Baseball and Childhood Obesity and Apple Pie, Oh My!

In case the title didn't give it away: I am back in the United States, suckas! Have been for four weeks, but nothing says "I'm back in America" like laziness and procrastination, am I right?

I've gotta say, as awesome as traveling around Europe was, being back to my boring floss-every-night-and-in-bed-by-eleven routine is pretty great, too. It sounds really cheesy, but there are lots of things about home that I have a new appreciation for. I still haven't gotten over how luxurious regular bath towels feel after five weeks of using my wimpy microfiber travel towel. Every time I dry off I feel like I'm being hugged by angels or something.

The downside to my homecoming was that I instantly got sick. Predictable, perhaps, but I've had nary a sniffle for the past year and a half and I was really hoping that I had somehow become immune to everything. (Yes, everything.) I've got the remnants of a hacking cough that tells me I was sadly mistaken.

I've also acquired a brief soundbite that I use whenever someone asks about how my trip was: "It was awesome, but I'm so glad to be back. It's nice to take long showers and sleep in my own bed." BAM. Five weeks of traipsing across an entire continent, encountering everything from hailstorms to the inefficient French train system to neo-Nazis, reduced down to a cliché about how there's no place like home. I feel like my English degree is going to waste. (Although, to be fair, I imagine most English majors feel that way.)

The truth is that it's really hard to encapsulate five weeks' worth of activities in some polite conversational small talk. Hell, I can't even summarize a forty-minute TV episode in fewer than five minutes, with extra time taken to analyze every character's motivations. ("And then he said nothing was wrong, but they did a close-up on his face and you could just tell something was wrong, you know what I mean? But everyone just accepted it and you could see in the background of the shot that he was all upset that no one pressed the issue. And then they cut to a commercial and I was like, 'Noooooo! Can't you people see he's dying inside?!'")

Luckily (for me, maybe not so luckily for you), I have a blog, which allows me to ramble on for however long I want. So I can say here that I have a lot of mixed feelings about my trip. It was awesome, don't get me wrong, and I am glad to be back. But it wasn't all rainbows and ponies and non-stop adventurous fun like I had hoped/sort of expected it to be. Some parts of it really, really sucked. By about week four I was wishing I could just hop a bus to Heathrow and fly straight back to Boston. And yet, I was still sad to leave.

Saying that I liked my trip seems too simple. It's more apt to say that I respected it.

I realize this doesn't really make sense, because I'm talking about my trip, an abstract concept essentially created by me, as if it's a separate, animate entity that holds some power over my life. But that's how it feels.

Lots of things about this trip did not go as planned. (See Paris, re: everything.) Destinations didn't live up to my expectations, either because I was too tired to really appreciate them or had built them up in my head too much or because by week five I had just seen too many damn cathedrals. (Europe is lousy with cathedrals, guys. You might think, "But cathedrals are beautiful! I'll never get tired of them!" Oh, yes. Yes, you will.) I'm sort of ashamed to admit it, but when I think back on my favorite trip memories one of the first ones that springs to mind is watching an entire episode of Sherlock on BBC One. Just sitting there with like four other random strangers at the hostel, none of us talking, all of us transfixed by the television. Ninety minutes of mindless entertainment. Excellent.

And really, that was it: the mindlessness of it. I've just spent a whole stiflingly hot New England afternoon flopping around my house like a wet dish towel, and it's been kind of boring. But this just didn't happen while I was traveling. There is something to be said for being lazy and bored every so often. If you don't ever take time out to be bored you start getting bored by non-boring things, like jaw-dropping eight-hundred-year-old cathedrals, and that's just a shame. I never want to be the person who looks at, say, a magnificent piece of art or priceless historical artifact and goes, "YAWN, another one?" I want to be thrilled, excited, amazed by all the wonderful stuff in the world. I don't want to force myself to take an interest when I'd really rather be napping. And in order for all the amazement and whatnot to happen, you need to take time out to process everything, sometimes by watching slickly-produced British crime procedurals.

