again.

Yes, the year has come full circle, the time has come.

Mid-flight revelation

5/7:

When I first sat down in my cramped seat, doomed to have to sit through seven hours of mind-numbing TV and sky mall magazines, I had no idea what was awaiting me.

It was as I scrolled through cheezy romances and horror films that a title finally caught my eye and I discovered my newest heroine: Temple Grandin.

It was one of those funny coincidences in life because I had been hearing about her in recent weeks but having forgotten her name, she had been stuffed back into a corner of my mind. Funny that I would then rediscover her while flying over Newfoundland in a stinky plane next to a lanky Irishman.

A day in Bray

4/7:

I'm trying really hard not to be biased against Dublin but I just can't help it. Maybe it's because I'm always here at the wrong time but the atmosphere just doesn't sit with me. It's the tinge of homesickness mixed with the drab buildings and eerie weather that make me feel ill at ease. A strong warm wind whips through the dirty dark streets and sprays dust and pollution into my eyes. I feel ready to go home.

At least I've made some friends at Ashfield House though. My french friend, Alizée and I took off to the town of Bray for thee day. But even this sunny beach town just lacks the spirit I long for. Alizée and I make the best of it though, I speak French to her and she responds in English, we sit on the beach and practice our speech. After lunch we hike up a cliff and get to a strange marker, a giant cross overlooking the black ocean that gapes at us with its mouth wide open. The wind is so strong I feel as though we will be pushed into the deepness but we cling to the rocks and make our way down to have ice-cream on the beach. Even the ice-cream tastes bad to me. It's tasteless and greasy, I miss those Parisian Berthillions!

When we get back to the hostel, I'm reminded it's the 4th of July. Here it's just any other day.

It's not that late yet but I don't really feel like gong out so I go upstairs to read and end up talking with my Brazilian roommate. She speaks Span-tuguese and I speak Spanish with a Brazilian accent. We understand each other perfectly. She tells me she also lived in Norway. My French roommate is doing WOOFing. I guess there are some similarities after all!

Monasterio de el Escorial

The "Monasterio del Escorial" looks more like an ancient fortress than a place where kings once lived. But apparently Phillip II was very religious so there you have it. The stone front rises up menacingly and when you walk in, the cold stone halls seem infinitely more austere and plain than the Palacio Réal with its enormous sculptures, golden curtains and velvet walls.
The tour takes you through the most important parts of the monastery which range from the architectural museum detailing the plans of the monastery to the collections of paintings (which include the painting El Greco produced to try and win over the king) to the chamber of tombs (where all the kings of Spain are buried) to the incredible library situated directly above the main entrance (symbolizing the overhwelming power of knowledge).
After leaving this magnificent hall with shelves and shelves of beautifully bound gold-leaf books, Chris and I wandered out to where the tour supposedly ended. But just as we were about to round the corner that would lead us to the exit, Chris remembered to take me to her favorite part. We retraced our steps a few paces and turned the corner only to find a thick red cord roping off the section which was normally open to the public. Looking all around us we quickly ducked under the rope and dashed up the stairs. I didn't see what was so incredible until I looked up, noticing that the entire ceiling was a beautiful fresco. Just as I was taking it in, a voice called us from the bottom of the stairs. At that moment, the guard had noticed us sneaking in and she yelled at us until we ran down the stairs and out of her sight. Well worth the scolding I must say!

Watching

6/15:
This Ryanair thing is really getting under my skin. All I see are people suffering, frantically redistributing weight, pulling out sweaters, stuffing in souveneirs.
Something is wrong here...