Haggis and Spotted Dick

While in the UK, there are certain food items that surely can not be found in abundance elsewhere. This means that within my 18 days of holiday travel, I must eat them all regardless of name or ingredient. Today's meal consisted of what is perhaps the most... curious of dishes.

First off, Haggis, a traditional and popular Scottish dish. You can find this in most restaurants and pubs, as Scot and Scot alike have all tried and devoured the infamous Haggis, neeps and tatties (turnip and mash potato). Yes, Haggis is so famous that they even wrote a series of children's books based on Hamish the Hairy Haggis. So what is Haggis? My dear readers, I'm still not entirely sure.


Haggis is a mixture of a sheep's heart, liver, lungs and sometimes throat, stuffed into its own intestine and boiled. Of course they add spices and garnishes, but the bulk of it is simply a smorgasbord of innards. Was it delicious? Well, I wouldn't put it like that. Would I eat it again? Most certainly.

For desert I had Spotted Dick. I first saw this word plastered in pubs around London. It was a dish, like any other, casually written in chalk as if it were yesterdays happy hour special. What is it? Spotted dick is a steamed cake of sorts with raisins or currants (the spots) baked inside. It's usually served with ice cream or custard, and served as the perfect trashy dessert. Was it delicious? It was a little too sweet for me and I couldn't manage to devour the whole thing. Would I eat it again? That really depends.

Traversing London, England

I say this now in retrospect, as the English days are over and I am no longer in the vicinity of The Queen. From Scotland, I sit back with a tall glass of rum and coke and reminisce on the first five days of my journey. I knew it would be all too soon before I was elsewhere, but London delivered and I couldn't have had better stories to tell.


December 18, 2008
The day began in Kate's room, fog in my eyes and a backpack half my size waiting to be holstered and carried cross country. The next few hours would be filled with travel, and as excited as I was to begin such a trek, I was just as equally hesitant. The road from Germany to England is not as smoothly paved as others, especially when traveling on a miniature budget. Thankfully, I can look back on this and say that not only did I survive the journey, but I mastered it, conquering multiple transfers and modes of public transportation. Here's the rundown, which is totally uninteresting but completely validating to my travelbility: Train from Dusseldorf to Kevalear, bus to Dusseldorf Weeze Airport, plane to England, train to Liverpool Street Train Station, and [red double decker] bus to Burough High Street where I booked into my hostel all by myself and with little to no fear of failure. Ironically, every success I had in London, I owe to my failures in Paris.

I spent the rest of the day being too exhausted to explore, and decided to settle into the hostel accommodations by reading a book in the common room. Nothing special, except that I talked to a middle aged man for a two hours. He was bald.

December 19, 2008
Breakfast in the hostel, which was simple, though all the more delicious being free. I tried to test out my friendliness by talking to a woman with a Doony and Burk purse, but she was way way way more interested in spreading butter than chatting with me. I finished my meal in a defeated silence, then went off to meet up for the free walking tour of the day. This is how I made my first two friends in England.

Meet Emily, Seattle raised, New Orleans educated and pursuing architecture like a mad geek in Glasgow, Scotland. She had giant wacky glasses too, which destined us to be friends, obviously.

Then there was Tom, the Australian boy who needs no introduction. What made him a total joy to be around, I can't say, but his presence made London that much more fun[ny]. Together we embarked on the Royal Walking Tour around the city, hitting the usual spots as Buckingham Palace (where we witnessed the Changing of the Guards), Big Ben, Westminster's Abbey and Houses of Parliament accordingly. Allow me to inject the fact that it was another astoundingly beautiful day.

When the tour ended, Emily and I headed back to the hostel where we attempted to figure out a plan for the last half of the day. After browsing a plethora of brochures and travel guides, we came upon an advertisement for Lost and Found Orchestra (from the creators of Stomp, where music is made from mundane items ranging from glasses and saws to children's toys and traffic cones) and were immediately sold. Best part? It was opening night, seats were still available and with our 'student discount,' we got in for a £5 steal. Let me just use this sentence to reinforce the fact that it was an incredible show!

