The deal is closed! The property in Bulgaria has been purchased, Henry and Callum have flown off to Sofia to close the deal, and my work at Europa is complete. It was a fantastic experience, one I will never forget. And I even learned a few things. Though I still struggle with the concept of a 20 million dollar investment in the first place.

I pack up my bags (easier said than done) and depart The Grahams, 95 Mallinson Road, Clapham, and ultimately London. VIctoria Station is incredibly familiar by now, and I leap onto my bus, bound for Paris, and fall asleep. It is difficult to describe my love for London, or the enjoyment I got out of my two packed weeks wandering its streets and museums and theaters. I could not get enough, but I am glad to have done a bit.

After a bus, a train, another bus, a subway, and another train, I am at last approaching Burgundy, and Grimault.

I stream out of Paris on the TGV listening to Maurice Ravel's Valses Nobles Et Sentimentales bursting exuberantly as sunny Paris streams by. As the train slides across bleak snow-covered landscapes I listen to the simple open chords of Erik Satie. We pass through quaint villages as Frederic Chopin bubbles merrily and elegantly in my ears. Then the powerful orchestral chords of Camille Saint-Saens pour through my consciousness as the train tears down a rocky canyon. Finally we are enveloped in snow, a blizzard wrapping around the train as the delicate solo violin of Jules Massenet threads through my mind. And as those chords fade away I have arrived, in Montbard, Burgundy. Alice and David await on the platform and we are reunited the wannabe Prodigal Grandson wrapped up in the fur and berets of the awaiting grandparents.

We return to Grimault, where we shelter inside with warm food and warmer music and a delightful fire, and outside the weather is frightful.

People:
Tom Mercer: Henry and I go out for a beer with Tom after work. The two of them came and worked on the ranch on their gap year when I was 7, and so after they regale me with stories of their experiences (that I then would have been to young to really understand, especially the horrific things they did in San Francisco, better not to mention), I respond with stories about the way things are now, what has and hasn't changed on the ranch, with Tom and Mary and Fluffy and all the other things that consitute their memories of it. We have a great time, and they teach me a thing or two about how to do a gap year. And how not to.
The Parkes': I go over to see Gerald and Gabriela, two family friends who live in Notting Hill with two adorable babies (lots of babies on this trip). We drink champagne and decorate the Christmas tree and share stories and they tell me about their house in Mallorca, one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Places:
I go to a Cartoon Museum, in Covent Gardens, a funny little place that track the history of newspaper cartoons from their origination to the present, including some unbelievably funny satire, and a fascinating look at what, say people in Victorian England found amusing. Suffice it to say I don't get their sense of humor. Luckily, times have changed in that respect.
I go to the British Library, a massive, ultra-modern building where hundreds of people read or study in an ideal environment. It is home to the Kings Collection, a glass enclosed tower of the great books, accessed only by the royals. It also houses treasures like the only surviving copy of Beowulf, an original Canterbury Tales, and original Folios by Shakespeare, including hand written manuscripts from everyone from Beethoven to Da Vinci to Dickens. There is an exhibit on the developement of the English language that I find utterly fascinating. It tracks the developement of the language from the Canterbury Tales to modern Text Messaging, and the highlight is a clip played from My Fair Lady where Elizah proclaims where the rain falls in Spain. It is brilliant and enlightening, to say the least.
On a recommendation from Whitney, I go to the Burough Market, a fantastically Christmassy wonderland of the ultimate cuisine, gather from all over England, as well as France and Italy. Roasted animals, fresh mince pies, fresh milk and cream and applesauce and mountains of little chocolates, bottles of olive oil and jars of beautiful jams, buckets full of mulled wine and cider, the scent of christmas trees and gingerbread and pastry dough and cinnamon. I eat a pork sandwich and a mince pie, and float decadently through heavan.

