My home base for the rest of this stay in England is in a little village in East Anglia called Beyton. There are loads of these tiny villages all over the place. I'm staying in a self-accommodating flat attached to a bed and breakfast. I don't get free breakfasts, but I have a fully-equipped kitchen so I don't have to go to restaurants for every meal. I'm used to having my own bedroom, but for this trip I have an entire apartment all to myself, and I am LOVING it.
The proprietors of the bed and breakfast, M. and K. Dewsbury, are very helpful and kind, and since they're right next door we see each other often. They drive into Bury St. Edmunds (a larger town nearby) two or three times a week, and often I go with them. I'll definitely be posting more about Bury St. Ed's in the next few weeks.
Also, I attend the Bury St. Edmunds Ward and have been enjoying new friendships with Church members. This ward is about half British, half American, because a lot of US Air Force personnel live within the ward boundaries, which is nice because I appreciate being among fellow Americans, but weird at the same time because people assume I'm connected with the military, and everyone is so used to Americans coming and going that it's easy to be overlooked. Again, I'll be writing more about Church activities and such as the weeks pass.
Right now I want to show you how beautiful the English countryside is. In spite of transportation difficulties, I really wanted to stay in the country and soak up the greenery of England's fields and forests. There's a circular walk that makes almost a figure eight loop around the village, and I went and took a bunch of pictures. So, want to go on a walk around the village with me? Come along!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
With the Camerons
It was raining when I left Heathrow with the Camerons, of course. I can't think of anything that the English have apologized to me most for, which is funny because it's the thing I was most expecting. I told them I brought rain with me to Albuquerque, so I might as well bring rain to England too.
As I mentioned before, I. and V. Cameron were friends with my parents when we were over here in the 80s. Over the years, they kept in contact—mostly through Christmas newsletters. Before I flew to England, I read over a stack of these newsletters to get to know the Camerons a little better before I met them. I. spent most of his life at sea one way or another (once even as captain of a cruise ship), so I. and V. had many seafaring adventures. V., an artist, wrote about the beautiful places they'd been to, including Scotland, where they lived for a few years. I was excited to get to know these well-traveled folks, and I was able to amaze them with my knowledge of their children's names and such.
Driving home from the airport with the Camerons was my first experience with British roads. It was a little strange to sit in the front left seat and not be driving, but I got used to it quickly. The stranger thing was how small all the cars and trucks were, and how narrow and winding some of the roads got to be. One of the country roads we went on was only wide enough for one lane, though there were little pockets of wider spaces where one car could wait for another to pass by the other direction. I'm sure the roads are narrow because most of them were made by horse-driven vehicles hundreds of years before. Just evidence of how old everything is here; the roads themselves may be narrow, but history cuts a huge swath through everything.
The Camerons have a lovely little house in the country, with farming fields all around and a river in the distance that V. said was clogged with sailboats during the peak of summer. There were so many things I wanted to take a closer look at in their little village, especially an old church and a bright red telephone booth. The most fascinating thing about seeing the village and the Camerons' house was that, in a strange way, England was exactly how I imagined it would be. Smaller houses, old churches, gravestones blackened and worn, moss and scrubby bushes, flowers hanging from windowboxes, sharp-peaked rooftops . . . things that I'd seen in various BBC movies and TV shows and never quite believed. It's not contrived, really; it's really like that over here. That amazed me.
I stayed awake as long as I could, thinking that it would be better for me to crash in the evening so I'd sleep all night instead of crash at midday and wake up bright and fresh at two in the morning. I made it until about 5:00 pm, keeping myself busy showering, exploring the Camerons' beautiful garden (that's what the first pic is), and making friends with their dog and two cats, and then we had dinner and I went upstairs to bed.
Fifteen hours later I woke up, feeling much better. This was the view from my bed.
By then it was Friday, which felt strange. Time had collapsed, mashing Wednesday and Thursday together.
I went to Tesco with V. in the morning. That was a rather strange experience; I was still feeling surreal about being in a different country and hearing the different sound of voices, and the grocery store was a huge panorama of the same kind of fare that you'd find in the US (mostly), but presented and packaged very differently. I felt a little like the man in The Little Old Man Who Could Not Read. I hadn't realized it before, but I do depend quite a lot on the shapes of the packaging to tell me what a thing is at the store. Fortunately, I can read and English is my native language, so I'm not totally lost in grocery stores here. Just takes me a little longer.
