Well, gang, recapping this weekend's events is quite an undertaking. So many people to thank, so many activities to recount, so many funny moments, touching moments, crazy hectic madness moments to share. Scratch that. Not "so many"; "too many." Apologies, but snippets are the best I can do right now.

Wednesday: Clarksville Fish with the grandparents on the deck in the backyard. You know what I'm talking about Chai, H-Bid, Izbot, LB, Broheem, Chan (man, I got a big fat bloggin' family!).

Thursday: Groom arrives and we have a Mayun at our dear friends house that evening. I sat still for four hours while master mehndi artist Basherunissa decorated my hands and my feet with intricate, delicate, arabesque designs. Food from Shalimar piled high on everyone's plates and piled low on my lap as LB tried to feed me. Note the "tried" choice of words. (psst - just teasing, LB. You are the best and everyone else is the worst).

Friday: Three hours spent at the airport to greet the out-of-town guests while my incredibly hard-working, wonderful, creative family (especially Literaunty) transformed a simple white tent into the glorious, glittery, flowery Mehndi Party Central. That night, with fresh daisies and marigolds circling my neck, with energetic dancers and enthusiastic singers at my feet, and with dazzling candle lights and swirling colors and beaming smiles filling my eyes, I spent my last few hours as "regular Baji" with my family and friends.

Saturday: Nikkah Time! My loving, supportive, amazing parents sat to my left as the Imam read the khutbah and announced to the witnesses and guests that the loving, funny, intelligent man sitting to my right was now my husband. My better half. My old man. My ball and chain. Call me "Mrs. Baji"!

Saturday Night: Wedding reception was held at the Brown Hotel in Louisville. My aunt, who owns a beauty salon in Islamabad, was gracious and accommodating and acceded to my wishes to have very light make-up on my face. My LB fixed my hair up so I could leave it down. I managed not to trip a single time whilst loping around in my trailing lengha which my grandparents gave me and my aunts designed and brought for me from Pakistan; it was fairy-tale pretty (I had not laid eyes upon it until two days before) and, thankfully, was a perfect fit (I had not tried it on until two days before). I've told some of you this already, but it bears repeating. Thanks to my parents, my aunts and uncles, and my cousins and friends who did all of the hard-work, took on all of the planning, and pulled off all of the parties, all that was left for me was pure joy. Unlike many brides, I actually had a great time at my own wedding. Apparently, I have won the title to "the most relaxed bride ever".

Sunday: Brunch at my generous, guest-loving parents' house for the stragglers who managed to get up in the afternoon and attend. After naps for some, shopping for some, and playing chauffeur for some, we opened some prezzies, watched the wedding videos, and called the weekend a success. Thanks for attending and sticking around until the bitter end, Amaal and Upyernoz!

Wanna see more pix? The price of admission is YOU sending ME a pix of yourself first. Ok, kids. Gotta run. My soul mate wants to use the computer now. ;)

Happy Birthday, darling Dadiji! Here's your present.

Happy Birthday, dearest Chai! Here's your present.

Beeeeeep. We're sorry. The Baji you are trying to reach is temporarily out of service.* Please click back and try again. Thank you.**


*(and by "temporarily out of service" we mean "buried under a mountain of cardboard boxes, completely covered in static-clingy styrofoam peanuts, and mummified in miles of wrapping paper".)

**(and to thank you for your understanding, please enjoy this preview pix of Baji getting mehndified and join us in congratulating Mrs. Bness on her Nikkah as well.)

doot de doot doot doot de doot . . .
wedding a success stop
family and friends all around stop
love and prayers all around stop
food and presents all around stop
deets to come stop
occupy yourselves with my "Far East Coast China" travelogue until then stop
xoxo, mrs. baj

Ok, beloved bloggers and blurkers, I'm off. Next time you see me, I'll be Mrs. Baji. But before I leave for my trip, help me decide what in-flight reading I should take with me. Voting booth is on your left. Gratzie.

Oh, and to keep you amused while I'm gone, check out this fine display of balletic grace in hi-yah moves.

This weekend, I attended a Ferragosto (an Italian festival held in August to celebrate the end of the summer harvest) in West Virginia. Following John Denver's directions, I drove over the Blue Ridge Mountains, crossed the Shenandoah River, and arrived at the quaint woods of Berkeley Springs which is populated by deer, hawks, bears, and (nearly run over twice by yours truly) snakes. When I arrived, I had barely gotten out of the car before a plate of food was handed to me. Is there a drink zingier and more refreshing than Limonata? I submit that there is not. Ripe cherry tomatoes and fresh mozerella drizzled with olive oil. Bruschetta rubbed with garlic and topped with olive tapenade. Monster plate of pasta with fresh sauce and plenty of parmesean cheese. Mmmmm . . . drool.

If I had not been busy stuffing my face full of Italian food, I might have entered into the D.C. National Rock Paper Scissors Tournament!

Just got back from seeing Hero with Jet Li (but without Najm - *glare*). For an overall review, check out Najm's review of the movie. The grand saga of the beginnings of ancient China was interesting and the scenery was amazing. The story-line of the assassins was intriguing and I'm a big fan of the twist. The musical score was wonderful and nicely enhanced the action and drama. And, the best part, the color scheme and visuals were enchanting and dazzling. I'm sure the comparisons to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon will be endless and inevitable (especially regarding the gravity-defying fight scenes which are soooooo 2000), but the moments of tranquility and the delicious eye-candy scenes are worth it. In particular, the graceful battle among the swirling, yellow leaves in the forest (the splash of yellow during the red scene) was spectacular.

I usually like my hi-yah movies with more weaponless fights; this one was purely swordplay throughout. The exception to that preference is when something that would not ordinarily be thought of as a weapon is used as such - like an umbrella in the Once Upon a Time in China series and (one of my favorite flicks) Iron Monkey or a wooden bench, a long-sleeved shirt, kitchen utensils, or almost anything in almost every Jackie Chan movie. But keeping in mind that this is more historical drama than chop-sockey comedy, I did enjoy this movie. It was a treat to recognize some of the locations and remember my own visit to China. I would have liked to have seen more steely-eyed Donnie Yen and less spastic Ziyi Zhang, but I was happy with my Jet Li fix. I'll give this movie two swords (at ten paces) up.

In honor of our side trip to Italy for our honeymoon, check out this hilarious flashtoon about the difference between Europeans and Italians. Beep Beep, Ciao!

Just saw a really interesting piece about Young Muslims in France on PBS. If you get a chance to catch a repeat, check it out. At the end of the piece, there was an interview with Professor Fawad Gerges which you can read here. Blurbage:

MISHAL HUSAIN: Let me put to you, then, the view that we had from the Muslim Imam in the film. The more you attack headscarves, he said, the more headscarves you will have. What do you think of that?

FAWAZ GERGES: Absolutely. I think you're going to see tens of thousands of Muslim girls and women wearing the veil in the next few months and next few years. And this is why I tend to subscribe to the idea that the decision itself could produce the opposite results from the intended consequences. It could Islamasize French society or the Muslim community further. It could fuel political Islam and supply more ammunition to conservative Muslims in France who would like the community not to be fully integrated into mainstream French society.

and

MISHAL HUSAIN: Our film shows a whole variety of opinions about the veil from Muslims, from the French government. What do you think is going to actually happen now on the first day, for instance, that the ban on veil comes into effect in schools? What is going to happen?

FAWAZ GERGES: What's likely to happen is a major collision, a major confrontation between students and school officials. I am not really very worried about this particular collision or confrontation because I think France is very viable democracy. And so far, fortunately, the debate is being challenged through institutional means. Let's hope that this particular debate remains channeled and institutionalized through the French political system and does not go underground. This is really where the danger lies.

Guess I'll report back on my observations when I return from my trip to France in September.

Here's the pix you've all been waiting for . . . the bride.

Good news: Started my day with a delicious cuppa espresso sweetened with condensed milk.
Bad news: Also started my day running around trying to jump start TP's busticated car.

Bad news: When TP doesn't listen to me, sparks fly. Literally. He wouldn't listen to my instructions on which clamp goes on which part of the battery and bright, hot sparkage ensued.
Good news: Car finally started and I still had time to rush back, polish up, and get to the courthouse in time.

