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?

A Symbol of Fertility

The midsummer pole is not actually the straight, plain log I had in mind.

'It's a symbol of fertility,' explained Elsa, the retired schoolteacher I met backpacking in Java months ago.

She and her husband graciously invited me to join their extended family for the Midsummer Solstice Festival, Sweden's cool pagan schnapps party.

'We want you to experience a real Swedish cultural event!' Per beamed.

So IKEA's twice-yearly sale doesn't count?

I didn't know real Swedish culture featured a 15-foot wooden phallus on the grass.

My kind of lawn ornament!

The Midsummer lunch was a smörgåsbord of meatballs, quiche, cheese, smoked herring, raw herring, herring cake, herring pie, green salad (with herring), and lots and lots of schnapps.

'Toot tooot!'

Per played his bugle to signal the start of the drinking games and raised his glass for a short group sing-a-long.

We took a sip or swig of Absolut. Five minutes later we did it again - we sang about nature. And again - cue the socialist ditty. The bugle intervals pared down to 30 seconds until we were summoned, tipsy, to decorate the pole.

By decorate, I mean Elsa's son cut down a real alder tree, stripped its branches and handed them to me with some twine. Because tradition dictates any phallic symbol with Midsummer's ovaries flopping in the breeze should look realistic...

Well, the significance of the two circular wreaths dangling from the pole's arms is really up for debate:

Opinion one - woodsy ovums, giving the pole that jolly hermaphroditic crucifix flavor.

Opinion two - dangling scrotum sacks blowing seed to the wind, allowing the perpendicular pole to theoretically get it on with mother earth.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow!

Suddenly, this is reading like The Smutty Traveler.

When we finished camouflaging the pole, we stood in awe. Forty four relatives of Per and Elsa, slick with schnapps or chocolate cake (or both) crowned with wildflowers, frolicking hand-in-hand around this Scandinavian sex symbol, topped with the Swedish flag.

That's when the singing started. Some tunes were like a public service announcement:

The bear is sleeping, the bear is sleeping
In it's calm den
He's not dangerous as long as you're cautious
But you can never trust him!

This lesson must have been learned the hard way. I liked the one with choreography:

Little froggies, little froggies
It's very jolly to watch them!
(hold your neighbors hand and skip to the right)
No ears, no ears they have
(ear cupping motion)
No tails, no tails they have
(tail pointing)
Oh, quack quack quack!
(hop in a circle)

Little piggies, little piggies
It's very jolly to watch them!
(now, skip to the left)
Both ears and tails they have
(more ear and tail pointing)
Oh, poink poink poink!
(more hopping)

Ancient Swedes apparently found frogs very disturbing creatures, pointing out their audial inferiority to swine and confusing their natural call with ducks.

It happens. Well, it happens in real Sweden.

$12 for a pint of weak beer? Well, okay...

Greetings from the land of the midnight sun,

Apparently ´twinkle´ must be a dirty word in the lexicon of Icelandic public libraries. The Internet filter last week filtered me out - but I´m back in Reykjavik now a things are much more liberal here.

MUCH more. I think I mentioned the nightlife in my last message, but I am now well-versed in the cultural rites of the Icelandic club scene, rumored to be among the best in Europe. I think ´best´ is a relative term. Then again, I am American and I scare easily.

Basically, things don´t get started here until about 2 a.m., when we made out way into the mayhem. I could go into details about the debauchery I witnessed, but some of it is kind of x-rated and my mother is reading this, so I shall give some simple highlights:

Complete and utter inebriation is pretty standard. People in Iceland aren´t drinking because they like the taste of beer with 2.5 % alcohol that costs $12 per pint. They want to get drunk.

And after that task has been achieved, they want to throw their pint glasses in the streets and then pee on it. Makes perfect sense, yes?

There aren´t really any cops around to keep things on the up and up. One guy memorably jumped on the back of the police van´s bumper, out of view from the rear window and proceeded to flip everyone off, until the van stopped a block later, the cop opened the van door, shoved the guy into the back, then sped off. Apparently there is no such thing as Miranda rights in Iceland.

Things degenerated from there, and we came home at about 6,30. My friends told me this is completely normal. Viva Europa!





It is my last day in Reykjavik before I make my way home. We are going to the Blue Lagoon today, a legendary hot pool that I am told is actually green at the moment because of algae. Yum. After two nights of living like a rock star, sitting in a steaming pool of green fuzz actually sounds pretty good.

Two weeks is a perfect amount of time to be here - I am desperately missing the moon and stars.

Where shall I report from next? Maybe Tanzania...

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.

Lewd and lascivious - thanks, Spain

After nearly a week in Spain I have several tales to tell fine art, street hustlers and public masturbation.