Tesco, I found out, is regarded a bit like WalMart is in the US. It's become a bit of an "everything" store that likes to take over. It's success is based on low prices, like WalMart, and some British people turn their noses up at it just like some do to WalMart in the States (including me, admittedly). Sainsbury's is supposed to be higher brow as far as grocery stores go, and since my current ride for grocery shopping goes to Sainsbury's, I've joined the snobs and go there too.
Later we went to the center of Ipswich. I. and V. told me not to worry, they knew Ipswich was ugly, but Bury St. Edmunds was much prettier. I was nonplussed by these apologies, because Ipswich (at least the part I saw) was amazing. It was raining, so everything was a little darker, but somehow that enhanced the look of it, gave everything a polished sheen. The dark gray and black cobblestones shone against dark cherry wood, white, or colorful facades of buildings. There were beautiful decorative moldings, posts, and box windows, evidence everywhere of craftsmen from ages long past. At the very center of town the roads were closed to cars, but there were dozens of people walking around, in and out of shops, even in the rain.
Just before we headed home, we stopped at McDonald's. The Camerons told me that they'd had exchange students from a couple different countries stay with them, and the one thing they were very familiar with was McDonald's. It's apparently the common tongue; the great equalizer, gastronomically. I actually hadn't had McDonald's for a long time, but I enjoyed my Big Mac with chips. Still need to get a genuine fish and chips meal.
I. and V. told me about the Ipswich Ward and life with the Air Force back when my parents were there. They took me out for a drive near the old base, which was closed down a year or two after my dad was transferred to Albuquerque. They told me how sad they were to see all their American friends go. The buildings stood vacant for ten or fifteen years and have only in the last few years been remodeled for use as part of a new residential area. It was neat to think that, as we drove by the old AFB housing and I wondered whether I had lived in any of these little houses, I have a tiny piece in this area's history. We drove through a forest area near the base where a UFO is supposed to have landed. "Your dad didn't tell you about that?" said Bro. Cameron. (Nope, he sure didn't.) We would have walked around the forest a bit, but it rained pretty heavily the whole time.
It went by so fast. The next morning the Camerons were heading to Scotland to see their grandson's ordination to the priesthood, so we all got up early and I. and V. dropped me off at my flat in Beyton. We exchanged hugs and promises to see each other again before I went back home.
Figuring things out on my own has been the hardest part about this whole trip, but I've been amazed by and grateful for the kindness I've received from so many people here, beginning with the Camerons. I've always had someone looking after me. Finding friends here has been my favorite part of coming to England, by far.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Crossing the Pond
Yep, I know I've been in England a week, so this is long in coming. To compensate, it's long in content too. Not a lot of pictures this time, since my camera was packed away for most of these events, but never fear, I'll be posting more pics soon!
At Home
I arrived at home in ABQ on Saturday evening, then had three days with the sibs before catching the plane on Wednesday. There were only three kids at home, since Mom and Dad went to an old, family cabin in Arizona for Labor Day weekend.
Being the eldest sister and, for many years, the default family babysitter, I expected to fill that role again while I was home. It's a hard role sometimes, but it has its perks. To my surprise, my sister Sam, who's nearly seventeen, took charge at dinner the first couple nights, and everyone pitched in to run the day-to-day chores, and I scarcely had to do a thing. It was a little disorienting to realize that my younger siblings aren't children anymore and don't need to be babysat at all. They're gaining that mature characteristic of looking around, recognizing work that needs doing, and doing it. It's exciting to watch my brothers and sisters grow up.
So I didn't babysit, but I did spend some time being a good listener.
This is the face of a broken heart. The vial of bubbles seemed to help a bit.
Before long it was time to fly out of the country. Of course, I didn't sleep well the night before, then got up at 5:00 am to take the two high schoolers to seminary. (Oh man am I glad I don't have to do early-morning seminary anymore.) I got a little more sleep after I dropped them off at school, but then the hours flew by and it was time to head to the airport.
A Day at the Airports
I got to the airport nice and early (thanks to some family friends for the ride!), checked my bags and DIDN'T have to pay the checking fees because it was an international flight (YAY!!), got through security without a hitch, and didn't have to wait too long before boarding the plane and taking off.
An older couple from Michigan had the seats next to mine; they had just finished visiting their grandchildren (they showed me a picture). The grandmother, who was sitting next to me, asked where I was going, and of course wanted to know what I would be doing in England. I've spent almost two months answering these questions, and I feel rather selfish talking about myself all the time. But once I say the word "England," people want to know all about it and it's no use trying to sidetrack them into something about themselves. Oh well. I collected another promise to read my book, anyway; she asked me my name and repeated it to herself, reminding herself to look for it on the shelves. Who knows, maybe in a year or so she'll be scanning the cover of my book, trying to remember why the author's name seems familiar.
