Travel Writing Blog 8: So I'm Leaving On a Jet Plane. Almost Anyways.

Audience: Fellow Students of BGB who are just as sad as I am to leave

Purpose: to tell about my time in London and what I remember most from being here.

My days are numbered here across the Pond. Only a mere three and a half days stand between me and the good ol’ US of A. Oddly enough, I believe I may be just as excited to return home as I was waiting to venture over to Europe. Maybe it’s a combination of several factors, most of which include missing my family and friends (and my dog too)? London has, nevertheless, become my second home this summer. I walk the streets and pathways of London as I would in Waco, with a sense of certainty and a dash of confusion thrown in every now and then. I have been trying to soak in every last detail of this immense and cultured city. And no matter how much I’m ready to return to the States, London will always hold a soft spot deep within my heart.

What will I miss about London exactly? For lack of a better explanation, everything. There is almost a magical quality to a town you know nothing about, other than the fact they have a queen and a bridge. Add in the reality I have never ventured outside of our country’s broders before, and this study abroad experience was a whole new animal for me. What other town politely tells you to look left or right before crossing the street? Or no matter what news a person is informing you of, albeit good, bad, or indifferent, their accents make their statements always sound apologetic and sincere? Where else is it socially unacceptable to wear a t-shirt and Nike shorts unless you are taking a quick run through Hyde Park? Because that certainly is my wardrobe during the Indian days of summer back in the South. Proper is the best way I can adequately describe this country. I have yet to meet a rude or pretentious Englishmen, which reminded me of all the kind folks I left back in West Texas. I guess in that aspect, once you look past its initial surface qualities, England isn’t too terribly different from my homeland at all.

As I sit here trying to recall every significant difference between the United States and England, I keep coming back to the eerily similar qualities of both sets of inhabitants. While their attire and hairstyles can be construed as a little more fashion forward than Texas’ (surprisingly pink hair or combat boots hasn’t exactly caught on yet back home), I still notice the random acts of kindness people subtly perform without expecting a thank you or any sort of recognition in return. Whenever I appear lost, which is quite frequently these days, I have always had someone randomly ask if I need help with directions or if I know where I’m headed. Or there are men on the tube who graciously vacate their seats in order for an elderly woman to sit down for a brief moment between stops.  The inhabitant’s characteristics are what made me fall in love with London. The sights, sounds, and outer appearances are what I found endearing and never made me lost interest.

London simply wouldn’t be London if it weren’t for the exterior aspects of the city. Driving on the “wrong” side of the rode, tills instead registers, cheers instead of your welcome, and snogging instead of kissing are just a few variances in the English culture. Piccadilly Circus has all the glitz and flash of Time Square, minus the cloud gracing buildings and random nudists streaking about the streets. Harrods is  immense as well as infamous, and for good reason. Where else are you supposed to find pastries, coffee, champagne, teas from around the world, luggage, infant clothing, Cartier watches and wedding gowns all in one place? Besides Wal-Mart, it’s a one-stop shop that literally has something for everyone. Then there are the little nuances of London that just make it purely delightful and unique.  Brightly colored splashes of rich turquoise, raspberry, violet, and crimson cover many household doorways. The knobs of said doors aren’t located in their usual side placement, but rather in the direct center as if not to pick favorites with sides. Also, when running through Hyde Park, you are guaranteed to see something new and different every time you enter the gates. Just the other day while on an afternoon jog, a friend of mine stumbled upon a barely visible pathway that led to stairs nearly taken over by overgrowth. Areas like these make it feel as though London is cloaked with secrets, daring you to enter her city walls and find them for yourself. Everything about her is old and majestic. Whether you’re walking along Oxford Circus or casually strolling past Buckingham Palace, nothing seems purely ordinary about this city. It’s one of the many qualities I find special about her.

Coming from a small West Texas town most certainly allowed me to grow up sheltered. I was more than excited to visit so many “foreign” countries, only to return feeling foreign myself.  I never expected to fall in love with a city so decisively and quickly. I am going to miss being able to drink hot tea at any hour of the day and have it be socially acceptable. I am going to miss the wonderful accents and fish & chips served at almost every meal of the day. But most of all I am going to miss the sense of having so much freedom and the responsibility of doing what I want, when I want, and yet being so irresponsible with that same freedom I was given by doing what I want when I want. It’s hard to understand what people mean when they tell you “it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.” But here in my last few days in London, I can honestly agree that this will most certainly happen only once in this small town girl’s life. And I could not be more grateful for that opportunity. 

Travel Writing Blog 7: One Thing My Mother Told Me to Never Discuss is Religion. Sorry Mom.

Audience: Baylor Line Magazine

Purpose: to observe different church services while touring through Europe.