I spent four full days in Barcelona after a tumultuous train ride from Nice (which is another story altogether, involving a Frenchman on speed). My first day in Barcelona I devoted to Gaudi, zipping around the Sagrada Familia -- the church that has been under construction for nearly 100 years, don´t have to cover up your shoulders to go in there, haha -- and poking around Parc Guell, both equally awe-inspiring works if architecture and art. I am officially a Gaudi fan, so it was a good thing I went to Barcelona because he´s everywhere.

The next day I did Picasso, visiting the museum and being somewhat impressed by his transformation from a classically trained painter during his teenage years to a complete nut by the end of his days. That was the fine art portion of this posting.

I took a third day to pop around Las Ramblas, the main market street that has a lot of FBC (that´s Barcelona futbol for you ¨football¨ fans) jersey shops adjacent to Cartier and Louis Vuitton. An interesting mix.

Las Ramblas has the best street performers I´ve ever seen. I think I´ve found a new calling in life because the job is simple: dress up like your favorite historical character, don´t move and people give you money. Jesus and Mary were particular favorites of mine, as well as a man painted white, sitting on a toilet reading the paper. Give him 50 cents and he mimicks constipation. Genius.

The people in Barcelona are smart -- they know stupid tourists are easy to rip off. There was a street game that always started as randomly as it ended involving three boxes and a little ball. You are supposed to find the ball, the catch is you have to pay 50 Euro each time to do so. Sometimes you win; often you lose because the other people playing with you are not in fact tourists, they are in on the scam. It looks like they´re winning all the time, and to the average joe, that means you could win too. I watched a poor Polish guy get suckered out of 150 Euros this way.

All in all, I really enjoyed Barcelona and met some very nice Australians to scout out the city with. The shopping there has so far been the best I´ve found, the mom and pop stores are unique and cheap, lots of jewelry and tapestries.

I must note that the Barcelonans are pioneering the fight to bring back the 80s. I´m calling it the Mullet Movement, because men and women alike, clad in striped 3-inch headbands and one-shoulder sweatshirts paired with stretch pants were walking around everywhere in Barcelona. Without realizing how horrible they look. I was thoroughly disgusted to see this trend, which should be quarantined in Sweden, infiltrating the rest of the world.

From Barcelona, I decided to travel to Madrid. But sometimes the journey is more important than the destination...

I hopped on a train thinking with my Eurail pass, I wouldn´t need a reservation.

Wrong.

I was quickly kicked off the train and told to make a reservation for the next one, which was coming in an hour. Fair enough, said I, but the next trains were booked solid until 11.30 at night. I would have to take an overnight train to Madrid and waste about 10 hours in a city called Tarragona, also on the Mediterranean coast.

Being the resourceful girl that I am, I decided to spend the day on the beach doing some ¨tan maintenance¨ after it dared to rain in Spain during my stint in Barcelona. After about an hour of basking near the rocks on an otherwise sandy beach, a huge wave came and threatened to draw my unsuspecting purse, clothes and lunch into the warm Mediterranean water, never to be seen again.

Being agile as usual, haha, I managed to catch all of my things but not before they were sopping wet with saltwater and sand. During the whole process, I managed to smash my knee into a rock and was gushing blood (I apologize if this is too graphic, but it gets worse). Disgusted with the day´s events thus far, I managed to collect my things and lay them out to dry. My camera doesn´t work anymore, my railpass and passport were soggy and my poor journal was dripping.

Well if that was the worst that could happen, I would be okay, right? God, who has a really sick sense of humor by the way, heard me say that to myself and decided to teach me a lesson.

Not more than five minutes later, I was nursing my knee and a dodgy man in a speedo emerged from his tent from down the beach and plopped down ten feet away from me. Being the sweet, innocent flower of a girl you all know and love, I wasn´t sure WHAT he was doing. At first I thought he was massaging his inner thigh with his fist; upon further inspection, I realized he was massaging a very different muscle. Definitely NOT something Don Juan would do.

Completely fed up with the whole day, I glared at the nasty old man, grabbed my wet stuff and headed for the hills. People were staring at me all day thinking I was a vagabond but I didn´t care. If they dared look me in the eye, they pretty much got my best ¨look of death.¨ I was in no mood to be friendly.

Finally I arrived in Madrid this morning and found a very lovely hostel to stay in. Madrid is lovely, the people here have been very nice so far and I have spent the day looking around the Sunday flea market and getting lost in the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, which has a Degas from his ballet sequence (whoopee!!!).

Tomorrow I will take a day-trip to Toledo and Tuesday I am heading up to Burgos to stay with a relative of a friend. Am looking forward to eating a home-cooked meal and being surrounded by actual Spaniards -- not more tourists.