I have no idea how many of the people I talk to actually will read this book of mine when/if it is published, but sometimes I'm surprised how earnestly people tell me they'll keep an eye out for it in the bookstores or who want me to send them a copy. Is it just the polite thing to say to a prospective author? Do they simply want to wish me well, or do they want a tiny bit of the glory, to be able to say, "I knew this girl when . . ."? Maybe both? I wonder what I'd say to a person like myself.
Anyway, the first part of the trip, the flight to Chicago, went well. I felt rather cramped in my seat, but I told myself it was only a couple hours. I looked out the window and peeked at the book the grandmother next to me was reading, Nineteen Minutes. The kid in the story killed himself by stuffing a sock down his throat. I turned back to look outside at the clouds.
After we landed, making it through the Chicago O'Hare airport was the next hurdle. The place is huge. International flights took off from the farthest terminal, which I had to take a shuttle/train to get to. I had to ask two different people for directions to the place, and the second one was a guy at the information desk, who handed me the directions on a slip of paper (I guess I wasn't the first person to be confused). I collected another promise to read my book from a baggage handler who waited with me at the shuttle stop. Made it to the terminal (by then the shoulder straps of my duffel bag and laptop were digging hard into my shoulders), tried to find signs directing me to my gate.
I quickly came up to the security checkpoint. I figured I'd already been through once, so there had to be a way for people on continuing flights to skip through. I looked for a way around, but there was none. Maybe I'd come the wrong way? Whether or not that was the case, the quickest way onward would be going through security again. I'd been fine with once, but a second time made me feel surly. I was tired and sweaty in the humid airport air, but I pulled off my shoes, took off my carry-on bags, yanked my laptop out to go in a separate bin, and waited for the security officer to wave me through the metal detector. Passed just fine, just like the first time. This is idiotic, I thought as I tried to get my stuff together again.
Once I got through, I wasn't too disgruntled to notice the difference between this terminal and the others I'd flown through in my lifetime. It was the international terminal, so there were people from all over the world walking by, speaking in their native languages in groups. Mostly Indians; I noticed several flights going to India. They all looked about how I felt: nervous, excited, a little lost, and very tired. The shops just beyond the security checkpoint echoed the international feel of the place, offering duty-free goods (perfume and wine, mostly) and an international variety to the still ridiculously expensive food.
I was hungry, but I figured I'd find my gate and then see what shops were nearby to choose from, so I made my way down the terminal. My heart sank as I realized, from the signs, that my flight was taking off from the farthest possible gate. How far could that be? Probably a mile, no joke. After the checkpoint I had stupidly decided to sling my duffel bag around my neck to one side and my laptop around the other side, and now as I walked the straps were creeping up both sides of my neck. I thought that if I didn't reach my gate soon I would either collapse or be decapitated. And then, to my chagrin, there were no more shops after the first hundred yards, but by the time I admitted defeat there I was closer to my gate than the shops, so I pushed on and finally made it to the gate. I fell into an open chair and breathed for a few minutes.
Then it was time to check in with the folks. It was nice to talk to someone (especially Mom and Dad); traveling alone is hard. One of the hardest parts is that, if you're dumb like me and brought heavy, non-rolling carry-on luggage, you don't have anyone to sit with it while you go to the restroom or get food. After I hung up, I was still hungry and the shops were still a mile back. Being tired is one thing, getting the shakes from not eating is much worse. So there was nothing for it. I took a minute to steel myself, then headed back down the terminal with my bags, bought a sandwich, and walked back as quickly as I could. Took half an hour, and it was not fun. The sandwich wasn't too bad though.
Flying by Night
The trans-atlantic part of my flight was through British Airways, and they were very gracious. Maybe it was just me, but I was glad to be away from the stinginess of American airlines. This was my first contact of the trip with actual British people, and I admit I felt a little giddy to hear the flight attendants speaking in English and Scottish accents as we boarded.
Each seat had a packet on it that included a blanket, socks, headphones, a toothbrush and paste, etc., and there was a small TV screen on the back of each seat. I admit, this was what I was really excited about: watching movies during my flight. The person with the seat next to mine ended up being a young American woman, like me, who was on her way back to grad school at the University of Exeter, studying Shakespeare. I told her what I was up to, and we were mutually slightly jealous of each other, but we got along great.
