Of Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines

As I am writing this, it is my last night in England and as of now, the adventure is over. Soon, I will have to go back to the real world with traffic, cursing, smog, family, responsibilities, the beach, and Vietnamese food. Yet, while I am excited, and have been for a month or so, there is still a feeling of loss, of business left unfinished.

I was unsure of what I should call this feeling until suddenly talking to my best friend over the phone, it came to me.

It feels unreal. Like it happened to someone else and that I was just watching. It was not me on those trains, climbing up those mountains, seeing those sights. It was someone else and I was only dreaming. That's what it feels like: a long, tiring, exhilarating dream. It was the feeling I had after Paris and I had not felt it again until now. And I feel like at any moment, I am going to wake up and I will be back in California, getting ready to leave for England once again. Like this is all just a precursor to the next, great chapter. Which is an appropriate feeling considering that I am applying for graduate school this upcoming fall. At the same time, I never want this hazy dream to end but coincidentally, I cannot wait to wake up and find my way home.

I feel sad, as if I am saying good-bye to something forever (it seems like it with my British friends), something which I do not know I am ever going to see again. It's a feeling that you are losing something and at the same time, I am gaining my life back, the life I know and have grown up alongside.

Like most things, there are gains and losses, light and dark.

You always hear people say, "Before they die, I want to do this..." At the risk of sounding morbid, I know that if everything were to end tomorrow, I know that I would have gone at the height of it all. I would have seen some extraordinary things, met some of the best people I have ever met, and held the world in my hands. There will be no regrets and no options for sadness.

And that's the most perfect thing of all, the most perfect feeling to have, and the most poignant as well.

"I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again" - James Taylor, "Fire and Rain"



P.S. The blog is not over, by the way. Though if you were here for my adventures and, like me, feel like it's time to come back to Earth, then now would be the time to stop reading. As for the rest, I will be continuing with my perceptions upon coming back, as well as miscellaneous abroad-related things. Thank you all for reading and see you on the other side.

Of Things I Will Miss About the UK

To wind down this blog (since I am going home in 1 day), I would like to address England and thank her for having me these past 6 months. And to begin my goodbyes, I would like to speak of the things I will miss about England

1) Teatime. Especially with cakes and scones filled with jam and clotted cream. My favorite memory of tea were when we visited Allison's family friend, Joan (who were good friends with Allison's mother), and she served us tea in china cups painted with English roses, as well as cakes on matching rose plates. I have never felt more proper and the tea tasted marvelous as well. Or, if it wasn't in china cups, it was just tea time with my flatmates on Sundays where we catch up on the past week or gossip, just like those British ladies on TV.

2) Wildflowers. The weather is not as kind to plants in California. Yet in England, all the rain means that everything is an intense shade of green and the flowers grow tall, large, and so lovely. I am still amazed upon coming back from Italy to find freshly grown daffodils that seem to spring up overnight. That's the magic of this place.

3) Chocolate. And by chocolate, I mean real chocolate such as Galaxy and Cadbury that has the right amount of cacao content in them to make them chocolate, different than dry, old Hershey bars. You can't get them at home for this cheap and definitely not in large bar form.

4) Small. The small size of everything, from the doorways to the streets. Everything here is built on a smaller scale which makes a short person like me feel strangely comforted. And most of the towns here are also built on a small scale with a main street. I will miss that old-fashion quality about it.

5) History. Europe has that air of regal history about her. America is the vivaciousness of youth. The buildings here are of an older, beautiful aged quality. Home is all slick skyrises and glass houses. I will miss the Elizabethan and Georgian style houses (with their corresponding names such as Lilac Cottage or Cranford House), in their small towns where everything is in walking distance, and the history of years behind them.

6) Public transport. I do complain quite a bit about the lack of punctuality in the British transport system but the plus thing about it is that it's there and it takes you everywhere in England. Living in the middle of a green field, I would be stuck if it were not for the 4 different bus lines that run through campus. So thank you Unibus, Travel Coventry, and Stagecoach buses, plus Virgin, London Midland, and other train lines for helping to transport me to strange, far off places as soon I got bored.

