Indefatigable beauty and Who's the fat American now?!

As usual, spring sprung here in the Coastal Empire slightly before its calendar designation and we Southerners were enjoying mild temperatures and early blooms in late Feb./early Mar., much to the envy of my friends and relatives living in less hospitable regions of the nation and world. There were beach trips and tank tops and a collective smugness stemming fr. the understanding that we are, truly, more climatalogically blessed than the majority of the Northern Hemisphere at this time of yr.

Perhaps to chastise us for our perennial March hubris, Mother Nature dealt a bitterly surprising blow just before the official first day of Spring -- below average temperatures, rain, and wind. And this continued for more than a wk. All floral developments halted: the blooms drooping in frozen confusion, buds cautiously opened only part-way as if to protect their delicate, still-folded blossoms while peeking out persistently, expecting more encouraging temperatures to arrive at any moment. The grass was left pathetically mottled, varying between its dull, brittle brown winter palate and its tentative, freshly verdant change. Sweaters were hastily retrieved fr. their new haphazard home in the won't-need-this-for-months corner of the closet, the coat was grudgingly removed fr. the closet where it had been most happily consigned only two wks. before, and, most painfully, the flip-flops were left unattended for ten long days. We even saw snow when Eli and I went to Biltmore this weekend (in fact, it snowed nearly all weekend, but v. little collected, except on the higher peaks).

Bemusement turned to irritation turned to desolation as the temperatures remained low and the machinery of Spring ground to a halt, leaving us to wonder if perhaps we had lost the one sure bet we had in the ongoing war b/t North and South -- weather. Even our normally warm, friendly dispositions and impeccable manners (both of which are also points for us in the aforementioned struggle) suffered as we chafed under the unwelcome weight of jackets and trousers and mourned the apparent loss of our environmental blessing. The fact that it was warmer last w/e in Boston than it was in Charleston was like pouring salt into the gaping, excruciating wound to our Southern pride.

Enhancing my own dolorous outlook on the situation was Ft. Stewpid's decision to initiate "controlled burns" thoroughout the forest that lines abt. 25 miles of the road I travel every day to and from school. I understand that these thgs. are supposed to beneficial for the growth and help prevent large, uncontrolled fires, but a) I'm just not convinced, and b) it looks really ugly and makes me sad to pass these smoldering carcasses of trees and plants that have been there for a long time and/or have provided a stabilizing natural beauty that has often made the difference b/t me arriving home in a good mood or me still being anxious/irritated/upset abt. school. Further, for some reason, they have started clearing large areas of the forest close to the back gate of the main garrison. I don't know why they're doing this; they can't build a range b/c there's a lake in the middle and I don't know why they would be constructing a building *outside* of post that would be so large as this lot would indicate.

So last wk. I was driving home fr. school, irritated b/c I had to run the heat (b/c it was cold outside when it should be warm) in my car and I couldn't get it to an ideal, or even comfortable, temperature -- I was either baking or I was chilled. I entered the slashed and burnt remnants of the forest and became even more put out. I then came upon the area that is being cleared and wished more than anythg. else that I did not live where I live now. And then, time slowed for just a few moments and I looked to my right and saw, in the midst of the destruction and seasonal interruption, a flowering tree in full bloom. I mean, full on -- branches barely discernable through the blanket of white petals illuminated nearly to gold by the sunlight streaming in from behind them, this lone holdout against all the odds, natural and man-made, a pocket of beauty tucked amongst ruin and disappointment.

Incomprehensibly, indefatigably beautiful.

On a more pedestrian note, some of you know that I went to Universal Studios in Orlando, FL a couple of wks. ago w/my friend Jennifer, Eli, and our friend Michael. Jennifer and I are among the best travel buddies ever. We are uber-efficient in our sight-seeing (we made it through both Universal and Islands of Adventure in nine hrs., inc. an hr. break for lunch), we are v. good at avoiding the most pernicious of tourist traps, we play fun car games, AND we can *always* find a deal on our hotel and activity costs. More than this, though, we both share an almost obsessive love of funnel cakes. (For those of you not familiar w/this culinary delight, it is fried sweet dough covered in powdered sugar, almost like a doughnut, but better and not nearly the same shape. Funnel cakes are squiggly.) The best places to buy funnel cakes are fairs, carnivals, and amusement parks. This being the case, Jennifer and I went in w/the unspoken understanding that at some point during our day at Universal, we were having a funnel cake, regardless of cost, facility cleanliness, queue length, or fat content. So imagine our disappointment when, after a good four hrs. in the park, we had yet to see any funnel cake. No stands, no one carrying some, no tell-tale smudges of powdered sugars on anyone's faces/shirts/hair, nothg.

