The Craigs

Guacamole

Ingredients (starting):

6 avocados

1 tomato

3 stalks of green onion

1 handful of fresh cilantro leaves

1 lemon

Salt

Will probably need more ingredients to adjust flavor.

Peel avocados, remove seeds, and put into mixing bowl. Chop tomato, onion, and cilantro individually until they are very fine and then put them into mixing bowl. Cut lemon and squeeze juice into mixing bowl. Add a dash of salt. Mash all ingredients until they become a paste.

Here's the fun part: taste the guacamole; guess what is wrong. Then add and mix those missing ingredients. My guacamole's tomato flavor was too strong, so I included an extra avocado, a couple more stalks of green onion, some more cilantro, and another 1/2 lemon.

I almost never eat guacamole, so I didn't know how it should taste. Ryan liked how it tasted in the end, but Sarah wanted more salt. It all comes down to taste.

The guacamole went very well as a topping for Mexican Turkey Burgers.

Ryan had a special scoop (pictured in bottom

center) for the avocados, but I didn't like it.

I would rather cut and then pull the core

from the skin by hand. I did like the chopper

(pictured in the top center) and wish I had one

because I use a lot of chopped garlic and onion.

Even though I rarely eat guacamole, this recipe was fun because it represents the core of cooking. Subjectively, cooking is not about exact, scientific measurements or precise step-by-step instructions. It's a gut feeling. It's shooting from the hip. It's personal. It's art. That's what makes it fun. I've heard about people who are very exact about recipes and cooking, but that's not fun. It's also constraining. It doesn't allow experimentation, and experimentation lets me find new recipes. I'd rather make a few mistakes and know more about what I'm cooking, what makes it taste that way, and what makes it better.

I now want to learn how to make homemade salsa. I wonder how hard it would be to make homemade tortilla chips. I would also like to learn how to make BBQ sauce.

Elizabeth and Phoebe

The other night here in Houston I threw one of Phoebe's (my sister's dog) toys, and Elizabeth started laughing. I then took this video:

Ever since then, I now notice that Elizabeth's eyes follow Phoebe whenever the dog is around. Phoebe still isn't the biggest fan but has warmed up to the 6-month old.

Lankford Grocery- why is Houston the most obese city in America?

I made a huge mistake in Scotland. I went to the pub Victoria (the "Vic") on Market Street and saw that they had 2-for-one burgers for dinner. It sounded like a tempting offer, so a friend and I split it. I quickly learned that pub food sucks. It was one of the worst burgers I've ever had. The meat had been microwaved instead of cooked on a grill, and it wasn't ground beef. I'm honestly not sure what it was. Cafeteria food at my elementary school was better than this crap. I swore not to eat another hamburger until I was back in the US of A.

This summer my brother-in-law and I went to several burger joints around Houston, including Five Guys and Fries and Smashburger. Today we tried a new place, Lankford Grocery, which was featured on the Food Network's "Diners, Drive-Ins, Dives". I didn't know it was on tv until I saw a huge poster, signed by the show's host, in the restaurant.

Still family owned today, this hole-in-a-wall shack at 88 Dennis Street was originally a mom-and-pop grocery store built in the late 1930s. They started selling sandwiches in the early 70s and then burgers in the late 70s. As the neighborhood changed, it stopped being a grocery store in the 90s and became solely a burger joint with lunch plate specials. Today's special was the enchilada plate.

Holiday decorations, including blue Miller Lite ornaments, covered the walls along with other memorabilia. We sat by the large front windows, which had been the garage opening; the garage doors were pulled open and hanged above our heads. An uneven floor sank around the counter and front door. The roof above our heads sagged even though a huge beam tried to keep it up. They didn't have a soda fountain but only sold canned drinks. I drank tap water from a colorful plastic cup not too different from what I would use at home. The place was crowded, and we were lucky to find a seat at 1 pm. Even at 1:30 and 2 new customers came in but had to leave because there wasn't enough space. The summer is probably better for business since they can sit outside, but then the Houston humidity would be a problem. Hanging from a rusty pole, the only sign was dirty, plastic, and had an "Enjoy Coca-Cola" below the "Lankford Groc."