Most of all, I will miss the wonderful people that I have met here, English, German, Swedish, Irish, and of course, other Americans. Without them, this experience would not have been as enriching, rewarding, and oh so fun. They have, for the lack of a better term, have taught me so much (one of which was proper British English). I gained a new understanding and knowledge of other cultures through these people, laughed and drank with them, and found a connection over common bonds which I did not think would be present. I learned that in the end, we are all the same, which is oddly comforting.

So I am saying my goodbyes, so long, farewells, and I hope one day to come back. So long England, and thanks for all the biscuits!


So long sheep, I think I'll miss you most of all

Of the Stage

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts..."

As quoted from Shakespeare's famous cross-dressing comedy, "As You Like It" and one of the most famous monologues in the Bard's repertoire. It was also the play that led me back into London, for the last time, to the Globe theater (the second version since the first version burned down during the English Renaissance). This was also where I got to play another part: groundlings.



We were the Elizabethan poor villagers who could not afford the seats but instead, could only stand. Despite that, where we were, in front of the center stage steps, were the best view in the house. Orlando and Rosaline were close enough to touch and from that vantage point, I could see every flicker of emotion that passed their faces and every quirk in their body language. I had never been so close before in the theater and now, the mezzanine will never be the same again.

In truth, it was the best 5 pounds I had ever spent and a poignant last overnight trip, at the place where I first came into England. In a way, listening to this speech was a fitting in since it is just indicative of the end of another act in my life. And as I'm writing this, two days before I fly back home, the Bard's words have never held more resonance. It is time for the scene to change and for the actress to bid adieu to the audience. Adieu!



"Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

P.S. To complete my Shakespearean experience, I also made a pilgrimage six days later to Stratford Upon Avon, the childhood home of the bard and the place where he died (now converted into a little Shakespeare town with matching Renaissance style buildings and streets). There, in the backyard of his childhood house, I also encountered the monologue again. We never escape the bard.

Of Le Art du Vin

To close off my postings about the Loire Valley (you can see how much I adored the region on how many postings I dedicated to it). I would like to dedicate a short posting to the art of wine tasting and wine making. France and wine have become synonymous with each other, with the French perfecting wine making down to an art. They invented the study of viticulture for goodness sakes so they do know a thing or two about wine.

The Loire Valley where I visited are known for their white wine, especially the sparkling variety. The best way to get a wine tour is to sign up with a tour company who will take you to a number of different wineries and allow you to get a tasting at each one. All in the course of one afternoon.

I found myself on a very private tour with just me, a French tour guide, and 2 Canadian ladies (who knew less about wine than I did, which was to some relief).

Wine tasting is a delicate affair, full of unspoken rules.



1) The wine tasting is never free. There is always a fee and if you request a tasting, they are going to expect you to buy a bottle of wine, out of courtesy. Thankfully, as part of the tour group, we were not under any such obligations.

2) When the wine is poured, swill it around the glass to let it breathe. Smell it, take in the aroma of the wine in order to pinpoint all of the notes it contains. Like a perfume, let each layer reach shyly towards you.

3) Swish the wine in your mouth to better savor the many flavors within. Take your time, this is not an event to rush but a privilege to be enjoy. A wine is going to taste different every year since the amount of rainfall or the quality of the dirt will change the flavor of the grapes, give it different qualities that it may lack from previous years. Different flavors of grapes will equal a unique wine that can only be found within that particular year.

4) When you are done savoring the wine, spit (that's what the silver bucket is for). Swallowing is fine if you are not driving and you are only tasting a couple of wines. Swallowing is not fine when you have 10 different wines to taste and prone to getting light-headed from the beverage. I speak from personal (and shameful) experience, though in my defense, the only people who spit out the wine was our French tour guide.

Lastly, the coolest thing that I saw were the storage units for the wines. No warehouses and electric refrigerators in France. Here, nature is the master, and only her own refrigerator will do. The quarries underneath the hillsides are deep, rocky, and absolutely frigid. Perfect for storing that 1873 Chinon Blanc (a real wine too, worth 200 euros, which I saw in person, as well as other 100+ year old wines).



