London Bridge is Falling Down: The City of WhoLock

By Caitlyn Tendick

 

I could describe how the Tower of London isn't really a tower at all, or try to explain to you the slightly offensive man that hangs out in Trafalgar Square with a hawk.  I could tell you about the Underground and explain the unique scent that bellows from the tube openings or I could tell you about how the city is overwhelmingly massive and a force to be reckoned with.  I have heard many times about how magnificent

London is and there are plenty of travelers, bloggers and writers that I’m sure could paint that city in such a way that makes you believe that the clocks are dripping with gold and the royalty has left its mark in jewels everywhere you go.  The thing is, London isn't a town for poetics.  I think to give it poetics actually does it a disservice.

I was there with two friends this past November and while I had been there before, I think I enjoyed the city much more the second time. It is big and it is overwhelming and it is hard to take everything in all at once.  Now, there are plenty of stories I could tell you about my trip there; all of which seem so insignificant and monumental when I think of them now.  But, since my blog mainly seems to be about stories and about writing (or the lack thereof lately) I want to spend my time pointing something out to you fellow readers and travelers that I think does not get discussed enough.  London is no longer a real place.  It has ceased all economic or world power that we think it holds.  No. London is a story; a conglomeration of different tales and legends all combined into one anthology.

 

Think about it for a moment.

You have Big Ben where Peter, Wendy, Michael and John, all flew past on their way to Neverland and where Jack and Rose danced to Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade.

You have the old Dickensian streets playing out before your eyes, the dirt and the grit of a smoggy London filled night rolling through the alleyways and the twisting down the cobbled side streets that still exist.

You have Fleet Street, home of the demon barber and the tavern dedicated to him where you can get a fantastic meat pie and a glass of mulled wine.  Just ignore the image of a flashing blade as you exit that night and hope that the streets are a bit crowded as you weave back home on unsteady and travel logged feet.

You have the black smoke that reaches out from the gap on the London Underground, stealing away the people that are easily forgotten if the gap is not minded.  Out on the streets there are numerous the forgotten alley’s that we all pass without a second glance, never aware of the portals that are contained at their end.  Door and Neverwhere’s slew of characters are waiting down there.

Shakespeare’s Globe sits in the heart of this town, old stories of betrayal and murder playing out inside its dome while out on the outskirts of the nightlife and bustling roads, Charles Dickens house still sits.  His walls are covered with words he wrote a long long time ago and his writing desk still sits empty, waiting for another story to be composed. 

Connecting these two worlds is the infamous London bridge that we see knights riding across to go to jousting tournaments, carrying favors from their ladies while the bridge itself holds echoes of markets and women hanging from windows to call down to the men below.  Then, it is beneath these bridges that ghost stories were made and where hands reach up from the icy tombs they have been banished too, beckoning the lone wandering as they try to find their way home.

By Caitlyn Tendick 

All the while, Big Brother is apparently watching us in this city, giving a whole new meaning to the London Eye.  But, James Bond is protecting us, racing his numerous flashy cars up and down these roads while wearing designer suits bought from the shops in the ritzier part of town.

There’s Hogwarts Great Hall, Sherlock’s Baker Street, and the fear that the Doctor has instilled in us that something horrid happens here every single Christmas season.  You have Kings Cross Station with Platform 9 ¾ and while not fiction, the gruesome images of Jack the Ripper still haunt the passages leading through the forgotten parts of the city.

And let us not forget that Spike and Drusilla were once from here and that Oliver begged for more at some point in time.  Let’s also remember that Canary Wharf was attacked by Cybermen or that Nick's High Fidelity record store is tucked between other crumbling business in the cheaper side of town. 
 

RomComs have their lovers meet outside the National Gallery in front of the lions. Diagon Alley is hidden somewhere in this city an hidden inside the tunnels are tales of secret meetings and deceit.

There are countless moments that we think of when we think of Europe.  It calls up images of Arthurian Legend or pilgrimages from the Canterbury Tales.  London is always at the center of it all and has continued to be there throughout the ages of literature.  Because of this, it is with a firm hand and tone, that I am declaring London to no longer be the city in which we believe that Queen resides or one in which we even call a part of our world.

