Author: Molly On the Move
Touchdown in Stansted.
Below is a draft saved on my Tumblr since last August. So here we go. The first of my backpacking blog entries. Roughly unedited. The date was Friday, August 19, 2011, and covers our overseas crossing from Atlanta to NYC to London Heathrow to London Stansted.
So it’s the first time I’ve had a moment alone with my computer and some yummy WiFi. And I can’t think of anything except for how tired I am.
I came home on Tuesday evening from Athens. Once I’d run all the necessary errands, I began packing on Wednesday at noon. For a 20-day trip plus THREE MONTHS of Oxfordian heaven. So to say I was frazzled was an understatement. After 1.5 hours of sleep (oh yeahhhh), I was chilling at the airport gate. Flying was quite the nail-biter today, given the fact that 3/4 of our group members (myself included) were flying standby.
Fortunately for us, we were cleared onto the first flights to New York and London that came our way. For the duration of the 27 hours of plane, eight-hour layover, plane, and 1.5 hour bus rides, I floated in a constant state of eat-sleep.
But here I am, safe and sound in the Stansted Inn, a hostel with a private bathroom the same size as the bedroom, with sheep bleating in the front yard and trees arching over the long rocky driveway.
We dined at The George, a five minute walk from our hostel. I had grilled fish, chips, peas, and a celebratory class of wine. The crowd was old – just one woman in the pub was under fifty.
And now, after more eating, it is time to sleep again.
This, my friends, is surreal. Later gators.
A trip overdue
This is quite overdue. But for once I may have the time to do it. What is “it,” you may ask?
Last fall, I not only went backpacking across Europe, but also studied at Oxford University for three months. Oxford University. It’s still surreal for me to say. And those were the best months of my life, I didn’t write about them as I told myself I would. Even though I wanted to remember every detail. Fortunately, I am a trigger-happy photographer, so my adventures are well-documented in images.
All this is to say…I am not in Europe. But in the coming weeks, it may look like I am.
When I grow up, I want to be Big Ben.
Introducing the interns.
Just came home from dinner tonight with the summer work crew at the bookstore I am interning at for the summer – booksellers and interns, the whole tamale. One of the booksellers has only been in Athens for seven weeks. Originally from Arkansas, he visited a friend in Athens, ended up staying five days, then ended up getting a job. He unknowingly lived in the same dorm as another one of the booksellers at Belmont College. The two of them are presumably five years my senior. A hefty portion of the meal was spent talking to two fellow interns and English majors, the three of us wide-eyed and ogling as we discussed places we wanted to visit.
Then there was the double major-double minor girl who is obsessed with Disney princesses, and the English Ph.D. student with red lips.
It didn’t take long to come to the realization that eighty percent of the table had no idea what to do with their lives. One intern could not see past a two year stint in the Peace Corps. Another said she spontaneously signed up for the LSAT yesterday because she was freaking out about graduating in December.
So I suppose all this is to say that I am looking forward to working with some like-minded individuals this summer. They seem both befuddled and befuddling. But they all seem like the people who like their life wrapped up with some depth and wonder.
Caprese salad.
Caprese salad. Naples, Italy. 9.3.2011.
Good punt.
Funny how all I do when I should be studying
Is mentally traveling back to Oxford
Where students go punting after commencement
And drink champagne
From long-stemmed glasses
In little flat boats.
I thought we were amateurs.
Here we stood before the start of the Twilight Gambler bike race on April 28. This was when Carolyn and I began to discover the nuances of an “amateur” bike race – namely, that it’s a bit of a misnomer. First of all, we didn’t train. And as you can see, we missed the uniform memo. We rocked sorority tanks that billowed behind us like parasails. And then, not pictured are our post-race belaugered legs. True to the amateur name, we hauled chunky mountain bikes across the Georgia countryside. Fifty-year olds breezily passed us on their featherweights and told us we could make it.
But was it worth it? Oh. Heck. Yes. We are beasts, after all. Twilight, allow me to introduce you to my dust.
Molly On the Move 