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?

Always a Bridesmaid

It only took a bottle and a half of Burmese Pinot noir, but by the time Kate and Wills were en route to Buckingham Palace, I had become engaged to a garlic farmer and The Brazilian had joined the dancing gong band really jamming on the village main street.

Given Myanmar used to be a part of the British empire, I figured these people will definitely be interested in the pauper princess - a real rags to riches story. Finally, someone who represents the interests of the impoverished! The struggle of the dirt farmer class!

Turns out little Katie is no Ronaldo, Michael Jackson or even Ido (Burma's Justin Beiber). Nobody had heard of her.

I guess when you farm 12 hours a day to earn a dollar, you don't care about CNN's riveting debate on whether Kate's dress is an understated yet elegant reflection of today's modern woman, or a simple but regal nod to princesses past (it was clearly the former, Anderson Cooper, you disappoint me).

It wasn't easy to find electricity, a TV, or a TV without Burmese-only state television. After some begging, the owner of Mr. Thumb - the only bar in 'town' - agreed to tap the satellite dish and turn off the soccer game, effectively boring every local to death, but making the North and South American princesses very giddy.

BP and I were the only foreigners at Mr. Thumb's. We were the only women. We were also the only ones who brought not one, but two bottles of our own wine for the occasion.

The young men who came to drown their worries in cheap Burmese whiskey didn't seem to mind. We looked - in theory - like the sexy western girls tugging off their tops on beer posters covering every wall, though we had just spent three days hiking in the humidity and hadn't touched a bar of soap or changed our clothes. Still, the farmer and his friends called us beautiful. That's love.

My new life partner proposed, blurry-eyed from whiskey and water, from the table behind us. Well, it's unofficial.

'Where's my ring?' I'd ask.

'My heart! You take!' He'd yell, moving his hands over his chest and pretending to throw.

'Dude, what the effy eff? I can't take you seriously without a ring!'

'My heart! Taking you, heart, princess!' More throwing charades.

And so it went.

Eventually I gave up and joined the gong band, too, leaving my future/former fiancee pouting. He wouldn't stop pointing to CNN's endless replay of Willy and Kate making out, then pointing to his cheek.

I shook my head gravely. I'm a heart breaker.

Even a ring of garlic would have done, but in the end it wasn't meant to be.

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.

N'Djamena

Usually, I loathe children. Babies are the worst because they are complete narcissists - it's all about them, all the time. I'd like to see a baby cook me mushy peas one day! Children cry for unreasonable reasons, they wet the bed, they can't even drive. Frankly, I am not a kid kind of person and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

But last week, my anti-child resolve was tested by a pair of plucky 9-year-olds living on a hippie commune on the lush island of Chiloe, along the middle of Chile's pretty coast. We stayed at the guesthouse of our travel agent, a lady we met arbitrarily wandering out of the bus station in search of a penguin-gawking tour.

'Well, I have a guesthouse in our backyard, it's beautiful and quiet and we'd love to have you stay - then you can rent our 4x4 to visit the penguin colony tomorrow! I just have to pick up my girls from school, then we'll be on our way'.

I kind of didn't pay attention to that last part after another 24-hour bus journey around Chile. So when she swung around again in the super cool minivan-cum-SUV, not one, not two, but three little girls were sat in the backseat. The two 9-year-olds, and a 3-year-old, all excited and acting goofy because of the funny foreigners in the car and peppering their mom with requests for ice cream.

I assumed they would exclusively speak Spanish, which would instantly impede any attempt to converse with me, the anti-child lady.

'Oh, you're American, oh my gosh, our dad is American, and we're half-American!' the first-born twin, Miska, exclaimed. Her glee was palpable.

'Did you know we have 2 dogs, 5 cows, 10 chickens with little baby chickens - ooh, they're so cute! - and one sheep, but Pepe, our sheep's girlfriend, got killed last month because there was this pack of wild dogs and they got hungry and ate her, and Miska cried because she always cries,' said Tamie, the younger twin, while Miska shouted, 'I don't cry all the time! Moooom!'

We pulled into the neighborhood, which was basically fancy houses with farmland beset on a lush green hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a shade that reminded me forthwith (!) of Oregon and when I found out Miska and Tamie's parents grow their own food in the backyard, built their own yoga house on the beach, and just got electricity two weeks ago, I just wondered where the organic goji berry bog was. Oh, how it made me miss Eugene!

'Did you know that Thanksgiving is on Thursday, but tomorrow is Saturday, and because Thanksgiving is about sharing, you have to come over and cook with us?' Miska asked, rather, ordered me. 'I'll give your assignments after lunch. Wanna listen to the Jonas Brothers?'

So over the compound we traipsed to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for this family of proud half-Americans, with my two English girlfriends who have never celebrated Thanksgiving Dinner in their lives but gamely sous cheffed our Chilean version. I was on carrot peeling and pie crust kneading duty while Miska played my favorite game in the world: trivia.

I started: Which country has the strongest economy in Western Europe?

'Um, I'm 9, can you try one a little easier, please?'

Point taken. So we exchanged these little gems...

How many countries border Switzerland?
Who was the second US President?
How many land-locked countries are in South America?
What's the deepest trench in the world?
What language is spoken in Suriname?

And so on...

But then Miska asked me a question that made me sort of love her and hate her at the same time: What's the capital of Chad?

I didn't know. 'Can you even find Chad on a map?' she said, hand on her hip, so totally pleased with herself for perplexing a full-on American.

Well, no. I can't. I had been bested by a 9-year-old half-American. And it stung.

It's not my fault I lost the game because somebody is going to be a geography bee winner someday. But if I'm honest, I'd like to be there to watch her win. Perhaps we could celebrate with a glass of organic goji berry tea from the backyard bog? Viva N'Djamena!