London, is not a real place. London, is a book that we somehow have the ability to step inside and have been granted the privilege to walk its pages.

You can find Caitlyn Tendicks pictures here at http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/.  Go give her love and then like me on Facebook.

Whimsy Travel's

Monument in Lucerne Switzerland

For this Travel Tuesday, we're going to do something a bit different. In the past four years, I've been lucky enough to get on planes (of which I'm deathly afraid of) empty out my bank account (which I kind of hate) and see some pretty amazing things (which I love). Normally, I am a homebody. I like my apartment and I like my computer. I read my books and write my stories and Friday nights normally don't have me leaving my apartment because the lure of a good cup of coffee is more important. But then there’s travel. When the bug hits, it bites with a vengeance and has a tendency of ripping my insides apart until I am buying a ticket to someplace new.

Abandoned castle outside London

This first happened close to four years ago. I had been saving up for years to go to Europe, but it wasn't ever a reality for me. Then, after some personal tragedy, I did what only crazy people do. I booked my trip and three months later, I took off to Europe for close to two months. Since then, I have gotten to go and see different cities here in the States and have even made my way up through Canada. There are weeks that I live on Top Ramen because of it but traveling has never been something I regret. The stories that I hear during my travels are often times humbling, and the things I have seen and experienced have made me into the kind of person that I am proud to be.

Now, switching gears.

I've known Caitlyn since I was about four. This girl has been a part of my life for over twenty years at this point and I can still remember my first meeting with her. Little did either of us know that the day her mom and her came over to introduce themselves to my family, that the two little girls that were sizing each other up in ways that only four year olds can do, would still be friends years later. We grew up next door to each other in a small little country town and have been pushing each other to be the kind of person we each want to be since our playground days. I can't speak for her, but for me, this girl has never allowed me to give up on my writing and she has been instrumental in pushing me to continue to improve. She's the girl that I ran around Chicago with. She's the girl who is responsible for some of the gorgeous coast pictures you've seen in previous Travel Tuesday's and she is at fault for me watching so much Doctor Who and Torchwood. But hey! I got her hooked on the Whedonverse so its a fair trade.

And now we're teaming up. But don't worry, my wonderful blog readers (of which there's probably about a dozen of you), we will not use our powers for evil.

Welcome to the face of Whimsy Travels!

Caitlyn and Moi

And while we are not as cool as this face

A pretty awesome face that we are not

We are still pretty awesome.

Our goal is to travel the world, taking pictures and writing about what we see. We've both met some incredible people when we've left our small town here in Oregon and we want to meet more of them. So, doing this as cost effective as possible (because lets face it, during the day her and I are simply a hairdresser and a florist), we plan to go and seek these people out. Ask them their story. See the passions that they have in life and maybe, through these small actions, remind the world that living your life exactly the way you want it, is possible.

Chicago
Photo courtesy of Caitlyn Tendic
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Our first trip is planned for the end of November. Stepping foot across the sea's, we plan to visit Cardiff, Wales, Edinburgh, Scotland, and London, England. It'll be ten days of seeing and meeting all that we can while living on little to no sleep and indulging in the coffee that, from experience, isn't very good over there. Except at the Unicorn Cafe. I cannot express how much I love that place.

Here's the catch, though. We need your help. Following this crazy dream of ours is being done on a minimum wage budget while both of us are trying to balance the life that we're sure all of you are trying to do as well. This is not something that we want to stop us, however because both of us have learned from experience that you don't get what you want if you aren't willing to think outside of the box. After all, the only time its appropriate to think inside the box, is if its bigger on the inside.

We aren't asking for much. Our hopes is to just raise enough money for our plane tickets over there. If you would like to donate, please visit our fundrazer page at https://fundrazr.com/campaigns/0YTh5

Anything you can give would be of great help. Of course, you will get something in return for this. If you donate, please send your contact information to whimsytravels@gmail.com. While we are in Europe, we will be picking up postcards of the places we visit and sending them off to everyone that helped us get across the sea.

