cam bridge

With less than two weeks left of the program, I thought I'd do a quick little update. (I'm sorry Dad and Judy - I haven't served you very well these last couple of months!)

We were sucked into the City of Lights (?) a couple weekends ago to tour the city with Jace and Jenne.

That place never gets old.

We went to the Catacombs on the last day, and although I try to refrain from posting too many museum-like photos, I must show you at least a couple pictures of this place.

Tunnels of the Catacombs underneath the city of Paris, lined by walls of bones. See those big white things? Skulls. And the hundreds of little white things above and below the skulls? Femurs. And behind those whiles are just more piles of more bones, all of which had been dug up around 1770 and thrown in the tunnels due to cramped and disease ridden cemeteries.

Supposedly there are something like 6,000,000 bodies stored in those tunnels.

The heart design really cheered this place up.


We love these two.

We left them Saturday night around 9:00pm to catch the 11 pm bus back to London that would get us in at 6:30 am. Unfortunately, there were some MAJOR complications at the bus station and 4 of our friends from Cambridge weren't able to get on the bus. They were therefore stranded in a bus station on the outskirts of Paris at 11pm with no place to go and 55lbs down the tube.
Needless to say, we felt sick saying goodbye.
Little did we know, we had our own adventure (although not nearly as bad) waiting for us.
At 2:30 am we reached the English Channel and had to shuffle off the bus to go through customs before we could load the 3:30 am ferry with our bus.
After being cleared through customs we load the bus and notice that 2 seats are empty. Apparently customs is unsure about two of our passengers and isn't letting them leave just yet, but keep telling us there is hope that they'll make it through.
So, 3:15 rolls around and no luck. 3:20 comes and still no luck. Finally, at 3:25 the entire bus resigns to the fact that we will not be making the 3:30 am ferry. Bummer.
Thankfully, the ferry runs every hour.
So, we all settle in an try and get some rest.
After writing in my journal I look up at the clock to see that it is now 4:00 and we still have two empty seats. Our bus driver then heads into customs to find out what's going on and returns to let us know that it'll just be a few more minutes.
Well, 4:17 hits and the two finally run on.
We rush over to the ferry and check in at 4:20 only to be told that loading is closed and we'll have to wait for the 5:30 am ferry. Bummer.
Unfortunately for me I have class from 9:00-12:00 that morning. Normally I wouldn't sweat it too much, but it was my art class that meets only once a week and the entire grade is based off of our time in class.

Well, we finally arrive in London at Victoria Station at 9:30 only find that the tube is temporarily shut down, of course.

Oh, and just so you have a visual, this is me at Victoria station.
Trust me, had you been on that ferry and bus, you too would have put on as many layers as possible. And perhaps if you look closely you can see my mascara running from my drool stained face.

Long story a little less long, we make it back to Cambridge at 11:00, I jump on my friend's bike at the train station and head to class as fast as I can.
I run up the stairs to my class and listen at the door. It's silent, which means that everyone's painting. So, panting and slightly out of breath (I had dropped the sweat suit on the train to Cambridge fortunately), I open the door as quietly as possible only to find a potbellied, naked man standing on a table straight in front of me facing my direction.
Bam.
I manage to withhold any type of exclamation so as not to disturb my fellow painters. At this point I was functioning on pure instincts which were, "Get as far away from this foreign object as possible." This path lead me directly into an innocent bye-standing easel. The easel seemed to be as petrified as I was because it immediately crashed to the stone floor as to avoid any further interaction with this man.
So much for my quiet entrance.

on the bonnie, bonnie banks

One of the things I was looking forward to most this summer was attending the HP7b Premiere in London. I figured it would be a fitting ending to the work that has completely dominated my adolescent years, and if truth be told, my adult years as well.

When I found out we would be in Scotland during the premiere, you can bet I was a seriously considering dogging the whole thing this summer.
But instead we boarded the bus to the birthplace of the series with smiles on our faces.

We of course stopped by the Elephant House where JK wrote a large portion of the tale.


I wish I would have taken a picture of the bathroom. The toilet cover was a Harry Potter collage and all over there were love notes to JK etched in the walls. I'll be the first one to admit that my obsession and deep love for the series is...abnormal. And I'm fine with that. But I have to admit that with my first step into the cafe I was just overcome by the magic of it all. Not the kind of magic taught at Hogwarts (although I wish it were that kind) but the magic of the human spirit. Imagine, a grown woman was inspired by a story about an 11 year old wizard and she believed in this story so strongly that she was willing to give up stability with a secure job and live on pennies in order to make her vision a reality. If I feel silly for loving the world renown stories, imagine how she must have felt as a grown woman, believing in a fictional story she didn't even know would sell. She believed in herself when all rational thinking probably told her she shouldn't. And I think this is what you get from the Harry Potter stories - a permanent, if not at times doubtful belief in one's self against all odds. And perhaps even more important, the stories demonstrate a strong sense of duty to a cause greater than one's self and a willingness to sacrifice everything for it, hoping that everything will turn up in the end, but honestly feeling like it won't. And I feel lucky to have grown up with the books that took me to a place full of courage, sacrifice and faith. Thankfully I've begun to realize that those things aren't just fantastical, they're real. Because really, aren't we all pushing and striving for something greater than ourselves, something that requires courage, sacrifice and faith?
Or perhaps I have carried this to a level of seriousness it wasn't intended to go. I doubt that.

(Edinburgh Castle. The supposed view from the place where JK would sit and write the blessed story. Remind you of any school of witchcraft and wizardry?)

And now I'll stop there with all things Harry. After all, this is supposed to be a chronicle of both mine and Alex's life. Or parts of it anyway.

On the way to Scotland we stopped by Fountains Abbey.

I couldn't help but think of sweet Kel Hole the entire time, so this pic is for you, friend.

And for Alex's sake, we did escape from the birthplace of HP to Middle-earth on our hike to the Trossachs of Scotland.



I couldn't help but feel like the ringwraiths were going to appear out of the sky at any moment.
It was terrifyingly beautiful.

Overlooking Loch Lomond.

See the small head poking up? Proof that my mom is definitely still here with us.

And finally a few pictures of the city itself, which was fabulous.

View of the castle from the Sir Walter Scott Monument.

In an effort to complete the classic fantasy references I've included a picture of Mr. Tumnus. Besides, my mom loves Tumnus and paid top pound for this pic.