Keep Calm and Carry Sheets

Because I disallowed photographic evidence of my disfigurement during those two weeks in the UK, let me describe it to you.

One morning I woke up with my left eye and crusted and puffed shut while buttery mucus oozed from the corner.

My lower lip was swollen like my feet, and all along my face, neck, hands, arms, toes, feet and legs were trails of red, angry bulbs of itchiness that made me want to commit epidermal suicide. All the scratching infected my eye and I wept tears of English goo. Even my mucous membrane hurt.

This, amigos, is what my body did when I had a bed bug slumber party. Rather, I slumbered while bloodsucking parasites partied.

It was the very end of my year off and dude, I stayed in some shitty hostels around the world. There were warnings of a bed bug infestation in OZ, crawly creepy bitey things in Thai bungalows, mice in Malaysia and even a tarantula chillaxing overnight on my backpack in Ecuador.


But nothing turned me into the elephant woman like one night in Brighton.

It was my own fault. I hadn't booked a room and when I arrived, all the good places were full. An hour of walking around with my pack in the dark made me desperate and that's when I saw the Holy Grail of Holy Shit: The Churchill Inn Hostel.

'VACANCY.'

Two middle-aged ladies with graveled, Marge Simpson-style sonorousness sat in the stale foyer chain smoking with a bottle of whiskey and a re-run of East Enders. One tossed me the key without looking me in the eye, nor removing the cigarette from the corner of her mouth, though her velveteen tank top was covered in silvery ash and bits of spotted dick.

I trudged up the green shag to the second floor, blissfully unaware of my impending nocturnal blood draw. The room was nothing fancy: peeling paint, a shower with no curtain, a sink coming off its hinges, and a carpet that hadn't seen a vacuum since 1975. The strong, sanitary perfume of Lux hand soap loitered in the air like the rosy smog of grandma's house. Pink medallions of the stuff were scattered along the sink.

At least it smelled clean. Even if I was sleeping in a Fight Club factory.

Hey, you know? I've stayed in much worse.

'I'll take it.'

'You will?'

In hindsight, I should have given her incredulity more weight.

'Um... Yeah!'

'Suit yourself, sweetheart. That'll be 40 pounds. Cash only, of course.'

To be honest, I had a good night's sleep at the Churchill Hostel. I also had little red marks on my forehead and chest the next morning.

They weren't itchy. Just some random dots. Over the next few days I stayed with friends in Brighton, toured with locals in Liverpool and took a long train ride to one of my favorite magical places on earth: Scotland.

I noticed some new red dots on my hands and feet and wondered - like the idiot I am - where they came from.

'Hmm, I wonder where these came from?'

I went to sleep my first night in Edinburgh and woke up looking like Woogie. Cue the weeping goo.

'Yeah, it's the time of year for bed bugs,' the chemist told me. 'It takes about seven days for skin to react. Looks like your reaction is a bit violent, eh lassie?'

He prescribed Benadryl and some pasty pink sludge to smear over the bites. It looked like half my body was covered in dried strawberry yogurt, topped with a black eye. I've never felt sexier.

'How will I ever marry Prince Harry looking like this?!' I cried to Dr. Robbie, hard at work at the STI clinic in London. A professional appraiser of all conditions weird, he was begging for photos of my epidermic meltdown.

'Darling, did the sign on the door actually read YOUTH HOSTEL?'

'Well, no. It did say HOSTEL, so I figured it was just a crappy one.'

'Indeed... Jules, I should have warned you. HOSTEL in the UK also means halfway house. You likely spent the night with drug addicts and prostitutes. If you don't feel better by tomorrow, go to an NHS clinic - god knows what else you've caught.'

Ew.

The next morning I walked into a clinic of one of the most venerated, sought-after, free public healthcare systems in the world and was promptly kicked out for not having an appointment.

'We could see you next month. Or you can go to the private clinic in town, lassie, but it'll cost you.'

I guess you get what you pay for. $250 and 20 minutes later, I had heavy drugs and strict instructions to wash all my things, including my backpack. But it was too late.

I called my friend in Brighton to relay the saga:

'Marty slept in the guest bed after you, and it is so odd... He has these terribly itchy red spots...'

The Girl with the Ironic Tattoo

The thing that really caught my eye was this English lady's bum.

Not only was she wearing her denim shorts in a high-waisted homage to all things geriatric, but her bottom seemed to be fleeing from the severity of the actual cut-off, a style designed to both encourage permanent wedgies and recurring yeast infections in equal measure.

On her left cheek, she had tattooed an angel drinking a pint of beer.

Eat your heart out, Portland!

London hipsters are bringing new levels of charm and class to your movement, so throw away your tapered acid wash jeans and buy some assless chaps already!

But don't quit your knitting gypsy band...

I was privileged enough to do an ethnographic study of London's hipsters during the Lovebox music festival this month. It was Robbie's idea - he is musically cooler than me, though we were mostly there for Gay Sunday's electropop-off between Kelis, Robyn and Blondie (Kelis won). Otherwise, it was a line-up of bands way too cool for me to have ever heard of.