Is this crazy? Of course it is. But no one ever got anywhere without being just a bit crazy. We want to write. We want to document the world through pictures and words and share it with everyone else. Our goal is to travel this world and discover all the little things that make it tick. We don't want to play the tourist. We want to be the people to live their lives. “We live as though the world is as it should be, to show it what it can be.” Caitlyn and I want to help show the world that.

If you would like to donate, please visit our page here: https://fundrazr.com/campaigns/0YTh5

Don't forget to email us at whimsytravels@gmail.com and let us know your contact information so we can send you some postcards.

Also, check out Caitlyn's flicker page, which I tend to steal pictures off of relentlessly: http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

And, as always with the closing spiel, like this blog on Facebook, follow it on Twitter, or check out my Pinterest page. The links for all are on the side bar of your screen.

Travel Tuesday - Heceta Lighthouse, Ghosties and A Squirrel

The Oregon Coast

There is a place, covered by the mists of fog, where mermaids sing and dragons roam. In this place, the air is filled with salt that pixies feed off of as they dip down towards the oceans depths, gathering star fish to place in the night sky. Bent and beautiful looking creatures tear apart crumbling castles made of sand and sailors hear the sirens song as they try to navigate through the night.

Hook

Growing up in Oregon, I have always been surrounded by images that feed my hungry imagination. However, when I was younger, I tended to dream about adulthood whereas now, I dream of Neverland. One thing has not changed through the years, though. I have always had a fascination with the Oregon coast line. I remember when I was a little girl, I was always made to sit in the back seat during car journeys. In true Oregon fashion, the clouds would be thick and grey the moment we arrived at the beach and would threaten to release salty drops of rain without any warning. I loved this though. I loved looking out a rain spattered car window and watching the waves crash against the shore as we drove by. I loved the rocks that jutted from the water or the way that the air smelt crisp and fishy. During those moments, when no one talked and old

rock tunes wound their way through the car speakers, I used to look out over those rocks and think that if I could only see to the other side, I would catch a glimpse of a mermaid or some other little creature that we had yet to discover. These images came directly from watching way too much Hook as a kid and thinking that the scene with the mermaids swimming through those green waters was probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Of course, since those days, I have become a bit more dark with my fairy tales. The once simplistic beauty of a mermaid has become a bit more sinister as I imagine it luring wanderers to certain death. The pixies of my dreams have a bit more of a tricksters side than they once did and this magical land where you are said to be happy is only joyous as long as you don't ever want to return home.

"Fight! Fight for my master, defender of  the house-elves!"

The little hunched over goblin like creatures with hooked noses that I used to imagine climbed the rocks, are nice though. Goblins like that are always nice. Think, House elves. :) But of the none Kreacher variety.

Anyway....

I am not necessarily a fan of Oregon. I can acknowledge its beauty and think that the lush green trees and the rolling hills are sights to see, but I think there are much prettier things in this world than what I have around me. That being said, I have yet to see a coastline that tops that of Oregon's. So, yay on you Oregon. You've managed to convince a girl who doesn't really understand the hype that people give you, to love your coastline enough to make it the setting of the novel she's writing.

I visited the red rooftops of Heceta Lighthouse in Florence Oregon, over this past week. I am always struck by the color that those roofs produce in the gloom of the fog and the way that the light still shines brightly, cutting through the grey surroundings. Its something out of a painting. Now, Heceta is one of the only lighthouses I've visited but I keep coming back to it. It's said to have a haunted little history and one in which I love.

Legend has it that the caretakers of the lighthouse had a small girl. One day, while the girl was out playing, she passed away. As all good ghost stories go, we don't really question the details of how this girl died but at least this story does have a grave to back it up. After the child’s death, the mother became so distraught, that she threw herself over the cliffs edge, falling to her death. It is said that she still haunts the groundskeepers house though, looking for her child and waiting for her to come home. Locals have dubbed her the Grey Lady; a name that is all too fitting given the state of the weather most of the time.