Still on a production-high, we headed back to St. Christopher's Village (our hostel), bought some clementines and sat back in the common room to people-watch. Highlights of this event: Drunk Irish guy accosting the cutest little French Canadian you ever saw. "Which one would you die for? French or Canada?!"

December 20, 2008
Breakfast at St. Christopher's was a lot more eventful as I was immediately joined by Tom and Stagemaster, another Aussie who was staying in the same room as Tom and Emily. Stagemaster builds stages for crazy rock stars in order to travel and live in London, and we called him Stagemaster because any other name would be less fun to say. We made it very clear that we never wanted to know what his real name actually was, except, I figured it out. SPOILER ALERT! If you wish to remain forever oblivious to the true identity of the human named Stagemaster, then I suggest you skip over this sentence to the picture of Weet Bix below. His real name is Nathan. Disappointed, aren't you?

At breakfast there was an item that looked just like a granola bar, and as I bit into it, Tom straighted up in shock and yelled, "What are you doing?!" What I had just took a bite of was something called 'Weet Bix,' and is supposed to be devoured with milk. Without it, Weet Bix will absorb all the saliva from your mouth and make you cough out dust like a Hollywood mummy. Let's not even get into my experience with Vegemite.

We were later joined by two of the cutest Germans who's words were so lost in translation that you ended up hearing things like, "Ven ve arrived in London, ve buy many alcoholics at ze Duty Free. So, before ve go back to ze Germany, ve need to destroy all ze alcoholics. Maybe you can help." Huh? "Ja."

The agenda for the day was a trip to Tate Modern, a modern art gallery that is free to the public. With it's high ceilings and naked walls, modern art galleries are perfect for the people who love the sound of their own footsteps. I listened as a pair of gentlemen discussed depth, perception, reality. Focus, observe, interpret. 'You guys are amazing,' I thought, 'The only pieces in this block of empty space that amuses me.' Art, it seems, is all relative.

I tried to find something meaningful in Monet, something minimal in Mondrian, something abstract in Picasso, something surreal in Magritte. I failed at art appreciation, why was I there? A handsome London boy walked by and I found myself instantly distracted. I decided to pretend that I was an art enthusiast, throwing my back into a proper posture, furrowing my eyes, putting a thumb under my chin, pointer under my lip and even going so far as to push my spectacles up from the sides of the rim and let out an overly pensive sigh of comprehension. Are all these people faking too? What a show! Suddenly, we were all pretenders and Tate Modern was the most interesting place to be. Art. Is. Relative.

I found myself people watching; the art of people watching. I walked past a red-headed MILF in a Burberry mini-skirt just as she reached down to scratch the penthouse of her upper thigh. I bear witness to accidental vaginal art.

After this, Tom, Emily and I ate ostrich burgers in the Burough Street Market and went out in search of a pub, which was harder to find than expected. Half an hour of aimless wandering left us standing at the door of The Old Thames Side Inn ordering such obscenities as Bangers and Mash and Spotted Dick. Don't ask folks, just Google.

When meals were consumed, we headed to the downstairs bar which was curiously over-crowded... with Santa Clauses! We walked in feeling out of place, but were way too enthralled with the prospect with drinking at the North Pole to turn back. Let me be as clear as possible here, I'm talking 50 St. Nicks, drinking till drunk and having a great time advertising red velvet and faux fur. I was kissed on the hand twice, once on the cheek and even slapped on the butt for the first time in my life, proving that Mrs. Claus does not put out nearly as much as she should. We stayed until the bar closed and stumbled home to our hostel, merry and festive.

December 21, 2008
Tom took off on his own adventure to lands far off, so Emily and I made a goal to hit the main bridges. London Bridge, as infamous as it is, is also the greatest disappointment in all of England. We had walked across it, completely oblivious to the fact that we had just crossed over a nursery rhyme.

Tower Bridge, on the other hand, was a lot more impressive with it's regal towers and Tiffany Blue embellishments. But still, you don't hear anyone singing about it.

Later we embarked on a partially failed attempt to find Brick Lane Market (Brick Lane is elusive, so good luck fellow expeditioners). We did, however, discover Petticoat Lane Market, which momentarily reminded me of The South K. with it's cheap garb and persistant peddlers.