Shows:
I go to see the Messiah. Not only that, its at the Royal Albert Hall. Not only that, its Christmas-time. The vast, ornate hall of gilt patterns, red velvet, perfect symmetry and complex acoustic devices rings with the pure notes of Handel's iconic Oratorio. Everyone stands for the Hallelujah Chorus, clapping wildly as the choir of five hundred (!!!!) proclaims their joy. The orchestra delicately frames the long vocal solos, and the exceedingly simple and yet breathtakingly ornate harmonies and rounds fills the air with glory especially when the trumpet brightly stated the coming of the Savior. The Amen, the final piece, which lasts five minutes on a single word, is spectacular. In fact, the whole things is exceptional, and unparalleled, once in a lifetime experience of spectacular music, in a spectacular venue, by a spectacular group. Each vast chord resounded easily up into the heavens.
I see Les Miserables, an iconic musical which I have never seen, despite the fact that it is one of my favorite books. Delightfully light and bright, it delivers everything promised by a West End Musical, including drama and color and light and spectacle. The melodies are delightful and the story touching and I am left with a much brighter though less profound joy than I was given by the Messiah.
I see Birdsong, a stage adaptation of a fantastic book, that brings crashing home a powerful message and some horrifying images of WWI. The blood, the roar of the shells, the blatant tragedy, will not leave my vision, my ears, or my mind as I wander forlornly back to Clapham. The show is barely comparably to the book, but seeing the powerful words and images physicalized is desperately beautiful and moving.
I see Shakespeare's King Lear. It is easily the best Shakespeare production I have ever seen, performed with force and eloquence and encompassing the vast tragedy of age and betrayal and madness. Each role is brilliantly played, the story is one of the greatest ever written, and the words are flawless, perhaps Shakespeare's best. The costumes are simple, the set is bare, the wind of the winter storm roars across the stage, and I cringe in fear as the sad king goes mad and his friends blood is splattered across the wall.
In case you are interested Ben Barnes (of Chronicles of Narnia) starred in Birdsong and Derek Jacobi (one of the worlds great Shakespearean film and stage presences) starred in Lear.

A few other things:
On the way to the theater I see a classic sight, a definitive image of Knightsbridge. Everyone's trash is on the curb to be picked up, and one person's trash is wrapped exclusively in Harrod's bags. I don't know whether to be amused or apalled.
I stand in line for cheap tickets to Lear at 7oclock in the morning, and meet the Theater Fanatics of London, a bizarre group of theater fans from Portugal, Australia, Chicago, and Manchester (among others), ranging in age from 16 to 60 and having only one thing in common: a desperate love for theater and Shakespeare. Enough love to stand out in the cold to see this show. Enough love to talk avidly for 3 hours to their fellow theater fans, recalling favorite shows, performances, characters, and scripts. I sit next to a few of them and we chat amiably about how excellently choreographed the mass murder in Act 5 was.

The morning that I return begins a week even more of a whirlwind than the last, in which I see various people, watch several plays, and visit even more museums. I barely sleep, rarely eat, and speed from the office at exactly 6PM (I start counting down the minutes at about 1:30, my meticulous notes are surrounded by little crossed out marks of 4 hours, 3.75 hours, 3.5 hours, etc.) I return to South Clapham Station at 11:30 every night, and walk back through the quiet neighborhoods, where I collapse gratefully for a few hours sleep, before getting back into my suit at 7. I have the house to myself for a few days while the various Grahams travel about on various trips, so I blast loud music and make exotic meals for myself, luxuriating in the comfortable house with a great selection of food, movies, and music. I am comfortable being alone, and I relish the utter freedom of my existence. I miss Casey though. All the time. Don't tell him that.

On Sunday morning I go to Trafalgar Square, and walk around the showering fountains, misted gently by the spray as I people-watch in the shadow of Nelson's Column. Finally, I find Susan and Lisa, the two Canadians from Edinburgh who have demanded a whistle-stop tour of London's Museums.

First we launch into the National Gallery (3 steps away from Nelson's Column) where we experience the Percy Stubbs National Gallery Tour. While I have not actually contributed to the museum collection (except perhaps for a few sketches I did under the not-very-clever pseudonym George Stubbs) I lead them to my favorite pieces. These include if you are interested J.M.W. Turner's "Ulysses," and "The Fighting Temeraire," George Stubbs' "Whistlejacket," John Constable's "Cenotaph," and Delaroche's "Execution of Jane Grey." As well as a few others.

I am shocked and thrilled that they actually like to hear me talk about London, its history, and the other various things I drone on about, but they love it, and demand more, so we go from thence to The Albert Area to the the Royal Albert Hall, the Albert Memorial, and the Victoria and Albert Museum. The V&A leads us to incredible exhibitions on theater and music, filled with costumes and stage-sets and brilliant pieces  of art and history in unparalleled collection and presentation. The Cast Hall at the V&A contains stunning replicas of sculpture from every corner of the world, and we are left in awe.

