Tube

I still routinely get emails from Transport for London informing me about line closures and updates. It makes my heart ache for the noisy doors of the Underground, the dirty, cramped stairs, the masses of bodies, the heat as you descend into the belly of London, the stained seats, the advertisements, the signs, the directions, the maps . . . I miss having moments to read, to write, to ponder, to watch. I miss the voice instructing passengers to stand clear of the door. I miss watching for my stop on the little horizontal maps. I miss seeing new faces and hearing parts of people's lives and making up the other half. I miss wondering about the man sitting across from me or the woman with the hat. I miss waiting for the train to arrive and feeling the wind pick up, signaling to me that it is close. I miss the freedom. I miss the ease. I miss it. Oh how I miss it.

Underground.

In case you needed to know:

There will be closures on the Jubilee Line between North Greenwich and Stratford. There is no service on Saturday 9 August due to line upgrade work. Between Canary Wharf and Stratford there is no service on Sunday 10 August due to line upgrade work.

On the Northern Line, between Burnt Oak and Edgware, there is no service due to station improvement work. The Warren Street station is also closed due to improvement work.

On the Piccadilly Line trains will not stop at Green Park station before 0600 (Mondays to Saturdays) and 0730 (Sundays) until December 2008. Covent Garden station opens at 0800 Sunday-Thursday and closes at 2330 Sunday-Wednesday for improvement work until late November. Osterley station is closed due to improvement work. Russell Square station is closed due to improvement work. Acton Town station is open for interchange only on Saturday 9 August.

There is no service on the entire Victoria Line due to line upgrade work.

Sleep

I don't sleep anymore, but the funny thing is, I don't mind. My mantra has become: I can sleep when I get home.

Home. The word has come to mean so much to me lately. Home is comfortable, familiar, a place you couldn't imagine never turning to, a sanctuary. I feel like in a small way London has become my home. Kensington Gardens my sanctuary. When I needed to get away, the garden provided me with the air to breathe and the space to do it in.

But the things pulling me back are strong. The mountains. Watermelon. Dry heat rising off the asphalt. Family barbeques. Swimming suits and sprinklers. Twin-pops. Driving with the windows down. Mom. Dad. OlderandWiserToo. LilLou. Mogli. The whole lot. I miss them.

This time tomorrow I'll be half way home. Or will I be half way from home? Little pieces of me are planted all over. It's splendid.

Goodness

- sleeping in until 8
- raspberries covered in white chocolate
- the last moments of all the best things
- art projects in abundance
- eating homemade Indian food off banana leaves
- togetherness
- chocolate chip cookies
- soccer in Hyde Park
- finishing
- cold Indian food on a Ritz Cracker
- making a DVD
- giving lasting hugs
- exchanging pictures
- love. London.

Unscrew

Monday after taking that lovely, blessed English test I realized how much I'm going to miss sitting in that class, unscrewing the top of my head, and letting my brain breathe and bask in new thoughts and insights, while in return emoting a bit of its own. I also realized that I want to buy a copy of this when I get home. And maybe a few books of poetry. . .

Truth

Mom told me that I wasn't being completely honest in my blogs. Truth be told, they called at the peak of my studying frenzy and the height of my emotional drainage. I am tired. And today just wasn't a good day.

Saturday wasn't much good either. It was fine up until lunch, but after lunch a series of unfortunate events lead to several of my photos getting corrupted and my panic was only compounded by Bunkmates incessant whiny drone filling my ears so full that there wasn't room for my own thoughts to escape. She pounded out essays against me. I was her verbal soundboard and after we were through I felt beat up and like I had wasted a whole lot of time. It was frustrating to feel like I was in a really intense study session but didn't get a whole lot out of it.