So, lesson one from my trip: take time to be bored. Not too much time, but a little time. It may seem like a waste of time and money to fly to Europe and then spend an afternoon doing the same stupid stuff you could do for free in America (I'm looking at you, Buzzfeed), but honestly, it probably would have made my trip a little less one-note in some ways. (If I ever do a trip like this again, however, I fully expect to ignore this insight and keep scheduling things wall-to-wall, dawn-until-dusk. There's just so much stuff to see and so little time to see it all!)

Lesson two has been less of a "lesson," per se, and more of a slow-burning observation, and that is: Whatever. I don't really care.

This sounds really negative and spoiled-teenager-y, but I assure you I mean it in the most positive way possible. Since I've returned home I've found it a lot easier to get over minor embarrassments and setbacks. I'm not saying I am impervious to social awkwardness. (Nay, I unfortunately continue to thrive upon it. For a prime example, see my use of "nay" just now.) I'm just saying that my recovery time seems to be much quicker and far more painless than previously. Because really, once you're forced to solve all your problems on your own in a foreign country, stumbling over your words no longer provokes agonizing mortification.

In a similar vein, people don't really scare me anymore. (I mean average joe people--your garden variety bullies, rudesters, unpleasants. For the record, I am still terrified of serial killers, rapists, and horror movie antagonists--or I would be, should any of them ever cross my path.) Since I was traveling by myself, I settled into a pattern of not really caring about others. I mean, I was polite and considerate of people and all that jazz. I just did nothing to accommodate them when doing so ran contrary to my own desires or momentary whims. From day one, I stopped wearing make-up. (I only used it a couple times over the course of my trip when I felt like gettin' fancy.) My hair was basically a windblown rats' nest for a month. By week two, I was wearing the same outfits over and over until they started to smell. By three-and-a-half weeks in, I was wearing clothes even after they started to smell. Who was going to judge me? Other travelers? Big deal, when would I ever see them again? As long as I kept my personal hygiene at a level that was acceptable for sharing a room with other human beings (and I did at least manage that), what did it really matter what other people thought of my laundry habits (or lack thereof)?

Furthermore, I learned really quickly that no one else was going to take care of my whiny life issues, so I became my own problem-solver. There was no passing the buck, no "I'll just take care of that later," nothing. So I became great at fake confidence. And then real confidence. And bizarrely enough, it started to spill over into my interactions with others. When I met people and we did things as a group, I found myself in charge. I picked the restaurant. I got directions to wherever we were going. I pulled together a delicious dinner from £5 of groceries. I got things DONE, and other people noticed. For the first time in my life, I ended up the de facto group leader in random social situations, even though I was just as clueless as everyone else. Not gonna lie, it was a pretty cool feeling, being on top of everything and having people...look up to me, I guess. The whole "fake it 'til you make it" thing really is true; the more other faith people put into my apparent problem-solving abilities, the more confident I acted. And the more confident I acted, the more actually secure I felt. It was like a vicious circle, but pleasant. (A pleasant circle? Someone needs to coin a better term for this.)

I realize that this entire blog post detailing my backpacking voyage of self-discovery sounds really pretentious and self-absorbed, so I think I'd better just cut things off now before I start using shudder-worthy phrases like "a simpler way of life" and "finding myself." And I know this was all pretty rambly and nonsensical. I'm still trying to find the words to convey what I'm trying to say. But for all its faults, this description comes a lot closer to doing the whole experience justice than my line about long showers and fluffy towels and sleeping in my own bed.

But really. Long showers. Towels. Bed. You can't beat 'em.

The End

Well, it's my last night in London. Tomorrow I arrive back in the States--barring any airport/flight shenanigans--at precisely 5:35 pm. (Set your watches.)

Now that my homecoming is nigh, I'm wishing that I could stay longer. (Also wishing I got to use the word "nigh" more.) London is without a doubt among my favorite cities in the world, if it isn't actually THE favorite. As soon as I got here I felt happier, more relaxed, less homesick.

But I've covered that before. It IS my last night, though, so I think a little looking back is in order. 