I had chosen a window seat, excited at the prospect of seeing the ocean as we flew over it, but I ended up having the shutter closed most of the time. We weren't over the ocean until after sunset, and then all I could see was clouds anyway. The thought of flying over the ocean was a little scary, but the flight didn't feel different from any other I'd been on—just longer. Actually, if I closed my eyes I could easily pretend I was sitting in the family van on a road trip.
The entertainment experience was fun. There was a nice selection of movies I could watch. I started watching Out of Africa, then got bored with the sparse, artsy dialog (and boring subject matter). There was a weird glitch with the screen for a little while, so it couldn't play video on demand, but then it restarted so I chose Kung Fu Panda. In between all this, they served a very nice hot dinner (I had salmon with pasta and green beans), and then in the morning a tasty croissant with butter/jam and orange juice.
The only downside of the flight was that there was a very long-legged man sitting right behind me, who obviously felt he didn't have enough space. He kept moving around, kneeing me in the back, and then when he got up to use the bathroom he elbowed me in the head in his haste to get out of his seat. I understand the sufferings of long-legged people, but goodness sakes, leave other people alone about it.
I was tired and tried to sleep a bit, largely without success. Just can't fall asleep in a sitting position. It was alright, though; adrenaline kicked in as we landed, and it was light outside, so I was awake enough to make my way through the airport.
Heathrow
Actually, the airport terminal was apparently too crowded for us to park there, so the plane let us off somewhere else nearby. Two shuttle buses took everyone through a maze of airport byways to a side door of the terminal. I stopped to use the filthiest public bathroom I've ever seen, picked up my luggage, then followed the signs and the crowds to the border crossing checkpoint.
The checkpoint was interesting. I'd been prepared for the experience: a friend told me that the British customs people were particularly anxious to make sure you left Britain again as soon as possible. Wouldn't want any immigration taking place. The officer I talked to asked me all kinds of random, probing questions. "What was your father's first job?" "Do you squeeze your toothpaste from the bottom or the middle?" "How many grandchildren do you anticipate having?" Okay, not those particularly, but almost. I answered her questions, but I wondered how much of it was really her business to know.
I got through in a few minutes, then headed onward, excited now because I was almost done. A crowd was gathered beyond the last barrier to welcome new arrivals, and right in the middle of them was a couple holding a sign with my name on it, smiling broadly when I appeared—the Camerons. The last time they saw me, when my dad was in England serving in the US Air Force, I was three years old, but apparently I look so much like my mom that they recognized me instantly. They welcomed me with hugs and in a few minutes I was walking with them to their car, tired, dazed, but very happy.
I was in England!
At Home
I arrived at home in ABQ on Saturday evening, then had three days with the sibs before catching the plane on Wednesday. There were only three kids at home, since Mom and Dad went to an old, family cabin in Arizona for Labor Day weekend.
Being the eldest sister and, for many years, the default family babysitter, I expected to fill that role again while I was home. It's a hard role sometimes, but it has its perks. To my surprise, my sister Sam, who's nearly seventeen, took charge at dinner the first couple nights, and everyone pitched in to run the day-to-day chores, and I scarcely had to do a thing. It was a little disorienting to realize that my younger siblings aren't children anymore and don't need to be babysat at all. They're gaining that mature characteristic of looking around, recognizing work that needs doing, and doing it. It's exciting to watch my brothers and sisters grow up.
So I didn't babysit, but I did spend some time being a good listener.
This is the face of a broken heart. The vial of bubbles seemed to help a bit.
Before long it was time to fly out of the country. Of course, I didn't sleep well the night before, then got up at 5:00 am to take the two high schoolers to seminary. (Oh man am I glad I don't have to do early-morning seminary anymore.) I got a little more sleep after I dropped them off at school, but then the hours flew by and it was time to head to the airport.
A Day at the Airports
I got to the airport nice and early (thanks to some family friends for the ride!), checked my bags and DIDN'T have to pay the checking fees because it was an international flight (YAY!!), got through security without a hitch, and didn't have to wait too long before boarding the plane and taking off.
An older couple from Michigan had the seats next to mine; they had just finished visiting their grandchildren (they showed me a picture). The grandmother, who was sitting next to me, asked where I was going, and of course wanted to know what I would be doing in England. I've spent almost two months answering these questions, and I feel rather selfish talking about myself all the time. But once I say the word "England," people want to know all about it and it's no use trying to sidetrack them into something about themselves. Oh well. I collected another promise to read my book, anyway; she asked me my name and repeated it to herself, reminding herself to look for it on the shelves. Who knows, maybe in a year or so she'll be scanning the cover of my book, trying to remember why the author's name seems familiar.