Good news: We got married in the eyes of DC with Lil Baji as our witness, guest, and photographer.
Bad news: Jaleo, the Spanish tapas restaurant that LB treated us to afterwards, is too delicious for my own good.

Bad news: I'm off the market now, fellas.
Good news: I'm off the market now, ladies.

Today's news:

I tried out some new Lush products (gotta love free samples) and thumbs up to the scent but thumbs horizontal to the shampooing with a crumbly bar. Think I'll stick to liquidy/creamy Kloranes or Bumble and Bumble or M.O.P.

Asian Tiger Mosquitoes are going to be the death of me. Or, at least of my epidermis.

Overstock.com is consistenly cheaper than Amazon.com and with only $1.40 for shipping, it is hard to resist. See?

My beloved genius, Joss Whedon, has been busy writing a new installment in the X-Men series called "The Astonishing X-Men" which will be released sometime in February, 2005. *stands in line*

Stay tuned for tomorrow's news: I'm getting married, Chapter One. Here comes The Bride.

I miss Peter Sellers. I laughed my throat raw last night catching and watching part of The Pink Panther Strikes Again. The lengthy, slapsticklicious fight scene between Inspector Clouseau running around in ripped pants and his manservant/houseboy/helper-assassin Cato had me in stitches. Especially the slow-motion moments. So. Funny. Made me think of cybermom and her favorite lines (which she frequently encouraged me to re-enact in my younger days) --

Clouseau: Does yer dewg baht?
Inn Keeper: No
Clouseau: Nice Doggy (bends down to pet a dachshund - it snarls and bites him). Eh thought you said yer dewg did not baht!
Inn Keeper: Zat... iz not my dog!

Audio version here. For more information on how to speak Clouseauese, visit your local video library. Or clickety click.

Ok, you blurkers (blog + lurkers, for the uninitiated), I know you are out there. Reveal thyselves. Who actually reads this blog?

From my friend, NYC, who, like me, would have gotten Edinburgh if it had been "What European City Are You?"

Apparently, I am Seattle. Your turn: "Which American City Are You?"


Seattle
Your dark exterior masks a caffeine driven activism. You'll take up a cause and you'll get ugly to advance it.

Friends don't let friends eat blue raspberry sherbet. Oh, ok, yeah, they do.

(fun fact, Baskin Robbin's blue raspberry sherbet contains no crustaceans!)

I watched two skilled fishermen in action yesterday. They appeared to have their method downpat. They were patient, they were calm, and they would cast their lures out gently into the stream. Most of the fish ignored the bait but every once in a while, there would be a slight tug on the line and then the fisherman sprang into action. They leaned back and reeled the fish in despite all the splashing and flopping about. The fishermen would admire their catch, talk about it with each other, and then eventually unhook the poor sole . . . uh, soul . . . and let it return to the stream.

Well.

Replace "fishermen" with "volunteers for the Democratic National Convention," replace "fish" with "potential voters," and replace "lures" with the sing-songy mantra "Would you like to help elect John Kerry?"

Last night while waiting for Najm to be released from his alleged alien abductors (ahem), I watched two young women in bright red DNC t-shirts chant "Would you like to help elect John Kerry?" over and over and over again in an attempt to snag one of the busy commuters coming in and out of the Metro. For every 50 people who shook their heads, smiled, and kept on walking, there was 1 person who would actually stop, get drawn into conversation, and pull out a checkbook and sign a form to support Kerry before being released back into the flow of pedestrian traffic. "Would you like to help elect John Kerry?"

I was impressed with their indefatigable (can't help pronouncing that word ala Monty Python's Knights of the Round Table: in-dee-fat-eee-GABLE) spirit that gave them the stamina to stand there and try to get their campaign message across. It was a busy sidewalk and around dinner time and people had places to go and things to see and food to eat. But every now and then, these determined anglers snatched a wriggling commuter from the stream and deftly pull 'em in.

"Would you like to help elect John Kerry?"
"Would you like to help elect John Kerry?"
"Would you like to help elect John Kerry?"

(the siren song that hooked the peds sounded remarkably just like this.)

audioblogger's gone mental.

No wonder traffic is all jacked up on 13th St. There is a movie being filmed there. Starring George Clooney and Matt Damon, neither of whom are anywhere near DC, Syriana is being filmed in mah 'hood. Based on a true story blah blah CIA thriller blah blah terrorism blah infinity blah, the title of the film refers to Middle East "hot spots". Anyone else ever heard this moniker? My guess is they are shooting the film from Cardozo High School because of the amazing, unobstructed view it affords of the White House, the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson Memorial. That's precisely where I watched this year's Fourth of July fireworks. And that's precisely where I was stuck in traffic yesterday on my way downtown. Guess we'll see if my guess is correct in July, 2005.

Attention all DC residents planning on getting a DC Marriage License!!!

GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL SUCKS!

So get this. One of only eight states in the union (and DC is not even a state which brings up the whole taxation without representation issue which is for another blog entry another time), DC requires its residents to undergo a pre-marital blood examination prior to applying for a marriage license. I mosey on into Georgetown University Hospital (bastages!), get my blood drawn, pay fifty bucks, wait around for a few days, and go pick up the results. You'll all be happy to hear that I am disease-free. When I ask where the "DHR 366" card that is supposed to accompany the results is, I am told that the DC government no longer provides those little blue cards to Georgetown (jerkhats!) anymore and that there is no need.

"Really? But on DC's website it says that it is required."
"Yes, that must be outdated information. DC doesn't sent those cards to us anymore. Georgetown no longer issues those cards."
"Uh. Ok."

Today, TP and I went downtown (down to Chinatown!) to file for the marriage license. Guess what little blue DHR 366 card was required after all. We had to lose our place in line (never a fun thing to do in a federal building), trek over to the Municipal Center next door (security stop #3), and request that little blue card (which I wanted to rip into shreds at that point). But wait! No cash? Check or money order only? While TP ran to the Post Office at the Department of Labor to get a money order, I found out that when DC started charging $10 for each card, Georgetown (fargin' iceholes!) stopped offering them but never told its patients that the card is still mandatory in order to get the marriage license. I fumed, I called Georgetown (rassin' frassin' no-good, lily-livered, moth-eaten varmints!) to ask politely that they stop lying to their patients, and I got no satisfaction out of it. I was furious. Then, I was just tired. Then, I was sleepy and a little hungry. We went back to the Superior Court, got our paperwork in order, and got the hell outta Dodge.

Still, I suppose any day I don't have to use my A.K. I gotta say it was a good day.

I'm off to the beach. See ya, suckahs!



BTW --

Things That Horrify and Amuse Me at the Same Time

• Canned Armadillo Meat Soup (saw this at the Korean Korner International Grocery Store the other day).
• The fact that "Korner" in "Korean Korner" is spelled with a "K".
• Reaching the bottom of a pint of Haagen Dazs Raspberry Sorbet. By myself. In one sitting. By myself.
• Knowing what "L.L. Cool J." stands for.
• "Donnie Darko" is going to be re-released in DC in two weeks and even though LB has it on dee-wee-dee and I've seen it so many times, I'm still going to see it in the theater.
• Knowing the lyrics to the theme song of "Golden Girls".
• Watching a guy dig into his right nostril with his right pinkie and occasionally sniffing his pinkie and bringing it to his lips for (no joke) at least fifteen minutes. I kept turning away in disgust but could not help looking back to see if he had stopped. He never did.
• The fact that this Will Ferrell parody of a George Bush campaign ad is so close to reality (thx, Gunnar).
• There are exactly thirty days to go until my wedding and I still don't know what my outfit will look like. Or my jewelry. Or how many people are coming. Or whether there will be room enough for me to attend. Or what's going on.

Your turn. What horrifies and amuses you?