I am a Southern Baptist. I have been my entire life. My mother grew up Southern Baptist and she has a Southern Baptist preacher for a brother, my Uncle Alan. I’ll be honest and say I know very little about other religions; I also know very little about other denominations for that matter. So to say attending a few different church services while traveling throughout Europe was an eye-opening experience would be like saying the landing on the moon was just a quick flight there and back. I’ve experienced more differentiation of church services here than I have my entire life. This small town girl’s views have been changed entirely, and I can say that I’m better because of it.

Our journey began in Italy, Catholic central to say the least. And every monument or historical marker had some sort of Catholic meaning to it. This was partially because we saw around four or five churches while in Italy. I won’t deny it; I’ve always approached Catholicism with caution. It could be because I never fully understood their traditions, or services for that matter. All I could tell you before this trip is that they stand up, sit down, and kneel quite frequently. However, after visiting some of the most renown and pristine Cathedrals in the world, my appreciation for the Church has grown immensely. Every cathedral paints an intimate portrait of how Christianity and Catholicism is upheld within the Italian borders. These churches have withstood countless battles and turmoil throughout centuries, yet they still stand proudly as if beckoning those from miles around to dare tarnish their gorgeous structure. When entering the Vatican, my heart literally stopped for a millisecond at the shear architecture and artistic detail found on every wall, ceiling, and floor tile. No stone went unpolished or untouched within this great infrastructure. Tapestries, mosaics, and painting depicted countless imagery found between the pages of the Bible. The Crucifixion and Fall from Grace were popular stories to recreate I gathered when wafting from room to room. But all fell short in comparison when I reached the Sistine Chapel. It appeared as if God himself had painted His story upon the grandiose ceiling and adjacent walls. Colors as vivid as the day they were painted leapt out at me, grabbing my undivided attention as my eyes darted from space to space. Now, I had always considered Catholicism to be very “by the rules” and all about the celebration and obeying of traditions. But the only word to describe these paintings was passion: passion for the Lord, passion for art, passion for the telling of the great stories from the Word. No one, not even a cynic like me, could deny the intimacy that was blatantly shown between the artists, their work, and the Maker.

The Vatican could unarguably be considered the most famous chapel of all time. However, Italy proudly boasts several more cathedrals that come dangerously close to Vatican status. Between the shear immenseness of St. Peter’s Basilica in Florence, or the quiet boldness of St. Francis’s Cathedral in Assisi, I was immersed in such timeless Catholic culture that my appreciation delved much deeper than that of some tourist from the Southern United States. I lived, ate, and breathed the lifestyle of Italian Catholics. Their services appeared much less monotonous than I had originally perceived them. Instead of mindless chanting and droning, I heard tradition and rituals that have been in tact since the second century. It’s difficult to refute something that has literally withstood the test of time. The checklist I had started to accumulate in my head of all the “old churches” I had seen so far in Europe began to deteriorate as the importance of their history and grandeur took precedence.

Traveling onward to London was the next great journey Baylor in Great Britain began to tackle. This time, the planned guided walking tours were nowhere in sight, and we were up to our own devices to figure out this great city on our own accord. I began in the most romantic place I could think of, Westminster Abbey. Truly the vision of fairytale weddings and romances gone right, Westminster has proven itself to be THE church of the royal family. And why shouldn’t it? Being an Anglican Church means it is part of the Church of England. This also means it is a far cry from the Roman Catholic Churches of Italy. One could consider these two churches to be stepbrother and sister, with an ongoing battle of sibling rivalry that lasted for centuries. Now, however, the Anglican Church is mainly known for its choral music and immaculate choirs. Once inside Westminster, I felt like I was taken back to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding. I was one of several thousands of Americans to wake up at four in the morning in order to watch Kate Middleton take her first few precious steps down the never-ending center aisle, walking towards her literal Prince Charming. The aisle was as grandiose as its portrayal on TV, as was the rest of Westminster. The vaulted ceiling created a sense of inadequacy as they towered above you with their intricate wooden arches and panels. As I took my place in the pew, a dreamlike state overtook me. It dawned on me that generations of royalty and wealth have sat in the exact seat in which I occupied. Chills ran up my arm as the choir began to sing. If I had to envision what the choirs of angels sounded like in heaven, the Westminster choirs came eerily close.  It was an out of body experience. I also found it intriguing that the entire worship was sung or chanted. I have always been accustomed to singing worship for a portion of the service, but not the entire procession. Before I knew it, the service was over, and a sense of calm and surreal accompanied me out of the church. Although the differences between the Anglican Church and the Roman Catholic Church are stark, the passion behind every instance was the same. The passion in the Anglican Church was their music, rather than the art and imagery found in the Catholic Churches.