We were standing in the serpentine line for the Jaws ride lamenting this fact (after marvelling at the numerous beer kiosks) when we looked over into the line moving past ours and we saw...a girl carrying a half-eaten funnel cake!! B/C I have no ability to censor myself when I get really excited abt. smthg. like this, I exclaim to this unsuspecting stranger, "WHERE did you get that funnel cake?!?" She laughs and says, with an English accent (of course), "I got it just over there at a little stand. But to be honest, this may sound a bit weird, but I'm not going to finish this -- do you want it?" I look at Jennifer and I hesitate just long enough to think to myself, "Of course she's not going to finish it, she's British and that is SUCH an American food item, oh, she's going to think I am a stupid, fat American if I take it," and, "Nan (my germ-phobic grandmother) would have a fit if she knew I was going to take half-consumed food fr. a stranger, which could be poisoned" [flash to ever-so-brief mental image of severe abdominal cramping and Eli saying he told me so]. Despite these flashes of decorum, concern for safety, and paranoia, I readily accepted the proffered funnel cake, after which Jennifer said, "I would have told her yes if you hadn't." See, perfect travel buddies!

We immediately set abt. decimating our found food and I think the British girl was a little appalled and probably scared when we passed her in line again less than five mins. later and the whole thg. was gone. Seriously -- Michael timed it -- it was smthg. like 3.5 mins. We saw the lady several times later in the day and she v. purposefully avoided our still-grateful smiles. I'm quite certain that she was thinking we were some bipedal breed of pig.


Oh, yeah -- Quote of the Day: "I can jump fences like a mutha-fucka." -- Jay, on his days as a gang-banger. heh.

Development Shmevelopment

Surveying anew the disaster that is mine and Eli's room, it occurred to me that such has been the regular condition of nearly every bedroom I have ever inhabited. I can remember my room being so messy at one point around age eight that my friends and I broke my bed playing this game where we jumped off of it like the side of a pool into the 'water' that was my cluttered floor. The toys, clothes, books, crap on the floor were literally two ft. deep. I don't know how I managed to get my room this messy or how my mother went for so long w/o making me clean it up, but the broken bed put her in a punitive mood and I did not go outside for nearly a wk. while I worked to clear the floor AND my closet (I must have worn only clothes that I could scoop out of the 'pool' during this time b/c the closet was unreachable). The last night of this, my mom wouldn't even let me go to bed until I finished cleaning the room. I still remember crying on the floor, begging to go to bed (I NEVER asked to go to bed), all the while folding my little clothes and plotting her demise.

While mine and Eli's room is not quite so bad as this and some of the mess is Eli's, whether he wants to admit it or not, it is def. becoming a nuisance, even for me. (For example, I have bruises on my lower shins fr. so often running into thgs. that clutter our floor.) And I thought to myself, "After 24 yrs. of life, and roughly 22 yrs. of being responsible for my own space, why is it such an impossibility for me to maintain neatness?" Examining more closely the specific contents of this fallout zone, I spotted another characteristic that has persisted since early childhood -- I am the worst postal patron ever. At the moment, I have boxes to mail to Sarah, Marion, Stuart, Benjamin, Daniel, Nicole and baby, Neil and Helen, my dad and his family, Brianna, and Tristan and her baby. I have had some of these boxes for nearly eight mos. now. (However, I would like to point out that, despite multiple inquiries, I am still lacking addresses for some of these recipients -- ahem.)