Then we go back to my favorite haunt, the Natural History Museum (which in Sonoma would more likely be called the Natty Hist Museum), to see the wildlife photography exhibition. I recommend looking up some of the photos from this, as my desciptions of these photos (some of the best wildlife photos in the world) will be woefully inadequate. http://www.nhm.ac.uk/visit-us/whats-on/temporary-exhibitions/wpy/

We make a good exploring team, the Canadians and I, and the various exhibits are, in their own ways, riveting. Eventually we part ways, and the London adventures continue.

The week ends, the deal in Plovdiv, Bulgaria is looking promising, and Henry and I step gratefully out of the office into the cool air. We are late for our train (back to Newbury, where Henry lives and I am spending the weekend) and so we run, leap in a cab, run some more, and arrive, breathless, at Platform 11 of Paddington station, where we hurl ourselves into the already packed coach and speed north and west out of London.
When we arrive, I breath my first breath of country air, clean and clear and cool and reminiscent of the gardens at Thorpe, the hillsides of Grimault, and the fields of White House (not to mention the ever-present hills of West Marin). Henry and his wife Clare live in a brick house in a small village surrounded by endless paths crossing through fields and woods (over hill and through dale as puck would say). It is simple and warm and distant from the exciting but exhausting City. We eat sumptuous meals, and drink endless cups of tea (an occupation not terribly feasible in the hustle of London life, or at worK). I read for long hours and play with Olivia, the adorable one-year-old daughter of Henry and Clare. We spend hours talking, and I go for a long walk through the woods. It is cool, but not freezing. Clares's sister comes over for a Christmassy afternoon, and we drag in a Christmas tree and watch Olivia unwrapping early presents. It is perfectly sublime, simple wintry bliss. In the evening we eat a feast of Pork Belly and then watch The X Factor. I am shocked to find that I am the only person not an avid fan. All the others have been watching since the initial trials months ago, and I just happen to have arrived on the night of the final. So we watch the various bizarre performers (from an unexciting guy with a guitar to a gutsy soul singer and a hip young rapper,  and the horrific Boy Band). We submit our own scores and critiques before hearing the official ones. Rihanna and Christina Aguilera make guest appearances, and ultimately the unexciting guy wins. We are equal parts fascinated and disgusted by the glitz and the popularity of this show (which has 20,000,000 viewers in England, a third of the population).

I fall asleep laughing.

PERCY, London:
Halfway through a Insurance Application Form that I am filling out for the new acquistion in Bulgaria, I slip away from my desk and wrap myself in a scarf and hat and my coat before swinging out of the office and into the blustery street. The London weather has warmed from the icy metropolis it was when I arrived, but I still have to put my head down and wrap my clothes firmly around myself to march across the square to Sloane Square Tube Station. As the subway car bumps and jerks, I read a book (Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks, absolutely phenomenal) as I sway back and forth and try not to knock into the people standing adjacent. This skill of reading standing up and for only short snatches of time, a paragraph here and a paragraph there while subconsciously listening to the names of the approaching subway station, is one that I have cultivated actively while in London.
I step out of the tunnel at Westminster, and walk through the bracing air around Westminster Cathedral as I wait for the massive sound of Big Ben to sound noon. And when it does, I stride up to the imposing bobby(policeman)-guarded entrance of The Houses of Parliament, and request to be let in. Of course, technically anyone can go into the Houses of Parliament as it is meant to be open to the public, but with the students rioting violently in the streets of London (rocks thrown through windows, the Prince of Wales car attacked), everyone seems slightly uncomfortable in government places, and the bobby asks me where I am going. When I tell him I am going to meet with a member of parliament, he looks at me skeptically and asks the name of this "member of parliament." But when I respond with a mixture of innocence and conviction, the gate slides open and I am allowed in. Then it is through security, at the end of which I am given a pass with a photo ID to wear around my neck, and I am in.