Went to Traffic Court today to contest a parking ticket that this jackhole Office P. Scott (fie and curses upon you and your kin!) put on my windshield despite the fact that I was parked in a legitimate space. Photographic evidence of the obscured signage in hand (the sign had been spray-painted over by some hoodlum but, having lived here for several years, I know what the original sign said and people have been parking in that legal space for a long time), I foolishly drove through downtown traffic which was incredibly congested due to the latest terror alerts and beefed up security in that area. Dodging trucks barreling down on me, skirting insane drivers racing through red lights (where are the stupid traffic enforcers now?!), and responding in kind when a tailgater flipped me off just because I wouldn't move up and crush the cars in front of me in the stand-still traffic (plus, after the third time he honked at me for not running a red light, I somehow couldn't seem to get my car to go above 5 miles an hour while he trailed behind me . . . go figure), I arrived at the courthouse.

Went through security, stood in mandatory line at the information desk even though I knew exactly where I needed to go, and got my little, paper numbered stub (wasn't sure if I was supposed to order fries with that or sit down). Half an hour later, I was told to join the herd to have a group hearing with the administrative hearing officer. The only white guy in the entire building, the hearing officer (who put on such airs that one might confuse him for a proper judge if one did not know better) sat us all down and turn by turn heard our pleas and rendered judgment. I seemed to be the only one there who came prepared with a clear and consise statement, photographs, and an attitude. Mr. Reichert listened thougtfully, nodded his head, and dismissed the infraction charges.

$30 fee waived! Who wants ice cream?!

(trivia note: did you know that "?!" has a name?! it's true. invented in 1962, it was called an "interrobang" and looks like this.)

We are family
I got all my sisters (and parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, and faux cousins) with me
We are family
Get up ev'rybody and sing.
Ev'ryone can see we're together
As we walk on by
(FLY!)
and we fly just like birds of a feather
I won't tell no lie
(ALL!)
all of the people around us they say
Can they be that close
Just let me state for the record
We're giving love in a family dose

This song was brought to you by the letter T and the color orange (the terror alert level which the government is trying to color us with but which my own Muppet-themed system refuses to acknowledge - still no sign of Ernie).

Great weekend with the fam which has been expanded to include the Scrabble Champion and the soon-to-be Birthday Girl. After an hour and a half delay at the airport, we arrived at the homestead to the open arms, open hearts, and open mouths of the welcoming committee. TP got a heaping helping of "love in a family dose" throughout the weekend as wedding plans were discussed, mass quantities of food were devoured, and moments of calm and silence were as scarce as hen's teeth. Late nights (in high heels!), early mornings (in cups of tea!), and days filled with love, affection, overeating, and undersleeping. An ocean of thanks to my family for a wonderful time. And for those of you who missed out, here you go, eat up, you are looking too weak . . .

How cute are these guys?   On a scale from one to ten, one being heart-melting perky and ten being insane, cheek-pinchingly, almost-want-break-something adorable.

 

How creepy!  Never heard of Blogshares, but apparently, they've heard of me.  Thanks for the sense of unease and paranoia, Hemlock.

Road Trip Mix for Chai:

Maps - Yeah Yeah Yeahs (self explanatory)
Driving in my Car - Geggy Tah ("All I wanna do is to thank you even though I don't know who you are.  You let me change lanes while i was driving in my car.")
Pole Position - Folk Implosion (cuz she's a racecar driver)
Woman Driving, Man Sleeping - Eels (very appropriate for roadtrips)
The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side - Magnetic Fields ("I'm the ugliest guy on the Lower East Side but I've got wheels and you want to go for a ride.")
Mr. Blue Sky - Electric Light Orchestra (of Volkswagen ad fame)
Beautiful Day - U2 ("You're on the road but you've got no destination")
Freedom - George Michael (cuz that's what you feel out on the open road, right?  plus, it's a catchy toon)
There is a Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths ("Driving in your car I never never want to go home")
Fly Me to the Moon - Astrud Gilberto (cuz flyin's sorta like drivin'?)
Car Song - Elastica (duh)
Freedom - Rage Against the Machine (see above re: Freedom)
Go With the Flow - Queens of the Stone Age (just)
Southside - Moby ("I pick up my friends and we start to ride.")
Ride Wit Me - Nelly (duh)
Roam -  B52s (duh)
Country Roads - John Denver (heh heh)
Trogdor - Strong Bad (big finish)

Yesterday, TP and I turned this into this to make this.  Dollop of fresh, home-made basil pesto anyone?

In other news, anyone see Clinton speechifying at the Democratic National Convention?  He looked surprisingly fit and trim since last I remember seeing him.  During the Monica Days, he was all bloated, face full of broken capillaries and deep, dark bags under his eyes.  Anyway, it was nice to hear someone able to string a few words together without sounding like a complete moron or jackhole.

Public Service Announcement:

2Scoops and Najm are THE BEST!!!  They win the prize for the first official wedding present in the T2 wedding extravaganza.  Thanks, guys, for being such wonderful, generous pals.  You ROCK!!!
 
And now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.

Palace and Mosque: Islamic Art from the Victoria and Albert Museum.  More than 100 works of Islamic art borrowed from the London museum will be displayed in DC until February, 2005.  Calligraphy, textiles, and a 20 foot high minbar.  Come one, come all!  Thanks, Prince Bandar bin Sultan.  



(wow, this news even made the Daily Times!)

Film Noir, anyone?  Now, this is not for the faint-hearted, easily-squeamish, or anyone not wanting to leave the theater in a broody frame of mind.  If you don't mind gritty psychological thrillers, violent scenes unsuitable for really anyone, and the occassional bout of vomiting, then I'll Sleep When I'm Dead is the flick for you.  Mike Hodges, who directed Get Carter (the good one with Michael Caine, not Sly) teamed up with his Croupier star, Clive Owen (*sigh*), to create a cold, dark tale of London gangsters diving headfirst into and/or trying to crawl out of a life of crime.  Despite the grim and gruesome aspects to it, the film had some interesting moments of thoughtfulness.  I appreciated the way that many events, past and present, were revealed in a subtle manner; not everything was spelled out for the viewer.   You have to make an effort to understand the things that are left unsaid and not too many movies do that these days.  Don't get me wrong; I love explosions, robots, and stupidity mixed with hilarity as much as the next chick, but I'll pick the sleeper, clever movie over the popular, loud one anytime.

Perhaps you recall Clive (yes, we are on a first-name basis) from his stints in the BMW commercials, Gosford Park, or the BBC's Second Sight.  Anyway, keeping up his moody demeanor, thousand-yard stare, and deep, hushed voice, Clive was quite good in this movie.  I especially liked the scene where he goes from matted-down, bearded lumberjack to polished, clean-shaven gangster.  Come to think of it, the full-on-beard-to-clean-jaw scene in The Royal Tenenbaums was my favorite too.   I wonder why.  Perhaps it stems from my younger days when I would watch in fascination as my father shaved so carefully, so deliberately, scraping the blade so close to his vulnerable neck but never nicking himself.   Plus, he would make a cookie monster face on the palm of my hand with the shaving cream.  Bonus!  But what does that have to do with the movie?   Nothing.   Nothing at all.  Um.   Look!  Over there!  A brown dog!

Remember way back when, when I was writing up a travelogue for my Ireland/Scotland trip?  Not sure if you can cast your mind that far back since it's been so long, but it occurred to me that I never did complete the tale.  Mia culpa, folks.  Until I have the more detailed version down and up (on paper and on line, respectively), here are the highlights from the next day:
 

• Trekked from Logie's Baird Pub on the Royal Mile, hung a sharp right at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, and took our legs off-roading to climb to the top of Arthur's Seat, a long-extinct volcano.  Burning thighs.  Creaky knees.  Lung a'fire.  Reached the summit at 251 m for a gaaarrrgeous view of the Firth of Forth, the Leith Docks, and the city below ('twas interesting to look down upon the city from such a dizzying height through the haze of spots and glittering sparkles swimming around in my eyes after the strenuous hike).

• Reversed course, went down one ancient volcano and up another, and hoofed it over to Edinburgh Castle.  Sitting atop the austere crags of Castle Rock, the dark, massive castle also afforded an amazing panoramic view of the towns (old and new).  The entrance bore the royal Scottish motto in Latin, nemo me impune lacessit, which in English is translated as "you do *not* wanna throw down with me" - gotta love it.  Perfect moody, melancholy atmosphere, lovely architecture, and serious guard-changing action.

 

• Fries with brown sauce.  Or, if you prefer, chips with brown sauce.  Either way, oh my.