This has been common w/me since the first time I moved after learning to write proficiently. After moving to Maryland for a semester when I was nine, I received a letter fr. one of my Georgia friends, Karen. Karen had not only written, she had decorated the letter and included candy (Twizzlers -- one of my favs). Naturally I felt compelled to reply in kind. I wrote a letter, found some Butterfingers I was trying to get rid of, sealed them up, and....ended up giving it to Karen four mos. later when I went back to GA, though I think I had taken the Butterfingers out, as I had doubts abt. their quality after so long. Later, when I moved to South Carolina, I took w/me a book I had borrowed fr. my friend Brooks (w/whom I was madly in love for most of my 5th grade yr.). That book then moved w/me six mos. later when I again relocated to MD and did not make it back to Brooks for another nine mos. when I finally put it in the mail w/a goofy letter sending my best wishes and apologies. I actually have no idea if the book ever ended up back in Brooks's possession b/c I never heard fr. him and given my deplorable rate of return, he may v. well have moved to a different address and/or died by the time I sent it off. These are only two examples of what can only be described as a sad pattern of behavior that, like the unmanageable room, is showing no signs of progress with age.

But I have a solution to these and similar problems I have.

I need a butler.

Or a maid or a PA, whatever. Just someone who can keep track of my shit and clean up after me. I don't even need them in the rest of the house; I am quite good at keeping the kitchen and living room under control (esp. the kitchen since I hate germs), it's just my freaking bedroom that always gets the best of me. My career goals now revolve around making this a reality. Be it doctor or government worker or lady of the night, I WILL make enough money in my occupation to hire someone to either live in my house or to come often enough to keep my room under control. And maybe cook me some meals b/c I don't really like doing that, either.

Some of you may think this silly or frivolous, but you are probably the same ppl. who have changed significantly since the age of five. I have not. Maybe it's b/c I was pretty much left to make my own way at that age, or maybe it's b/c I simply can't be bothered w/'development', but I am essentially the same person I was nearly 20 yrs. ago, just more articulate and taller (but not much). I have accepted that I am flawed in the areas of maintaining order in the bedroom, prompt mailing, and cooking for myself on a regular basis, and I will likely remain so. Therefore, I am now attempting to find a practical stop-gap measure that both solves my problems and allows me to continue avoiding what some would call "useful" or "easy" or "necessary" changes. Now I need only find a job that pays me enough to live and to pay someone else enough to live. Should be a snap, no?

But it hurts so bad

Why I will not have children, Reason #230741: They are germ magnets. And I have the immune system of someone w/advanced leukemia. So when you put me w/in a 12-ft. radius of a sick kid for an extended period of time (e.g., overnight babysitting of my friend Tess's child, who was actively carrying Babyfunkitis this past Fri.), the inevitable end result is me contracting whatever the little rodent had when I came in contact w/him or her. In this case, the ague seems to be your garden variety severe cold -- intermittent fever, neck stiff like a curare victim's, head throbbing dully and apparently inflated to six times normal size, sore throat that makes each swallow an occasion for tears, aches and pains that I dare even a stint in the Iron Maiden to rival, and a general inability to maintain consciousness for more than one episode of Dallas.

Earlier today, Steve thought it would be funny to put me in a headlock. This naturally put a lot of pressure on my pathetically swollen, angry glands and my stiff, tetanic neck muscles. I nearly punched him in the face. Steve didn't think that was funny, but I sure did.

When I was at CofC or St. Andrews, I would normally drag myself to class unless my condition was truly dire (which it never was) b/c I could manage to walk the two or three blocks, sit through class, and then ooze my way back to bed. Illness probably impaired my ability to actually learn much, but venturing forth under such physically non-ideal conditions made feel better b/c I could go home and collapse knowing that I had tried hard. Thus, I was quite distressed to realize that this was no longer possible when my alarm went off at 7 this morning. I missed school today for the first time in three yrs. -- inc. my twice-wkly. Physiology lecture I *really* shouldn't miss -- b/c I was too weak to drive the hr. to school, make it through the eight-hr. day, and then drive the hr. back home. I feel like such a weenie.

But that brings to mind a funny sight I saw this w/e -- Best Streetsign Ever: Black Weiner St.

I shit you not.

I'll try to get pics next time I'm in SAV.

Back to my Sucrets and Chloraseptic. mmmm....menthol I love you.