First, I'd like to pay homage to the casualties of this trip: my only non-broken hair clip, every hair elastic I started this trip with, innumerable bobby pins, the headband that was blown off my head by a gale in Cassis,  possibly my black t-shirt (unclear, but I haven't seen it for a few days...), and my clothesline, which I think was stolen by a stupid person who mistook its little carrying pouch for a wallet. Joke's on you, dim thief, enjoy drying your clothes.

Okay, sorry, I have to interrupt my own blog post for a second. I'm writing this in the Criterion Theatre as I wait for the play I'm seeing to start, and this whole place is full of Americans. I don't think I've heard a single person with a British accent aside from the usher who has to keep explaining everything to these numbskulls. And really, they're almost all stupid. And some of them are sort of rude. It's like a parade of stereotypes, I don't know how this guy hasn't cracked yet. 

It is NOT that hard to find your seat in a theater. I know this. Not only have I managed to find my own seat in many a theater, I was once an usher for Merrimack Repertory Theater. You know what the extent of my training was? Getting handed a name tag and being told, "Rows are alphabetical and seats are numbered. Have fun." (That was actually a pretty sweet job; I got to see every show I ushered for free and I got paid in ticket vouchers which were also redeemable for gift certificates. Oh, MRT, how you spoiled me.)

But seriously. Can you count? Do you know the alphabet? Can you read signs? Then you don't need an usher unless you want a program or someone's in your seat. Simple.

But back to what I was saying. Now that I've paid homage to the possessions that I have accidentally scattered across the continent we can turn our attention to happier things, like the highlights of this trip.

Every place I stay, someone asks me what my favorite city or best experience has been so far. And every time I'm asked, I hem and haw and eventually give the thoroughly uninteresting answer that they were all great for different reasons. It's true, though. Even in cities where I had bad luck, where things went wrong, when I got bored or felt homesick, there was something that caught my attention or made me smile. Some of the cities I did not expect to enjoy much, like Rennes, ended up being hidden gems.

I met people from all over the world and learned a lot from them. I tried new foods (vegetarian haggis is delicious--who knew?), explored, took risks, had adventures (both good and bad), and became my own best resource for problem-solving. I feel ever-so-slightly more capable and confident than when I left.

But sad as I am to leave London, there are some things I'm looking forward to about coming home. I'm going to close this entry by listing them, so as to end on a positive note rather than a bittersweet one. And although my trip ends soon, still have tons more to write about it--I'm behind on travel updates, as we all know, but also on Eats Across Europe, Eats Across Europe: Candy Edition, and that post with pictures from my train rides that I've been promising you guys since practically day one. I'm definitely planning on adding posts about all that (as well as more photos, which I know is the part everyone really cares about) in the near future, so check back when you can!

Until then, thank you for following along with me on my grand adventure. I've enjoyed blogging about it and I hope you've enjoyed reading it!

THINGS I CANNOT WAIT TO DO WHEN I GET HOME

1. Take a shower without wearing flip-flops. Dry off with a real, non-travel towel. Use all the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash I want.

2.  Read a book that's not an e-book...although I don't mind them nearly as much as I thought I would, I'm afraid I'm still a snob about the inherent superiority of real books over virtual ones.

3. Use my laptop instead of my ipad. The ipad is great, but I'm looking forward to having my laptop keyboard and comparatively giant laptop screen back.

4. Drive.

5. Cook. I mean real cooking, not hostel cooking, although I have made a béchamel sauce precisely three times in the last week. But béchamel sauce barely counts at this point...where's the challenge? 

6. Cry. I'm not upset about anything in particular; it's just that I haven't had that emotional outlet available to me at all for the past month and there were some times when I really, really wanted or needed it. Having forced myself to hold in my emotions and soldier on for five weeks on end, I've found that I'm much more likely to tear up over relatively innocuous things, like war memorial plaques and the audio guide description of Thomas Becket's assassination. So I think a good, long, cleansing cry is in order. Recommendations of sad movies--who's got 'em?

7. Listen to my music at full volume without having to wear headphones. Sing along as loudly as I want.

8. Return to my boring routine. Do you know how adrift I've been without my boring routine of flossing every night, being in bed by 11, and waking up at 5:45 every day? REALLY adrift. 