• Flipping through the channels on the telly, I caught the show "Still Game" and decided that for that show alone (Scottish comedy about two crotchety old men and their collection of pals, each with such a thick brogue that the dialogue was nearly or completely incomprehensible), I would move to Scotland.   Seriously.  It was that good.

In T-minus a week and a half, I'll be getting parental love, grandparent hugs, aunty smootches, cousin madness and madness and madness, and maybe even a surprise guest cameo by some fellow blogistanis, and later some more cousin madness.  Can't wait!  YAY!!!!  and, YAY!!!  oh yeah, and YAY!!!  One of the best parts of having mini family reunions is getting all the dirt, jokes, and teasing about and from these guys:
 

 
Inshallah, good times shall be had by all.  One more?  Ok.  YAY!!!

ok, lads and lassies.  here is the story in a nutshell:
 
a nut (story) shell. 

I think I may be losing my hearing. These guys have been drilling concrete right outside of my window for a week now, with the promise of returning every morning for several more weeks. The sound is deafening. I tried earplugs. Useless. I tried pillows. Suffocation. I'm trying to block out the sound by plugging in my Rio and listening to tunes all day (I've hit repeat for Black Eyed Peas' "Where is the Love" and Cheb Khalid's "Aicha" about six times this morning alone) and so far, that seems to work out pretty well. So please accept my blanket apology for asking you to repeat yourself several times during the course of a conversation. Yasmine, can I borrow your tune-out-background-noise toy?

Congrats to Lil Baji on her new job! AND...
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear TP and Najm and Ingmar Bergman!
Happy Birthday to you!
Here ya go, y'all. Enjoy.

Me tired. Me loopy. Me talk like Hulk today.

I met Lil Najm yesterday! Here is a picture of him!

Goin' to the Masjid and I'm . . . gonna get maaah-haa-haaa-rried...

And now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.

One, Two, Three, Four, I Declare Thumb War.

This week in thumb review:

Buffy, Season Six DVD: Thumbs up. The sing-along karaoke alone is worth eleventy hundred cool points.

Frappuccino Light: Thumbs down.

Spiderman 2: Thumbs horizontal. Good action and special effects, but way too much dolby-enhanced screaming.

Spiderman India making it into this week's Entertainment Weekly: Thumbs up.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs' song "Maps": Thumbs up.

Walking half an hour uphill in 90 degree weather: Thumbs down.

My friend Karim's new baby, Yaseen: Thumbs up. Extra credit points for his brilliant idea displayed in this picture.

What do your thumbs say?

This week's goal: to finish reading "Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation" by Lynne Truss. In theory, it is a great book for me. The gist is that grammatical errors run rampant today (don't get me started on "its" and "it's") and that those of us who cringe when we see these abominations of nature in use are not alone. It speaks to me. The author writes about a seemingly dry and boring subject in a very easy, clever, and funny way. She makes me laugh. The book is small enough to carry around in my bag but meaty enough to keep me occupied when I am waiting around for someone or riding the Metro. It is tiny.

In reality, it is a great book for me, BUT. . . . But, there are errors. How can this BE?! Maybe it is a British thing, but I'm pretty sure that "Mr." requires a dot at the end. Commas are missing. Then, suddenly, they appear where they oughtn't. I'm not certain that her rules on semicolons are accurate. And I, for one, love the "Oxford comma" or the "serial comma" and don't understand why anyone would not use it here, there, and everywhere. Finally, with no real explanation, or, for that matter, evidence, Truss claims, "lawyers eschew the comma as far as possible." Um, no.

Although I agree with this reviewer's assessment, I am still reading, and most of the time enjoying, this book for several reasons: the writing style reminds me of Nicholson Baker's style, which I dig; the topics are interesting and informative; and I love it when other people rant about bad punctuation.

I met Najm yesterday! Here's a picture of him.

Kerry finally picked a running mate (even if it is not the one the New York Post is trying to force down his throat . . .)

short update stop
spent july 4th holiday in NYC stop
rambled through central park's ramble, up and down and side to side stop
strolled through brooklyn's lovely botanical gardens stop
ate my way through chelsea (nothing like a new york bagel), chinatown (vietnamese pho, green tea ice cream, and my very first egg cream), little italy (chocolate dipped cannoli immediately followed by lemon gelato), and the lower east side (superfrosted lemon cupcake and cafe latte) stop
groaned that i ate too much and then had mexican in the meat packing district for dinner stop
walked along the hudson river stop
waved to the empire state building stop
escape from NY to see my DC fireworks display stop
promise fully formed and grammatically correct sentences in next post stop

May 20, 2004
Bonnie Scotland! Land of bagpipes, the plaid, and whisky (Fun Fact: "Whisky" is a Scottish Gaelic word that means "water of life"). At 5 a.m., we packed up our belongings, kept the sunrise company as we took the AirLink to the airport, and said "Slan libh, mo bhaibini" to Dublin. Mode of transportation: Ryanair, Europe's Number One Budget airline. Since we are leaving Ireland, perhaps a limerick would be fitting here:

Ryanair is no frills.
Its price will result in low bills.
No breakfast, no lunch,
And your kidneys get punched,
So don't forget your pain pills.

Um. I guess that fourth line needs a little explanation. Like the US's Southwest or JetBlue, Ryanair is an inexpensive airline that is a bit less organized and a bit more uncomfortable than the major carriers. The air-sickness bags double as pre-printed envelopes to mail in your film for developing. The food and beverage service is administered thusly: you look above you, right there, right next to the air vents, for the pasted-on menu (sandwiches, sodas, mars bars) and when the flight attendant trundles by with her cart, you can pay for and claim your snacks. And, somehow, the seats are wedged in so tightly that every time a passenger, say the one right behind you, moves his long legs, another passenger, say yours truly, can feel knobby knees in her back for the entire 45 minute flight. Still, for a $27 flight (taxes and fees included), it's hard to complain. (And yet, if I try hard enough, I manage).

Brilliantly sunny Edinburgh greeted us warmly. We sneered at the passengers waiting for their luggage, got our return trip bus tickets (5 GBP - that's British Pounds (almost two to the dollar, ouch), not the Euro (even though the UK is part of the EU)), and got some cash (50 GBP to last both of us for three days). Fun Fact: The 5 pound note sports Robert Burns on the front and a vignette of a teeny weeny fieldmouse from Burns' "Ode to a Mouse" on the back. The bus wove its way into the center of Edinburgh and dropped us off at Waverly Train Station about half an hour later. New city map in hand, we walked up a steep, deserted curve and ten minutes later, we checked into the Travelodge on St. Mary's Street. It was 9 a.m. and our room would not be ready until 3 p.m., so we stored our bags and headed out in search of direly-needed coffee.



Taking our traditional giant steps, we stomped through Old Town and arrived at Elephant House cafe in just a few minutes. Right off of the George IV Bridge, this cafe has a great pachyderm-themed decor and ambiance, but surprisingly weak coffee and even worse sandwiches (insert ironic foreshadowing where our characters return to this place several times despite displeasure with the culinary fare). As we enjoyed the bright early morning sunshine streaming through the windows, we perused the various magazine articles taped to the walls. One blurb claimed that J.K. Rowling dreamt up Harry Potter in this very cafe. One proudly displayed review listed the city's best cafes (including, naturally, Elephant House) and mentioned Plaisir du Chocolate which appeared to be within walking distance. We crossed the bridge, strolled along the Royal Mile (a collection of streets, kind of like Copenhagen's Stroget, running from the Edinburgh Castle to Royal Palace of Holyroodhouse), and plopped down at the quaint French cafe for a tastier hit of caffeine.



I went to visit the cute-for-an-outhouse outhouse and when I returned, I saw Amelie warmly greeting a bunch of strangers. Turned out, it was the mother and father and some friends of the bride of the wedding in which Amelie was a bridesmaid and for which we came on this trip in the first place. From that moment on, we experienced the odd combination of visiting a foreign city but running into so many familiar people. Well, Amelie did. I was still just along for the ride and everything and everyone was new to me.