After leaving Westminster, I was on some sort of religious high. I could barely get enough of the different cultures and denominations Europe and England had to offer, so when I found out there was a Hillsong United located in London, I knew what my next “church” stop would be. Hillsong Church began in Australia and has since become a Pentecostal megachurch spreading across the several European countries, including Sweden, Ukraine, and Germany, as well as the UK and New York City in America. The unique thing about Hillsong London is that while it’s classified as a megachurch, the worship service doesn’t even take place within a sanctuary.  Hillsong London meets every Sunday at 10:30 am, 3:30 pm, and 6 pm at the Dominion Theatre in the heart of London. When entering the theatre, I didn’t feel as though I was about to praise or worship whatsoever. The stage was set up like some sort of rock concert, and the band was about to perform at any moment. While there actually was a band in attendance, six worship leaders joined the stage as well and began one of the most mind-blowing experiences I have ever taken part of or witnessed. The term worship took on an entirely new meaning here: hands were held high, heads were bowed down, some people were jumping around excitedly, while others sat in prayerful silence. The atmosphere was thick, and it was laden with passionate praise. This service, surprisingly enough, was the one I could most relate to. I attend Vertical Ministries when back in Waco. Vertical is a praise and worship night geared specifically toward the students of Baylor. It has a similar feel and praise quality, but nothing of Hillsong’s magnitude. The preacher at Hillsong rose and began preaching a typical sermon, except in a heavy Australian accent. He concluded with a final prayer, and the worship band played while we exited the theater. Again, so much passion filled that room it was almost tangible.

The common thread between these entirely distinctive churches became blatantly evident upon each visitation. Regardless of what “denomination” their titles claim, the passion each church was consumed with was what clearly made them united in Christianity.  It was comforting to realize that the passion Christians share through their unifying belief has transcended not only centuries, but also several divisions of the churches and disagreements that have lasted decades. This idea of commonality even among separate nations is almost mind blowing to a simple small town girl who has attended the same church her entire life. I realize that while I was merely a tourist visiting a foreign church for only an hour or so at a time, I still was able to grasp how high in regard these people uphold religion, more specifically Christianity. After a while, I no longer felt like I was a stranger in the back pew awkwardly observing a foreign church service. I was submerging myself in a lifestyle, even if only for a brief moment. I felt what these people felt and experienced their profession of faith for myself. While the history and culture is what makes most of these places famous, it is their legacy and tradition and values that give breath and life to each individual church. And that is passion we can all see and appreciate.

Travel Writing Blog 6: Great Scot.

Audience: Travel Magazine, National Geographic

Purpose: to explain in detail the sights and happenings that add to the wonder of Edinburgh, Scotland.

Have you ever seen anything just so pure and raw in natural form that it literally took your breath away? Neither have I. That is, until I visited Edinburgh, Scotland. Even the train ride in was unlike any other: hundreds upon thousands of dingy white sheep dotted the sloping hills, grass so green it would make even Elphaba from Wicked cringe, and pristine blue waves crashed against the gray cliffs causing foam to cling to the sandy edges. Scotland epitomizes nature and all things untainted. It truly was a once in a lifetime experience from the moment I stepped off the train till the moment I boarded the train back to King’s Cross.

As I stepped off the train, it was as if my world had changed from sepia-toned hues to vivid Technicolor.  At this moment in time, I was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Even there air was crisper and cleaner.  The wind was nippy and made the hairs on my arms stand on end. But it wasn’t an unwelcomed feeling. Although we were still within the hustle and bustle of the train station, it still felt quieter and calmer than London ever has.  We caught a cab to our dorm-converted bed and breakfast, rooms not unlike the Imperial College dorms we have been occupying for the past 4 weeks. The night concluded with a hop and a skip over to a pub-laden square where we had traditional pub food, fish and chips with ale to wash it all down. Strength we acquired from that food was needed for the adventure we had awaiting us in the morning.

The majority of us drug ourselves out of bed, had breakfast, and were rearing and ready to go by around 10:30 the next morning. I casually asked what everyone’s plans were for the day when, to my surprise, I was informed we were going mountain climbing. Wait, um, what? Yes, I had heard correctly. The plan was to scale the peak situated a few hundred meters adjacent to where we were staying. I remember looking at the beast remembering just how proud and defiant it had appeared when driving into town. It could even be seen from the train station several miles away. Never, ever did I imagine that I would be climbing that while visiting Edinburgh. Nevertheless, climbing is what we did. And we sure did do a lot of it.

Now, I consider myself a decently athletic individual. However, outdoorsy and mountain hiker-y are not the adjectives I would used to describe my most dominant characteristics.  In fact, I didn’t even think to pack a pair of tennis shoes for this weekend getaway. The most hiking boot-like shoes I had were my TOMS. I’ll be the first to admit that canvas and a thin piece of leather are not the ideal thing to wear while scaling peaks, but I had to make do and wear them despite my whimpering feet’s opposition.  We first crossed a grassy field, which appropriately made me want to sing “the Hills are Alive With the Sound of Music” from The Sound of Music. Then we reached the base of the mountain. I daringly look up, and up, and up some more. My head was literally craned as far back as it could go before losing my equilibrium. Well, here goes nothing. And by nothing, I mean here goes my first time ever climbing a mountain.