The main hall of the House Of Commons is centuries old, built by Richard the Second, and housing various historical events from the trial of William Wallace to the execution of various enemies of the state. I sweep through the towering, cold and inelegant hall, and into the main lobby, a glittering room full of people, tourists, secretaries speeding on urgent missions, and the people with the power. And then, from among the clusters of strange faces, comes one I recognize. Rory Stewart shakes my hand like an old friend (which I guess, do to the length and involvement of our work together, me raising money to support his foundation in Afghanistan etc., is what we are). With the charm and intelligence that has made him one of the most inspiring and respected people in Parliament (and before that at Harvard, and before that in Kabul, and before that etcetc.). Amusingly, he is one of Time Magazines 100 Most Important people. Who knows, maybe someday he will be Prime Minister. He guides me around the House Of Commons, leaving the public viewing halls and going into the back hallways, the pathways of power and government, where people stride solemnly and importantly from one task to another.

His office is full of bright young assistants who seem intent on creating the ultimate image of the ultimate MP, and have a wild rapport that I watch with fascination. The walls are covered with beautiful Afghan calligraphy, delicate spirals of black and gold ink, many of them from the school that we funded in Kabul. 

As we stand out on a terrace overlooking the Thames that admires panoramic views of London, he tells me about being an MP, trying to geniunely improve the lives of his constituents, having to write another book, and how all he really wants to do is walk across Burma. I ask him for advice, what he could give to someone at my crossroads in life, and he simply insists that I enjoy what freedom I have now in my life, to wake up as many mornings as possible with no obligations, and, if I want to understand the world, to leave textbooks and papers behind me and travel to whatever foreign lands it is I want to understand. To live in a village, to know the people, and of course, to walk.

The depth and eloquence of his advice and general demeanor leaves me grateful and inspired, and as I emerge into the bracing London air, and speed back to Sloane Square, a thousand different pathways of my life roll out in front of me, each one backoning, all leading to places I want to see.

PERCY, London: Every morning the alarm rings at 7 (after having rung at 6:40, 6:45, 6:50, 6:55, and 6:58. its the only way I can get up). I crawl out from under the crisp white linen and carefully put on my suit (an astonishing combination of an old white shirt from home, a pair of slacks that feel like they are made of paper, bought in a hospice store in Edinburgh, shoes that are two small and cut into my feet, my grandfathers RAS (Royal Agricultural Society) tie, and a blazer my dad bought me. In this mismatched garb I go downstairs and prepare myself an extensive breakfast including Wheatabix, 2 Crumpets (one with marmite and one with butter), two pieces of toast (one stawberry jam, the other orange marmalade), a big glass of OJ, and of course the finishing touch: a cup of tea. Fortified with this, I step out into the icy air of London, and bolt down Mallinson Road at a brisk clip. Then I either take the bus, tube (underground), or get a ride with Charlie (the guy who I'm staying with). Through the early morning traffic and then I arrive at the offices of Europa Capital LLP, at their Granville House Offices on Sloane Square. Sloane Square bisects the Kings Road, one of the many glamourous center of teenage life in London for the rich and famous and trendy.

I step into building, smile at the guard at the front desk, and slide up a few floors in the elevator, and into the office, which is warm, and quiet, and professional. Europa is one of the top Real Estate Investment Fund managers in Europe. The small, well-run business raises funds from people and institutions all over the worlds, and then identifies and invests in promising real estate developements all over Europe. They play the market cleverly, take bold risks, and make incredible returns. Charlie Graham, and old friend and colleague of Tom Stubbs', is one of the founders and partners of the company. A good-natured but demanding boss, he holds everyone to the highest standard, while simultaneously making Europa a fun place to work. From my desk in the corner, peering over my laptop and endless files (that need sorting, proofreading, or, if they are insurance forms, filling out), I get to watch the room, watch people flirting and fighting and grinding along, on good days and bad. There is power and wealth here. There is excitement. There is also tension, stress, and the drama that results from having a lot at stake.