After a brief foray over the North Bridge and left on Princes Street, looking determinedly for and dreamily at tennis shoes, we returned to the beautiful and towering St. Giles Cathedral, The High Kirk of Edinburgh and the "mother church of Presbyterianism", to meet the rest of the wedding party for the rehearsal. Anxious about possibly missing the rehearsal, we grabbed a sad lunch of Walkers Sensations Sea Salt & Cracked Black Pepper Flavoured Crisps (not as good as it sounded, but presumably better than the Greek Kebab flavored ones or the Marmite Yeast Extract flavored ones)
and Scotland's very own Irn Bru (a toxic orange-colored soda that outsells Coca-Cola, is wildly popular in Russia, and leaves a weird aftertaste) and sat outside of the cathedral to wait for the others. As the meeting time came and passed, I, allegedly, tried to drive Amelie slowly mad by insinuating that we were in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong clothes. But, we weren't and we weren't and we weren't and we lived happily ever after.



I watched the rehearsal from the back of the Cathedral, and afterwards, we returned to the hotel and checked into our room. Amelie napped while I gleefully watched Scottish television - anything and everything would do. In the evening, we parted ways. The rest of Amelie's evening was spent dressing up for a delicious, fancy rehearsal dinner among friends, colorful and exotic peacocks, and some Brits who were happy to discuss the finer points of "The Office". My evening, on the other hand and in sharp contrast, was spent choking down a bad chicken curry dish from Bay of Bengal (tryna help a brotha out and this is what you get), watching a session of Scottish Parliament (if I could marry the Scottish accent, I would), and flooding the bathroom whilst trying to shower in the world's shallowest shower stall. You may weep for meeeeee . . . now.

Next up: dormant volcanos, cliff-perching castles, and the world's end.

Apparently, my ideal job is a Trained Assassin. What's yours?

And, by the way, don't mind the glowing, red laser beam on your forehead...

After lunch today, I took a walk through Rock Creek Park and went foraging for berries. Dodging skeeters, passing over the bushes the birds and hippies picked clean, and risking life and limb (well, limb at least), I struck gold! MMMMMMMMmmmmmmm . . . drool.

Election 2004 - audioblogger, yay or nay?

I saw Michael Moore's "Farenheit 9/11" tonight. I feel like I've taken crazy pills. Read upyernoz's review for an intelligent, thoughtful review. I'm going to lie down.

"Da Govment, Dem Scru up"

I met Taha yesterday. Here's a picture of him!

May 19, 2004
We were up at 8 a.m. to shower, pack, and store our luggage until our fourth (and thankfully final) room was ready for us. Breakfast was had at the Keogh's Cafe and while I quite enjoyed my vegetarian fare of sauteed 'shrooms, potato pancakes, and French toast, it was hard to eat with my eyes closed. Why were my eyes closed? Across from me, Amelie was eating black (a.k.a. blood) pudding. Ahem. Moving on.

We walked around the now-familiar streets and continued to be captivated and thrilled by the sound that was triggered when the "Walk" signal flicked on at each pedestrian crossing. PEEEowwwww . . . tuk-a-tuk-a-tuk-a-tuk. HEE HEE!!! Ah, it's the little things that amuse us. We ventured north again in search of Amelie's non-existent lime green Puma's (shhh, don't tell her, but I just saw a pair at a Puma store) and ended up with a shirt from Mango in all the colors of the Irish flag for Amelie and a pair of red, fly kicks from Ecco for me. After hitting the architecturally lovely and historically important General Post Office to mail out some postcards, we pretty much spent the day popping in and out of various stores. A gentle, misty rain began as we returned to Avalon House to rescue our luggage and dump it in our new room - the best so far with a single bed suspended over a double bed below.

Lunch at the Lemon Crepe and Coffee Co. was followed by a visit to the tourist center, which was surprisingly unhelpful and disorganized, to purchase our bus tickets for the airport the next day. We began heading towards Dublin Castle when we were distracted, hypnotized, and beckoned by the charming used and discount bookstore, Books Upstairs. So bedazzled by cheap books, we spent more time in there than we intended and when we finally emerged, we forgot where we were going and ended up walking around in a huge circle before finally reaching the castle.



We spent more time in the castle's gardens than we did on the castle grounds itself. Instead, we breezed through the impressive collection of Islamic art at the nearby Chester Beatty Library (which gets full marks for its clean, comfy, and free bathrooms).

I'd like to say that the remainder of our time spent in Dublin involved visiting historical buildings, appreciating culturally significant sights, and immersing ourselves in the local culture and cuisine. But, no. Shoes, Butler's coffee, shoes, St. Stephen's Green, shoes shoes shoes.



We had our last supper at Wagamama. We packed up our stuff (sans a pair of torn jeans, two grungy t-shirts, and a pair of raggedy socks). And we tried to sleep without waking up every hour, on the hour, for fear that the alarm wouldn't wake us up in time to catch our 5 a.m. Airlink bus to the airport. So ended our stay in Ireland.

Next up: Scotland!

Cue the tabla music. Clear the monkeys and autorickshaws. And get ready for Spiderman Sahib!



(thx, Gunnar!)

Drat! Always the travelogue bridesmaid, never the travelogue bride. This season's travelogue competition first prize went to "Motorcycles in Cambodia" (543 hits) and mine came in second place (321 hits). Guess more people like motorcycles over ducks. Anyway, thanks to all ye bloggers who hit my story!

Attended an outdoor wedding this weekend.

Beautiful gardens and gorgeous weather, thumbs up.

Vicious mosquitos and no bug-spray, thumbs down.

I'll be out of town and blogless this weekend, so before I go . . .

* * * * * Happy Birthday, Hemlock!!!* * * * *


Here's my present to you. Enjoy.

So this weekend, at the annual Association of Pakistani Physicians of North America (APPNA) meeting this year, we had to attend a dinner-and-music-program where, as usual, there were too many people and not enough seats. My parents found a table with four empty seats, so that when Lil Baji and I arrived, we four could have a place to sit. However, our fellow tablemates had plans of their own. Although they relinquished three seats, they insisted that the last seat had to be saved for their nephew.

"You can't save seats like that!" we proclaimed (even though the night before, we did exactly the same thing).

"No! This seat is for our nephew! He is running a little late but he will be here," they replied, pulling the chair closer to themselves and staking their claim by setting the aunty's purse on top.

A few grumbles later, I just decided to avoid the conflict and shared the seat with LB. Unfortunately, I was right next to a narrow pathway and I kept getting hit by the people milling about and going to the back of the room. Plus, my left buttcheek was starting to go numb. I started to get my rage on.

"One more hit and I'm getting up and taking that seat," I told myself.

One more hit. I got up, walked over to the seat, pulled it out and (while the speeches were continuing on stage) stated that I was going to sit there. The ungracious uncle started blustering and saying no, but I told him, "Look, I'll just sit here until whomever it is you are holding this seat for arrives." He frowned but had no real choice. I planted myself firmly in the chair and stared straight ahead.

The minutes passed. The speeches started to wrap up. The missing nephew was nowhere to be found. Finally, one of the speakers announced that the dinner was going to be served and that anyone holding seats for anyone else had to relinquish them because there were still people standing in the aisles or lobby who had paid for their tickets but had nowhere to sit.

At that, the uncle had the grace to look abashed, muttered to his wife that the nephew didn't appear to be coming after all, and then allowed me to switch seats with him so that I could sit next to Cybermom. Gee. Thanks.

After dinner was served but before the music program began, who should show up, but Mr. Nephew. The aunty snapped to attention, ordered the poor harried waiter to bring a fresh plate of food (even though the table had been cleared) and to bring the special bowls of nihari and korma too. The uncle brought another chair over to squeeze in at the table, beamed around at everyone, and patted his nephew on the back. Mr. Nephew sat down, pushed the plate of food away, and, when his eyes lit upon the ice cream being served, demanded that he get some ice cream too.

Lil Baji chided, "You should finish your dinner first."

Nephew pouted, "But I'm really craving ice cream right now."

We all rolled our eyes and returned to our desserts. Suddenly, a young girl approached Mr. Nephew and, giggling like only a schoolgirl can, asked for his autograph. She was joined by two more girls, teenagers this time, who asked for an autograph and photograph. A small crowd formed around him and it became clear that this Mr. Nephew was someone famous. Someone important. Someone who commanded attention. Barf. We learned that Mr. Nephew is actually Mr. Rock Star.