Here are a couple photos (like my last post, the pics are from my cell, which doesn't have the greatest camera function):

At 56º f (13º c), Houston was too cold for anyone to sit outside.

My first burger since the Vic disaster.

Fried egg on a burger- who came up with that idea?

I'll go ahead and say it wasn't a skinny dude-

that's probably a safe bet.

I ordered the "Grim Burger;" six hours after the fact I still feel nauseous and smell like grease. The menu description said, "mac & cheese, bacon, fried egg, & jalapeño." I've never tried that combo before, but it's a dang good idea. I'm not sure if I'd go for jalapeño again since they're not my favorite, but it was worth doing once. Fried egg with mac & cheese on a burger was glutton genius. For the past few hours, I can taste the burger whenever I burp. That might be TMI, but I'm ok with that.

If someone eats these things on a regular basis, they'll see the grim reaper sooner rather than later. If there's a food worth dying for, a greasy burger is it.

There's an elephant

I arrived into Houston Thursday afternoon, and later that evening Ryan (my bro-in-law) said to me, "There's going to be an elephant." "What?" "There's going to be an elephant." "I don't understand what you're talking about." The next day the three of us were going to a Christmas Pageant (or as they called it, a "Christmas Celebration") at First Baptist Church of Houston; Ryan heard on good authority that an elephant was going to be part of the show.

I was thinking there was going to be a small elephant brought into the sanctuary by the side door, but I didn't expect the church to walk the elephant through the middle of the sanctuary. Even though we were expecting it, it was still a surprise.

Yes, that's an elephant walking through the middle of church.

Some other cool stuff from the pageant: Cables lifted Santa Claus on his sleigh over the congregation as he made his grand arrival and exit from the stage. Cables also suspended angels over the stage, and a spotlight illuminated them in the dark sanctuary before the angels dropped the trails to their long flowing white gowns.

Because of a mishap with the nursery, Elizabeth (my six-month old niece) had to sit with us in the congregation. She's a rather calm baby, and for a whole hour she sat quietly and watched the stage and lights. Then she fell asleep just before the elephant came in.

Calmest baby in the world.

Miles to go before I sleep (a little more than 5,400 to be exact)

Today has been a rather long day, and it probably won't end until sometime tomorrow. This morning I went running with a flatmate along a wooded trail outside St Andrews. The path was quite gorgeous at several points as we ran up hills where we could see the North Sea in the distance and around gorges that were thirty or more feet deep. Unfortunately, the path wasn't always paved. I fell the first time while running on a muddy path leading to the top of the first big hill, and I landed into some thorns. I slipped again while running down that hill, and my last fall was near a gorge. I was a little worried that I wouldn't be able to stop my fall and keep rolling down the steep hill into the rocky stream below. Once my shoes were slightly muddy, I lost most of my traction until we returned to the paved roads. I'd love to go again once the ground dries up a little bit, and maybe next time I'll avoid the slick spots better.

Tonight I'm leaving for Edinburgh where I'll spend the night at the airport. My flight for Amsterdam is at 6 am, and the first bus leaving from St Andrews is at 6:25 am so that I have to leave tonight. Since my flight is so early, I don't really see the point in getting a hostel for the night. I would arrive into Edinburgh at 8:40 pm and have to be at the airport sometime around 3 am or so. I might as well spend the night for free in a 'comfortable' chair. I've already spent a few nights in airports, and I don't recommend it very highly. Last time I was in Stockholm, and I couldn't sleep until I was back home in Châteauroux, France the next afternoon. I don't expect to sleep much tonight if at all.

I have this grandiose dream that I'll actually get some work done while at the airport and on my flights back to Houston. Today I bought 3 books for class which should help me on the exams next January, but we'll see how much I actually read tonight.