Smthg. less palaverous

Good word, that -- palaverous. Had thought of adding to the last entry as promised, but after seeing how long it was, I started thinking that a) the odds of anyone actually reading it in full were already quite slim, and b) it was probably for the best to simply move on to smthg. new and more brief. So that's what I'm doing, sharing a short(ish) tale of my daily life.

In Physics today, we started discussing light reflection in mirrors. After giving us a basic description of what mirrors are (highly polished glass w/a painted back), Dr. A walked over, stood directly in front of my desk, looked at me, and said in his precise, Nigerian-accented English, "You know all about dis, unh?" He then giggled and walked away. Assuming he meant that we all knew abt. mirrors b/c we all use them and that his pause in front of my desk was merely the sort that happens every class period b/c he's a pacer when lecturing and that his prolonged eye contact w/me was also the routine look he gives me to make sure I'm really awake (I've learned to sleep w/my eyes open -- gross), I thought little of this comment, laughed at him giggling, and went back to my notes.

But when abt. three mins. later there was a question abt. the direction of reflection in a mirror and he again walked over to me, repeated his question directly to me, and giggled again, it occurred to me that this was deliberate. But why the fuck would he be expecting me to know more abt. light reflecting in mirrors than anyone else in the class? I usually sit there smiling mildly, hoping he interprets this expression as enthusiasm for his class, and on the rare occasions that I do know enough to hazard a guess in answer to his questions, he usually either ignores me or can't hear me b/c I talk abt. Physics like I speak French -- quietly and self-consciously. So WTF was up w/the repeated, direct questioning? After seeing my look of suspicious confusion, Dr. A made his way back to the board and announced, "See, I am asking you dese tings becos girls use mirrors more dan bwoys. hee hee hee...."

Some of you may be thinking, "Why, that chauvinist African bastard!" but my immediate reaction was to jerk around in my seat and survey the motley remainder of our Physics class and exclaim, "Fuck, I AM the only girl left in here!" Approximately half the students in what was not a large class to begin with have dropped, leaving 10 of us behind, fervently hoping that it was not a mistake to hold fast and stay in the class beyond the last-day-to-withdraw-with-a-W date. And I am the only girl among that naive few. I cannot think of another class I have ever taken where that was the gender breakdown. It's a real switch fr. CofC's female-saturated population, let me tell you. It doesn't bother me, it just sort of snuck up on me, so it stands out as even stranger than it would otherwise be.

Dr. A reassured me with, "Oh, don't warry, I weel not peek on you all de time." heh.

I honestly wasn't in any way offended by his little joke b/c a) I've talked to him numerous times in his office abt. a variety of thgs. other than Physics and he seems to think I'm pretty smart, b) I do have one of the highest grades in the class right now, and c) he still raves abt. the quality of my lab reports fr. last semester (which makes me laugh b/c I never knew what I was doing), so I really don't feel that he thinks I am the average Georgia Southern twit, esp. since I'm the only chick w/the balls to stay in his class.

What did bother me is that his implication that I frequently stand admiring my reflected figure was such a gross (though accidental) misrepresentation of me. I don't like mirrors. I avoid them whenever possible and when I do use them, only rarely do I ever look at myself in full view. I'll look at whatever part of my reflection I need to -- my eyeball when I'm putting my contacts in, my hair when I'm trying to tame it, my eyelid when I'm putting makeup on -- but I do not generally take in the whole picture. Which leads to funny little incidents like one that happened yesterday where I don't recognize my own reflection. I went w/Steve to drop off his car at the mechanic's and noticed a girl in the lobby abt. 10 ft. away fr. me and I thought, "Wow, I like her hair!" And then I realized it was me, reflected in the one-way mirror of the mechanic's office. I laughed so hard -- I seriously did not identify that image as my own until I first processed that it was a one-way mirror and secondly made the connection that if that was a mirror, then the person standing in it must be me b/c there was no one else in the lobby. What an idiot.