9. Wearing clean clothes every single day. Over the course of this trip I've mostly taken an "eh, good enough" approach to personal hygiene. I wore everything over and over until it started to smell. I am so sick of almost every article of clothing I bought on this trip and I think I'll have to wash everything twice before wearing it again to make sure all the ingrained grime from a month of trekking around is truly gone.

10. Not having to mentally convert prices into US dollars. Sure, 60p doesn't seem too expensive for a single postcard, but in American money it would be about a dollar. Yikes.

11. Really, really brushing my teeth. As part of my "good enough" philosophy, I've been brushing my teeth with hardly any toothpaste, as my tube has been more or less empty for the past two or three weeks and I didn't want to spent £2.50 (at least $4) on a tiny travel-sized tube of toothpaste. 

12. Seeing everyone again! I've missed you crazy people!

The Martyrdom of Thomas Becket, A Play in Five Acts

Yesterday I took a bus ride to Canterbury to check out the cathedral. I had been hoping to perhaps meet up with some other travelers on the way and engage in some bawdy storytelling, but I guess that's not really a thing anymore. Pity.

Anyway, I went to see Canterbury Cathedral without really knowing what made it so special in the first place. I suppose that somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I knew that it was because Saint Thomas Becket was martyred and enshrined there (I did, after all, take an entire class devoted solely to The Canterbury Tales when I was in college), but I would never have remembered it on my own. (Thanks, audio guide!) Becket was assassinated by knights of the king after clashing with him over church powers versus royal powers. King Henry, who had never ordered or intended the assassination, was among the first to make pilgrimage to Canterbury as an act of penance.

To prevent others from losing their grasp on history, I have taken the liberty of composing a little play. Like Shakespeare (yes, I am comparing myself to the Bard. Judge away), I've taken historical facts and quotes and sort of played with them a bit. You'll be able to tell which quotes are legitimate historical quotes because they will be eloquent and archaic-sounding. You'll be able to tell my interpretations by their stilted dialogue and ham-fisted handling of character development. (Try and guess which is which!) Enjoy!

THE MARTYRDOM OF THOMAS BECKET, a play in five acts

ACT ONE

Curtain up on Thomas Becket and King Henry II of England in the midst of a complicated "best friends" handshake that involves shimmying, clapping, patty-cake, and pinky swears.

BOTH: ...best friends, best friends, never disagree,

HENRY: I'm always in accord with him,

TOM: He's of one mind with me!

BOTH: And if we live to be old men,

Dear Mary, praise and thank her,

We'll still be friends forevermore,

May God bless both us wankers!

They both laugh heartily.

HENRY: My dear friend, I do so love how we agree on everything.

TOM: I agree!

They grin cheekily.

HENRY: And I've been thinking about it, and I'd like to make you Archbishop of Canterbury!

TOM: Really? Are you sure?

HENRY: Well, I did forget your birthday this year, so I sort of owe you one.

TOM: But my birthday hasn't come yet.

There is an awkward pause during which both characters reflect on the historical inaccuracy of this faux pas.

HENRY: Well, I guess I would have forgotten it then. Heh, heh, sorry, buddy. But seriously, you wanna wear a funny hat and some robes and junk like that?

TOM: Um, YES! Then we can be like twinsies!

HENRY: Well, not exactly twinsies. Robes are all well and good but crowns are just a little better than funny hats, wouldn't you say?

TOM: Um, funny hats trump crowns, everyone knows that. My funny hat comes direct from GOD.

HENRY, icily: If by "God," you mean me, then okay. Because I'm pretty sure God never just bestowed a funny hat on you until I came along and handed it to you.

TOM, producing a funny hat seemingly from thin air and assuming an air of pious superiority: The Heavenly Father doth give in mysterious ways.

HENRY: The Heavenly Father doth give you a black eye in about two seconds.

TOM, increasingly annoyed: Well, the Heavenly Father doth told me that you're being sort of a buttmunch. And Pope Alexander III agrees with me.

HENRY: Dude, have you and the pope been hanging out without me?