"He is the Britney Spears of Pakistan," one relative of his explained. Uh, is that a compliment or the height of insult? A cluster of fans wanted his autograph, his photograph, his attention. Me? I just wanted his chair.

Anyone know who this bozo is?

As I craft the next entry of my travelogue (which, seriously, are any of you reading or are you just looking at the pretty pictures?), you can while away your time by reading about my wild and crazy grandpa's brushes with the law.

May 18, 2004
Lonely Planet lied. Trustworthy up to a point, LP has a tendency to misguide, misjudge, or have outdated information at least ONCE in each book. In Egypt, it was the location of the final stop on the bus to Sharm El-Sheikh and the quality of our hotel. In China, it was the timings of the boat tour in Shanghai. Here, LP promised that the Gallic Kitchen (allegedly displaying a sign that stated "Our food is so f****** good you won't believe it") offered a "melt-in-your-mouth goat's cheese brioche." We sought out the place. We tried their fare. We don't believe it. LP, that was your one get-out-of-jail-free card.

Speaking of jails, after dejectedly eating our crappity breakfast in St. Audoen's Church's garden, we headed west towards Kilmainham Gaol. Taking the scenic (and, naturally, longer) route, we walked along the Liffey. It started out as a good idea as we got the chance to see the various, lovely bridges arching over the river. But soon, the bustling shops and pretty quays and early morning commuters faded in the Irish mist. Wait. That wasn't mist. That was the fumes of hundreds of cars and busses and trucks rumbling by on the street which now resembled a highway. By the time we reached Heuston Station, we were gagging on the exhaust fumes and questioning our sanity in choosing to walk to the Gaol when it was so painfully obvious that everyone else took the bus there. The Irish Museum of Modern Art appeared, our map showed it as a landmark near the Gaol, and so we headed . . . thataway. Half-way there, we started second-guessing ourselves. We turned around, retraced our steps, took a long, circuitous path that led us away from, south of, and then back to the Gaol. We stopped at a wholesale beauty salon supplier to ask for directions and learned that we were just a few feet away from our destination after all. We lingered there a bit longer than needed; not so much to understand which way to go, but more to rest in the air-conditioned store and listen to the burly Irishmen's lilting voices debate over the proper directions to give us.

Kilmainham Gaol was amazing. For over a century, the prison held more than just criminals. Rebels, political heroes (including the future prime minister and president Eamon de Valera), and people seeking escape from the Great Famine came through the gates . We listened closely as our guide, Martin, told us about the history of the jail, highlighted some of the more important inmates, and explained why the site has become a national monument. Basically, the jail represented the struggles Ireland faced through an important period in its history. The jail opened four years before 1800 when the Act of Union abolished the Irish Parliament and made Ireland a part of the U.K. The jail closed two years after the south of Ireland declared itself a Republic in 1949. The massive, limestone prison became a symbol of Ireland's battle for independence. Plus, it was the setting for In the Name of the Father, The (original) Italian Job, and the U2 video "A Celebration"!



Martin, who got an A for his knowledge of Irish history, his red hair, and his accent, showed us the sunlit East Wing where two floors of cells were connected by metal catwalks that afforded the guards a 360 degree view of the cells around them. The Victorians believed that punishment (hence the cold, harsh cells with little to no interaction with any other human being) should be tempered with hope (hence the small window in each cell letting in God's sunlight and a view of heaven). The new section reminded me a lot of the jail in The Shawshank Redemption(which, for you trivia hounds, was filmed at Ohio's closed Mansfield State Penitentiary).

The infinitely colder, darker, and grimmer old section still bears the names of some of the prisoners. We were permitted to enter the cells as we pleased, but none of us stayed for too long inside. The older section led to the execution grounds and the wall where Martin described the killing of the Invincibles as well as the execution of James Connolly who so badly injured in the fighting during the Easter Rising of 1916 that he was unable to stand for his execution and so the British tied him to a chair and shot him there. We learned that an execution requires space away from the other prisoners, a firing squad, and one blank bullet so that none of the gunners knows who was the real executioner. Ah, the things you learn every day.



After the tour, we shook off the gloom and doom that had descended upon us and walked through the neatly kept lawns of the MOMA. We passed the Guinness Storehouse, the Guinness Brewery, and the Guinness Windmill. At St. Patrick's Cathedral, we parked ourselves on the crowded, sunny yard and watched future footballers in their diapers practice their kicking skills without falling down or dropping trou. Starved after our long hike to and from the jail, we risked mad cow disease and had cheeseburgers at Chatham Brasserie near Grafton Street. Lunch was followed by iced lattes at St. Stephen's Green. We browsed around St. Stephen's Green's Mall, but after the misfortune of PAYING (15 cents) to use the bathroom (STANK), we ran back outside and went on a shoe hunt: me, orange trainers; Amelie, lime green Pumas (that do not exist). Grafton Street started getting really crowded and one guy almost knocked the pony out of me! We wandered around a bit more, had a great dinner at Monty's of Kathmandu and since it was still light at 9 p.m., hit International Bar to round off the night.




Next up: Last Day Doublin' in Dublin.

Happy Birthday, Lil Baji!!!

May 17, 2004
Good news, after a talk with the manager, we secured a new room with two bunk beds and a private bath! Bad news, we had to check-out and store our bags in the locker room by 10 a.m. and then reclaim our bags and re-check-in at 2 p.m. That meant that our day was going to have to revolve around the hostel's schedule. We dressed for a day at the beach and planned a trip to Bray, the resort town on the coast of the Irish Sea south of Dublin. Picking over the paltry selection of cafeteria-style breakfast offerings (lame muffin, no bananas, and one puny juice box), we headed over to St. Stephen's Green, Butler's coffee in hand. The day was so gray and chilly that we cancelled our Bray plans, returned to the room to change into warmer clothes, and stored our luggage as instructed.

The Winding Stair Bookshop and Cafe just across the Ha'Penny Bridge seemed a good bet for bibliophiles like us and so there we went. Sneezing through the appropriately dusty aisles of the used bookstore and climbing up the eponymous stairs, we found the cafe on the second level. There were three other patrons sitting at the wooden tables and reading when we walked in. We decided to split one lemon and sugar crepe (6 euros!), helped ourselves to two cups of water, and sat on a bench near the window that afforded a nice view of the river and the Southside. We sat on the bench and flipped through a local music review magazine. We sat on the bench and watched our waitress eat a sandwich at the table next to ours. We sat on the bench and observed our waitress finishing off her sandwich. We looked at our watches, looked at each other, and finally, when one of the three patrons went to the register to pay, Amelie went up to the register to check on the status of our single crepe. Incredibly apologetic and fiercely embarrassed, our waitress realized that she totally forgot our order. She quickly offered to give us two crepes for the price of one or return our money to make amends for her gaff. We laughed it off and said that's fine. She ducked into the kitchen and then returned with our crepes and a full refund. The crepes were mediocre, but we felt so bad about our waitress feeling bad that we left the full amount on the table for her anyway.



Returning to the Northside, we hit the internet cafe to check out the week's forecast (brr) and perused through the outlet store Hairy Legs (meh). Suddenly, the sun came out in full force. The cancelled Bray plans were spontaneously reinstated. On our way to Connolly Station, we saw a number of people crowded around a single spot draped in flowers. Sensing something somber and important was going on, but not exactly certain what, we slowed down. Unbeknownst to us, today was the 30th anniversary of the Dublin and Monaghan bombings where a series of car bombs exploded during rush hour and 34 people were killed in the two cities. The perpetrators were never caught, although the breaking news this week is that the Lord Mayor Royston Brady (whose mug was plastered all over town along with Proinsias which is pronounced "Francis" - I don't know why, maybe it's the metric system; ask Amelie's Dad) admitted that his father's taxi was used as a getaway vehicle. Hmm. We stood among the mourners for a moment during a wreath-laying ceremony at the memorial near the train station before moving on.