Luckily for me and a few other females who were less than prepared to hike up a mountain, there was a set marked path to follow up the mountainside. The path consisted of firmly packed rocks that hard formed into makeshift stairs over time. The first few “flights” were brutal, but once I glanced over my shoulder to take in the scenery, the tiredness was well worth it. Nothing looks ordinary or normal several thousand feet in the air. The sky looked as vast and open as it does in West Texas, something I hadn’t seen in the past 4 weeks. Cathedrals were clearly visible over the squat buildings that surrounded the entire landscape. And the North Sea stretched as far as my eyesight allowed.  The view was truly majestic, and we were barely halfway up the peak.

After taking the occasional rest stop and several hundreds of Kodak moment worth photos, we trudged the last few meters up to the summit. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a prouder moment. I’ve never faced something so daunting and foreign to me before only to triumph over it like I had been climbing for years. The wind whipped our tangley hair in our faces and made our cheeks and noses turn Rudolph-red, but none of us cared. We were literally on top of the world, of Edinburgh at the very least. The gorgeous countryside was visible for miles. I sat on a rock for a few minutes and just reflected on the past hours worth of work it took to reach this once in a lifetime point. We all took our final “group picture” at the summit and solemnly made our slow-paced way back to the base of the mountain. Our climb may have come to a close, but the memories I soaked in while on top of that peak will stay with me long after the pictures we took there fade.

The rest of Edinburgh was delightful. Kilts and bagpipes were abundant, so was questionable eateries. But that mountain was definitely the cherry on top of an already sublime trip. That’s what I’ve enjoyed so much about BGB, the freedom to just pick up on a whim and travel to amazing places such as Edinburgh just whenever the mood strikes.  Edinburgh now holds a special place in my heart and I can’t wait to brag to my parents how lucky they are to have such an awesome mountain climbing, adventurous daughter.  I’m sure they will be oh-so-proud.

Travel Writing Blog 5: Was That Our Train That Just Left?! Uh Oh.

Audience: Anyone who has terrible luck with traveling.

Purpose: to explain how to keep calm in a crisis and understand that the journey, (miscommunication, frustration, and all) is just as important as your destination.

If there were an award for most likely to never be on time for anything in their life, I would most certainly win that trophy. I barely have time to brush my teeth in the morning because I’m so pressed for time. This trait, among many others, I inherited from my darling father. The weekend a large group of us decided to trek to Edinburgh was no exception. The ever-popular phrase “here we go again” comes to mind whenever I find myself in these types of predicaments. However, over and over again I somehow find the humor in every situation (usually occurring after the incident) and realize my life in fact did not end because I was tardy or not the first to arrive at a destination.

Our free weekend plans had been decided. We would travel to the picturesque countryside of Scotland and reside for a couple of days in the town of Edinburgh. The train would depart at one o’clock sharp, which left little room for error with time between leaving class, grabbing lunch, and taking the tube to King’s Cross Train Station. We all headed toward the South Kensington tub stop, heavy suitcases in tow, looking as touristy as ever while we chattered excitedly about kilts and haggis, which turned out to be absolutely terrible in case you were wondering. As we all took out our Oyster cards to enter the station, I noticed my friend Jenn’s expression slowly turned from happiness to panic as she dug frantically in her purse. She finally proclaimed “I don’t have my card with me.” Being the only person who had witnessed this, I waited as she bought a one-day travel ticket in order to board the tube. It only took her about three minutes to buy the ticket. But those precious few moments were the deciding factors that altered the course for the rest of the day.

By the time we reached the Piccadilly tube line, our group was nowhere to be found. We impatiently waited for the tube, which usually approaches the stop every 1-3 minutes. But of course, today was quite unusual, and we waited for an excruciating 15 minutes before the tube came to pick us up. The night before, a few of us had timed precisely how long we anticipated our lunch and travel time to take. Then we agreed on a meeting time to head over to the station so we wouldn’t have to rush to make the train. That all flew out the window when we lost those first 3 minutes of travel time. Jenn and I couldn’t believe our series of unfortunate events. Any other day we would have had to just walk a little more briskly through the train station to make our departure time. This day, though, was basically a lost cause. We spoke of our options as we rode the tube to King’s Cross. As one o’clock loomed closer and closer, we decided that our best plan of action would to just take a long lunch and catch the two o’clock train. That would leave us only an hour behind the group. No big deal, right?

King’s Cross seemed unusually crowded for an early Friday morning. It was too crowded to actually sit and eat the leisurely lunch Jenn and I had planned, so instead, we grabbed pre-made sandwiches and fresh fruit and awaited the platform number for our train to be revealed. We had arrived almost 45 minutes early for our train, and we knew the platform numbers weren’t usually shown until 20-25 minutes before departure time. Twenty minutes passed then 25, then 30. At this point we began to sweat a little. Ten minutes is a small window to try and make a train. Finally, the screen flashed the platform number, and the floodgates opened. I pretty certain every single person in King’s Cross was bolting for the same Edinburgh-bound train. We bobbed and weaved our way through the immense crowds, being slightly pushed or jarred with every inch of progress we made. Eventually, we reached the first class carriage. “We’re home free,” I foolishly thought as we boarded.