The problem lies in the flawed "discussions" we had. She likes the sound of her own voice and she loves her own ideas. She doesn't like outlines or to be bothered when she's in a "moment of inspiration." She bitterly glares at anyone who even speaks when she is really getting something good down on her computer and if you try and ask her to clarify one of her many points she gives you an annoyed eye roll coupled with a condescending answer in that all-too-familiar "I am so annoyed I could write a lyrical ballad about it" tone. The "discussions" go something like this:

(The sound of vigorous typing cuts through a silent parlor. This is the only sound during the breaks between the constant abrasive dialog. I begin to jot down a few notes in the margins of the book and tie a few points together when I am suddenly interrupted by Bunkmate in her voice that reminds me of a taut rubberband: pinched and ready to leave a sting)
- Listen to this. 'Wordsworth, in his deep understanding of innocence takes us through a stream of consciousness and [highfalutin nonsense that is more along the lines of musings rather than actually answering the prompt]. (This goes on for a good 2 minutes)
- I don't --
- EH! (Pause as she peers over her laptop with each of her white bony fingers, drumming the top of the screen before grasping the top of it and pulling it near here meanwhile never letting her eyes release their burning stare from my face.) Let me finish! (And she thrusts the screen back up into the upright position and proceeds)
- (I hunker down and wish that Mr. Apple was a big screen TV that I could use as a shelter)
- (She finishes her discourse and looks up at me, obviously pleased with herself)
- I like it, but I don't see the relevance to the style which Wordsworth uses to convey his take on innocence and experience. It all seems a little ethereal and
- (Pause. Her mouth falls open and her eyes widen.) Ugh. You just don't understand it do you? (She proceeds to type even more vigorously on her computer. I am again free to pencil in notes until, just as my brain is drawing a line between a few points, she strikes again).
- What about this? . . .
- (I start rapidly sawing at my wrists with my notebook and to no avail am left unwounded)

And thus ended the three-hundred and thirty minutes of study of the people of BYU in the land of London.

To get the rest of the complaints out in once post:
- The day started with a fire alarm in the building. No one, likes a misinformed fire alarm.
- It took us over two hours to get to church (and we were late getting there) because there was a bike race in the middle of the city. We were surrounded.
- I let pen cause a huge ink stain to form on the front of my dress
- I got volunteered t0 participate in a musical number in church and since we arrived late, we got to sightread at the pulpit. That's always cool.
- I ate too much bread
- I hate studying when all I want to do is sit outside and enjoy the little bit of time I have left.

Okay. Now I'm done and I will return to posts about sunshine and rainbows and butterflies and red balloons.

Saturday evening the study session was one million percent more effective than earlier in the day. Newfound facilitated lively discussions and I would like to publicly thank her. Dearly.

Bread

You know how bread expands when it gets wet? Well 7 rolls and 2 glasses of water really hurt when they're forcing your rugae flat and pressing hard to escape the confines of your stomach. Time to play Fat Dog. Until I die.

Epiphanies

At dinner tonight a few of us discussed how this trip has been so much more than sight-seeing and frolicking about the English countryside, but how it can be more accurately described as a series of epiphanies. It seems like daily while going about the usual routine of class, or city, reading, seeing, sketching, visiting . . . I am frequented by a friendly light bulb illuminating a previously darkened corner of my mind. I have found corners in my mind I didn't even know I had this way. I learned so much about others and myself that I feel weighted by experience and understanding. I want to write it all down. I feel frantic to capture it all. But as I sat in the quiet stillness of my room, after all the other 13 girls are sleeping and the only sounds are rhythmic inhales and exhales, I am struck with another said epiphany that it's not in writing down what changes you, but living it. I am coming home in days I could number on just the fingers of my hand but I can be a living London by living the lasting impressions that learning here have left on my being.

Study

I didn't even picture my last Saturday here as being filled with nearly 5 hours of pounding out essays in preparation for our final on Monday, but Bunkmate said we were going to work them until we could "kill it." I guess that's a good thing?