I am interning for a guy named Henry Morris, who spent a good portion of His gap year in San Francisco and Marin, and so is well-suited to recieve an American in a similar (albeit reversed) circumstance. He is head of Acquisitions for Emerging Europe (places like Bulgaria and Romania) and so I spend much of my time reading and writing about this fascinating area. His right hand man is Callum Thorneycroft, and their financial mastermind is Belinda Chain (I only include the names because I think they are some of the most fantastic names in the world, not sudonyms!). This tight-knit group (and a few others) are responsible for discovering good opportunities in far-flung eastern Europe, and then turning ideas into concrete investments. On the day I arrive I quickly read an FIR (Final Investment Report) for a mall that is being purchased in Bulgaria. Then we go into an elegant Board Room to present the opportunity to the Investment Committee. We receive the go ahead, and since that moment, it has been chaos. The deal has a million moving parts, millions of euro of equity at stake, dozens of lawyers and consultants on the payroll, and a ticking clock, as it has to be closed before christmas. I do everything from write Executive Macroeconomic Reports on Bulgaria to drafting a review of the Due Diligence carried out on-site to filling out insurance applications. I sit in on meetings and conference calls with Joint Venture Partners, lawyers from some of the worlds leading law firms, bankers, and the vast range of Bulgarian contacts. It is chaos, and it is demanding, and it is thrilling.

Occaisionally we (Henry and Callum and I) go out for a drink after work or a quick lunch, but time rarely permits. As an intern, I can escape by 6, but they work far later than that every night. But depsite the tension, the office stays full of energy and laughter and optimism. And outside, the streets are full of Christmas. Sloane Square glitters with christmas lights (the trees are full of them), and the shops sparkle. As I speed along icy and snowy streets, I slow my pace as I pass in front of a departments store. Each on breaths a huge breath of hot, perfume-laden air out onto the street from its gaudy interior, momentarily thawing the icy world outside.

I am staying, as I mentioned, with the Grahams. They live in the southern part of London, in Clapham, in a beautiful house on a quiet street, and many evenings I walk back through the cold night, with the heels of my shoes clicking on the sidewalk and my breath forming clouds. Returning to the house is always delightful, as it is filled with warmth and light and the smells of good food. Charlie, as I mentioned, is funny and relaxed, when he is not working (but he most often is). His wife, Analida, is Brazilian, and is constantly overflowing with characteristic warmth and generosity. And their kids are scattered on gap years and at schools and in fascinating careers across the country and the world. Will, my age, is on his gap year in Spain right now, waiting to hear back from American university's. I spend some time with Lilly when she comes back from school for a weekend. She is full of brilliant impersonations of the classic Brit, and has me in constant bouts of laughter.

After work, and on weekends, I go out and wander the city. I buy an unlimited subway pass and zip around from museum to theater to store to museum, in endless loops and circles around a city that is endlessly buzzing. I go into Fortnum and Mason's, one of the most decadent places I have ever seen. The ultimate candy shop, where chocolates and caramels and turkish delight and delicate candy canes and freshly baked mince pies beckon from the shelves at staggering prices. People bustle around with arms full of beautiful packages of sugar and elegance, people with flushed cheeks and christmassy spirit and too much money and too much perfume and cologne. The place is excessive, in absolutely the best way.

I go to the Victoria and Albert Museum, and walk through an exhibition on Sergei Diaghilev, the creator of the Russian Ballet in Paris. The man who brought the russian art asthetic (music from Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev and Stravinsky, ballet from Nijinsky, and world class costume and choreography) and forever transformed ballet. It was a beautiful exhibition, full of fascinating history and beautiful costumes. The best part is a massive room with one wall covered with a massive tapestry, the back-drop for Stravinsky's Firebird ballet. On the wall, shadows of ballet dances are projected, and they move in time to the final movement of the Firebird, which fills the air with its luxuriant tones. When I exit the museum I am in complete mental and artistic overload.

When I'm on the subway, I look at the people around me, people from every walk of life. I read a book on philosophy that I bought for Will (who is planning to study it in college but has yet to read a book on it) and I get heavy, overwhelming doses of Descartes and Hume in between subway stops.

I go to the Hampstead theater in north London and watch Athol Fugard's latest play The Train Driver, directed by Fugard himself. It is a shocking tale of trauma and regret, set, as always in oppressed South Africa. The story is of a white train driver whose train runs over a black woman and her baby who step in front of it. Afterwards, he cannot escape the memory of her eyes piercing his soul, and so he goes mad, distancing himself from his happy life and family, and searching for the nameless womans grave in the wilderness. He finds and old African grave digger and lives with him, trying to come to terms with what he has done and seen.. But ultimately the only escape for him is his own death, which comes at the hands of black gangsters who wont tolerate white men on their sacred graveyard. As he dies the stage goes dark and the roar of a train engine is heard. The acting is brilliant, the story haunting, and when it ends, I can't think or feel. I am numb and shocked and horrified, and I won't soon forget the story.