Once upon the train, we perused first class for a couple of non-reserved first class seats. To our horror, as walked down the aisle it appeared as if every first-class seat was accounted for whether by another patron or reservation. Then as if on cue, the conductor came on over the loudspeaker to announce “this train is almost completely reserved, so if you didn’t make a reservation I would suggest you take another train.” This had to be joke. We became frenzied as we hurried to the next cabin, hoping and praying there were two available seats. Finally we found them, gloriously situated next to one another joined by a table and two other passengers who were already seated. This is when we realized that the two occupants were none other than Susan and her fiancé, Miles, both attending Baylor in Great Britain. It was a Godsend. There’s no doubt in my mind the Lord helped us make it through that day without breaking down into hysterics or deciding the trip wasn’t worth all this added stress.

We ended up having an absolutely wonderful train ride. Complimentary food and beverages were abundant, and Susan and Miles made for excellent conversation and traveling companions. Although we had probably one of the rockiest starts possible to a trip, the journey became one of our favorite and most memorable parts about our excursion to Edinburgh. The “moral” I suppose I took away from this story is to realize that not everything is within our power or control, and that sometimes we need to sit back and just let the journey happen. Now, the destination was equally as satisfying as the journey I will admit. But Jenn and I had a much better story to take away with us to later tell our family than the rest of the group after it was said and done. So I guess that makes us victorious in the end. Perfect.

Travel Writing Blog 4: The Tower of London is Falling Down. Wait. I Think I Have That Wrong..

View of The Tower of London from the front

Imagine being surrounded by stark, stone gray walls day in and day out, with as much freedom as a caged bird; nothing to look forward to except counting down the days until your public humiliation, which also happens to be your execution day. Such were the images and occurrences of numerous prisoners who had been imprisoned within the Tower of London. Alcatraz of San Francisco seems tame and childish compared to the bitter stories that lie within the immense structure of London, which is situated on the north bank of the River Thames. The Tower of London has been a symbol of oppression since its erecting by William the Conqueror in 1078. Surprisingly enough, however, the Tower has held many purposes throughout the years besides imprisonment that one would probably never suspect of occurring in Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, the more formal title for the castle.

The Tower of London is almost always included in every London travel guidebook’s “Top (enter number here) Sights to See While In London” section, and for good reason. If you could think of a use for a building, the Tower of London probably pursued it. Every room is filled with historical replicas and displays that contain several centuries’ worth of knowledge and secrets.  The Tower also appears to be never ending, with several additions that have been added century after century and secret tunnels that lead to chambers and rooms most visitors don’t even know exist. Like most tours, this one began on the outskirts of the structure’s main walls where its daunting peaks and turrets glared ominously as if to warn you of entering its gates. The tour guide casually points to a building located outside of the realm of the main towers and informs the group that this was the most common place of execution.  What a great way to start a tour.

The first building the group entered was the White Tower. Inside the somber gray interior was livened up by numerous amounts of armor, shields, and weaponry, which lined pretty much every corner of the room. The tour guide was informative to say the least, but my mind kept wandering to thoughts of the people and monarchs who once inhabited the Tower’s domain. Were the kings as noble and grand as most historians suggest? Why were these items the “chosen relics” to be displayed for all generations to see? Nevertheless, the artifacts were glorious. The armor had been polished to pristine condition, and there were several weapons that could be worn as jewelry with all of the precious gems placed upon them. This area, which was open to the public, also housed what used to be the Royal Mint, but the group breezed by this area due to disinterest and throngs of tourists. Although this part of the tour was extremely instructive and covered a broad spectrum of what occurred within the Tower, it was the second half of the tour that still resonates in my mind.

Due to the fact that Baylor students travel in packs of 50, the group had to be separated in two. So after about an hour of touring with one tour guide in the White Tower, the groups switched guides and locations. It was then our group’s turn to head to the “restricted” part of the tour. This basically implied that we would be viewing areas of the Tower that weren’t open to the public, which also meant these rooms were a lot cooler. We were led to the Constable’s housing unit where he actually eats, sleeps, and lives while keeping watch over the Tower in the Queen’s absence. Inside the basic structure lay hidden a room located right off the entrance to the house. This, according to the tour guide, is where they housed the most “important” prisoners, considering they were right under the watchful eye of the Constable. One of the more notable prisoners who occupied this area was Thomas More. More was accused and tried of treason after refusing to acknowledge the annulment of King Henry VIII to his wife Catherine. The imprisonment of More, who was the King’s secretary of state, would be the equivalent of throwing Hillary Clinton in jail this day and age. What was interesting about More’s story was that while imprisoned, he was first allowed access to books and writing materials as well as allowed to see his wife and children. After continuous refusal to support the King, though, each privilege was slowly stripped of him until he was left with only his thoughts in that cramped, cavernous room. Inevitably, More was beheaded after being tried and found guilty of high treason for denying the validity of the Act of Succession. I just found it almost baffling how a man of such high authority could be killed simply for disagreeing with the King and his wishes.  I suppose the moral of the story is do what the King requests, or die. More learned this lesson the difficult way.