We took a break to hit up one of my favorite hot spots for lunch. Now I ask you could it get any better? I swear by the time I get home I'm going to start crafting furniture out of cucumbers and wishing my hair were made of lovely locks of lettuce. I'll use artichokes for decorating and use tomatoes and onions to shine up the floor.

Basically, I'm having a love affair with freshness.

Tell me you're not tantalized.

Pastoral

Today we went on a centre-famed "Country Walk with Brother Chittock." I'll be the first to admit that I was excited to do this more than just about anything. A nine-mile "hike" through pastoral England? What could be better? It had been much too long since I had been hiking and had my father seen the shoes I was wearing he'd probably jump online here and start surfing for some replacements. However, I want to make it clear that they did me just fine (considering much of the walk was on pavement that's not saying too much).

If I were a stocky, sparkley, animated pony with glitzy hair, there is no doubt I'd be rompin' through those fields.

The whole thing was just scenic and idyllic to the point where I was asking myself if it was true that people actually could handle living there. I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if a My Little Pony came bounding over the fields of poppies and took flight into the cloudy blue sky. It was just that perfect.

We had lunch amidst some Roman Ruins and I fell asleep searching for pictures in the clouds. When I awoke my eyes felt puffy and within 5 minutes my lips started going numb, my tongue swelled and my face got itchy. I was worried I would need an emergency Benadryl or an Epipen or possibly a blood transfusion, but soon I got distracted by sneezing fits and eye balls so itchy I wanted to scrub them with Brillo pads. The kind with soap.

The Gem saw me in a sneezing frenzy rubbing my eyes and covering my mouth whilst attempting to keep up and see and take pictures and eat and she gave me a little white, circular pill that look suspiciously like birth control. But by the time we boarded the train that took us back to The City, I felt much better and was left with not much more than red eyes and a tired body.

However, the beauty of the day was well worth the suffering in the moment. I wanted to be sitting with Clare discussing nature and love. No such luck, but I was with Bunkmate discussing essays on the Romantics and feeling like I really have a lot to do to prepare for my day of reckoning.

We were ramblers.

Monique

I woke up the the morning of the 11th anxious to check my email in hopes of getting a response from Monique confirming our meeting spot and time. To my dismay there was an "internal error" with the server, so I crossed my fingers and hoped that what we had discussed would work out okay. At 2:15 Viomind and I ventured through Oxford hoping to stumble upon the "Castle complex" so we could meet up with her. We didn't know what this was, but saw Castle Road labeled neatly on our Xeroxed map. Off we went.

I rounded a corner and saw a beautiful, middle-aged women with auburn hair sporting a teal, v-neck, cotton dress and white pumps. For some reason I immediately pegged her as my lunch date; something about her just sparked. I had seen a picture of her once before. . . I think. As soon as her eyes met mine she ran towards me with her arms outstretched and pulled me in for a close hug. The entire time I was in her presence felt like a constant embrace.

We settled on a little Italian place for lunch and spent the next two hours there in rapt attention, listening to her stories and basking in her warmth. When we sat down she turned to me and looked my eyes and said, "I'm so happy to meet you. Your parents are so proud. I've heard so many stories." I replied with a, "Well they probably just told you the stories they have to be proud of. There are loads of others that could speak for the contrary." And what she said next made me strangely emotional and gave me insight into Monique's love and character. She said that we can focus on the proud parts and let the not-proud parts be, because they're what knock off the roughness and make us become gleaming. I want to gleam. Oh I want to gleam so badly.

After introductions and icebreakers I asked her about her past, her story, and a lifetime of wonder unfolded. She explained how she grew up in South Africa as a strict Calvinist; being taught to fear God, to feel wholly unworthy and vile and wicked, to think that humankind is innately evil. But something in her was felt unsettled. She always saw the light, the goodness in others. She saw the sunshine of souls and the beauty of humanity. As a 20-year-old young lady she was contacted by the Mormon Missionaries and their message coincided with her beliefs about the innately divine beings we are. She was baptized and a few years later served a mission. It was during these few years that she met my dad and began a dear friendship.