I go to the Wellcome Collection, a bizarre museum founded by a strange man who was seemingly obsessed with torture and human bodyparts (the exhibitions include shrunken heads and skulls and mummified corpses). I go to an exhibit called High Society, about the history of Drugs in society and am shocked by everything from pictures of ancient opium dens to pictures of contemporary music festivals. The highlights are a bizarre video that attempts to capture the feeling of being stoned with multiple voices speaking in each ear while images flicker and blur on the screen. I read passages from Dickens and Voltaire on the effects of narcotics. I watch a video of a turn of the century medical experiment where a man takes LSD and is then quizzed by his doctor on math and spelling to see if the drug is effecting his mind. Obviously, as he is completely out of his mind but still utterly proper and Victorian English, it is a hilarious and slightly disturbing video.

I go to the national gallery where I see some of my favorite pieces of art of all time. These include everything by J.M.W. Turner (especially the Fighting Temeraire and Ulyssess' Escape) and George Stubbs' Whistlejacket, and Delaroche's Execution of Lady Jane Grey. It is one of the most expansive, impressive art museums I have ever been too, and I love the way the click of my footsteps echo through the empty galleries (I go there late at night before it closes). All of these museums are free, which is thrilling, as it just feels so Right that something like that should be free.

As I wander the streets of this incredible city, I feel the endless thrill of independence and opportunity. The future, and it's endlessness stretch out before me, and the combination of good art and theater and reading philosophy and seeing millions of people leaves me constantly full of warmth and glowing. And though I can barely drag myself away from this wild paradise, I do, late at night, speeding back to Clapham Common on the tube late at night and wandering the long walk back through the quiet streets, trying to spot foxes (they have tons of foxes on the streets in London!) and walking at a brisk clip to get out of the cold. Which eventually, I do.

I seem to be always experiencing warmth of some nature here. Either the blaze of other humans, the people I meet, my colleagues in the office, Henry, the Grahams, or the warmth of good food or a warm bed, or the heat of my scarf pressed up under my eyes, absorbing my hot breath an reflecting back onto me in an attempt to preserve every degree of heat that my body contains against this cold. If not that it is the warm glow of admiration as I stare up at art or down at actors. Or the smouldering heat of tension as we negotiate loans and shares and property and management in the office. Most often those, it is the blazing, flickering fire of excitement. This is me. My life. My future. I don't know if it is in London necessarily, or art or real estate or any of that. What I mean is that as I walk these streets and these hallways and these galleries, I know that my life and future is out there, somewhere. And it is here, now. And between here and there, now and somewhere, I get to live it.

PERCY, London:
I slept fitfully on the long bumping ride down to London (far too reminiscent of our old Greyhound days), and disembarked weary and miserable. I went into a bathroom stall at Victoria station and stripped off my warm Edinburgh fleeces etc. to be replaced with an immaculate and ill-fitting suit. I was ready for work (barely). I then took the long trek down Sloane Street to Sloane Square, the headquarters of Europa Capital, the company for which I will be interning the next couple weeks. I am working for Henry Morris, a guy who only a few years ago was interning for my dad at TMG Partners in San Francisco. The circle of life I guess.
So now, work has begun again, although the life of an intern in a high-powered London investment firm is very different from that of an Essex gardener, but I will be quick to adapt and will keep the postings as regular as I can between editing PIRs and FIRs, analysing QAPs and examining HoTs, and re-drafting NOIs.
More, (including, hopefully an explanation of the above acronyms which I myself have yet to figure out) to come once I am settled at work.