TOM: Chyeah. You were so busy being all, "I caaaaan't come to the jousting match, guys, I'm running a country." Well, guess who's running all the countries in Europe and still has time to watch knights kill each other in the name of entertainment?

HENRY: Don't.

TOM: Pope--

HENRY: Don't say it!

TOM: Alexander.

HENRY: I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY IT!

TOM: Well, I guess you don't control everything anymore. You're in GOD's house now, sucka! How's that feel?!

HENRY: It feels like you should probably leave the country in exile for at least the next six years.

A thug with a nightstick appears behind Henry, looking menacing. Tom gulps.

TOM: Fine. But I'm taking the hat.

HENRY: Take your stupid hat! I'VE GOT A CROWN!!

Tom storms off stage. As soon as he's gone, Henry's shoulders slump sadly. Lights out.

ACT TWO

Lights up, six years later. Henry and five knights sit around a table, drinking pints and playing cards, accompanied by some  royal medieval card-playing music.

HENRY: He wants to hang with the pope? FINE. I can hang with other people, too. (to Brown-Nosing Knight) Hey, uh, short guy. What's your name again?

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT: David, my lord.

HENRY: Right, right. Got any fives?

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT: Alas, no, my lord. But I can find you a five! Nothing would gratify me more than supplying your highness with all the fives in this deck!

HENRY, drawing a card from the pile and sounding bored: Yeah, thanks, Darren or whatever your name is, but that's not really how "Go Fish" works. 

He heaves a heavy sigh, then collects himself and says with bravado:

HENRY (cont'd): I bet Thomas Becket and the pope never have awesome Guys' Nights like this, right?

REGULAR KNIGHT: That was six years ago, maybe you should get over it.

Other knights gasp. Henry rubs his temples.

HENRY: Look, new guy...what's your name?

REGULAR KNIGHT: Henry.

HENRY, taken aback: Really?

REGULAR KNIGHT: Yes, really. We've talked about this.

HENRY: Well, Henry, I know you're new to the group and all, but keep making remarks like that and you might find that "Go Fish" is not the game for you, if you catch my drift.

Other knights attempt to subtly slide their chairs away from the Regular Knight. One of them moves the deck out of Regular Knight's reach.

HENRY: Anyway, whose turn was it?

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Oh, it was yours, my liege.

The other knights all nod vigorously, except Regular Knight, who rolls his eyes.

HENRY: Well, thank you. (to Toady Knight) You there, have you got any fives?

TOADY KNIGHT: But of course, your highness. 

He smiles superiorly at Brown-Nosing Knight, who sulks.

REGULAR KNIGHT: So, did you guys all hear that Thomas Becket is back in England?

Record scratch, music stops abruptly. Other knights are frozen in fear. Henry appears about to explode.

HENRY, barely holding it together: Go. Stand. In. The corner.

REGULAR KNIGHT: Seriously?!

HENRY: GO STAND IN THE CORNER, I SAY!!!

REGULAR KNIGHT: All right, all right, fine. I was just trying to make conversation. 

He goes.

HENRY, to Sycophantic Knight: You. Play his hand.

Sycophantic Knight looks like Christmas just came early. He eagerly scoops up Regular Knight's hand.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: He doth had a five all along, my lord!

HENRY, exasperated: Seriously, guys, I don't want to have to explain the rules of this game again.

After a pause, he glances over to the corner and then bursts out:

HENRY: The nerve of some people, am I right?

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: Yes.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Always.

HENRY: First Tom and the pope, and now Horace over there--

REGULAR KNIGHT: It's Henry!

HENRY: Whatever.

REGULAR KNIGHT: We have the SAME NAME!

HENRY: Like I can remember everything? I'm the king, I got a lot of stuff going on!

Regular Knight sits down on the floor with a huff.

HENRY: Some days it's just more than I can take! Ugh, Thomas Becket! Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?!

Having thus uttered his line of great historical import, Henry storms out before he can hear his faithful knights' responses.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: I will!

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT: I'll do it!

TOADY KNIGHT: Ooh, ooh, pick me!

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: I'll rid the hell out of him!