I have no idea how many of the people I talk to actually will read this book of mine when/if it is published, but sometimes I'm surprised how earnestly people tell me they'll keep an eye out for it in the bookstores or who want me to send them a copy. Is it just the polite thing to say to a prospective author? Do they simply want to wish me well, or do they want a tiny bit of the glory, to be able to say, "I knew this girl when . . ."? Maybe both? I wonder what I'd say to a person like myself.
Anyway, the first part of the trip, the flight to Chicago, went well. I felt rather cramped in my seat, but I told myself it was only a couple hours. I looked out the window and peeked at the book the grandmother next to me was reading, Nineteen Minutes. The kid in the story killed himself by stuffing a sock down his throat. I turned back to look outside at the clouds.
After we landed, making it through the Chicago O'Hare airport was the next hurdle. The place is huge. International flights took off from the farthest terminal, which I had to take a shuttle/train to get to. I had to ask two different people for directions to the place, and the second one was a guy at the information desk, who handed me the directions on a slip of paper (I guess I wasn't the first person to be confused). I collected another promise to read my book from a baggage handler who waited with me at the shuttle stop. Made it to the terminal (by then the shoulder straps of my duffel bag and laptop were digging hard into my shoulders), tried to find signs directing me to my gate.
I quickly came up to the security checkpoint. I figured I'd already been through once, so there had to be a way for people on continuing flights to skip through. I looked for a way around, but there was none. Maybe I'd come the wrong way? Whether or not that was the case, the quickest way onward would be going through security again. I'd been fine with once, but a second time made me feel surly. I was tired and sweaty in the humid airport air, but I pulled off my shoes, took off my carry-on bags, yanked my laptop out to go in a separate bin, and waited for the security officer to wave me through the metal detector. Passed just fine, just like the first time. This is idiotic, I thought as I tried to get my stuff together again.
Once I got through, I wasn't too disgruntled to notice the difference between this terminal and the others I'd flown through in my lifetime. It was the international terminal, so there were people from all over the world walking by, speaking in their native languages in groups. Mostly Indians; I noticed several flights going to India. They all looked about how I felt: nervous, excited, a little lost, and very tired. The shops just beyond the security checkpoint echoed the international feel of the place, offering duty-free goods (perfume and wine, mostly) and an international variety to the still ridiculously expensive food.
I was hungry, but I figured I'd find my gate and then see what shops were nearby to choose from, so I made my way down the terminal. My heart sank as I realized, from the signs, that my flight was taking off from the farthest possible gate. How far could that be? Probably a mile, no joke. After the checkpoint I had stupidly decided to sling my duffel bag around my neck to one side and my laptop around the other side, and now as I walked the straps were creeping up both sides of my neck. I thought that if I didn't reach my gate soon I would either collapse or be decapitated. And then, to my chagrin, there were no more shops after the first hundred yards, but by the time I admitted defeat there I was closer to my gate than the shops, so I pushed on and finally made it to the gate. I fell into an open chair and breathed for a few minutes.
Then it was time to check in with the folks. It was nice to talk to someone (especially Mom and Dad); traveling alone is hard. One of the hardest parts is that, if you're dumb like me and brought heavy, non-rolling carry-on luggage, you don't have anyone to sit with it while you go to the restroom or get food. After I hung up, I was still hungry and the shops were still a mile back. Being tired is one thing, getting the shakes from not eating is much worse. So there was nothing for it. I took a minute to steel myself, then headed back down the terminal with my bags, bought a sandwich, and walked back as quickly as I could. Took half an hour, and it was not fun. The sandwich wasn't too bad though.
Flying by Night
The trans-atlantic part of my flight was through British Airways, and they were very gracious. Maybe it was just me, but I was glad to be away from the stinginess of American airlines. This was my first contact of the trip with actual British people, and I admit I felt a little giddy to hear the flight attendants speaking in English and Scottish accents as we boarded.
Each seat had a packet on it that included a blanket, socks, headphones, a toothbrush and paste, etc., and there was a small TV screen on the back of each seat. I admit, this was what I was really excited about: watching movies during my flight. The person with the seat next to mine ended up being a young American woman, like me, who was on her way back to grad school at the University of Exeter, studying Shakespeare. I told her what I was up to, and we were mutually slightly jealous of each other, but we got along great.