Who Dat

I remember when we called the Saints the "Ain'ts" because they ain't gonna win. That was just a few years ago. They were one of those pathetic teams that no one really followed because we all knew what was going to happen: they were going to lose, eventually. We were excited when they won their first playoff game back in 2000 against the defending champions, St Louis. Unfortunately, they later lost in true Saints' style. Even last season when they had the most productive offense, their defense sucked.

Now that New Orleans is good, I'm living in Scotland where I can only get a few NFL games from Sky Sports in a pub, and those games have mostly been with Green Bay or Dallas. I'm surprised they haven't shown any of the Saints games.

This week I noticed on Politifact.com where Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal predicted that the Saints would go undefeated and win the Super Bowl, but then Jindal went on to say that this feat has never been done in the NFL. Of course, the 1972 Dolphins had a perfect season with a Super Bowl win, so Politifact ruled this comment a "false." I like Politifcat because they seem to be balanced enough and call politicians on their crap, but this article hardly seems worth the time. I know it's a quick comment to check and prove wrong and thus an easy article, but he's just mouthing off about sports. Maybe Jindal should have gone really over the top with an awesome hyperbole. He could have said all Saints wins were bigger than any other victory in sports history, including the Miracle on Ice. It would have been false, but maybe he could have shown his personality and gained support from sports fans.

New Orleans Saints' Devery Henderson runs to the

end zone to score on a 75-yard pass from

Drew Brees during the 2nd quarter.

The Clarion Ledger. Ryan Moore.

New Orleans Saints owner Tom Benson with

wife Gayle arriving for the New England Patriots game

on November 30, 2009.

AP Photo. Dave Martin.

I really like this last photo. In Britain, Benson would be flipping off someone. I know that's not what he's really doing, but I'd like to think he is. This way of flipping the bird is such a posh way of telling someone you hate them while reminding them that they're inferior because they only know the American way. I especially like that he's doing this at the Patriots game. Like anyone with good sense, I hate the Patriots. Now, if you're from Boston or the surrounding area, I can forgive you for liking them... sort of. If you're from anywhere else in the country, then your a douche. You're also probably a sell-out Yankee fan, which makes you a bigger douche. I'd like to dedicate Benson's unintended bird for all those Patriot and Yankee fans.

Slow down. I'm not used to meeting Johnny Cash in the flesh

Story from this weekend: While at church yesterday, I met a retired minister who studied at St Andrews, so he asked me a bunch of questions about the town. As I answered him, he stopped me, "Slow down. Slow down. I'm not used to meeting Johnny Cash in the flesh." Of course, he had a thick Scottish accent I could barely understand. Later I asked one of my cousins if my accent was difficult to understand, and she said 'no.' Maybe he had trouble hearing in general, and I strongly doubt I sound like Johnny Cash. I also doubt that I even look like him, but maybe I should dress in black and form a cover band. That'd be cool. He's apparently popular over here because I hear his music in the pubs from time to time. I probably hear Cash more in Europe than I do in the states.

I'm not sure whether or not I like these photos I took at Keyshill farm near Ayr. I took a whole bunch of other photos at different shutter speeds and aperture settings, so in a couple days I may like those more than these, but I figured I'd go ahead and put these up on the blog and let y'all look at them.

Only a couple family photos

I know it's a major faux-pas not to take a bunch of family pictures in these situations, but I only took a couple. Since I do live in Scotland, I'll be back to this side of the island after I return in January, so I'll take more photos then.

Group photo Sunday night

at "tea," as Dorothy likes to call it.

I'd say that's a Scottish thing,

but Fiona doesn't call it that.

I ate brussels sprouts for the first time...

well, I ate one brussels sprout.

As a cultural exchange, I taught the cousins

Texas Hold 'Em, and they gave me Scotch mixed

with spices. In this photo I had just gone all in

and was about to lose to Ian's pair of kings

when the 'river' gave me a third jack to win the hand.