Her life took a series of sideways turns and plunges, she was humiliated, disowned by her family and ultimately was forced to leave her tribe. After the death of her dad, then her mum, a hysterectomy and other events, she wound up in India dressed in saris and starving. She lived there 3 months as a transient worker who stayed with the Hare Krishna people in these hostels of sorts where she knew morality was upheld and she could be safe. She left India weak, ill and smitten by a man she knew she could never love.

The stories she told us were simply incredible. She lead the sort of life that people lead in movies, but the best part of talking to her were the golden pieces of wisdom tidily packaged and perfectly delivered. I got pretty emotional a few times while I listened to her speak and as soon as we parted I wanted to sprint to my journal and start vigorously transcribing my thoughts into its pages.

She told us a lot about love, that you learn the most about love after the trappings of romance fall away. The things that really make you understand love is after you are no longer enamored by the things on which you share common ground. It's not the reasons why you're the same or the points that you agree on that makes your love beautiful, rather, it's in celebrating how different you are, the ways that you form two halves to create the whole. That is truly beautiful.

Age concerned her and she thought a lot about it. She said that you don't realize you've aged until you meet up with someone from your past and you notice how old (or young) they look. It absolutely boggled her mind that little Richard had a daughter as big as me. But she also noted that there is wisdom to be gleaned from age, that it gives you perspective and a chance to size up your smooth and rough patches.

The thing that impressed me most about her was the mantra she lived by: to live with an open, loving heart. I truly believe that she does because I felt of her love for me after basking in her glow for but a few minutes. She says that she strives to fill each day with kindness and understanding. What a good example this woman is. Truly Christlike in her interactions with others and exuding that light that is so innately a part of us. She touched me and I hope that too can touch others so like ripples on a lake we can all lift and built and touch one another in an attempt to reach the Divine.

Overheard

While spending a few hours in Kensington painting near the Orangery, my attention was diverted left to a Japanese pair sitting on a bench opposite me. The a man spoke to a woman at his side and said, "You know, that girl over there impresses me. She reminds me of a poor girl I met years ago in Japan who had a passion for art. . ."

He went on to explain how she came to him time and time again asking not for money or food, but paper and pencils, brushes and paint. And he gave them to her, feeding her love for making art. "She could just look at my face and make a picture that looked the same," he expressed his sheer delight like he was staring at the picture right then. "Years later she called me to report she was invited to a convention to speak as one of Japan's top three animators. I laughed as she gloated that now she makes more money than me. . ."

The painting I made wasn't great. But I was inspired by this mans compassion on a young girl who was driven to succeed. It just made me wonder: how much can I do with enough dedication and persistence?

Cursory

On the syllabus for English my professor deems the course, "a botched survey, a shamelessly rapid skimming over the high points of English literature." Well this may be so, but I realized yesterday in class that I am going to miss sitting there watching the strange character at the head of the class sending my brain in eight million directions at once.

I wish everyone could spent an hour with him so they could pick up on a few of his peculiarities that, in their weirdness become oddly endearing. There is a slight bounce in his gait, a lightness almost impish in nature, and he is always carrying a book of poetry. He never wears his shoes in class and is constantly rubbing his rumpled, frumpy, black socks on the carpet, gradually inching them off his feet before performing acrobatics with his toes to inch them back on. Never are they neatly hugging his feet, rather they are always hanging half off like over-sized sweaters. A cumbersome wallet weighs heavy in his back pocket and is so large that when he leans up against the desk it sits separately at his side.

The man fidgets incessantly and always seems like there is so much ready to come out of him that he can't decide how to order it all so he can be efficient. Efficient is one thing he is not. He likes sounds and tactile experiences. He is constantly drumming the desk or his forehead, he slams the back of his wrists on the desk at will, and waves papers violently just to make the sound. He swears by hardcopy everything. After all, what if you have a sudden allergic spell (akin to the one I've been suffering since my arrival in the UK) and had to blow your nose? A paperback could save you. Tear out a page. Wahlah! Try blowing your nose into a pixel. I dare you.