At Connolly Station, we caught the 12:45 p.m. DART to Bray and enjoyed the 45-minute ride along the coast. The sun and the clouds had a long debate, but as the day became overcast and moist, we realized that the clouds won. And so we arrived at Bray on a gray, drizzly afternoon. As per our usual course, we walked in the complete opposite direction of the beach but were rewarded with a little tour of downtown Bray, its golf course, and a view of the Wicklow Mountains. Making a 180, we found the beach, but the wide swath of rocks and narrow strips of sand were completely desolate. No fairy floss vendors, no sun-bathers, and, for that matter, no sun. When the restaurant Katie Gallagher's came into view, we finally took the opportunity to have fish (mine was in finger form) and chips (with malted vinegar and new-to-me brown sauce). A perfect meal to warm us on the wintry summer day.




Back in Dublin, we scoured the pharmacies for Cooper's Inis Free perfume and lotions and potions that were commonplace in Ireland but exotic to us. Amelie found a sun balm in stick form at Boots Pharmacy and fell in love. I found my Klorane shampoo but refused to buy it until I had looked in every other pharmacy on, near, and beyond the shopping hub of Grafton Street. We kept ourselves occupied until 5 p.m. when we returned to our new (now third) room. When the luggage room, which was only unlocked every even hour, opened at 6 p.m., we retrieved our bags, used our lower bunks as make-shift closets, and for the first time unpacked our stuff.

Resting our weary bones on the upper bunks, I flipped through my Lonely Planet Dublin Condensed book looking for a place to eat while Amelie amused herself with crossword puzzles. Eureka! Aya, the "best" (and quite possible "only") sushi bar in Dublin, was just a few streets away! Voila! When we found it, we were rather intimidated by the whole conveyor belt sushi concept at first. Stalling for time, we looked at the menu posted outside, peeked through the glass doors, and eventually tip-toed inside. Once seated, we were subjected to the high pressure sales tactics of our waitress, crumbled, and agreed to the "all-you-can-eat-in-55 minutes-for-25-euros" deal. Gulp! Make that, gulp gulp gulp. A welcome drink and miso soup began the meal. Salmon and eel. The evenly spaced sushi plates snaked their way around the restaurant atop the silent, sliding conveyor belt. California rolls and tempura. The minutes crept by as our bellies expanded. Shrimp and chocolate cake. What? The food kept coming and we kept reaching, pulling a plate down, cleaning it, and putting it aside. Where was my TUNA?! Not soon enough, our 55 minutes were up. What were we thinking?! I felt like Homer being tormented in the Ironic Punishment Division of Hell. Complimentary green tea? God, yes, please. Stumbled home in a stupor, showered in the stop-and-go shower, and prayed that the sushi would stay down.

Next up: Kilmainham Gaol - the jail for Ireland's political prisoners, the poor, the martyrs, and the stone-cold criminals. And by "stone-cold," I mean literally . . . those limestone walls are freezing!

Yippeeeee!!! As I was donating some books to my local public library, I learned that it has an entire section (well, bookcase) dedicated to graphic novels. Lynda Barry! Daniel Clowes! Buffy the Vampire Slayer!



In other happy news, I just got the new David Sedaris book and the Morrissey CD (speaking of whom, look at what this crazy cat has been up to).

May 16, 2004
Refreshed, revived, and ravenous, we came downstairs to Clifden House's dining room for breakfast at 9 a.m. I loaded up with scrambled eggs and toast with rich, creamery butter served on pretty blue and white china, a cup of fruity yogurt, some coffee, and a small glass of OJ. Amelie went "Full Irish" (enough to make any Muslim cringe): one egg (slightly runny), some sausage (linked), some bacon (soft and fatty like back/Canadian bacon, not crispy like American bacon), toast (buttered), slice of tomato (shoved to the side), and the crown jewel - the 'white pudding': ground pork butt or liver, grains, eggs, seasonings, and something white (either milk or fat or white blood cells; never found out, never want to) stuffed into sausage casings, sliced into medallions, and fried up. The white pudding differs from black pudding in that black pudding includes pig's blood. In my recipe book, the final preparation step after frying either version up would be to toss it out as far as humanly possible, but maybe that's just me. In fact, if I mustered up the courage to touch it and practiced throwing it enough times, I might be able to enter the World Black Pudding Throwing Championship!

We returned to our room to shower (Oh, Danny Boy, the water pipes, the pipes, were clanging!) and re-pack. With nearly 20 pounds of junk on our backs, we checked out of the guesthouse, said goodbye to the north side, and joined the Sunday strollers milling about the River Liffey.



In response to its recent economic boom, Dublin ran right out and got an urban face-lift of slick, glossy storefronts, a botox injection of McDonald's, Burger King, and Urban Outfitters, and a nip-tuck of refurbished historical buildings. The result is a city that looks less like a quaint Irish town and more like EPCOT. Apparently, even the population matches the youthful look of the city with over half of Dubliners under the age of 30.

We found a nice, sunny patch of green near City Hall and whiled away the time there until it was time to check into our next rest stop. We observed the past meeting the present as a driver of a horse-drawn carriage clopped by while chatting on a cell phone. We watched three happy dogs bound after a tennis ball for an hour. We found Dublin's version of Starbucks in Butlers Chocolate Cafe. Coffees in hand, we found a spot in the crowded 22 acre park of St. Stephen's Green and counted ducks.



At 2 p.m., we checked into Avalon House where, despite making a reservation for a double room en suite (with private bath) a month in advance, they put us in a bathless room with a co-ed shower and co-ed loo down the hall. The room was so small, you could not swing a leprechaun in there! Leaving the dispute with the front desk for the next day, we decided to check out Trinity College. We monitored the progress of what must have been a drunk-on-Guinness, clumsy magpie struggling to carry a limb up a tree for a while before we chose watching a women's cricket game over visiting the famous and historically important Book of Kells. What can I say, sunshine and action won out over darkness and a $12 fee to stand in line to see a manuscript.

After visiting Oscar Wilde's front door, ("I'm sure I don't know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, for all I hear, I shouldn't like to") we paused for a bit at Merrion Square and then wandered around the nearby museums. Note to fellow travelers: the free bathroom at the National Gallery is much nicer than the free bathroom at the Natural History Museum.

We weighed our dinner options and after a hearty thirty-second debate, we decided on Wagamama where I ordered the exact same meal I had the night before (the leftovers of which we had that morning). After dinner, we returned to St. Stephen's Green to soak up more of the surprisingly strong Irish sunshine. The heat and sun began to make us loopy as we lounged around on the soft, cool land fur and attempted to share my mp3 player while watching our fellow park-goers enjoy the day. Unbeknownst to us, the lamp in the sky was on high and Amelie ended up with a slight sunburn! In Ireland! Glory be!

Spotting "Publin' in Dublin" on our to-do-list, we had a pint at McDaid's (one Stella and one water, please), discussed the merits of the latest Chris Rock special, and listened in on our neighbors' conversations. When the pub closed at 11 p.m., we returned to our hostel (to the heart-warming sight of two dudes relieving themselves on the hostel's wall) and scurried up and down 6 flights of stairs to retire in our room on the 4th floor. Yes, 6 flights of stairs to get to the 4th floor. Don't ask me. I think it has something to do with the metric system.

Next up: How to score free crepes.

Congratulations to Lil Grey Crayon and welcome to the world, Lil Shan Ali! Now get to blogging!

Reaganzilla comes into town today and the city is in upheaval. Starting at 3 p.m., streets will be closed, traffic will be diverted, and our beloved govermental liberal leave policy will go into effect. This is my favorite part:

At 16th Street and Constitution, the coffin will be placed on a horse-drawn caisson. The processional will then take Constitution to the Capitol. District police cautioned in a statement announcing the route that it could change "with little or no notice."

I'm just picturing a spooked, runaway horse veering off course and trailing the coffin behind him through the city.