The next morning we finally crossed through the threshold, beneath the imposing iron portcullis, into the realm of Edinburgh Castle. We were accompanied by our Canadian pals (Eh?) Lisa and Susan, and spent all morning exploring the castle. It is, quite simply, one of the most beautifully and conservatively preserved historical buildings I have ever seen. It is imposing and powerful, but delicately perched on a cliff top, with stunning 360 degree views for maximum defensibility. Standing on its towering ramparts it was far too easy to imagine its countless past seiges. We explored the dungeons, war memorials, chapel, and ceremonial hall (full of old beautiful weapons, mounted artistically on the wall). We also saw the Scottish Honours (the crown jewels) and the Stone of Destiny, all of which are associated with the now extinct Scottish Monarchy, but are still possessed of a strange power. The Scots seem extremely superstitious, and place massive value on these ancient treasures. They are certainly inspiring to see, and their history is even more so. Except for the Stone of Destiny which, as far as we could tell, is just a rock. Most of the castle had fascinating history, which I will not recount now because out of context, and in the minds of college students, it probably seems boring. But I can attest to its being absolutely fascinating, and relevant, as the Castles practical use continued right up to WWII. We descended to the lower battlements for the Noon Gun (a cannon fired every day at exactly 1 o'clock) and took that dramatic signal as our exit. We descended from the top of the Royal Mile in high spirits, got some more turkish wraps for lunch, and then went over to the National Portait Gallery.

The National Portrait Gallery was an incredible art museum, one of the best any of us had seen, with various beautiful works from many periods and regions. There was a whole floor dedicated to Scottish painters that was particularly impressive, and we left in an even more severe state of awe. Before leaving however, we were accosted by one of the curators, a small funny man who insisted on telling us of his heritage. A Sicilian by ancestry, he told us the long tale of his grandparents (mafia gangster and neighborhood matriarch) and their immigration to Scotland and his father (road paver) and mother (ice cream vendor) and how he had been obsessed with art and had been in love with the same paintings we were now poring over since he had first seen them at the age of five. Hearing such a wonderful story so beautifully and passionately told was a fantastic and rare occurence, and we felt lucky (though a bit confused) having met Vittorio.

We walked back to Argyle and parted ways with the Canadian Girls. Then we got hot chocolate (I know it seems like we do this a lot but remember it is COLD) and headed back into the center of town. After a bite to eat, Casey walked me to the bus station and I embarked on the 10PM 534 Bus to London. Here our paths diverge for the first time since we embarked. Here I will begin to speak of "I" and not "we." (Casey will write about his adventures in France, while I will write of mine in London). We/I were/was off. On the next stage of our meandering adventures.

The third day in Edinburgh brought even harsher weather and another refusal to enter the castle. Instead, we went into the National Museum, a brilliant place teeming with history, archaeology, and Scottish lore. Before we could fully grasp it though, we were called away for an unlikely meeting with an old friend from Sonoma Academy, Grace Erny. Grace, who is studying in Edinburgh, brought us to the Elephant House, the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote the first chapters of Harry Potter. Sitting there, chatting over coffee, and gazing out at Edinburgh castle, it was easy to imagine the inspiration she must have gotten from the castle, city, and coffee-house for her story. Catching up with Grace was wonderful, and afterwards we got some Turkish wraps before heading off on further exploration of the city. This time we went to St. Giles Cathedral, an imposing place with beautiful woodwork and gaudy paint, and the most enchanting chapel adjacent that either of us have ever seen.  We go to a strange museum called the Museum of Childhood, full of dolls houses and wooden horses and every old toy that children ever played with. A purpose built temple of nostalgia. Upon emerging we dash straight into Games Workshop, which is next door, and are again transported back to the wonders of toys and battles and being king or emperor of your own little kingdom, in the way you only can at that age. Finally, we traipsed into the new part of town and followed long avenues until we reached the suburbs. We were in search of the botanical gardens and, though they were closed when we ultimately found them, the walk was enchanting. The neighborhood through which we strolled on our way there was one of the most idyllic I have ever seen. Sweet stone houses with golden light glowing from within, surrounded by trees and decorated by snow, with a stream running past in front of them and no interruption to the beautiful silence save the crunch of snow and the occaisional pffft of a snowball (thrown at me by Casey, with unfortunate accuracy). In a daze, we wandered back into town, where we found a fair of magical proportions. With little wooden huts selling crepes and gingerbread and cocoa and mead and pies and pastries and toys made by santas elves. People laughed with red cheeks and cold noses and Christmas music played decadently in the background. The lights and the joy and the smells (Christmas is All About smells, I have realized, from gingerbread to cinnamon to chocolate and happiness and pine and warmth) were entrancing, and we felt ourselves wrapped in joy and warmth. We drank mead (a warm honey drink) and warm Scottish ale with ginger, and walked back to Argyle basking in the reflected warmth of beautiful Christmas.