After almost three hours of touring, our final stop was located in another tower within the inner ward. At first glance, nothing seemed overly impressive or interesting about this space. We had climbed up yet another flight of steps into a dimly lit room with only a few beams of sun casting through the window, but this area of the Tower was nothing short of magnificent. Little did we know, we were standing on tile that originated back to the 14^th century.  Impressive considering the Guards who help give tours and work for the Tower lived in this part of the tower as well. After peering down onto the main area of the Tower courtyard, we ventured into a room just off of the entry hallway. In this room, paint still faintly clung to the wall just enough to make out the sanctifying images that created a true masterpiece. There was a plaster fireplace only half completed with the rose crest of the Tutor Family barely visible above the worn-down brick. Unfortunately, this fireplace covered the most stunning of all artwork. Depicted was, what most historians, believe, to be the Crucifixion. They can only speculate about this, however, because the fireplace is covering one crucial component of the puzzle, the crucifying of Christ. Luckily there still remain four visible figures, who are often included in other Crucifixion portrayals, that lead us to believe Christ is behind the structure. To the left is John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary weeping over the loss of their Savior. To the right are John the evangelist and the Byward Angel What I found extremely fascinating was image of the angel holding a scale, which scholars believed to be the scales weighing the souls of good and evil. On one side, if you looked carefully enough, there was a depiction of the devil trying to take back the holier souls and bring them to hell with him. Even just the sight of this was enough to send chills running up and down my arms.

Our tour of Tower of London concluded after viewing this closed off room, and I personally felt more than fortunate to view a piece of history not many eyes have seen before. Although the tour was over, there was still a plethora of activities to be had at the Tower. Of course I perused the Crown Jewels, stunning as expected, and checked out a few of the other “bloody” towers. However, it was the subtlety of being able view something that is still shielded from the general public’s eye that made the day seem somewhat intimate. So, I will most certainly agree that the Tower of London shouldn’t be missed by anyone visiting London. Even if you’re just breezing through the city on a whim, this attraction is a must for any body with a natural curiosity and appreciation for anything a little out of the ordinary.

Travel Writing Blog 3: The Great Walking Tour of '11 Continues. London Style.

Although walking tours have outgrown their welcome to many fellow BGB goers, sometimes all it takes to revive an interest in European culture is one charismatic tour guide who doesn’t take all things historical too seriously.  The Royal London Free tour was a refreshing change from the stuffy and often contrite tours given throughout Italy. Right away, it was evident the dynamic of this tour was going to be drastically different from the past week’s tours.

Nothing quite says London like a Queen's Guard. Agreed?

Groups from all different walks of nationalities, literally, converged in Hyde Park Corner next to the conspicuous Wellington Arch to begin the free walk around Westminster. Four tour guides stood on the Statue of Wellington waiting to divvy up the 100 or so waiting participants.  Tour Guide James was about as polar-opposite from Tour Guide Barbie as humanly possible. Outwardly, he seemed like a perfectly average male: not overtly tall in stature, mahogany hair, pale skin, and an already forming five o’clock shadow despite the fact that it was only one in the afternoon. But as soon as he opened his mouth, it was clear his seemingly haphazard appearance was just a façade concealing the true seedy underbelly of James’ obtuse personality. Every other word that James spoke in his thick Irish accent was either a sly remark or crass statement about the members of the tour group. And that occurred just within the first three minutes of the tour.

As usual, London greeted everyone with a brisk, wind biting enough to make a person almost not want to leave the house, but not cold enough to keep you from going outdoors and running the usual day-to-day errands. James couldn’t have cared less with what the weather was like however. Come hell or high water, he was planning on giving us that tour. After a brief introduction of everyone, yes, all 30 of us told him our countries of origin, the group walked a whopping 10 yards from the starting point and reached Buckingham Palace. One would assume a stereotypical tour guide would speak of the quiet yet powerful elegance that stood before you, but that simply was not James’ style. Rather, he told a few tales of drunken homeless men’s mishaps, and how one way or another, the sneaky fellows always somehow managed to break into Buckingham Palace. I have yet to confirm the story of a Michael Fagan, a fellow Irishman to James who apparently drunkenly wandered into the Palace one particularly nasty storming night and ended up chit-chatting with the queen. Sometimes it was difficult to differentiate between fact or fiction from our less than politically correct guide. But James simply proceeded to talk in his crass Irish tones and carried on with the tour.