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

The Grey Lady has a certain penchant for construction workers it seems. In one of the more infamous stories, a man working on the groundskeepers cottage, came face to face with the Grey Lady inside the attic. Startled, he fled from the attic, breaking the attic window in the process. His fear became so much in fact, that he left the attic as is, leaving the shattered glass scattered across the attic floor as he fixed the broken window from the outside. That night, some of the guards heard scraping coming from the attic above. When they went to investigate the next morning, all the glass had been swept into a neat pile at some point during the night.

Needless to say, these workers didn't wish to return to work afterwards.

Items are said to be moved within this house, images of the Grey Lady herself are said to have been captured through the attic window as she stares mournfully out at sea, and sometimes, late at night, you can see her wandering around the bay, looking for her little girl.

Ghost stories aside, Heceta Lighthouse truly is a pretty lighthouse. It's one of the originals left in Oregon. Every time I see it up close, I tend to dance around the land, looking out over the sea, pretending to see ships coming over the horizon. These ships are of course pirate ships.

There is a lookout point not too far down the road from this lighthouse though where you can stare back at the structure and suddenly, the thoughts of ships and the excitement of being on the coast, disappear a bit. Here, standing off in the distance, is this beautiful column of white and red, looking out over the ocean, all alone. There's something so pretty about it. It's like when you look up at the stars for the first time when you're a little kid. Suddenly, you feel very very small.

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Heceta is of course one of the many things that the Oregon Coast has but in my opinion, it is one of the best. After hiking up to the lighthouse you only need to drive a bit further, crossing over a terrifying bridge (which my friend drove over about three or four times this trip because she kept getting terribly confused) to get to Mo's.

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Yes. Mo's.

It is the fish restaurant on the coast where you can sit and gorge yourself on actual fish as opposed to the cardboard imitations that you can find in your frozen food isle at the grocery store. It is also the place where every table has trivia cards with questions on it that barely anyone knows the answer to and your eyes are always bigger than your stomach. A garage door is opened during the nicer days of the summer in order to open up the restaurant even further. The story goes that after Mo's first opened, a woman had parked her car outside of the restaurant and instead of putting it in reverse when she meant to leave, she drove straight through the establishment. They decided to put a garage door in place of the wall after that, proving that the owner had a sense of humor that most in this world do not. To this day, that same garage door, remains.

You can eat at the original Mo's in Newport and across the street is a small little dock where the seals hang out. Unfortunately, you are reading this blog and cannot hear my marvelous seal impression but I'll have you know, it's kind of amazing.

Also, this is Otter Rock. 

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Not to be confused with the actual area of the Oregon Coast called Otter Rock. No, this is my friend, who is very well fed, and who has no fear what so ever.

If you have not had the chance to visit the Oregon Coast, take it if the opportunity arises. If anything, look up some of the pictures that have been taken there over the years in order to get a sense of what I mean. 

Also, does anyone else have the horrid habit of having this scene pop in their mind when they're around a beach?

THE FEELS!!!!

If you would like to read more about Heceta or Mo's, click on the links below.

Heceta Head Lighthouse: http://ouroregoncoast.com/florence-guide/1404-the-gray-lady-at-heceta-head-lighthouse-an-oregon-coast-ghost-story.html

Mo's: http://www.moschowder.com/story.php

Like me on Facebook and message me if there is something you want to see me blog!  Also, if you are a fan of the scene above (which no one should be) go to my Pinterest page and check out the Nerd Love board.  You will not be disappointed. You can find the link on the right of your screen.

Travel Tuesday - Venice, Italy

Let me take you back in time. Step inside your little time traveling box of choice, captained by your time traveler of choice, and lets go back... lets say two days? Pretend it's a beautiful Tuesday morning. You are just sitting down with your cup of coffee or mug of tea. The children, if you have any, are still asleep (or are at least quiet) and you are in the perfect state of being to read this blog.

In other words, I'm sorry for the delay.

Our topic of the week is Venice Italy. Not to be confused with Venice Beach, California. Even though Venice Beach has equal amounts of interesting attractions and a ninety year old woman who roller blades down the boardwalk in a Wonder Woman bikini. That tale is for another day.