But it's not as if Dr. A should be aware of this particular quirk of mine, so I don't know why it bothered me so much. Maybe b/c I *am* the only girl left in the class and I don't want them to think that I am like most GSU girls, planning to make it past Dr. A by batting my eyes, blushing, and bending over in front of him -- a lot. I want them to know that I am smarter than all of those girls and most of them, the boys left in my class, too. I want them to know that I am NOT like them. I am not really a Georgia Southern student, I am just here b/c of an unfortunate diversion in my heretofore respectable academic path.

For perhaps the first time ever, I want to set myself apart in an unconditional, completely close-minded sort of way. I want no connections made b/t myself and this student body, no common ground to be uncovered, no sleeper cell of interesting ppl. of the sort I would normally associate with to emerge. Which, paradoxically, makes me v. much like the ppl. I am eschewing so vehemently. My most common criticism of GSU is that its students are so small-minded, so narrow and sheltered w/no interest in expanding their views. But by continuing to cling to my absolute refusal to think anythg. good abt. this school, I am becoming the v. thg. I detest. It's a quandary. And while I can try to mean it the next time I think, "Well, the lake is pretty nice," or, "Not everyone here is retarded," or, "The curriculum doesn't have to be the best to be good enough," I think the fact that I have to try to mean it does not predispose my efforts toward success.

But I'll try.

B/C the lake *is* nice (esp. all the turtles and ducks), and it is *impossible* that everyone here is retarded (I have met at least five ppl. of reasonable intelligence, or who at least have enough common sense to make their company enjoyable), and the curriculum, while far fr. the best, will hopefully be enough to get me past the MCAT.

Home spun desperation's knowing/Inside your cover's always blown...

So I didn't realize how long it had been since I last wrote until Ben (finally) emailed me and criticized me in his typically polite, English way for dropping the ball. My bad. But while we're talking abt. ppl. dropping the ball, let's talk abt. how I hadn't heard fr. Ben in so long that I had actually begun to worry that he was dead. Really. I didn't think much of it at first, esp. since I've had trouble keeping track of time recently, but then I realized it had been more than a month than I heard even so much as a mocking blog comment fr. him. And then I started thinking abt. all the thgs. that could have happened. Maybe he'd gotten mugged and shot on the gritty streets of London. Maybe he'd been hit by a bus while crossing the street w/o looking b/c he was too busy ogling some fit girl across the way. Who knows, maybe he'd gotten overzealous w/noodles at Wagamama's and had some sort of fit that caused him to collapse in a lifeless heap on the floor. Point is, I was worried and was beginning to debate at what point it was appropriate to call a friend's family to enquire abt. his mortality. "Hi, Gina, this is jules. I spent a few days at your house back in November? Yes, it was one of the most pleasant visits I've ever had. Is Ben dead?" riiight. Mercifully, *the*very*day* that I was going to choke back my uncertainty and call Ben's parents, he saved me the embarrassment and left an especially know-it-all comment on my blog regarding the Longaberger basket. Seems quite fitting, really. After all, the only person I know who is more likely than Daniel to come back fr. the dead (real or imagined) just to show off his useless knowledge is Ben.

Desperate for a bit of fresh air and time alone, I took a weekend trip to Biltmore a couple of wks. ago. I had wanted to see Biltmore, the largest private home in America, for most of my life, and since Eli was in the great white north visiting his family and Steve was having one of his many "friends" over for the w/e, I figured it was as good a time as any to go. I rented a car (a Dodge Stratus, which made me laugh b/c I kept thinking of that old SNL skit w/Will Ferrell and Sarah Michelle Gellar -- "I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!! I deserve some respect!"), found a great deal on a hotel, packed my bag, and got the hell out of town, leaving behind a petulant Steve ("You've known I want to go there, too, I can't believe you're going w/o me!") and the dull box that now confines my life. I arrived in Asheville, NC, late Fri. night, reveled in the wonder that was my surprisingly nice hotel room (it was so cheap!), and enjoyed a "What Not to Wear" marathon as I fell asleep.