And yet amidst all the quirks and frills of the man, I find him engaging and inspiring. He pushes my intellect. This cursory glance at literary highlights has provided me with a lot of depth and searching moments.

Some things have been almost cruel. Our brief encounter with Paradise Lost for example, was nothing but a teaser. Roommate read it last semester and gushed on and on about how much she loved it. I got the abbreviated version at best. It wasn't even biting off a bit and swirling it around in my mouth before spitting it out. It was like running up and licking it before dashing away the other direction. Not only is that rude but it also is unsatisfactory.

So I'm left wanting more (which is what most of my experience here has left me with). But that's not a bad thing.

Stonehenge

My titles are getting increasingly less creative. One of these days when I feel on top of my to-do's and must-see's I'll spend a bit more time making these posts interesting. Until then I'm just going to pat myself on the back for getting something down to jog my memory when I get back to P-Town and the real story telling begins.

Our last stop of the weekend was Stonehenge and I must say it was a bit anticlimactic. My nose was buried in Paradise Lost while we drove up and I happened to look out my window as we passed the megalithic mystery. The stones were smaller than I had anticipated and the fact that they were roped off was a bit of a bummer. I wanted to scale one barefooted. All that aside, however, I thought it was incredible to be there, in front of one of the most famous archaeological artifacts on the planet.

Megalithic.

We ventured over and took some classic touristy pictures then meandered around the ancient stones. I was equally as enthralled with the vast undulating English countryside as I was by the precariously perched prehistoric rocks. How can it all be so smooth and so green?

One of my favorite parts of the afternoon? Playing Missionary Tag on the green next to the ruins. We were like little paired stonehenges running about. I felt so stonehengey. Only I move more. And don't weigh as much.

Stourhead

Question: When are you getting married? Answer: When Mom and Dad's backyard looks like this.

Bee-yoo-tee-ful.

The only thing that could have made my afternoon roaming the most incredible English garden more beautiful would have been to have Mr. Darcy himself there holding my hand and leading me through the forests. He wasn't there, nor was anything remotely close (unless your only Darcy qualification is a Y chromosome) but I did have delightful company and a most beautiful walk through lush greens and damp rocks.

Where the infamous P&P DTR takes place.

Bath

In her novel Northanger Abbey Jane Austin wrote, "For who could ever get tired of Bath?" and while there this weekend I echoed her question in my own mind. The entire city seemed to glow in its Georgian Architectural glory. When the sun hit the stones as it was dropping behind the Avon the whole place caught on fire. It was beautiful. We spent much of our time just exploring the city, laying on the lawn in front of this and poking into little shops and galleries.

The Royal Crescent.

As we walked up the hill toward our hostel we paused to survey the city we had just discovered and found the sky alight with color. I was stunned silent as I watched the sun sink slowly and saturation seemingly seeping from its rays.

Atop the Avon.

Jar(t)

Remember this? We finally had our little exhibition and it was even better than I anticipated. You can read all about it here. Please comment and engage in some banter with the students. We like it.

They look so posh up there on their shelf.

I didn't think standing in one spot holding a jar filled with hair could be so fun or so rewarding, but being there on my feet will be a highlight from London for sure. The reaction of the passer-bys was so positive and so inquisitive it really made the project rewarding. I got a lot of mixed reaction to the hairs. Disgusted initially then impressed after I explained that I had to ask 100 women for each specimen, but it's true. I'm a little grubby. We handed out the blog's url via stickers on our shirts. So pass the word along. Jart.

Where's Waldo.