Again, Venice, Italy. Home of the sinking city and the most expensive cup of coffee. I didn't drink said cup of coffee (which I regret) but there is apparently a little cafe in St. Marks Square that sells an espresso for close to forty euros. Which, at the time I was there, translated to close to seventy American dollars. All I can say is it had better have been a damn good cup of coffee with a diamond sitting at the bottom of it and a very attractive Italian man ready to take me to bed.

The city was not under water while I was there but the planks to walk on during its sinking months were present. They made a makeshift little walk way all across the square, winding in completely unnecessary ways in order to add to the maze like qualities of this town. It is easy to get lost in Venice. The alleyways are narrow and long and unless you are a native, you are not sure which way you should be going. And if you see a bathroom, use it. Their public restroom signs are plastered all over these alleyways, directing you to where one is, but it will take you on a small little tour through the city before leading you into a dead end. I considered it to be Venetian humor.

I only stayed in a small section of the city, wandering around the main bay area and entering into mask shops and kiosks selling colorful jewelry and fine scarves. While I probably circled the same ten block radius at least a dozen times, I still found something new with each lap. Venice is an amazingly compact, hot, decadent and sweet smelling city that is filled to the brim with shops and food and people walking with alcohol in hand. Don't make the same mistake I did, by the way, and start drinking at eleven in the morning just because it is a city that allows an open container in their streets.

The canals themselves were just as packed as the alley's, the gondolier navigating through them with an amazing ease and waving and chatting to each other as they passed. Some sang as they dipped their oars in the water, gracefully gliding between crumbling brick and stone and some even wore the stereotypical red and white striped attire in order to add to to the intoxicating atmosphere that this city breathed. But just because these gondoliers live in a city full of romance and Cassanova lore, doesn't mean they aren't going to talk on their cellphone while rowing their boat back to its home.

My only wish is that I could see Venice during its masquerade nights. The shop windows were filled with beautiful ball gowns and feathered masks dipped in gold. Everything shimmered and sparkled and as I sat in St. Marks Square, I closed my eyes and imagined the young and the old all dressed up, a mystery, dancing with partners under stars and candle light. Venice, after all, just seems like one of the few places in the world where fairy tales are a reality.

But then I remember how disturbing those masks actually are and decide that maybe me at one of those Venice Circus parties is probably not a good idea.  

Italy alone inspire so many images. It inspires that feeling of romance on hot sweltering days, the scent of spice and wine filling the air, and more pasta than you could ever want coaxing you into out of the way

restaurants. With the water blueish green and shimmering under the nearly white rays of the sun, Venice is one of the cities out there that truly does deserve the term breathtaking. Now, is it really as I have described? Probably not. But that's the thing. In this compacted little city that is filled with tourists and people trying to make a living, you somehow don't remember if human stench permeated the air. You don't remember if you felt the dirt and grime that usually comes with large cities. You don't remember rudeness or chaos or moments of sweltering exhaustion. You remember feeling beautiful and alive and knowing secretly that most of that probably has to do with the amount of alcohol you've consumed but you don't even care because you have gelato in one hand and you are sitting in the middle of a famous canal, sipping champagne.

Does anyone else have any good Venice stories since I *ahem* have a skewed memory of this place?  Also, has anyone been to one of their circus's? 

Like me on Facebook and Twitter to keep up to date of when I blog (and probably hear more about my writing woes) and comment or send me a message on what you would like to see me blog next.   

Life Moves Pretty Fast...

Take a look at this monument. If you sort of recognize it but can't quite place why, let me be of some assistance.

It is the monument featured in Ferris Bueller's Day Off during probably the most famous scene from the movie. Of course it is just in the background but to anyone that loves that movie, it is recognizable. And yes, that picture above is one that was taken in person. It was in the middle of the night, in a somewhat deserted area of Chicago during late fall when my friend snapped it and I bounced around like little girl.