Around dusk, we adventured into and out of Kensington Gardens, feeling closer to Peter Pan and 101 Dalmations than ever before. After people watching and juggling clementines in the common room, we called it an early night and went to bed.

December 22, 2008
Happy Birthday. I felt like I carried a really cool secret around London that day, getting oddly excited to know I was 23 in the midst of a city that didn't actually care. Emily left for Amsterdam that morning, so I had the whole day to celebrate by myself.

My first stop was an impulsive visit to Southwark Cathedral, as it was both free and nearby. I wandered inside to a lady who greeted me warmly and took me on a brief and personal tour of the church. Eventually I made my way to a small room designed specifically for meditation and prayer and gave my thanks for guidance, purpose and clarity. It was here that the confusion and heartbreak of the past six months came into line with each other and every mistake and wrong-doing had an understandable purpose. I cried a little as I strangely do in these cathedrals, and felt an overwhelming sense of love. I was in London, embarking on the sub adventure of the greatest adventure of my life. Maintaining a love in Hawaii would have detracted from my experiences abroad, and though I wondered why it had to end as painfully as it did, I understood that any other way would have held me back from embracing every moment in Europe as my own. Though I still hurt and though I often still feel surges of frustration, I also have faith that there is a divine purpose behind the situation. I have been praying for clarity for months, and in the first Gothic church in all of London, I received it.

Following this minor pilgrimage, I did some light shopping at a variety of markets, revisited The Houses of Parliament, London Eye and Buckingham Palace and then returned to the Hostel to write postcards. Later, I met up with Stagemaster who was thoughtful enough to remember it was my birthday and suggested we go out for a birthday pint (or three). Introducing Bulmers, the greatest drink I've never had. After a couple bottles, we found a certain fascination in defacing candles (ie. bending them out of shape and getting wax everywhere) before it was high time to head home. I did, afterall, have an early flight to Scotland the next morning.

December 23, 2008
I have had no sense of time since my phone gave up on life and my ipod decided to freeze. I couldn't remember how to reset it, so I had to let it die out, leaving me wondering if I was going to make it to the train on time. I must say that I looked rather endearing with my massive backpack, navigating my way ever so politely through the rush hour crowds of London in my summer dress and floral boots. "Sorry, excuse me, entschuldigen."

On the train out of the city, I had a sadness in my heart that came from parting with a place that I had grown attached to. There were only good memories and large achievements that had birthed itself from England, and leaving suddenly seemed premature. With no ipod to distract from this minor breakup, I remained pensive and scribbled in my notebook. "Dear journal, I like London."

On to Edinburgh, Scotland.

Possible side effects

To cut costs on my numerous flights around Northern Europe this winter (four in all), I have booked every ticket for no check-in baggage. Due to the cost-per-bag rule that airlines have implemented within the past year, I will be saving an exact amount of 96 Euro; an atrocity that I am proud to avoid.

Still, such decisions have minor, yet equally irritating, consequences. Most of my concern stems from the fact that I can not bring aboard any sharp and potentially harmful items. As a lady, I always make sure I do carry at least one sharp and potentially harmful item, in fact, most of us do: The razor.

Hear me out. I will be in three different countries which means three different errands for three different razors, and three different trash cans to fill three different dump sites to contain the wastefulness of three different errands to buy three different razors from three different countries. Are you following?

So, I'm in the midst of figuring out if there are any possible side effects of not shaving for 18 days.


Oh, right.

Improve your English

I have never been more proud to be living in Germany than the second after I watched this video. When you're done, WATCH IT AGAIN! (Once again, if you can not see the video, you must view the original page).

The Metaphorical Lemon Takes Center Stage.

Time, it's the most precious thing about this place. I'm not even sure where it goes, if it gets stored or invested, gaining 1.7% interest in a golden Swedish vault. I've accepted that I'll never see it again, for in exchange for my time, I receive a continual supply of stories and lessons, experiences and memories. Spend time wisely, purchase a year of life in Germany, invest in a weekends worth of losing direction and finding ones self in Paris, splurge and celebrate your 23rd birthday with strangers in London, put a down payment on Christmas in Scotland, and donate the rest of 2008 in an Irish New Years celebration. Time is our metaphorical lemon, and I have decided to get drunk off of lemonade wherever I want.