The next morning I braved the Winter Weather Advisory and took off in icy rain for Clemson to spend an afternoon w/my misguided brother, who was experiencing what was perhaps the first real crisis of his life. Naturally the coping method I suggested (after sufficiently discussing the situation to feel confident that it was more or less resolved) was alcohol. Lots. So we hit up the bars at 2pm and were rewarded with a "You want all of those drinks together? For the two of you?" fr. the slightly-older-than-middle-aged waitress behind the bar. heh. I don't think she was reassured when the following exchange took place as we were lvng.:

Waitress, looking concerned and a little awed (I'm sure she thought we wouldn't be able to get off of our bar stools): Y'all have a nice day, okay? You're not driving are you?
Me, slightly buzzed and amused that this total stranger was so concerned abt. our well-being: Oh, no, ma'am, we're walking, don't you worry.
Trey, having more difficulty containing his drunken glee: Yeah, we're walking -- to the next bar!!

hahaha... riiight... So we did walk to the next bar, where we had a few more drinks before I deposited Trey back at his dorm. He had an RA mtg. to get to at 530, and I received a rather amusing text msg. fr. him as I was driving back to Asheville. It said, "Holy shit, I'm supposed to lead a discussion tonight and I'm drunk!" heh. I enjoyed my drive back more than the drive there. (I get anxious when driving somewhere I've never been before b/c I worry that I've missed my turn and will wander forever in an unknown land. When I was little I didn't want to learn how to drive b/c I thought that I would one day take the wrong exit and never find my way home again.) Most of the drive was on smaller roads wending their ways through the soft mountains of upstate SC/western NC, which were covered in a mist that hovered just above them, allowing one to enjoy the hazy effect without being worried by hazardous roads.

The next morning I woke up early to a cold but clear, bright day. I stuffed my face at the complimentary breakfast buffet downstairs, packed up the car, checked out of my room, and started out for Biltmore. Turning in to the gates, I knew that I was going to love it. And I also knew I was so glad to be there alone, at least for my first visit. The driveway is smthg. like five miles long, and you go about two miles of it before getting to the welcome center/ticket distribution place. I was already wondering how much a yr.-long pass would be. When I got to the front of the line and learned that the cost was significantly reduced for the month of Feb., I couldn't say no. So now I have yr. pass to Biltmore. Pls. come visit me so that we can go. When I finally made it to the parking area, I scoffed at the tourists herding together at the shuttle stop, shivering in the early morning chill and looking at me as if I were actually wearing a dunce cap when I passed them by, opting instead to walk the half mile to the house. (Honestly, it's no wonder ppl. in this country are so fat. We're weenies. Lazy, stupid weenies.)

I was mildly surprised to find that, upon reaching the house, I was more taken with the view and the landscape than with the house itself. I'd always thought I would run toward the house like Melanie running to meet Ashley in GWTW, so long had I waited and wanted to see it, but instead I spent the next three hrs. running around the grounds, taking more pictures of trees and snow than anyone would care to see. At one point, I had to force myself to put my camera away and put my hands in my pockets b/c I was losing all sensation in my fingers. The gardens were a bit stark since it was winter, but there were a few early buds peeking through, glittering in a coating of ice that had yet to melt in the morning sun, and the conservatory was was a happy hideaway of tropical warmth and color which my frozen hands were especially happy to see. After spending nearly an hr. in the conservatory, I took off through the rest of the gardens in search of the "Woodland Trail," which turned out to be a path through the woods and over the hills that reminded me so much of Kemback Forest outside of St. A's that I felt happier than I have since the last time I went for a walk there w/Marion, Olley, Eamonn, and Abdul. In fact, most of the landscape reminded me greatly of Scotland, which is perhaps why I enjoyed it so much. Lost in my recent malaise and ennui, I had nearly forgotten what it was like to get so much pleasure out of simply walking and breathing. I've been desperate to get back to Scotland since I left it, and it was...soothing to find smthg. comparable to (though not quite as good as) the country that has oddly become more like home to me than that in which I have lived most of my life.

One further factor that made the morning so pleasant for me was that there was no one else around. Perhaps due to the rather low temperatures, no one seemed interested in walking the grounds further than the conservatory, leaving the snow untouched, the songbirds without competition, and creating a solitude of the rare sort that leads one to think, if only for the shortest time, that the world is yours and it is happy. What's great abt. having no one around is that you don't have to hear them, don't have to be constantly subjected to the aural assault that is human communication. It was so quiet that as the temperature rose (slightly), the ice coating the leaves in the trees started to melt and the sounds of the forest were increasingly punctuated by the delicate crackling of the ice separating from itself and from the leaves, followed, after an anticipatory silence, by the determined click of the water splashing onto the hard, still-frozen ground. Fucking Zen, I tell you.