There are often things that we go back to in our adult life that, upon reflection, had a lot of influence on who we were to become. I first watched Ferris Bueller when I was tiny. Sitting on an old blue patched sofa, the wallpaper surrounding me fuzzy and green (not even kidding), my brother put in the then VHS for us to watch while both my mom and dad were out on a job. I couldn't have been any more than seven or eight. I remember watching it and feeling grown up because here was a movie that not only my older brother found to be good, but it used words that I was not allowed to say. There's something always a bit decadent about that as a small child. I was taken into this inner sanctum where my cool teenage brother dwelled, and furthermore, there was a lack of parental supervision around to stop the movie if it crossed lines that a young child should not be privy to. Ferris Bueller, when I was that age, was my sneak peak into the adult world.

Now, it has of course remained one of my favorite movies to date. I don't watch it all that frequently but there is something about this film that has always stayed close to me. Maybe it's the fact that Ferris lives in a world of his making and is able to defy the conventions that normal society wants to place upon him. Or maybe it's the fact that I found Matthew Broderick extremely attractive. I don't know.

I was in Chicago during the fall of 2012 on two separate occasions. A friend of mine who has known me almost as long as I have been alive, had moved there the previous year. Since Chicago was on my bucket list, and this girl is practically a sister to me, there was no doubt in my mind that I would make my way over there. Now, despite my avid love for this movie, it didn't even occur to me that most of it was filmed in Chicago. I think I was so excited over the fact that I was in a city that was filled with iconic brick houses and brewed the most perfect cup of coffee I've ever had, that I didn't make the connection. Not until we were down by Navy Pier, talking about going to the Sears Tower (or Willis Tower if you want), did I think of it. The fact that the DVD for the movie was on sale in a gift shop may have turned the light bulb on in my little nerd brain.

As the sun was setting over Chicago, my friend and I made our way to Sears Tower. There's something about cities at night that appeal to the writer in me. There’s more of a chance for heroes to lurk in the darkness here, slipping down alleyways, unseen by the general populace. And in a city like Chicago, with the history that it has, ghosts lurk in the dark corners of this world, running their fingers across brick and steal that will be here long after we are all gone. I've been in a lot of cities in the middle of the night but Chicago tops them all. It's the place where stories are made, where hearts are broken, and where if you close your eyes, the sounds and smells of the twenties can almost be grasped. Men in nice suites and fedoras walk those streets when your eyes are closed, tommy guns in hand.

Also, I know, my sense of theatrics or romanticism is a bit off. You don't have to tell me.

The city had gone dark by the time we climbed Sears Tower, where we of course, leaned our heads against the side of the glass partition and looked down. You can't be in Sears Tower without doing that and the smudge marks that lined the windows at forehead height, told that story very well.

Looking out over this city at night I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the sheer presence that pulsed through the air. The city itself was so full of hope, passion, culture, death, destruction and gritty realism that every light that flickered before me seemed like a little piece of the world working in tandem with each other to create this beautiful array of life. It's a feeling that never ceases to grow old and each time I'm faced with it my heart flutters in what I can only describe as the moments following three triple shots of espresso on two hours of sleep. Not that I've done that but I hear that its like your heart wants to leap from your chest and maybe do a small dance across the floor.

Either way, Chicago is beautifully dangerous and messy at night and is easily a city that tempts you into becoming lost in its strange and eerie depths.

I don’t know how long we spent in the tower, over looking the city and creating a mental snapshot to take home with us one day. But as we left, we were full of excitement and full of energy and life that we just wanted to breathe back into the world. It was then that we began our epic quest to find that statue. In a evening spent retracing Ferris's steps, how could we not?

I will gloss over the fact that we thought we found it at one point and how when we finally realized, upon stumbling over the actual structure, that we had not, we felt foolish and slightly high on our ability to convince ourselves of anything. But, we did eventually find that iconic red structure, lit up in the middle of the night, standing strong and proud in the middle of an empty expanse of concrete. I may have let out a cry that was unbecoming of someone who is supposed to be a woman, and then promptly ran to the structure to give it a hug. I think we called and texted everyone we knew that night, telling them in breathless excitement where we were and what we were seeing. For one moment, my friend and I were transformed back into little girls. We were the two children that had grown up in the middle of the country, running around fields and pretending to surf on hills, now dancing around the city streets of Chicago under the watchful eyes of the street lamps that served as stars.