I also found my favorite type of white wine: sparkling. Like champagne but sweeter, it is heaven in a flute glass. A wine so complicated that it takes a month to prepare the newly fermented wine for transport to wine shops (a process that includes tipping the bottle, freezing it, then leaving it for an additional couple of weeks for the shock to settle). The result is the only wine bottle I purchased that day, which I cannot wait to drink.

Of Le Jardin

I may have been a bit vague in that last posting about where I was and why and how I got there. Well, let us backtrack. I had always planned on going back to France, if only to visit an authentic French vineyard and participate in a tasting. Lana, one of my travel mates, and I had actually planned to go to Bordeaux - home of French wine - but at the last minute, she decided to take a solo trip to the Isle of Skye, which left me by my lonesome as the only person who wanted to go back to France.

Short of hating myself for the rest of my life for not going back to France, I decided to throw caution to the wind and buy myself a plane ticket to Tours, France in the Loire Valley, recommended by many travel websites for its white wine and chateaux. What commenced was five too-short days traveling completely alone. Why so short? Because any longer and my brother-in-law, the only person in my family who would not kill me for doing this, was the only person who knew.

And because for safety purposes, a 4'11'' Asian girl with a lack of street smarts traveling around for an extended period of time all by herself is a recipe for trouble.

The reasons I wanted to go to the Loire Valley was three-fold: self-examination (ruminated on in the prior post), the wine, and the chateaux, of which there were more than 300 in the valley. Oh to be a rich nobleman in France during the 17th-19th century...or to be his wife...

The first one is the most famous: the Chateau de Chenonceau, out of more than 300 chateaux in the Loire Valley (also known as "Le Jardin de France" because of the rolling green hillsides dotted with beautiful castles).

In the afternoon, I boarded a train from Tours to visit the chateau. Getting off of the train, there was nothing around except for the sound of the birds. Then, I followed a grove of trees which I recognized from so many historical dramas with the main heroine being taken to a secluded mansion in the countryside, hidden by a tree-lined path. That was what I felt like, except my carriage was my two feet and I was trying to look past the trees, to catch my first glimpse of the chateau.

Then, my breath caught in my chest as the trees, like curtains, opened up and presented me with this:

In the late spring sun, with the chirping of the birds all around, I was a lady, calling on the owner. The most beautiful part of the chateau, besides its 3 stories of tapestry filled rooms, where the gardens, filled with the scent of spring roses blooming in every color and arranged in romantic swirling patterns. Everything had that feminine touch of romance, which is no surprise since it was owned by Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici (at different times), who were both involved with French monarchs.

And speaking of monarchs, the next day was the Chateau d'Amboise which I chose as a pilgrimage to the grave of Leonardo da Vinci, who died there. The chateau was located in the town of Amboise and overlooks it like a crown. Prior to coming, I wondered how I was going to be able to find the chateau if it was located in the town. To my surprise, it was not hard to find, as it was my first sight as I crossed the bridge from the train station into the little town of Amboise.

This one belonged to King Francois I. The rooms were a bit simpler than Chenonceau yet elegant all the same, with wooden chairs, decorated pillars, and gargoyles (indicative of a residual Gothic influence).

Afterward, I visited the Chateau du Close Luce, located about a couple of blocks north. This modest house, by royalty standards, here Leonardo spent the last 4 years of his life, at the request of King Francois I, who funded his experiments and art during that time. There was also a tunnel underneath the house that connected it to the Chateau d'Amboise, and where Francois could visit Leonardo whenever he wished.

It is also to this place that Leonardo brought the Mona Lisa when he finished it, not wanting to part with such a unique piece of art. Perhaps that is why the roses grown in the Renaissance-style garden are called Mona Lisa roses.

Visiting these chateaux, filled with so much history and beauty, one can't help but feel a little like royalty. Especially when they are not as well-known as Versailles and as such, you can walk the rooms alone and pretend you are a solitary visitor, a Renaissance noble, calling upon the master of the house. I almost did not want to leave this dream.

