Back in the glory days of elementary school, one of my favorite back-to-school activities was "What I did on my summer vacation" sharing time. This is probably because, even as a wee little Floridian, adventure (read: trouble) always seemed to seek me out. There wasn't a single summer in my youth that didn't include my breaking a bodily appendage, getting strep throat or accidentally rolling in poison oak and having to endure the requisite oatmeal bath afterwards in order to "cure" me. I still hold firm that oatmeal is not a cure -- it's a nauseating breakfast food. And a lousy one at that.
My penchant for summertime adventure should come as no surprise to those who know me, and particularly to those who were tolerant enough to spend three weeks with me in Europe.
I seemingly spent the entire three weeks fending off what I can only guess was the universe cosmically bitch-slapping me for every not-so-nice act I've ever committed. (Note to universe: we've got to be square by now.)
Any semblance of a normal trip was thwarted before I left London's Heathrow airport. This first incident came to me courtesy of American Airlines, which had conveniently misplaced my bag. I stood at the baggage carousel for an hour watching the same blue Adidas duffle bag circle the baggage claim and became irrationally mad at the owner of this bag.
I started bitterly mumbling things like, "Great. I'm standing here with nothing and some ass clown has their bag readily available and just can't be bothered to pick it up. I hate the owner of this bag."
I continued the bitter mumbling just long enough to get some suspicious eyes from fellow airport patrons, at which time I decided I would stop before someone called security.
Thankfully, once at Oxford I found a group of people who thought me suitable enough (after I finally got my luggage back) to travel with, and we decided to spend our first free weekend in Edinburgh, Scotland. We purchased tickets for the seven-hour train ride and foolishly assumed that this would ensure us actual seats on the train. It did not. Universe: 2, Erin: 0. The train we were supposed to take ended up with twice the number of passengers that it was intended to have, and my compatriots and I spent seven hours sitting two-deep in the narrow hallway by the train's concession stand.
Occasionally, some brave soul arose and tried to order one of the ancient pre-packaged sandwiches for sale. Not wanting/being able to move in order to accommodate these people, a few of my fellow travelers and I took to hissing, "No" over and over in scary, extremely hung-over voices at the approaching passengers. It usually succeeded in getting these people to about-face and give up their desired sandwiches.
Edinburgh itself did not prove to be much more satisfying than the train ride and, at some junctures, more resembled a jail sentence than a vacation. The dead-raccoon smell that permeated our hostel did not do much to improve morale. It is no surprise that on one bedraggled morning, we decided we could stay in Scotland no longer. We fled the country in such a speed-laden frenzy that one of my companions ended up snatching bed sheets from the hostel and inadvertently carrying them all the way to the train station. Classy.
In addition to traveling, tea and struggling to wake up for class, we went on all-day field trips. I have never been much for events that fall under the category of mandatory fun (like first-year before-school activities). This is especially true of mandatory fun that involves riding on the top story of a double-decker bus down what I consider the wrong side of some winding road the day after my birthday (on which I had a little too much actual fun). I have a severe problem with motion sickness as it is, and when the aforementioned factors were added, it resulted in my throwing up in a paper lunch bag before we reached our destination. It was a humbling stop on my trip down the karmic doom spiral that did not exactly endear me to my future traveling companions.
The day after my battle with mandatory fun, I was scheduled to leave for Rome with a group of people who basically knew me as the lost luggage/Scotland fleer/bus-puking girl. They were understandably nervous that my well-documented battles with karma would affect their Roman fun.
As it turned out, it was tough to determine whether it was my terrible luck or our pilot's complete lack of concern for bodily harm (and basic physics) that started our trip down a rather precarious path. We had decided, for the sake of cost-effectiveness, to fly ultra-cheap Ryan Air, and our flight certainly proved the age-old saying "You get what you pay for." What it did not prove was that "All roads lead to Rome" because apparently, what Ryan Air leads to is landing (if skidding down the runway at 5,000 m.p.h. can be considered a landing) at the wrong airport.
The passengers aboard then split into two camps: panicked and hostile. I myself was a member of Team Panic, most of whom were Americans wondering why the members of Team Hostile weren't getting stunned repeatedly with tasers and being taken off to federal prison.
The plane ride back to London was entirely more tolerable thanks to a fellow traveler who had not quite shaken off the drunkenness from her 21st birthday celebration from the night before. She eased my flying anxiety by stumbling around the airport making inappropriate comments in her distinctly loud voice and singing Elton John's "Rocket Man." Obviously, our fellow fliers must have enjoyed her rendition of the classic song at eight in the morning.
Despite all the missteps and minor catastrophes, I actually loved the rollercoaster that was my European experience. When I was readying to leave for home, I asked our program director if he would miss me when I left. He responded, "Well, Erin, I'll certainly notice your absence."
Part of me wished I could stay longer, but I knew it was time to go home. After all, I was pretty sure there was a clump of poison oak and an oatmeal bath missing me back in the States.
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