REGULAR KNIGHT: Oh, this bodes well.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Shut up, new guy.

TOADY KNIGHT: Yeah, knights in the corner don't get a say.

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT: So...killing Thomas Becket. What say you guys to a week from today?

They all whip out planners and datebooks.

TOADY KNIGHT: Well, that's no good for me, I have a dentist appointment.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: That lasts all day? You couldn't block out half an hour for assassinating the Archbishop of Canterbury?

TOADY KNIGHT: Root canal.

Other knights all groan sympathetically.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Okay, so that's out. How about Wednesday?

They all check their books.

TOADY KNIGHT: Works for me.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: I'm free.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Same here.

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT: Ahhh...I guess I can do Wednesday if it works for everyone else, but I'd really prefer not to...

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Aw, come on, Dave, don't do this to us.

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT: it's just that I promised milady I'd help her pick out new tapestries for the manor house.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: Ooh, what have you narrowed it down to?

BROWN-NOSING KNIGHT, suddenly all enthusiasm: Well, we're thinking either a hunting scene with dogs and horses, or a hunting scene with dogs, horses, and a lion.

All the knights explode into a cacophony of "Lion! LION!" "Get the lion!" etc., except for Toady Knight.

TOADY KNIGHT, meekly: I think lions are a bit overrated in tapestries, myself.

The other knights drown him out in a resounding "boooooooo!"

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Okay. Wednesday's out. How about... (he rifles through the pages of his datebook) the twenty-ninth of December, in the year of our Lord 1170? That work for everyone?

Nods all around. A voice pipes up from the corner.

REGULAR KNIGHT: Are you guys seriously plotting to kill the king's best friend? Doesn't that seem sort of like a bad idea to you at all?

TOADY KNIGHT: Shut up, Second-Rate Henry, or we might decide to practice on you first!

The conspiring knights all cackle diabolically while Regular Knight rolls his eyes with a vim matched only by 30 Rock's Liz Lemon. Lights out.

ACT THREE

Canterbury Cathedral, December 29, 1170. All is quiet, when suddenly a door bursts open and Thomas Becket comes rushing in, slamming the door behind him. Almost immediately, there is banging from the other side of the door as Sycophantic Knight, Suck-Up Knight, Toady Knight, and Brown-Nosing Knight all try to break in.

TOM: No one's here! 

He realizes his mistake and quickly tries to rectify it.

TOM, in a booming voice: Except for me, GOD, of course, because I'm always here. And I'm watching you! So you'd better leave Thomas Becket--who is, incidentally, NOT here--alone, or I'll be really, really mad.

From the other side of the door, the knights hold a muffled conference.

TOADY KNIGHT: I dunno, guys, God says He'll be really mad. Remember last year when He destroyed the harvest and we had to burn all those Jews and witches to make it up to Him?

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Don't be stupid, that's just Becket trying to trick us! (shouting) I've got you all figured out, Becket!

TOM: Oh, damn. (He glances apologetically at the crucifix on the wall.) I mean, um, fiddlesticks.

The knights burst in, swords raised.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: Ha ha, got you! Any last words, Becket?

TOM: For the name of Jesus and the protection of the church, I am ready to embrace death.

All pause, swords poised in midair.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Wow. That's pretty good, actually. Did you make that up yourself?

TOM: Yeah.

TOADY KNIGHT: Good one, dude. Totally gonna tweet that later.

TOM: Thanks, man.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Still gonna kill you, though.

TOM, sighing: Yeah, I figured.

Lights out as the sound of a great commotion ensues.

ACT FOUR

Stage is dark.

HENRY: You WHAT?!?!

Lights up. The four knights are kneeling before Henry, smiling proudly and carrying their still-bloody swords.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: We killed your best friend, my lord!

TOADY KNIGHT: Dave even broke his sword doing it, look!

Brown-Nosing Knight proudly brandishes his sword, the tip of which has broken off.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT: You're a madman, Dave.

Brown-Nosing Knight smiles modestly.

HENRY: So let me get this straight. You guys just decided to MURDER my BEST FRIEND?! What were you thinking?!