Me and Lacey in front of Buckingham Palace. How smashing.

One very redeemable quality about James, among many, was his actual touring abilities. He always seemed to find the quieter settings within the area to explain what historical importance was placed on each particular sight. Of course, the area didn’t remain quiet for long, considering James yell-talked quite abruptly when wanting to alert the group he had something to say. Even though our group consisted of individuals living anywhere from Arizona to Australia to many other countries in Europe, James had an uncanny sense of dry and, at times, inappropriate humor that appealed to all who were in attendance. He had an aura about him that exuded hilarity and confidence. The walk from sight-to-sight was a pleasant break from James’ boisterous tones however, leaving everybody to talk amongst themselves as we scurried about from place to place. Greenery was everywhere you looked, considering we walked through several parks, utterly captivating to a person who hasn’t seen a drop of rain until arriving London for over 100 days.

One of the many picturesque parks we ventured through.

Weaving in and out of several other tourists, our group surprisingly didn’t lose a single group member. Some lagged further behind than others, but there was always a constant ebb and flow of how we arrived at each point, and somehow everyone consistently showed up to where the group was located. The sights were wondrous to see, purely London in every sense of the word (although technically the tour took place in Westminster). Buildings ranged from Clarence House, where Prince Charles and Harry reside, to a gentleman’s club, where no females were allowed and notable members included Charles Darwin and CS Lewis. The places themselves were interesting enough, but every little jab and antecdote James said made everything that much more interesting. This was the first time the group didn’t have to tape their eyelids to their eyebrows just to stay awake. Every fact was a little oddity, something most people would never think to inquire about or include. But not a stone went unturned when James was speaking. It was unconventional to say the least, but a refreshing break from the monotony and redundancy of every other guided walk. When else have you heard that the lions in Trafalgar Square actually have the bodies of Cocker Spaniels, since the sculptor who molded them had only seen a lion’s head and not its body? My point exactly.

The tour made a quick wrap up passing St. Stephen’s Clock Tower, which houses Big Ben, and concluding next to Westminster Abby and Parliament. The tour was sequential and easy to follow, expanding my already fast-growing knowledge of London geography. As James was saying his final adieus, I realized for a split second how sad I was to leave this tour. While three hours visibly breaches my gnat-sized attention span, the people in our tour group had become familiar faces, a rarity in a country halfway across the world from your hometown. A couple girls from Arizona quickly became our comrades, and it was pleasant to converse with someone not from within the Baylor Bubble. James’ final words came at a perfect time, because it started lightly sprinkling shortly after we made our final stop under a large oak tree situated next to Westminster Abby. For the first time in two weeks, it was a sad moment to leave the wonder that is called the walking tour and head back to the tube for our excursion home.  There is no doubt in my mind that James earned every pence of the 3 pounds, 25 pence that was tipped to him at the end of our time together. I’ll be honest, for a free walking tour, my expectations weren’t the grandest. But all that was necessary to change my perspective on walking on my already blistered to death feet for a few more hours was a witty tour guide and a proper (positive) attitude. Maybe someone will attend this tour and receive the same joyous honor of having Tour Guide James in the future.

Our fearless leader, James.

Travel Writing Blog 2: Gracias! I mean.. Gratzi?

Everything in Italy that is particularly elegant or grand borders upon insanity and absurdity or at least is reminiscent of childhood. - Alexander Herzen

If I never take another walking tour again in my entire life, it would be too soon. I have blisters on my blisters, and my feet haven't hurt this bad since I worked out 4 hours a day during volleyball and track season. You could say that I'm in a little bit of pain. Was this some form of Chinese water torture I hadn't heard about yet? Nevertheless, walking seemed to be the only mode of transportation to fully take in all the beauty and grandeur that is Italia. But trust me when I say that it is an extreme understatement that I should have listened to my mom when she thought I should pack at least one pair of "sensible walking shoes." Well played Mama Clay. Your wisdom outwits me once again.

We most certainly hit the ground running at the beginning of Baylor in Great Britain, or more affectionately known as BGB to Baylor business students. It literally felt like the moment we stepped off of the plane and onto solid ground, a walking tour awaited. Italians are in the best shape ever for two reasons: one, they walk EVERYWHERE; two, they suck on cigarettes like there's no tomorrow. Rome was the first leg of our soon-to-be many expeditions. When you think Italian history and culture, Rome should be at the forefront of your thoughts. If you've seen any type of Italian monument, sculpture, or painting on TV or in pictures, it's safe to bet it can be found in Rome. As oxymoronic as it sounds Rome was a lot more rundown than I had expected. Yes, I realize that the reason people visit the city of illusions and echoes is because of all the old historical monuments, but it was still surprising.