I eventually lost. I'll blame it on beginner's

luck and not my stupidity.

Keyshill Farm

My Scottish cousins own a farm just outside of Ayr, and I visited them this past weekend. I first came here back in 1993 and again in 2000, and those trips were my first excursions outside the United States. I haven't been back in 9 years, and a lot has changed. Some of my cousins have grown up a lot, which is expected yet surprising. I'll post some more pictures later. Here are some pictures of the farmhands 'freeze branding' some of the cows with metal numbers dipped in dry ice:

The metal numbers in a tub of dry ice.

Cow by the milking station.

A Cut and Shot

The Barber's Pole on South Street

It's not the fanciest barber shop, and the beige interior has less character than a generic hotel conference room. An employee printed the sign in the window on a computer instead of making it at a respectable print shop. The old radio in the corner has a cassette player but not a CD player, and the reception is a little off so that I can't hear the imported American music. There are only a couple chairs, which don't go up or down like the chairs in true hair salons. No one washes the customer's hair with fragrant shampoo. In fact, this barber doesn't use any water at all, not even water from a spray bottle to moisten the hair before she cuts away with scissors that she did not sanitize after cutting the last customer's hair. She does use an electric shaver with a preset length guard that my friends buy at Wal-Mart so that they can easily cut their own hair at home. There is no clean shave with a straight blade or warm foam, but that is probably too archaic to still happen in barber shops today. Besides, I'm not sure how I feel about a stranger taking a sharp knife to my throat, especially if I did not tip well last time since I didn't know how much the British tip. There are no appointments and rarely a wait. It only costs £6.50 with the student discount, but I should check with other barbers to see if that is the best deal in town.

The best part of the whole gig is the shot of scotch whiskey at the end. They advertise the free shot from their window, but the barber never offers it after the cut. I rarely see customers ask for it. Maybe a shot of whiskey at 3 pm is too much. Then again, it does come with the cut. I'm not about to pass up a free shot of whiskey, and the pre-happy-hour time is no deterrent. The whiskey is an unglamorous mixed blend whose bottle doesn't boast being in a single barrel for 12 or 21 years. I think the same bottle has been sitting up on the counter since my last hair cut a month and a half ago. At least the barber pours a full, healthy shot into a touristy shot glass with Scottish scenery painted on the side. It's better than the tiny and expensive shots at the pub. I asked the barber if other shops give free shots of whiskey after haircuts. Apparently, it's a gimmick that only this shop does. Well, it's a memorable gimmick that gets the university students' attention.

Loose. Footloose.

As a finale for St Andrews Festival, there was an outdoor 'ceilidh' (supposedly pronounced like 'kay-lee') with live music on South Street. It's very similar to a good ole' square dance with lots of spinning. I've never done this kind of dance before, but I wasn't about to not dance in it. A friend and I tried our best to figure out what was going on while ticking off the real Scots who actually knew the dances. Afterwards, there was a torch walk to a field next to the ruined castle. There we watched an odd interpretive dance which was supposed to tell the story about a cursed warrior who had to learn how to fight while fighting temptation from the 'forbidden' women. From what I saw of the dance, he didn't do so well with fighting temptation. I've seen some people call this dance "interesting," but I'd rather describe it with a more appropriate adjective like "awful." Just before we left, the warrior roundhouse kicked his ex-lover in the face. Maybe it was a story about young Chuck Norris coming of age.

I know this photo from inside the ceilidh is blurry

due to the low light and slow shutter, but at least it

shows the dance's movement. Bumping into strangers

and getting confused is apparently part of the dances...

at least it was for me.

If I didn't know anything about the torch walk

and I saw it pass by, I'd think they were going

to attack the village monster in his castle.

I love the bunny ears.

I've never seen interpretive dance,

but tonight's show wasn't

a good first impression.

St Salvator's Quad was blue tonight.