The Loire Valley, the photo album

Of Le Voyage Sentimental

The wine glass in my hand is cool to the touch. I examine the bubbles that steadily float to the surface, disappearing only to have a myriad of others take their place. I tip the glass. The wine touches my lips, sweet, a hint of fruit, and the bubbles flutter, a tickling sensation. An inexplicable giggle escapes me. I cannot pinpoint where exactly this pure delight came from. Perhaps it is the wine.

Or perhaps, it is something more broad. A combination of the place, of its sounds and sights. The taste of the wine on my tongue and the salad on my plate. In this place, this time, 8PM in Tours, France, surrounded by a stream of passing dialogue which I cannot understand, I feel something which had eluded me, which I had been trying to find as I rode on long train rides to far off destinations. Freedom. But most of all: invisibility.

Here, in this place, on my own, I am no one. I have no name, no identity. I do not need to speak with anyone nor is there anyone I desire to speak to. I do not need to follow anyone, to make any decisions for anyone. I only need myself and for once, I am comforted by that.

Here, I am just being.

I cannot say what compelled me to make this independent journey, bereft of the companionship of my friends. Perhaps it was because there was no one willing to come with me. Perhaps I did not look hard enough. Or perhaps, in reality, I wanted to do this one trip alone, to prove to myself that I was truly grown up, ready to make my own decisions, lead my own fate.

And this final trip is but a metaphor for my desired state of being.

They say as you grow older, more independent, you become more comfortable with yourself. And I cannot pinpoint the exact moments where I have turned into a different person, a more confident person. There are times where I feel insecure and insignificant. But not now, not at this moment in time. At this restaurant. At this time of night. Instead, I feel at ease, strangely happy to just be me. As the American poet William Carlos Williams once wrote, "I am lonely, lonely./I was born to be lonely,/I am best so!"

Indeed, sometimes, it's the best way to be.

Of Climbing in Wales

In Rogers and Hammerstein's "The Sound of Music," the Mother Superior says to a lovestruck, yet doubtful Maria that she must "climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every river, until you find your dream!" And as I was trudging up Mount Snowdon in Northern Wales - ascending towards a meager, yet handsome 3000 feet and the highest point in the UK - the song kept repeating itself in my head.

What was also nagging at me was the desire to collapse and sleep for a thousand years.

But in my head, I heard my own Mother Superior telling me to "climb every mountain," not because of any intangible dream, but rather, "you've already been doing this for the last 3 hours, what's 1 more?" It was 1PM and the sun was beating down on us in what would turn out (coincidentally) to be the hottest day of the season. And I had forgotten to apply sunscreen (having forgotten that foreign method of protection). So onward...



How did I get myself into this situation with no sunscreen, no tissues for my sniffling nose, and the sun beating down on me? Well, the whole point of going to Wales was two-folds: Welsh castles and Snowdonia National Park. We were going to go back in February but according to the websites, Mount Snowdon was a "death trap" during the winter season. So we decided to go to Paris instead. And I was trudging up a particularly steep slope, it was a good choice to wait until now. Though I do wish we could have done it a couple of days ago when it was cloudy and misting. At least then I would not be sweating rivulets, wanting to dive into the nearest pool of water, and getting a horrible sunburn to boost (and future skin cancer).



We could have taken the steam train, which had its base in the town of Llanberis. But we decided that as young, athletic, strong walkers that we were, we would just save that 15 pounds round trip and do it the old fashion way.


Every...single...step

And 4 hours later, we were at the top.



A quick stop for lunch at the top of the world, where my ham sandwich and orange juice tasted like the most amazing meal I had ever had. An hour to enjoy the breeze. And what followed was the way down. And the fight continues...



I did soak my tired feet in the cold and clear mountain lake water at the bottom. And it felt amazing. In that needles and potential frost-bite kind of way.

P.S. And about that Welsh Castle? Big, stony, and filled with mysterious dark corridors. What else can you expect from a castle?


Caernarfon Castle. Built by King Edward I to suppress Welsh rebels and inspired by the Roman ruins at Constantinople.

Wales, the photo album