Beardyman? I'd call that a five-o-clock shadow, sir.

Architecture in Helsinki? I really liked them until I found out they were Australian... I guess 'Architecture in Hobart' doesn't sell ringtones.

To be fair, I'm ignorant about most bands. The last time I paid attention to music was 1994 when my bestie Nina and I went to see Bush, Korn and the Presidents of the United States of America. Even then, I was only a fair-weather fan.

But I wrote Kurt Cobain a haiku when he died. At 14, I didn't have any real problems. However, in my poem to Kurt I so totally related to his, in 5-7-5 syllable stanzas, as taught by our junior high school English teacher.

To make myself even less cool, The Diplomat escorted me to his memorial in downtown Seattle. I placed my hand-written prose next to the shrines of burning candles while forlorn people in short-sleeved lumberjack shirts woefully strummed 'The Man Who Sold the World' on their ukuleles.

'Ok, let's go, honey - we're going to be late for Swan Lake.'

More excited for the tutus, I bounced all the way to the ballet hall. Well, you know, bouncing with angst.

So it wasn't a big surprise to find myself lost with the London cool kids. I did what The Diplomat encourages in all situations of self-doubt - I went shopping. At the festival vintage market. To replace my very un-ironic sneakers with something everyone else was wearing: leather boots.

'You look like a lesbian cowgirl, but in a very obvious, American sort of way.' Robbie is very encouraging. 'But you wouldn't fit in in Shoreditch - sorry darling. Try to act like you don't really want to be here.'

But I did!

And secretly, so did everyone else including Unfortunate Wedgie Girl, who was trying to dance to Metronomy in a very awkward sashay intended, I think, to ease the denim burden on her beer-swilling angel.

The question is, was it PBR?

Beauty Queens and Bumblebees

I have never asked for seats in the barbed wire cage section before. In fact, I didn´t know that´s what I was ordering when I dragged my friend Robbie to the soccer match in Buenos Aires last weekend.

The last thing on my South American to-do list was see a soccer game live. I´d tried in Colombia and Peru, but it never worked out. It was either too dangerous to go alone or too far away.

The only ´sporting event´ I´d found until now was a cholita wrestling match in La Paz, where grown women and men dressed up in spandex diapers and proceeded to knock each other around the ring, against concrete walls and with metal chairs, to the delight of expletive-screaming Bolivians. And their children. At least I learned some new vocabulary from a 12-year-old... isn´t socially-accepted violence great?

So when Robbie arrived, a Londoner more preoccupied with the design and color scheme of the uniforms than any actual sport, I thought ´Oh, Robbie´s European, he must like soccer! A real sport. This is my last chance... this is going to be the best soccer match EVER!!´

Sometimes people find my unwarranted optimism endearing. Robbie does not, which is partly why I love him. But, humoring me, we made our way up the concrete steps to the top of River Plate stadium, one section away from the opposing team´s fans, chanting merrilly along with the drumline and waving their black and yellow banners.

´I like River´s red sashes,´ observed Robbie, bored. ´They look like beauty queens. Little beauty queens running around with bumblebees... geez, where can I get a beer?´

The ´nosebleed section´ is a double-entendre in Buenos Aires. We entered a section rimmed with a tall chicken-wire fence encircled in barbed wire. It was the kind of security measures you see on the outside of prisons (but not in Bolivia!). And they don´t sell beer there.

Police officers stood at the exit and watched the game with their batons at the ready. River Plate fans had their red and white flags out and peole were chanting and jumping around with lots of drums and not enough cowbell. It was as I had imagined: lots of singing, some fireworks and pretty good soccer.

The game started and ended uneventfully. Halftime was a bit of a snore - intermission entertainment has yet to catch on, but I see opportunities galore for marching bands and kiddie slam dunk contests in South America - and the worst part was there was no garlic fries, milkshakes or vendors tossing peanuts in the stadium. Only questionable-looking hamburgers.

We weren´t even in the ´Los Borrachos del Tablon´ section (the Terrace Drunks), but there was good reason we stood for an hour post-match waiting to leave: they were letting the Olimpio fans out first. Not only were we waiting for them to exit the stadium, but exit the actual neighborhood should a mass exodus of beauty queens go all cholita in the streets.

Alas, the only inappropriateness came in the form of four lascivious teenagers who jumped on the chicken wire and thrust their pelvises in the general bumblebee direction with accompanying crude hand motions.

It wasn´t classy, but it was classically South American.

Puritanical Icelandic library systems

Greetings all,

Thanks for all the e-mails from home, I really appreciate everybody writing to me! I am blogging/emailing to you from my friend Shivani´s email account, as mine
is considered obscene for the Akureyri public library, and it won´t let me
send. Sorry.

Iceland is treating me well. Sort of.

Since we last spoke, I think I told you about how I was going to climb
(okay, walk) on the largest glacier in Europe. Of course, I jinxed myself
when I had this conversation with Leif, our guide:



Me: So, has anybody ever been hurt on these glacier walks, as in they´ve
died Þ

Leif: Well, no. We have had some cuts and bruises, though, but in my 14
years leading this tour, nothing bad has happened.