I love my hairy little jar and it makes me laugh that one of my favorite souvenirs from London consists of a little meaningful hairball, but it summarizes so much of what has impressed me here. The diversity amongst the unity in purpose. People are so different, yet people everywhere are all striving and it's evident in their eyes. I met 100 women. Briefly yes, and sometimes it was more like doing a mime to convey that I wanted a hair rather than meeting them, but still, it was hard, and I did it when a lot of people scoffed at me for trying. And that's empowering. I realized the women everywhere are beautiful and that they come to London for reasons as diverse as they are, but amidst it all, they come for a better life. And that's why I came, so in some small way we're all connected, me and my 100 women; all women really. What a sisterhood we form. What a strength we lend.

Jart. Check it out.

Louvre

A day in Paris couldn't be called complete without a visit to the Louvre. Even if it was a cursory one at best. After finishing up the day's film work and grabbing a bit of dinner we were left with an hour before having jump on the dirty Metro and catch the Euro Star home.

We filled that hour with art. How appropriate. Right?

Professor O told us we only had 30 minutes before having to meet him at 7 so obviously, me, being a first-time Louvre patron, was taken by the savvy Three Ostrateers to the highlights. I have always loved the Winged Victory. She's so striking, so commanding. I wished I had a few hours to sit and sketch her, but the second hand was ticking loudly in our ears and the noise ushered us down vast hallways packed with paintings until we wound up in front of Mona. A part of me didn't want to see her. I just don't understand the hype and I felt like me going to pay homage was just perpetuating the nonsensical obsession, but I went, I saw her and just as everyone said, she was smaller and less grand than expected.

On the way in Kpup posed a question about the sum value of the Louvre's collection. I don't even know if that number is fathomable. But as we ventured out I kept thinking about why we value art. What says that these bits of fabric and pigment are worth the millions we attach to them? Why do we price it so high?

When we got back to the top, Prof. O realized he had made a mistake and we actually had another 30 minutes to explore inside. I drug Pancakes with me back to the bowels of the museum, while the other three waited outside and watched the window washing machine. I must say it was intriguing.

I didn't want to see the big names or worry about hitting the highlights. I just wanted to see. So I lead the way, not knowing which obscure corner I'd end up in, but we eventually found ourselves looking at artifacts from ancient Mesopotamia and I was drawn in by the intricate cuneiform inscriptions and the crude forms. While studying a pot with little clay studs I noticed the maker's fingerprints left in the little round decorations and I was struck with the thought that a person made this. A person like me, real, living, breathing, loving, with stories and hardships. A person. And I realized then that that is why we value art. People have value and so the things they make have value. We care about people, we care about culture and societies past and present. We care about history and anthropology. We care about creation. We care about art.

Housing art in a building that used to house royalty lifts art to an esteemed level on its own, but then to have countless patrons pouring in the doors to stare at these tiny objects made thousands of years ago gives them such incredible value. It makes my heart glad just to think about it.

Art matters because people matter.

Stairs

I spent today in the City of Love and my feet are definitely all loved out. A day simply isn't enough time to fall in love with the city, but it is enough time time to climb half the stairs therein.

I was part of the team that went with my art professor to carry out a project filming spiral stairs cases, so we hit up all the towers we had time for in a mad rush through the city.

Paris.

Our day began at Sacré Coeur (which could be summed up as "trial and error" much to Pancake's dismay) and then we got on the Metro where a street performer with a golden mic and an amp duct-taped and bungee corded to a dolly serenaded us for a few stops before realizing that no one was impressed enough to cough up a Euro.

From there we trekked to the top of the Pantheon, the Arc de Triomphe and by this time were really aching for some French food. Crêpes. I need a crêpe stone when I grow up. A big, flat, round, crêpe stone that magically creates manna topped with Nutella and banana. Mmm. I swear the crêpe was so big I could have been rolled up in its large, round, deliciousness.

Tree lined boulevards converge. Top of Arc de Triomphe.

The biggie was next and we stood in line for a bit before climbing the stairs to one of the greatest views in Paris. Pancakes watched our bags while the rest of us shimmied up the narrow spiral stars with the camera before surfacing atop Notre Dame de Paris.