Traditional Scottish Folk Music... on a banjo

Last Friday night I went to an Alastair McDonald concert at Hope Park Church across the street from my flat. I had never heard of him, but people at the church last Sunday said that he was famous. Maybe he had a tv show in Scotland back in the day? He sings Scottish folk music, especially humorous songs on the banjo. I'm a little surprised he used an American instrument like the banjo, but he said so many Scottish expatriates in the US had used the banjo that he felt justified in using it, too. He's a humorous character, so his concert was very entertaining. I especially enjoyed his anecdotes about how he ran across the music he sang. It seemed as though he wrote very little music that became famous but instead sang others' music. I guess that's not much different from most popular musicians. His famous songs include versions of "Massacre of Glencoe," "The Barras," "Centiped" (he was the first to make that song famous), and "Sam the Skull" (he made this song about a Glasgow cat famous, too- everyone in the congregation knew and sang- that made me feel a wee bit awkward because I was probably the only American in the crowd- I was also probably the only person there under 35). Even though I went by myself since no one else seemed interested, it was worth it. They had free wine and snacks afterwards, and I could have talked to him. Instead, I had to leave quick because I was meeting some friends at the pub and was running late.

Cathedral Lights Plus HMS Pinafore

Tonight I went to a performance of HMS Pinafore and Trial by Jury with some friends, but first we stopped by the ruined cathedral. The St Andrews Festival is this weekend, so there's a bunch of events like a light show on the cathedral's walls. I believe tonight's show was about the church's history in Scotland. We didn't pay admission to go see the show, but I took a few pictures from a distance.

By the way, HMS Pinafore and Trial by Jury were awesome. I had seen HMS Pinafore about 10 years ago, but I didn't remember much. "When I Was a Lad" was hilarious, especially the lines:

Now landsmen all, whoever you may be,

If you want to rise to the top of the tree,

If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,

Be careful to be guided by this golden rule--

Stick close to your desks and never go to sea,

And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navee!

Whenever I think about HMS Pinafore, I think about The West Wing and Ainsley Hays. She was a staunch Republican whose office was in the basement near the furnace because the Democrats hated her. She references HMS Pinafore, and here are the clips: Pinafore 1, Pinafore 2. I also love the scene where she meets the President.

If only money solved all problems

RJ Matson, The New York Observer and Roll Call

I want a suit like that.

Forgive me because I normally don't get political on my blog, but here we go...

On October 30, Vice President Biden said that 640,329 jobs had been created or saved because of the $787,000,000,000 stimulus package. Unfortunately, that number is inaccurate. Earl Devaney from the Recovery Accountability and Transparency Board said that there are lots of irregularities so that the number may be more or less than 600k. Such irregularities include spending $1.2 million in Utah's 4th congressional district. Utah only has 3 congressional districts. More than 58,000 jobs have been "created/saved" because of money spent even though no money has actually been spent on those projects.

My biggest problem isn't the irregularities. I expect irregularities in government, especially when tracking $787 billion package. My biggest problem is that VP Biden was proud to report 640,329 jobs had been created because the government had allocated $787 billion for stimulus. That's about $1.2 million of allocated money per job. According to recover.gov, $141.33 billion has actually been spent. That means the government has actually spent more than $220,000 per job created. In Mississippi, the government has spent $904.8 million, or about $263,000 per job. Of course, this is assuming the recover.gov's numbers are accurate, which is doubtful.

I understand the multiplier effect that says when stimulus money is given to one person he/she will spend that money elsewhere in the economy. Thus, the economy gets stimulated. Unfortunately, I strongly doubt the multiplier effect has had much effect because we have a 10.2% unemployment rate. Since we started recording this data 6 decades ago, the highest unemployment rate we've recorded was 10.8% in 1982. Today, 15.7 million people are looking for jobs but can't find them. 5.6 million are in long-term unemployment (have been looking for jobs for more than 6 months). 27 million are underemployed. Since December 2007, the number of unemployed has increased by 8.2 million. We've lost 5.3% of non-farm payroll jobs.