I had chosen a window seat, excited at the prospect of seeing the ocean as we flew over it, but I ended up having the shutter closed most of the time. We weren't over the ocean until after sunset, and then all I could see was clouds anyway. The thought of flying over the ocean was a little scary, but the flight didn't feel different from any other I'd been on—just longer. Actually, if I closed my eyes I could easily pretend I was sitting in the family van on a road trip.
The entertainment experience was fun. There was a nice selection of movies I could watch. I started watching Out of Africa, then got bored with the sparse, artsy dialog (and boring subject matter). There was a weird glitch with the screen for a little while, so it couldn't play video on demand, but then it restarted so I chose Kung Fu Panda. In between all this, they served a very nice hot dinner (I had salmon with pasta and green beans), and then in the morning a tasty croissant with butter/jam and orange juice.
The only downside of the flight was that there was a very long-legged man sitting right behind me, who obviously felt he didn't have enough space. He kept moving around, kneeing me in the back, and then when he got up to use the bathroom he elbowed me in the head in his haste to get out of his seat. I understand the sufferings of long-legged people, but goodness sakes, leave other people alone about it.
I was tired and tried to sleep a bit, largely without success. Just can't fall asleep in a sitting position. It was alright, though; adrenaline kicked in as we landed, and it was light outside, so I was awake enough to make my way through the airport.
Heathrow
Actually, the airport terminal was apparently too crowded for us to park there, so the plane let us off somewhere else nearby. Two shuttle buses took everyone through a maze of airport byways to a side door of the terminal. I stopped to use the filthiest public bathroom I've ever seen, picked up my luggage, then followed the signs and the crowds to the border crossing checkpoint.
The checkpoint was interesting. I'd been prepared for the experience: a friend told me that the British customs people were particularly anxious to make sure you left Britain again as soon as possible. Wouldn't want any immigration taking place. The officer I talked to asked me all kinds of random, probing questions. "What was your father's first job?" "Do you squeeze your toothpaste from the bottom or the middle?" "How many grandchildren do you anticipate having?" Okay, not those particularly, but almost. I answered her questions, but I wondered how much of it was really her business to know.
I got through in a few minutes, then headed onward, excited now because I was almost done. A crowd was gathered beyond the last barrier to welcome new arrivals, and right in the middle of them was a couple holding a sign with my name on it, smiling broadly when I appeared—the Camerons. The last time they saw me, when my dad was in England serving in the US Air Force, I was three years old, but apparently I look so much like my mom that they recognized me instantly. They welcomed me with hugs and in a few minutes I was walking with them to their car, tired, dazed, but very happy.
I was in England!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The First Leg
I was actually more worried about the ten-hour drive to Albuquerque than I was/am about the however-many-hour flight to England coming up tomorrow. I've made the drive several times before, but this was the first time by myself.
Actually, it was no sweat! I forgot that almost every other time I've driven this route, it's been icy and snowing. Last Christmas I drove through a couple of total white-outs. (Never again, I tell you. Never.) It was so much more relaxing to drive on lovely, clear, summer roads. In fact, I felt so confident that I deviated from my accustomed course and went through Durango, which was gorgeous. Only had to turn around once.
The biggest help, gotta say, was a book on CD that my grandma let me borrow. So much better for distraction than music. By the end of the trip I felt more relaxed than I usually did in past trips with other people taking turns at the wheel. Thanks, Grandma!
I've had fun spending a few days with the fam, and tomorrow I head out to England, arriving Thursday morning, their time. All my stuff is strewn across the living room, and I feel like my brain is divided into that many pieces as I try to gather what I'll need for the next two months. So much to do!
Actually, it was no sweat! I forgot that almost every other time I've driven this route, it's been icy and snowing. Last Christmas I drove through a couple of total white-outs. (Never again, I tell you. Never.) It was so much more relaxing to drive on lovely, clear, summer roads. In fact, I felt so confident that I deviated from my accustomed course and went through Durango, which was gorgeous. Only had to turn around once.
The biggest help, gotta say, was a book on CD that my grandma let me borrow. So much better for distraction than music. By the end of the trip I felt more relaxed than I usually did in past trips with other people taking turns at the wheel. Thanks, Grandma!
I've had fun spending a few days with the fam, and tomorrow I head out to England, arriving Thursday morning, their time. All my stuff is strewn across the living room, and I feel like my brain is divided into that many pieces as I try to gather what I'll need for the next two months. So much to do!
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