I leave in exactly 5.5 days for a place I have never been. Five nights in England to do things I have never done. It'll be the first time I travel somewhere where nobody is expecting me. I am not with the YMCA or with a family or meeting friends; it will be just me and my willingness to discover a place.

These five days with England will be followed by one week in Scotland. Here lives Ben, someone I haven't seen since I was 19 and living in Portland, Oregon. After all this time, I'm still finding reasons to be grateful to have stayed in touch. Now, in a land far away, I have an old friend to celebrate Christmas with.

From there I move on to Ireland to meet up with a boy who was just a stranger one week ago. Devlin, my fourth friend in Germany, completely altered my winter plans by inviting me to spend New Years with him in Dublin. I'll have six days in Ireland before returning to Germany; exhausted, overstimulated and whole.

Perhaps there is no better recipe to make lemonade than the one that creates itself within us. Happy holidays.

Blond chicks suck and they're not sexy.

The weekend, oh, how I live for it. Every week it's me calling out for Kate, "Let's DO SOMETHING." That girl, she saves my life every time.

This weekend had to be spectacular, it had to be jam packed and tiring and wild, as there's nothing that nurses out a broken heart like good beer and an adventure. So, we started Saturday early, and headed to a Fortuna Soccer game. This is basically the disappointingly mediocre team out of Dusseldorf. It was cold and rowdy, and when the ref made a bad call or the other team scored a point, the crowd would throw their beer cups on the field and stick out their middle fingers.

The best part of the game were the beer guys (nerdy looking beer solicitors with a backpack full of beer on tap that can dispense you a cup whenever and wherever you want) and the guy who walked the isles with a basket full of bread and pastries. Hot dogs? At a stadium? Not in Germany. Now pass me the 9 grain loaf please, danke.

When our team ceremoniously tied, we left the field for greener pastures. We headed to the Christmas market where we imbibed Gluwein (once again, the traditional Christmastime beverage), and then moved on for some Alt Bier (once again, the beer traditional to the Dusseldorf area). Here, Kate and I sat with Cherub and Lazy Eye (I don't remember names when I have had alcohol to drink, so we'll just call it like it is) for a brief dinner. She and I abstained from food as we had a dinner date at a friends house, so we just had beer and watched them eat. This is where the night shifted.

For some reason, it is okay for strange old men to feed a young woman from their plate of food with their personal fork. "Here, try this." "No, thank you.... I said no thank you. What is your fork still doing in front of my face? Is this a cultural difference? Do I really have to, because I think it is gross and it also makes me uncomfortable to have your saliva in my mouth. What's your name again?" So, to settle the situation, I ate the portion that they spooned out for me and hoped only that it didn't happen again. But it did. Kate sat on the side the whole time, watching me get force fed other peoples sauerkraut while claiming to be a wegetarian (Germans switch their V's and W's around). Eventually, Cherub asked if I was extremely conservative or if I was just sarcastic.

"She's just sarcastic."


I chugged the rest of my beer so we could freely evacuate the bar. Before long, we were back at Kate's place, picking up essential dinner items: A pumpkin, a carrot and a food processor. Yes, she carried it around with her for the rest of the night.


Soon, we met up with Devlin, new friend #4! Fellow expat with an Irish passport, we all got along swimmingly as we made a mess of his kitchen. Pumpkin soup was in the making, and while they peeled carrots and boiled onions, I sat on the side sloshing wine in my mouth to kill other peoples bacteria. Drink, Nix, alcohol kills germs.

When our soup was digested, we headed out to the altstadt (old town) for more fun and excitement. Here, we met up with Sebastian and tried to look classier than we were. One round of Jäger, please, coming right up. Cheers to friendships abroad, and let me tell you why.

Conversation turned to holiday plans, who's going where and for how long etc. Devlin, Mr. Irishman here, mentions returning home to Ireland and my eyes light up. "You should come," he says, "round trip tickets are like 50 Euro." I'm heavily inebriated at this point, but I can still comprehend the value of a week in Ireland for 50 Euro. "I'll show you around, we'll do this we'll do that," and all I can process is Ireland for 50 Euro. I slide my little black book across the table and order him to give me his information. Email, phone number, social security number, whatever I need to track him down because I am going to Ireland for 50 Euro.