The house itself was, of course, stunning. Though it was overshadowed by its natural environment, I do think Biltmore may be one of the best domiciles I have yet visited. The place is categorically huge; there's no two ways abt. it. But it manages to get its point across ("I have more money and living space than God") w/o making you choke on it and also w/o making you forget that it's a house. When I went to see Versailles last spring, it was hard to be impressed, really, b/c you couldn't take it seriously as a place where ppl. lived and did normal living thgs. like dancing naked in your room, or arguing w/your siblings, or breathing. It was just *too* big. I know the point of Versailles was to be a stage on which the French monarchy could display its wealth and potency, but I think it served/serves that purpose rather too well. When walking through the chamber in which les reines francaises birthed their royal progeny, all I could picture was Marie Antoinette in full court dress w/her ridiculous three ft. tall powdered hair towering above, sitting bolt upright in bed, legs wide open, skirts pulled up just enough to allow a newborn babe to pass through w/o suffocating on her layers of satin and lace, and looking slightly bored with the whole thg. B/C I think that's what life would be if it was that contrived. Boring.

Anyhow, fast-forwarding a few centuries back to the material point, Biltmore isn't like that. It is unquestionably impressive, but you can picture ppl. living there. You can imagine what it must have been like for little Cornelia Vanderbilt to tear ass through those long corridors, squealing and sliding on the hardwood floors, and jumping on the beds that look smaller than normal beds only b/c the rooms in which they sit are so large. You can look out of the windows and understand why a Yankee fr. NY would want to choose that spot in the backwoods mountains of NC as the place on which he built his escape fr. everythg. real. The toilets and bathrooms are featured prominently in the tour b/c they were cutting edge for the time (all indoor plumbing w/flush toilets), so you are left w/no uncertainties abt. whether or not ppl. digested at Biltmore b/c you even understand the exact flushing mechanism involved in removing the end product of that bodily process. Point is, while jaw-droppingly amazing in its scale and accoutrement, it doesn't alienate you. It doesn't make you hate it b/c it's so much more than you will ever be, it isn't completely incomprehensible, and it isn't tacky, an unfortunate pitfall for many large homes. It's just pretty. And gracious. And looking at the art in there (Geo. Vanderbilt collected pencil drawings, mostly portraits [my favorite], including several by Duhrer) made me cry for the first time since seeing the Sistine Chapel three yrs. ago. (Made me cry over art, I mean, not made me cry for the first time in three yrs., as well you all know -- haha...)

So, yeah. I loved it. Eli and I are going together at the end of the month.

I plan to add more to this entry, but Eli is increasingly jealous of the computer, so I will publish what I have to this point and try to pick it up tomorrow. But b/c it's me, I probably won't get around to it until Mon. or Wed. when I have a huge break in my school day and like to do thgs. like post on my blog rather than use my time efficiently by, oh, say, studying.

Quote of the Day:
"I think that plastic bottle in the gutter is a form of American art. Americans are the white trash of the world." -- Eli, pretty perceptive for someone whose only experience w/foreign travel involved an M-16 and and a flak jacket he had to wear in 120 degree heat.

Will write soon...

And when I do, you will have the following topics to look forward to:

-- My trip to Biltmore (I may even inc. pictures!)

-- Pancake Day/Mardi Gras memories
-- Why it is important to email or otherwise contact me at least once a month, OR, How I narrowly escaped an awkward conversation w/Ben's parents
-- An update on the infamous basket
--Some other stuff I meant to mention next time I wrote, but now cannot remember....hmmm...

You know you want it.

Quote of the Day:
"I'm not being vindictive, I'm just being fair... I'm not angry, I just don't want her to fucking have anythg." -- some twat across the cubicle fr. me, who seems to interpret 'fair' and 'not angry' the way Fox News interprets 'fair and unbiased'.