And Obama's administration is dubiously boasting that the government has saved 0.6 million jobs after a $787 billion stimulus?

Meanwhile, the deficit is about 10% of our GDP when it should be around 3%. Bush didn't help, but Obama isn't cleaning up the mess. I understand that stimulus can help the economy, but we have to eventually pay off this debt. Maybe in this globalized economy the old forms of stimulating the national economy don't work anymore; we spend too much of our money on imports so that the domestic economy doesn't get stimulated. I also wonder if the US should have let the present economy go a little more south so that we wouldn't stifle our future economy with enormous debt.

Here are some links to the articles I used: NYT (11/6/09), NYT Economix (11/6/09), CNN (11/6/09), NYT (11/16/09), CNN a (11/17/09), CNN b (11/17/09), Bureau of Labor Statistics (11/6/09).

Eric Allie, Chicago

Expatriate Thanksgiving: we can cook a dang good turkey

A group of us who have been doing pub quizzes together for the past few weeks got together along with some classmates and their friends for an expatriate thanksgiving . I was in charge of the turkey. I've never cooked a turkey. When I lived in France a couple years ago, I carved a turkey but didn't cook it (actually, it was a chicken because we couldn't find the real thing, but the girls who bought it swore it was a turkey). At church last Sunday I met a lady who knew about American Thanksgiving this upcoming Thursday, and she asked me if I was going to celebrate. When I told her I was in charge of the turkey but didn't know where I could buy one (I've learned that not all countries have turkeys in the grocery store around Thanksgiving time... go figure), all the older ladies at the table told me what I needed to do. One even offered a pan to cook it in. I didn't need the pan, but I did learn that I needed to buy the turkey ASAP so that it would defrost in time. After I bought the turkey, a couple friends took it from me because I didn't have room in my fridge to put it. Besides, we were having Thanksgiving at their place. They defrosted it for a couple days, and the last day they soaked it in a bucket with water, salt, honey, and pepper. They read about it on the internet. Thursday morning I went over to start cooking it, and I spread melted butter mixed with chicken bullion all over the outside and inside the turkey. I read about doing that on the internet. We cooked it for 3 hours, 18 minutes because that's what the packaging said to do. Also, we covered it with foil except for the last thirty minutes so that it would stay moist. In the end, it was a delicious- I'd say it was one of the better turkeys I've had. The meat was so moist that when I carved it, everything fell apart. I tried to get some good turkey legs, but the meat wouldn't stick to the bone as I cut it away. Cooking the turkey had been a team effort, and we doubted whether or not it would be edible in the end. But the three men in the group did surprisingly well.

While carving the turkey, I accidently splattered

turkey juices all over my pants.

It didn't look very flattering.

Turkey post-carving- yum yum.

Booyah- Touchdown- we make miracles happen

Others brought the stuffing, wine, a rice-cheese dish,

apple pie, a sweet strawberry dish, gravy, etc.

The Raisin

Instead of explaining a tradition that I don't really understand, I just stole this description of The Raisin from Spiegel:

"Raisin Weekend," the crazed, carnavalesque kickoff to St. Andrew's academic year, may indeed at one time have had something to do with raisins. The origins of Raisin Weekend remain shrouded in mystery, an obscurity all too appropriate for a festival whose very tradition is rooted in mocking tradition. For a university sometimes accused of having built a reputation for stuffy poshness -- its most famous recent alumnus is Prince William -- Raisin Weekend promises the ultimate retort, styling itself as a wild, bachannalic rite of passage for baffled first-year students.

At the heart of this initiation process is the "academic family," an organ which, far from serving any scholastic purpose, functions like a cruel caricature of the "buddy systems" favored by less imaginative institutions. Each first-year student assumes for the duration of festivities the title of "academic child." He or she is then joined to both an "academic mother" and an "academic father" chosen from later years. These figures serve as their child's spiritual -- and quite often carnal -- tutors for the rest of the boozy ordeal.