Since coming home, I've watched Ferris Bueller again. It provoked a wave of nostalgia in me, even though I had only been absent from that city four a few months. As I continued to watch the movie, I had to laugh. This movie that was created before I was even born, that was watched a few times during the early days of my childhood, apparently had an undeniable influence on the person I am today. My penchant for dark haired boys in jeans and a white t-shirt was suddenly explained (though, maybe my love for it came first and it is the reason why I love the movie?), my later love for all things Beatles suddenly had more roots, and my undeniable urge to visit Chicago, even though I knew absolutely nothing about the city, was all playing out before my eyes. Not to mention the fact that Ferris's world is the type of world we all wish we could inhabit, at least for a day. I feel like I am constantly chasing that type of day, experiencing it when I can, and realizing how fast it moves by when the day comes to a close.

For, in the famous words of our dear Ferris “Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop a look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Photo of the monument is courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Travel Tuesday's - Stone Circles of Scotland

I have either been fortunate enough to experience the places I have, or I have been stupid enough to pay little to no attention to the state of my bank account. This results in me thinking its perfectly okay to take off to a foreign country or a city I have not stepped foot in yet. Depending on the day, I have differing opinions on my travels. Don't get me wrong, they are all good. I regret none of them. Though, my dwindling bank account does cause for some nerves.

During whirlwinds of not enough sleep, too much drinking, too much caffeine, and lots of laughter, I started down this journey of wanderlust. I slept in beds that were more like pallets and drank wine on the rooftops of Rome. I stood on the top of the Eiffel Tower at midnight and got caught in the Scottish rain. When thinking back on the things I have seen it feels a little surreal. As I try to recall moments and memories, I see it as more of a story. It was something that happened to somebody else. The girl who gets on these planes is someone different than I am now.

Nostalgia done! Fin!

It is Travel Tuesday! I don't use exclamation marks causally so you know to take me serious when you see one. 

In a little out of the way field on the outskirts of Scotland, I stepped foot inside my first stone circle, or, as my Irish whimsy demands, a fairy circle. While others that I had joined up with during these days were off canoeing, a few of us decided to take off and explore the country side. As we wound our way up a gravel path, lined with trees that were reaching towards the cloudy and gray heavens, we stumbled upon an open field with stones scattered about. As we approached it became apparent that this was one of the stone circles that is so prolific in the British Isle's. We had seen Stonehenge by now but there was something about this little circle here that gave us more pause. Maybe it was because no one was around or maybe it was because it wasn't fenced off from tourists.

We made our way towards it, our clothes becoming soaked with the dew and rain that comes hand in hand with this country. Being who I am, my creative brain took hold and as we trudged through the wet grass, I began weaving the tales of fairy circles. It is said you shouldn't go in one without being invited. Fairies, after all, are mischievous little creatures that are bound to attack if you piss them off. Or so I've been told. I told my companions how you should never step inside a stone circle or else you can expect dire consequences. Then, ignoring my own advice, I jumped right in. And when I say jumped, I do mean that I ran towards the circle itself and jumped inside. I hugged these rocks. I crossed in and out of the circle itself. I danced in honor of the small little girl I was was.

The next day, I fell and busted open my knee and came down with the flu.

Lesson learned.

Before the temperature though and before I walked with a limp for a good couple of days, a man who had been near the circle began spinning the legend that apparently surrounds these stones. It was said that if the stones themselves were counted, you'd never get the same number twice. It was like a thought bubble appeared in all of our heads at once. Challenge accepted, sir!

We counted those rocks numerous times and it wasn't until our seventh or eighth try that we got a consisted number. 49. There are 49 rocks there. Believe me, our brains hurt from the amount of times we double checked that.

I'm interested to go back one day and see if that number still holds . I like to imagine that the little old man is still there, having not aged a day, telling all the people who stumble upon this circle the legend of the stone numbers. He probably laughs as girls like me tempt fate and jump inside the circle without heeding any sort of warning. And while my knee still hurts a bit from that fall, it is one of my fondest memories. I should have known better than to mess with the Scottish fairies. Them Scot's don't like us Irish that much.