My entire holiday plans changed like that. I tossed Greece and the 200 Euro plane ticket that would get me there for a birthday in London, Christmas in Scotland, and new years in Ireland. Cheers to Friendships abroad.

If that wasn't the best part of the night, then this was; A video I do not remember taking, where my only friends abroad stood by my side and blond-bashed. (ps. if you can not see the video, you must go to the original page).

Highlights of the video: Kate's self righteous and overly positive, "to Nix!" Sebastian's, "Nix, don't ever get blond." And my extremely drunken slur depicting just how awesome I really am. Cheers to friendships abroad!

We ended the night as perfectly as possible. And though still woozy in the morning, I had a new spirit in my soul that always comes back when I watch that ridiculous video. Blond chicks suck and they're not sexy! I'm going to Ireland! I'M AWESOMEEEE!!!

Oh, hail no.

I had just returned from my daily run (which was extra dangerous on this particular day for the high winds and sporadic weather left me with a small bump on my head and a leaf in my mouth) when The Mom sat me down to have our daily lunch. Our habitual seating arrangement has me facing the window, so when abnormal looking rain drops began to fall I was the first to jump up and declare that it was hailing!

"Girl, the sun is shining. It don't hail when the sun is out."

"Mal-func-tion. I don't know anything about hail," I told her, "tropical island, remember?"

A little disappointed, I sat back down to finish my meal. Ten minutes later, after nearly giving The Mom a heart attack, I was screaming and dancing in ice cubes. (Even robots can tell when rain is frozen).

Notes on a Parisian Adventure

Paris, the undeniable city of love. Some say it is overrated, others say that it lives up to its reputation, surpasses it. My experience in Paris stood for something greater, a metaphor for all trials in life. I was taught to fail with grace and then to learn from my mistakes, to try again and to succeed. Although there was an abundance of beauty in architecture and culture, I was more overwhelmed by the beauty uncovered within myself. Forevermore, when I think of Paris, I'll remember self growth, accomplishment and resilience.


My first day in the city was a disaster, a failure of epic proportions. As soon as I existed the rail system, I made my first mistake; I walked in the wrong direction. My goal was to find The Seine and walk along it, only making small detours to the monuments along its banks. Instead, I followed signs I didn't understand and walked myself two hours away from the river. It was below freezing and the sun had set hours ago.

My problem wasn't just that I had started off in the wrong direction. The mistakes that I made that night were mine alone, because, and it all boils down to this, I was too ashamed to look like a tourist. I had intentionally left my guide book in the hotel room as my ego didn't want Parisians to catch me with my nose six inches deep in it. I carried a map for the four hours that I was lost and not once did I pull it out to locate my whereabouts. I was embarrassed to be that helpless American and I suffered for it. My knees hurt from the constant backtracking, the never ending walks and the pointless detours. I was cold and frustrated and it was my pride that got in the way of productivity.

Eventually I found The Seine and the relief was immense. I emerged out of the urban clearing right in front of La Place de la Concorde, where there stood La Grande Roue (the ferris wheel), the Obelisk and a pair of gorgeous fountains. With the abundance of art and statues inhabiting the area, it was easy to forget that the ground I walked on was once a place of royal and mass bloodshed. Were I transported back in time 215 years ago, I would have seen the head of Queen Marie-Antoinette roll. I looked around for a cake stand, but irony didn't seem like a Parisian past-time.


I immediately spotted the Eiffel Tower, which appeared close enough and became my next destination. Because I could see it no matter where I was on The Seine, I walked in its general direction while still avoiding lonely alleyways.

It took me an hour and a half to get there. Let's not forget that I had just spent the last four hours walking aimlessly, both knee caps were giving me hell (did someone just turn me into an 80 year old woman without my consent?) and the creepy old guy who sold me my hot dog tried to convince me to kiss him. The Eiffel Tower is not awesome enough for that! It was huge and blue and I saw it. I was done. 9:30 pm and I wanted to go home.