Two things struck me while letting the wind whip through my hair, looking out over the city. The first was how disordered and crammed the city is. The whole thing seemed like a labyrinth to me. No ninety-degree corners, no blocks, no patterns, just jagged, winding, angular, meandering streets with buildings designed to appropriate every space they can. It's like a concentrated drop of humanity. I thought about how much life was contained in every square foot and how many stories each of those lives could tell. People have come to fascinate me and I find myself constantly wondering about that woman on the Tube, the man who took my ticket, the boy crying, the woman performing . . . Everyone has so much to share, to celebrate, to commiserate.

We got down and headed to a sight that I studied last fall and wrote down as a "must see" in my lifetime. Little did I know that I would see it so soon. As we climbed the stairs and entered the nave my breath was taken as the walls of glass overwhelmed me. I hate how pictures can't capture the majesty. The array of color and pattern made me have to stop and stare. I could have spent twice as long with my mouth gaping open at the thousands of feet of glass staring down at me.

Walls of glass.

One of my favorite parts of Paris was a little side church called Saint Germain. It is one of the only churches I've been to that maintained an atmosphere of worship. I spent a bit of time watching an elderly woman pray and then walk so reverently her heels didn't even clack on the stone floor. I was impressed by her devotion and quiet respect. A bit of restorative work was being done to the murals and it was neat to watch two women stand back, stare, stand close, scrutinize, stand back, whisper, stand close, brush with their hand . . . it looked like quite the process. The apse seemed to have been burned; only flashes of color shown through the black charred ceiling but it added to the whole ambiance of the structure.

I was overcome with gratitude sitting there. Grateful to be in Paris. Grateful to be with great people. Grateful to be safe and happy. And grateful most of all for all good things that lead me to a firmer knowledge of my Lord and Savior.

The day was inspiring.

Understanding

I spent the morning here, a majority of which I lingered in the Holocaust exhibit. Every time I visit something this shocking and moving I come away emotionally drained and sitting and pondering how?

It is amazing to me that people allow people to get so far off course. How do we allow ourselves to get so numb? How do we become so blind? How to we allow ourselves to get so wrapped up? How?

Being in that exhibition is truly an intense experience. I forced myself to slow down, to take it in as much as I could and take it in wholely. I ended up spending over 2 hours and I didn't leave with much more understanding than I gained from the museum in DC, but I was once again touched by survivors, by stories of light and faith unshaken. It's just mind blowing to think that humans could be so cruel, so dehumanizing, so merciless. It's even more overwhelming to think how recent it was.

I was looking at drawings and letters from litter girls arranged carefully in a glass case when I saw a picture of Micky Mouse on one of them. It forced me to re-realize that this was just 60 years ago. Intellectually I'm well aware of the contemporary nature of WWII, but it's not until I see the scrawl of a 7-year-old Jewish girl from a ghetto writing her friend about Micky that it really hits me how primitive we still are. We're immature. We can't solve problems without fighting. And what's worse is that we often don't even try.

I am grateful for those willing to share their experiences and talents so I have a chance to reevaluate myself and ponder in what ways I am numbing myself to the cruelties I inflict on others. Striving for understanding is important to me, even if it is just understanding myself. Striving to understand people and make connections is one thing that I can't be indifferent to. People simply matter too much to pass by.

Treats

Since Parley isn't evident enough we had a treat night. My contribution? A lemon cake from Tesco. When we were out searching for treats we happened upon the interantional food market in the Whitely's and guess how much Oreos cost in the UK? Try ₤6. That's right, nearly 12 Washingtons! I proud to be an American a) for reasonably priced Oreos and b) because public restrooms are free.

The spread and the snitcher.

My spread. I'm not a snitcher.

No spread. Thoroughly snitched.

It was a grand success and I vowed never to eat treats again (until, that is, I go to Paris and feel harken to the sweet smell of crepes).