May 15, 2004
Arriving at London Heathrow Airport nearly an hour late, we briskly trekked, trammed, and trekked from Terminal 4 to Terminal 1 and still had time to wrangle two tickets for the coveted emergency exit row for our British Midlands flight to Dublin. I had never been in the domestic-and-Ireland flights section of Heathrow and was intrigued by the bizarre design and shape of the terminal itself. The interior looked like it was made out of a hollowed out jet complete with uncomfortable chairs, curved metal walls, and unflattering carpet. We had our first breakfast, a simple meal of Triscuits and York Peppermint Patties, standing up while waiting around in a general area until our gate was displayed on one of the rickety computer monitors trembling overhead. On-board the surprisingly spacious and comfortable BMI flight, we had our second breakfast, a wince-inducing panini (mine was a tomato and gruyere omelet) that tasted remarkably like plastic to me but which Amelie appeared to relish with gusto. 45 minutes later, we slid into the Dublin Airport which is nicely situated on the east coast of Ireland.

We got some cash (100 euros to last us the week), got our Rambler Bus Tickets (there goes 10 of our euros for the one-way trip to the City Centre), stepped outside and got our first view of the Republic of Ireland. Dubh Linn, or "Black Pool", in mid-May is lusciously green and admirably clean. The ramshackle residential areas north of the city slowly gave way to the modern, sleeker buildings of the city center. We were dropped off on Upper O'Connell Street, which was smack-dab in the center of the city, but several streets away from where we actually wanted to be let off. Toting our backpacks, whipping out our maps, and determining which way was north, we hiked up to Clifden Guesthouse, the nearly 200 year old, refurbished Georgian townhouse that would serve as our abode for precisely one night.




After being buzzed in, we learned that our room was not ready as it was only 11 a.m. and check-in was not until 2 p.m. We were given a detailed map of the city, were permitted to leave our bags underneath a table in the entrance hall, and were shown the door. We stood outside of the guesthouse for a moment, blinking in the sun and feeling the jet-lag setting in, and gradually stumbled our way back down to O'Connell Street.

We found an internet cafe where, for 1 euro per half hour, we could pacify our families and inform them that we were safe. We gawked at the Dublin Spire, or "Spike" (no relation to William the Bloody), the 120 meter tall structure that was built last year to replace the Nelson's Pillar which was built in 1808 and blown up in 1966 by an Irish Republican in the middle of the night. We counted the redheads we saw and absorbed (and graded) the Irish accents lilting around us as we made our way towards and then south of the River Liffey. And then . . . AND THEN . . . we found Wagamama, a Japanese noodle bar. ding ding ding! Amelie and I are creatures of habit and once we find a place we like, we keep returning to it regardless of the other options around us (until such time as something pisses us off and then we ban it, but that's another list). In merely one hour of stepping foot on Irish soil, we found a winner. Could we eat any more Cha Han? Yes. Yes, we could. Halfway through, I was so tired and my eyelids were so droopy (a condition hereafter known as having Wagamama Eyes and sung to the tune "Betty Davis' Eyes"), that I could have laid my head down on the soft pillow of fried rice and fallen asleep right there.

We lugged our heavy bellies back up to the North Side, threw our bags into our enormous suite (one and a half rooms, two beds, clean and sunny bathroom), and collapsed. The room was one short flight of stairs away from the front door and its security buzzer, which, now that it was officially check-in time, was in constant use. Luckily, I still managed to nap the nap of the dead. Vampire-like, I rose near sunset and needed to feed again. Actually, I was more like Woody Allen's Count Dracula who misjudged the sun's timetable, when I learned that the sun did not set until many, many hours later!

In search of a good fish and chips shop, we made our second trip through north and south Dublin and finally found a ready table at The Shack in the busy Temple Bar neighborhood. The friendly host let us peruse through the menu while we waited for our table to clear, made helpful suggestions, and told every other would-be patron that came after us that the place was booked for the night. Tuna on Basil Mash for me; Pasta with Chicken for Amelie. It was still light out when we finished our meals so we felt safe walking through what was reputed to be a dangerous area north of the river. By 10 p.m., I was knackered (ooh, ahh, local slang in use!) and went to bed to the sounds of Amelie watching the Eurovision song contest finals.

Next up: "Blood pudding" is neither blood, nor pudding . . . well, maybe a little blood.

Mini-recap of latest activities:

Two-day role-playing gig of hostess and tour guide for H-Biddy and friend.

Nine-hour shopping marathon with some hard-core shoppers and their bottomless wallets.

Two-hour concert of the Salvadoran band Machetres rocking out with, among other things, an excellent cover of Hendrix's "Hey Joe".

Ninety-minute laughing fit watching "Still Game" all alone in my apartment and potentially frightening the neighbors in the process.

Twenty-second contemplation of nap. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

Oh yeah, and also, two-point-five hour viewing of the latest Harry Potter flick with not nearly enough scenes with my favorite Prof. Lupin!

Today was the day of "Baji's First Haircut" (in four months!). This is what happened last time I went . . .

May 14, 2004
Trying to outsmart British Airways, we attempted to assign our own seats on-line so that we could skip the line at the airport and kick back in the emergency exit row for the seven hour flight. Alas, the slowest ever dial-up connection foiled our plans and made us sweaty with frustration. We mentally hurled the laptop away and went at it with baseball bats ala "Office Space" and went out for brunch. Paul's Boutique, a cafe named after the Beastie Boys' album, satisfied our hunger and thirst and gave us the energy we needed to try to wrangle our airplane seats once more. No joy. We were going to have to hit the kiosks after all.

With the memory of our last attempt to get to JFK still fresh in our minds, we allotted several hours to ourselves to take the train (the right one in the right direction this time) and take the free shuttle (allowing for the many stops at each parking space and each terminal along the way). Final bag check, snacks check, and tickets check, check. We caught the correct A train to Howard Beach and narrowly missed getting hit by a poor, sick, crying child's projectile vomit in the process. Pleased with ourselves and with hours to spare, we strutted out of the train and headed to the airport shuttle. Which was nowhere to be seen. Which no longer exists. Which has been replaced with the brand-spanking new, futuristic, $5-one-way AirTrain. Yes, it swiftly delivered us to the proper terminal in about 15 minutes. Yes, it was clean and roomy. Yes, we were still annoyed that we had to pay $5 for a one-way ticket to the terminal when, until December 2003, it was free. True to our fake Scottish heritage, we are 'mean with our money' (quote attributed to a real Scots woman). Aside: to learn more about the difference between 'Scots' and 'Scotch', click here. Otherwise, enjoy this explanation by Mike Meyers playing a fiercely proud Scot on an SNL skit "All Things Scottish,": "Scotch is a drink. Scots are a people. But we are both great tasting!"

By 5:00 p.m. we were in the front door of the terminal. By 5:05, we checked ourselves in at the kiosk and selected our seats (rats, no emergency exit rows left). By 5:10, we were through security with two hours to spare. Two whole hours. What to do, what to do. We dined on airport food. We flipped through magazines. We poked around the duty-free shops where I helped myself to some pre-flight free samples of the insanely expensive La Mer products. Seriously? $110 for 1 ounce of lotion? Ah me.

When our flight was called, we excitedly boarded the plane, found our seats, and settled in. Unfortunately, our happiness with our primo seats was short-lived. A portly man sporting a navy blue blazer with shiny brass buttons, a way-too-open collared white shirt, and several gold chains sat next to me. Our eyes slid glances at our neighbor, slid glances at each other, and suddenly filled with tears. The 'Sea Captain', as Amelie dubbed him, reeked. The foulest, rankest, most fetid stench emanated from him in nearly visible waves. A cartoon version of him would employ hundreds of stink lines. The noisome, pestilential odor made my nostrils curl and my lungs refuse to function. He was either an animated corpse with a valid passport or else he was rotting from the inside out. When he got up to use the bathroom, I quickly flagged down a flight attendant and begged her to move us anywhere else on the plane. She said she would see what she could do. The Sea Captain sat back in his seat. The funk of forty thousand years + seven hour flight = sheer agony waiting for the flight attendant to return. My lungs were burning and screaming for fresh air. My hands went numb from strategically holding a magazine so closely to my face to shield my tortured nose. My eyes were blurring and my brain started getting foggy from the shallow breathing. My Jedi mind tricks failed to force the emergency oxygen masks to drop down and provide us with a respite. The flight attendant returned with good news and we scrambled out of our seats, into the aisle, and towards the back of the plane so quickly that you would have thought we were practicing for an evacuation drill. We were given the seats in the extremely last row, right next to the bathrooms, and with little-to-no seat reclining action. We were in heaven.