Me: Yes, but I´m talking about death, Leif. Has there been any death Þ

Leif: (chuckle. uncomfortable silence. worried glances exchanged).

Greeeat. So we didn´t have to sign any waiver, nobody asked us if we had
high blood pressure or if we were pregnant, and Leif was the only guide for
about 15 people on the trip. No matter.

We trekked for about 3 hours round-trip and everything was amazing - mounds
of ice towering above us, crevasses plunging below, all of us precariously
balancing on ridges... everything was going great until I stopped doing my
John Wayne walk as directed and caught my cramp-on on the strap of my other
boot. Then splat. I fell on a rock-hard glacier. On my knees, no less.

Leif, my knight in shining armor, didn´t even notice. Nothing broke (I
don´t think) and I continued down the trek until I crumbled in the bus - no
crying, thank you very much. Just a few agonizing gasps here and there. I
couldn´t walk the rest of the night and my knees swelled up like
grapefruits. Of course, that was like four days ago and I´m very resilient
- all that´s left are some huge purple bruises and a lovely splattering of
yellow, which is making me look like I have jaundice.




Luckily, we moved on to Lake Myvatn, which is a serious attraction for the
locals, as well as swarms of tiny flies who live in the grass. Myvatn has a
lot of cool stuff around it - bubbling pools of mud, lava sculptures, an
imploded volcano, craggy fissures... but the best part of all was the hot
spring lagoon.

Perhaps you have seen such things on television. The water, which stinks
like rotten eggs thanks to the sulphur, has so-called healing powers that
sure did a number on me. The sun was setting, as much as it can in this
country of 24-hour light, the mist was rolling in and I was sitting in a
pool of milky moonstone-colored water for hours. Lagoons are as to
Icelanders as bowling alleys are to Americans. They are everywhere, the
locals hang out there, and I want to be a local! It was the most beautiful
night we´ve had here, and despite the $18 entrance fee, we went back the
next night for more. Hey, its got healing powers...

Other notes of interest: we saw 2 humpback whales on a whalewatching tour
in Husavik, a bay in the north where the whales frequent. We only glimpsed a
fin and some tail, but it was pretty majestic.

Much more majestic, however, was the trip to the Phallological Museum
beforehand, where we saw penises encased in formaldahyde from nearly every
mammal in Iceland (except for a human. luckily a guy in Colorado who has
named his penis Elmo has agreed to donate his specimen upon his death.
apparently Elmo was a model for the adult industry for many years. how
charming). Naturally, this was a very educational experience for all of us
and we acted like complete adults the entire time. Did you know the Sperm
whale has a much larger penis than a Blue whale, despite being smaller in
stature Þ Fascinating.



The smallest specimen was from a hampster, we had to look at it through a
microscope. Poor guy.

We only have 2 more days of camping before we head back to Reykjavik for
some TLC in an actual bed. The nightlife in Reykjavik is rumored to be of
the best in Europe, although things don´t really get started until 1 a.m.
We are moving further west through the fjords today, and we´re on the hunt for
more hot springs. So far, we´ve found a new one every other day, and we
even managed to do some sunbathing in Akureyri, Iceland´s second-largest city
with 15,000 people. A big city is a relative term.

Hope all is well for you!

p.s. I do apologize for not using the question mark in this e-mail - I
can´t find it on the keyboard.

From the most expensive place on Earth - Iceland

Hi all,

I´m writing you from the lovely capital of Iceland - Reykjavik. In all of it´s excessively expensive, racially homogeneous, and high rise condominium glory, we´ve exhausted the sights of the city within two days. What am I doing in Iceland? Good question.



When I was traveling in Europe four years ago, I met some really fun British med students who I traveled with for about two weeks to Germany and Switzerland. We´ve stayed in touch all these years, and they finally graduated and are now on their way to being *real* doctors. So this is sort of a senior trip I´ve been invited on.

We´re leaving the city today to go camping around the perimeter of the island. I´m writing this from a travel info center, so I must be quick. But here are a few observations:

Icelanders are beautiful, as evidenced by our trip to the hot springs last night. Everyone looks like Claudia Schiffer (from 10 years ago, maybe) and I don´t think it´s going to be good for my self esteem to spend too much time in the Blue Lagoon in the future.

I´m not lying about it being the most expensive place in the world. Last night I paid $32 for a 12-inch pizza with a few bits of eggplant scattered on the top.

The sun doesn´t set. At midnight it sort of drifted around the horizon, but never actually dipped below. Officially, the sun sets at 12:09 a.m., and rises at about 3 a.m., but I´m pretty convinced the Icelandic concept of sunrise and sunset is off.

We´re off to see the biggest waterfall in Europe, and the divide between the European and North American ridges today. Will write more from the interior!

p.s. We were trying to find a fireworks stand to celebrate the Fourth of July, but I think I´m going to have to celebrate with a $12 beer and some really annoying John Phillip Sousa humming.