The knights, sensing that all is not well, go on the defensive.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT: Well, you practically begged us to.

HENRY: When?! When did I ever say, "Hey, fellas, please oh please could you MURDER my BEST FRIEND?!"

TOADY KNIGHT: When you said that whole thing about getting rid of turbulent priests.

HENRY: Guys. I was being dramatic. I'm a king, it's what I do best.

There is an awkward silence.

SYCOPHANTIC KNIGHT, checking his watch: Oh, hey, is that the time? Best be off, then.

SUCK-UP KNIGHT, standing up: Oh, yeah, right, we have...that...thing...now.

They beat a hasty retreat, the other two knights close on their heels, leaving Henry alone.

HENRY, looking skyward: Oh my friend, what have I done?!

ACT FIVE

Lights up on Canterbury Cathedral. Henry kneels alone in the middle of the stage.

HENRY: ...and I'm sorry I talked about you behind your back, and I'm sorry I accidentally told my henchmen to kill you, and I'm sorry I forgot your birthday, and I'm sorry about that time I told you your robes made you look like a porker. 

PRIEST: Have you quite finished, your highness?

HENRY: Almost.

He proceeds to go through the motions of his handshake with Tom.

HENRY (cont'd): Okay. Ready.

PRIEST: You do realize what you have asked us to do?

HENRY: Yes.

PRIEST: It is an admirable penance to be beaten by eighty different clerics, my lord, but you know it won't bring your friend back.

HENRY, sarcastically: No kidding! (recovering himself) Sorry, Father.

PRIEST: He who is about to be beaten by priests should avoid angering them beforehand.

HENRY: Proverbs?

PRIEST: No, that was all me.

HENRY: Oh. Well, it's pretty good. True.

PRIEST: Thanks. I'm no Thomas Becket, but I try.

Henry shakes his head sadly as clerics brandishing sticks line up behind him.

HENRY: Forgive me, Tom!

Lights out.

THE END

Did you do it? Did you figure out which parts were real historical quotes?

Yep, you're right, it was the handshake. Well done.

Paris, Part Two: The Part That Didn't Totally Suck

When we last left our heroine (aka me), she was sulking in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris, wondering what she had done wrong in life to deserve such an unrelenting stream of bad luck.

Luckily, things were only going to (mostly) get better from that point forward. After about an hour spent indulging in self-pitying and childishly wishing to be at home wrapped in a blanket, hugging a teddy bear, and quite possibly reverting to thumb-sucking, I picked myself up and walked back toward the Mosquée de Paris with a defiant air and a look of steely determination. "Forget you, Paris," I said in the FCC-friendly version of my inner monologue. "Forget you and forget your mother. I am Renée forgetting Gauthier, and you have not beaten me yet.  Forget, forget, forget."

I arrived at the mosque and found the ticket counter. There seemed to be some sort of hullabaloo; aside from the ticket seller, there were two men standing nearby shouting in Arabic and banging their hands emphatically on the desk. I waited from a safe distance to see how this apparent dispute was going to lay out, but the ticket seller merely smiled at me, took out a ticket, and motioned me forward past the other two men, who were apparently simply having some sort of heated debate rather than engaging in a customer service dispute. 

The upside to this was that the ticket guy sold me a student-price ticket, which I was not going to argue with. Despite the fact that I look about eighteen years old, I have not been able to claim student discounts anywhere because of my lack of a valid student ID. It's been killing me, because every place I go ticket sellers will ask, "Are you a student?" and then I have to say no and pay full price. Adulthood: it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Anyway, the mosque was cool. It didn't blow my mind with its supreme beauty or anything (the fountains were dry and the gardens were sparse, since it was still rather early in the season), but I'd never been to a mosque before and it was cool to look around.

La Mosquée de Paris

After the mosque I headed toward the Seine to meander in the general direction of Sainte Chapelle. I'd never visited it before but my 501 Must-See Destinations book had recommended it and I'd generally heard good things. Along the way I checked out the stalls of used books along the river and cheered up as the sun finally made an appearance after a morning spent hiding behind forbidding-looking clouds.