Wanderlust

Words would fail to fully describe my crazy adventure.  So, here's a whole mess of pictures.  Also, for extra fun, and because I'm too lazy to write entirely new clever things, anythings in italics is either a Facebook status or an excerpt from my travel journal.  Enjoy!

Devon says Philadelphia smells bad.  I would like to test that theory. 

Just landed in Philadelphia for my 8 hour layover. I demand a cheesesteak sammich!

I wish I had more than hours to spend in this amazing city. At least I got answers to the most important questions: where should I drink & what beer do I try?

Note: Try to find Yards Brewing Co beers in California. Brawler was quite delicious.

First Class can suck it... I have a couch. (The other two seats next to me on the flight from Philadelphia to London were vacant.  A dose of Benadryl later, I was sleeping my way across the Atlantic.)

This is a life-size LEGO Harrod's man.

That coat never saw the light of day again.

 










 I would like to state for the record that Welsh people are adorable.

A shrine to Ianto. This is only important if you like Torchwood.

A Dalek. This is only important if you like Doctor Who.

This is only important if you're ever a zombie in Cardiff.

This isn't that important.

On a personal note, my grandfather was Welsh.  He died ten years ago, when I was an obnoxious teenager.  He was really a wonderful man and, as Roberto and I sat in a pub in Cardiff, drinking Welsh beer, I could only think about how much I wish my grandfather and I could have known each other as adults.  I would have loved to tell him about this trip over some good beer.
  
St Patrick's Day Eve is a thing in Dublin. Madigan is a drunk person, despite the Madigan's Pub on O'Connell Street giving me exactly zero free drinks.

Zero free drinks.

Zero free drinks at this one too.

Amin.

Caution: blurry when drunk.

Jo.

A very drunken Irish man hit on me while a lovely Australian women complimented my tights.














Things I learned tonight: British theatre audiences don't applaud during act breaks or do standing ovations, Hungarians can be creepy fangirls too, and Patrick Stewart may be a million years old, but I'd still hit that. Okay... I already knew that last one.

We're on a train to Scotland that left from King's Cross Station.  Yeah... we're basically on the Hogwarts Express.

So, basically... I'm going to marry a Scot so I can live in Scotland and be happy. This is my new favorite country.

PS- Edinburgh has police boxes. Blue ones. On the streets. For reals.

So, so, so, soooo much more terrifying than the London Dungeon

This is where JK Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter books.

Even though I have (to my knowledge) no genetic claim to Scotland, it was the place I connected with most.  My lineage is Irish, Welsh, and German, but none of those countries ever really made me feel like I could live there.  For some reason, a reason I can't quite pinpoint or begin to explain, I felt like I belonged there, like I had found some part of myself that had been missing for 26 years.  Sad as I was to leave, I was overcome with the knowledge that I'd be back one day.  Hopefully, it won't be just for a vacation.

Legoland Windsor > Legoland California. Just BTW.

Their Big Shop is better than my Big Shop.

Storm Troopers guarding the castle.

 Thorpe Park is pretty cool.  It's basically Knott's Berry Farm, but British.

Bria is fantastic. (from my journal, the first day I met her)

Saw The Ride is amazing and terrifying and wonderful.

We went to a pub quiz tonight.  We probably would have won something, if the other teams hadn't flagrantly cheated.  One of Roberto's friends was hosting a pub quiz, so we went.  All the other teams had at least seven people and at any given time, someone on each of the other teams was surreptitiously checking their iPhone for answers.

I don't want to go. (Facebook and journal, several times.)

My vacation has been over and I've been back to real life for a few weeks and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not stoked about it.  I had been somewhat melancholy about the state of affairs in my life for some time, but I attributed it mostly to my impending vacation and the general need for a break from my job.  Then, upon my return, I was even more unhappy, but I attributed that to the undeniable fact that it sucks to go back to work after being on vacation, especially one that was so amazing.  But, while the standard soul-crushing depression of returning to real life did eventually pass, a certain dissatisfaction still nested in the back of my mind, just barely making enough noise to be noticeable.  I think I've figured out how to appease this din of displeasure, though.  I am currently employed by a company that has locations throughout the world and, more to the point, the UK.  My current job doesn't exactly translate to other locations, so I must acquire other skills and drastically alter my current position.  To that end, I plan to attend bartending school in the very near future.  The amusement park at which I work will soon boast a hotel.  That hotel will, I am told by people who know these things, feature a bar.  I want to work at that bar.  To be more accurate, I want to work at that bar long enough to move to another hotel bar, more specifically, one in the UK.  Why am I so desperate to go back to the UK?  Because, in the simplest of terms, it's where I belong.  I spent two and a half weeks traipsing around the UK and the Emerald Isle and any lingering feelings of affection for the country of my birth, any remaining shreds of pro-America jingoism, any opinion, however small, favoring the good old USA, have all disappeared.  I won't say that I hate this country because I don't.  It's a great place and there are a whole lot of places in the world that are worse.  But there are plenty that are better, too.  I just don't think I was meant to be an American.