Everything in Paris is easier said than done. Because I was too afraid to use the metro system, get lost and die on French soil, I made the final mistake of walking back to the place where I had arrived. I miscalculated the distance to the Chatlet Station, ended up back at the ferris wheel and still had to walk another hour and a half beyond that to get where I needed to go. By the time I arrived at the Disney station (The whole trip was so The Mom and The Kids could go to Euro Disney), it was half past midnight and I had just missed the last shuttle to my hotel.

Let's talk about panic. I didn't know where I was in conjunction to my bed, there were zero taxis and Downtown Disney was nearly empty. This is where I prayed.

I looked for the nicest person around (there were few options at this point) and asked if she knew where The Sante Fe Hotel was. "Yes," she said, "up straight, take a right, ten minutes away." Wrong. Up straight, take a right then a left then another left, thirty minutes away. My body wanted to die.


As the hotel appeared before me, I had the strange feeling that I was walking into a bad Peewee Herman movie. The area was quiet, too quiet as they say, except for old Christmas music playing ominously from the surrounding speakers. I was the only one around and as I got closer, I noticed that the door to the lobby would open at random times for no reason. Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close. The Christmas music played on.

When I got the the room, The Mom was still up waiting for me, concerned that her Tropical Island au pair froze herself to death at the Louvre. I managed to breath out half a story before she was out of bed and standing in front of me. We spent the next thirty minutes exchanging horror stories of the day. Me with my endless walking, and she with the fear that her daughter had frostbite (no, just red toes and an overreaction). Suddenly, everything seemed funny and we were on the ground, clutching at our sides. Before we went to bed she said, "Girl, as soon as you said it took you four hours to get home, I knew you just needed to laugh about it." Laughter, it seems, doesn't get enough credit.

By morning, I was still exhausted. I slept poorly because my knees wouldn't bend, and getting out of bed (I split a bunk bed with The Boy, ironically being left with top bunk) was dangerously close to deathly. Still, I got dressed, massaged my knees, threw on my coat and grabbed my travel guide. I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.


Although reluctant to reenter Paris, I begged myself to go on. I was unsuccessful the first time, which was all the more reason to try again.

As I caught the metro into the city, I read my travel book, circled my destinations and studied up on public transportation. Most of the night before was spent walking, and with an efficient underground system at my disposal, why waste time when there's so much to see? After I arrived, I hopped off with a new attitude and headed for the Notre Dame.

Along the way, I stopped at stores and boutiques, looking for a treasure I could bring home to say, "I bought this in Paris!" The day turned beautiful and when I arrived at the cathedral, there was a new strength in my heart and blue skies above my head. The Notre Dame, needless to say, was astounding. I immediately stood in line to get inside, and I once again I was overwhelmed with the feeling of privilege. I touched the pillars and inhaled through my nose. I said prayers and gave thanks for the opportunity to be living my dreams. I knew inside that I now had the courage to carry on and the strength to overcome fear and failure. I cried for the blessing that life has been to me.

After I had wandered around and had my fill of history, I left and headed towards the Louvre. I shamelessly consulted my map (in public), quickly found the subway station, purchased my own tickets using the automated ticket machine and jumped on the Metro. I even went so far as to perform a very dangerous trick called... The Transfer. Yes, I transferred myself from the yellow line to the purple line (no injuries) and emerged right smack dab in front of The Louvre. My knees had a banquet party and everyone left with a goodie bag.

I had been lucky enough to stumble across The Louvre the night before. The only problem was that I found it at 11 pm, and no one was there to let me in. I walked around and peered inside, wanting desperately to go in. Unfortunately, I had to meet The Mom in a few hours and going inside would only have been a tease. I have promised myself to return again, as I will conquer The Louvre and live to blog about it.

As we headed home, I couldn't shake the feeling of accomplishment. I had survived a foreign city all on my own. Indeed I had failed at first, but every single mistake I made was a lesson learned. If you're going to travel, do it productively. Ask questions, carry a map, take risks, use public transportation and most importantly, disregard how you may seem to people you will never in your life see again. In one night of absolute misery, I was able to shed a layer of self-consciousness and be that much more free to accomplish my goals. Although I spent a weekend there, I still wouldn't be able to say if Paris lives up to its expectations or not. For me, Paris had simply personified the classic adage: If at first you don't succeed, try and try again.