The duties of the academic mother, according to a special Raisin Weekend guide written by the university's student union, begin with throwing her children a "tea party" on Sunday afternoon, with "the tea often being replaced by alcohol." Mothers are instructed to "ply (their) kids with party food, making sure they have eaten something" before everyone moves on to the father's party. Mothers are also required to dress up their children in outrageous costumes and to wrap them in "raisin strings," which are simply threads attached to some chosen object deemed both "fun" and "representative" of the child in question.

Academic fathers are charged with chaperoning their children throughout the night's parties. In return for this "paternal" stewardship, academic children are supposed to bestow gifts upon their fathers. Traditionally, children were supposed to gift their fathers with a pound of raisins, but in recent times a bottle of wine has been the custom.

In gratitude for the gift, fathers award their children with "Raisin Receipts." These are no ordinary records of transaction. Most academic fathers choose to print their receipts -- really just a scribbled latin phrase -- onto large and hulking objects. As the student union guide advises fathers, "the receipt can take any form you choose -- from an abandoned piece of furniture to a stuffed animal."

On Monday, comes the climax. Child and parent alike congregate in the quadrangle of St. Salvator's College where they then participate in the largest out-door shaving cream fight on the planet. Academic children come in costume and must bring their unwieldy "receipts" along with them.

Here's another article with more pictures.

I do not have an academic family and did not participate in the famous foam fight because I am a postgrad, and mostly undergrad freshers participate. A few postgrad friends participated, and I would have enjoyed doing a little bit if I didn't have two 5,000 word essays due this week (I just turned the last one in earlier today, hence why I waited so long to blog about The Raisin). The weekend here was crazy, though. My neighbors had a loud party Sunday afternoon in their backyard while I was finishing my first essay. Police were everywhere, too. It was cool getting to see the foam fight. I got as close as I could without getting attacked with shaving cream. Fortunately, I only got a little on my backpack. That was easy to clean up before I had to go to class.

This is the famous "PH" in front of St Salvator's Quad.

The Catholics burned Patrick Hamilton at the stake here

during the reformation.

Any student who steps on the "PH" will fail all their classes

unless they do the "May Dip" and swim in the North Sea on May 1.

The academic children were corralled in such a way that they

had to walk pass the PH and have trouble avoiding it.

The Raisin at St Salvator's Quad

You may ask yourself, "Is he wearing tight red fishnet pantyhose?"

Yes, he is.

I ran into a few postgrad friends who participated.

Because of all the foam, I didn't recognize them at first.

Gotta love the sombrero.

The guy in this picture, who I don't know, asked me to

take this picture. He was supposed to find me on

facebook so that he could get it from me, but he still

hasn't gotten in touch.

The Lichen Strikes Back

This week I barricaded myself in my room so that I could write my essay arguing that history tends to make conflicts worse, not better. Fortunately, I'm almost finished and only need to make some revisions tomorrow. I haven't written an essay in 2 years, so I had some trouble getting back into a groove. I had a lot of difficulty starting the essay, and I'll have to rewrite some of the first few pages tomorrow.

When I got tired writing the essay, I'd stare out my window and the garden in our backyard. Since no one has weeded this garden or trimmed the bushes in years, this "garden" is more like an overgrown jungle. It's really unfortunate, but postgrad students have a hard enough time keeping a kitchen clean far less planting and pruning roses or ivy. It's also kinda cool because it makes the backyard feel more rustic.

While staring out the window, I noticed something odd. Directly in front of my window is the roof to the common room downstairs, and green lichen covers the roof. I would think that plants growing on a roof would be bad for the building's structure. Maybe our backyard jungle is starting to consume my flat. Maybe I should have been writing an essay instead of staring out my window.

When the Brits say "respectable," what do they mean?