The first stop on The Great Walking Tour of 2011 was the Colosseum. The shear size of that building is enough to make you stop and awe in appreciation. Throw in the history of all the gory battles and deaths that occurred there, and you have something hauntingly spectacular. Thoughts of Russell Crowe and one of my personal all-time favorite movies "Gladiator" were all that encompassed my mind while we trekked around the massive structure. This is where I first learned that everything in Italy is one, and usually all, of three things:
1. Everything in Italy is suuuuuuper important. Not joking. Ask our tour guide Ingrid.
2. Everything is also covered in marble. I guess they got a discount somewhere.
3. Everything is super old. Like this one rock we saw was about 200 years older than our country.

Woo yeah Colosseum yeah!

After the Colosseum, we headed to the Roman Forum. Honestly, I had no idea what that was, and I'm still a little fuzzy about it now. I think it was where they held political things? Now it's just a bunch of old rocks. Ingrid kept saying "imagine this building here looking like this" but in reality we were all just trying not to pass out from heat stroke. Did I mention it's really hot in Italy? Because it totally is. Reminds of me home actually. Ah, memories.. After sweating out every ounce of water from our bodies, we headed on over to the Trevi Fountain. I thought it was interesting that it was a lot more closed in rather than a full circle, like most fountains are. Either way, I took my penny in my right hand and tossed it into the water over my left shoulder and made a wish (Italians really enjoy their odd customs too).

Tally and I like to throw coins into old fountains. No big.

The last stop of the day was the Pantheon. Not really sure what that was all about either, but it was still big, old, important and impressive just like the rest of Rome.

OH! I almost forgot to tell you about the Vatican!! It was nice.

Just kidding. It was breathtaking, majestic, and regal in every sense of the words. The detail was immaculate, but I've come to notice, Italians really appreciate exquisite minute details. I think that's what makes everything they build so special. I snuck a picture of the Sistine Chapel, but it was kinda blurry and not that great. I refused to get kicked out of one of the most holiest churches on earth though. That would make me look bad.

My sneaky picture of the Sistine Chapel. Told you it's nothing great.

Leaving Rome was sad, because I just got kind of somewhat sort of familiar with my surroundings, but there was more of Italy to be had. On the way to Florence, we stopped at a small Italian village called Assissi. This is the birth place and final resting place of Saint Francis. The Chapel of Assissi was pretty, just like every other church we had already seen, but the town itself was nothing short of picturesque. It lie on top of a hill overlooking the Tuscan countryside. The walk up to the center of the city was a daunting one, but well worth the effort. I now knew what it meant to  be under the Tuscan Sun.

Assisi was short-lived, as was most of Italy, but Florence was calling our name (as well as our wallets). The Italians definitely take pride in their food. Not only were their prices a little on the steep side, but you couldn't find a burger there if the Pope himself were to ask for one. I did, however, favor Florence over Rome overall. The landscape was a lot more serene, and the hustle and bustle of the city seemed to fade quietly within the walls of St. Peter's Basilica. Any place you stopped could have been a Kodak moment, and by the 600 new pictures I took there, I clearly proved that right. The most favorable gem I found in Florence (besides the smoking hot bod of the David) was the local market right across the square from where our hotel was situated. Shops lines the streets of Florence, inviting, almost taunting, you to not buy a delightful souvenir to take back to the states. I, too, fell victim to the alluring tents and now find myself the proud owner of a slightly overprice, yet beautiful nevertheless, original water color art. One souvenir down, 87 more to go.

St. Peter's Basilica

Our final stop in Italy was quite possible the most eloquent place I've ever been blessed to see. The town of Stresa, Italy, was nothing short of astonishing. It's hard to put into words how breath-taking these views were. If ever there was a place that resembled what heaven on earth looked like, Stresa succeeds it. The cascading hills that seamlessly blended into the clouds and skies and heavens had omnipresent steam rolling down from their peaks. The lake appeared as though it was glass, as though it hadn't yet been tainted by the touch of man. God has blessed this piece of land and water, the chills that continuously ran up my spine like someone had graced up against me were proof of that. Nothing about Stresa was ordinary. The boat ride we took going around the shorelines of the island gave a cool wind that was sharp, but didn't leave me feeling cold. Something out of the ordinary for someone as cold-natured and anemic as this girl. The The Hotel Grand Dino was almost as otherwordly as the island is was situated upon. Everywhere you looked was stained glass and colors so rich it wouldn't even satsify the sweetest tooth. Every experience was something I will truly take with me for the rest of my life.

View from the island Isla Bella in Stresa

Gardens at the Hotel Grand Dino

Inside the hotel. Fancy shmancy right?

I will say that while Italy was such a culture shock and good chance for me to break out of my comfort zone, I am pretty pumped about going back to a place where everyone speaks English. It's the little things like that which count. I guess I'm still just a simple ol' southern gal at heart. But with that I say..

Ciao, Italy! You've been great to my memories but awful to my diet. I'm more than ready for jolly old England slash London. Bring it.