I'm annoyed with all the online dating service advertisements on facebook. Since my relationship status is "single," there is always at least one of these ads on the side of the page. I usually click the 'x' so that the ads will go away, and facebook is supposed to keep track of what I'm not interested in. Unfortunately, fb keeps putting more and more of these ads up.

Tonight I was about to remove this ad when I saw something odd. I'm not entirely accustomed the the differences between American and British English, but I don't think the word "respectable" properly describes how the girl presents herself. Back home "respectable" girls don't put pictures like that on the internet. Her shorts barely cover up her underwear, and I don't expect to see that top in church on Sunday. When I think of "respectable," I think of turtlenecks.

There's only one caveat I'd suggest: since the edges of the photo are curved, it looks like someone took the picture through a peephole. If a creepster secretly took this photo, then I could understand. She was an innocent girl in the bathroom looking in the mirror. But then that makes me wonder who is running the online dating service, and what does it mean by "good guy?" "Good guys needed to save this girl from her stalker neighbor?" I wouldn't mind being her hero, so maybe I should look into this.

Le Fiasco: I thought there was no smoking on this train

After having breakfast with Matthias (a good friend from Germany who worked with me at Lycée Jean Giraudoux in Châteauroux) last Saturday morning, I left for Charles de Gaulle airport on an RER train. I had more than a couple hours before I could check in and even longer before we would start boarding. When we were no longer underground, I noticed an odor and thin, gray smoke in my car. Since we were now above ground, I thought, "Hmm... we must have passed someone burning leaves or trash." A couple minutes later I realized that the smoke and smell were still in the car as if it was traveling with us. When we stopped at the next stop, Stade de France, we all got off and waited to see what would happen. Since it was probably a small electrical fire, the smoke stopped once the train stopped. The conductor wouldn't move the train out of the way until the firefighters made certain everything was ok, so we had to wait. Another northbound RER train stopped at the other platform, but it was wasn't going to CDG. I thought the next train headed to the airport could use this platform since all northbound RER trains used the same rail lines in this section of track, but the French thought differently. A few hundred yards away the next CDG-bound train sat on the tracks even though the other platform was empty. We all stared at it. Every few minutes I'd glance at my watch and think, "Ok. I have an hour and fifteen minutes before I HAVE to check in." "Ok. Now I have an hour." "Shit. I only have thirty minutes." Eventually, the "pompiers" arrived and said the fire was gone (if the fire was still there, the whole station would have been gone), and the conductor finally moved the train. The next train slowly rolled into the station. That trip to the airport went slowly for me. I felt like we spent way too long at every stop, and several of us kept glancing at our watches with frustrated faces. When we arrived at the airport, I had five minutes to get to the checkin counter. Charles de Gaulle is a complicated airport with inadequate signs, so I ran past the hallway I was supposed to go through and became frustrated when I came to the end of the terminal and realized I had to run back to the other side. When I finally found the checkin counter, a couple other passengers who had been on my train were begging the EasyJet employees to let us on the plane. They rolled their eyes in true Parisian style and stopped closing down their stations. I took a deep breath after they took my luggage and walked casually to the gate mentioned on my ticket. Every gate has its own security check instead of having just one for the terminal, so I stood in line in front of Gate 24's x-ray machine with my computer, shoes, belt, cell phone, and loose change in plastic trays. After putting everything into the machine, I gave my ticket to the security agent. He said, "This is Gate 24." "I know." "You're going to Edinburgh." "Yes." "You're at the wrong gate." "But the ticket says Gate 24." "The ticket is wrong." I had to scramble to get my stuff back from the x-ray machine, tie my shoes, buckle my belt, and shove my computer back into my book bag. Eventually, I found the right gate, but security there wanted to check my bag to see if I had put a water bottle into my book bag (which I hadn't). As I stood in line to board the plane, I wiped sweat from my face with my scarf and wished I had worn summer clothes instead. A pretty French girl who had run with me from the RER train for a little while smiled, "Tu est arrivé." "Oui, finalement."