After dinner, we went out to a pub called Sandy Bells, recommended by Grace, where we lounged with aged Scots and listened to fantastic music, played by a bunch of serious Celts. The tunes were played on instruments ranging from familiar to bizarre, bagpipes and flutes and accordion to name a few, and were full of energy and joy and rhythm. Sitting in that warm little place, full of music and happiness and comaraderie (we were, I believe the only non-Scots there, but our enthusiasm for music allowed us to be accepted), we knew we had found the Edinburgh we had been searching for, the city we had set out to find.

Our second day in Edinburgh started with slight disappointment: as it was seriously blizzarding now, we were denied entrance to the castle. Instead, we grabbed a coffee and then joned a tour headed underground, into the ancient vaults that form the "old city" of Edinburgh. There is a sprawling labyrinth of rooms and tunnels under the city, originally built as store-rooms but converted into dark, filthy slums when they were found to be made of leaky limestone. Our guide, brilliantly witty and malicious, told horrifying true stories of murder, rape, prostitution, and various other horrors that took place in these, the darkest of dark places. Although I am not particularly superstitious, I felt a definite chill being in a place that had seen such horror for so long. Surely, I knew, as did everyone on the tour, there were some remnants of malcontent still dwelling here. Several people had to be escorted out in panic, and it was far to easy to imagine cold hands gripping vengefully whenever we entered another dark chamber lit only by candles and filled with dark stories. Suffice to say it was a definite relief to emerge into the fresh air and be given some scottish medicine (more commonly known as scotch) which did a bit to releive the tension. It was true, not manufactured, terror, and it took us a while to shake it off.

But once back on the snowy streets, it was easy to be bright again, especially after a lunch of mexican food (a rare treat, we had not had ANY since leaving California and feel seriously deprived). We crossed the city to Carlton hill, at the top of which are several beautiful war memorials, including a tower, an obelisk, roman columns, and several smaller chapels. The view back over the city, as the clouds swept in from the sea and the sun set and the wisps of smoke spun out of chimney stacks was breathtaking and a bit haunting. The city is so unblemished and unchanged (very little new construction in the old part of town) and the castle towers so majestically over it all, that is does seem frozen in a distant time. It is reminiscent of London in the time of Dickens, Oliver Twist, and Mary Poppins, if London had never changed. The view was truly incredible, unlike any I had seen in England or even Europe before. We descended from Carlton hill and went down to the Scottish Parliament and Royal Palace (called Holyroodhouse) at the far end of the city. From there we climbed up a snowy peak, craggy with jagged cliffs but interspersed with paths, called Arthur's Seat. Arthur's Seat looks out magnificently over the city and out to the distant ocean, and we glimpsed it all as the suns final rays disappeared and the castle and then city were swallowed by the fog and darkness.
We walked back through the dark to Argyle, where we spent hours talking to the two Canadian girls (Lisa and Susan) who were also staying in our dorm. They had been backpacking all over Europe for several months and so had plenty of stories to share. We went out and, over some mulled wine, discovered how different and yet similar were these random travelers with whom we had been thrown together. They were wonderful, vivacious, and endearing personalities, and we immediately hoped our paths would meet again. But mulled wine is an excellent recipe for sleep, which is where we soon found ourselves.

We woke to find our bus skimming through a white world of snow. Northern England sped by outside the windows, and soon we were sliding down snowy hills into Edinburgh. We alighted and stepped out into a foot of snow, and into what was immediately apparent as a wonderful city. We hiked through St. Andrew's Square, laden with heavy backpacks. We scaled the North Bridge and crossed the Royal Mile, proceeding down Nicolson Ave. to a vast open park called The Meadows, on the far side of which, in a sleepy little street called Argyle Place, was our hostel Argyle Backpackers. I should add here that this is a fantastic, clean, comfortable, fun, affordable place with a perfect quiet location and when not laden with bags it is pretty close to the center of town.
Anway, we dropped our bag, ate, with relish, the pork pies Yan had given us, and set out into the city. We got hot chocolate and hot lemon with ginger (a fantastic drink I had never tried before) at a trendy cafe called the Black Medicine Coffee House, filled with bottles like an apothecary and very cool people. Then we set out to get a grasp of the city, and ended up walking miles of its snow covered streets. The Scottish accents that surrounded us were wonderful and almost overwhelming. We walked up the Royal Mile (the high street of Edinburgh) and walked the icy paths on the cliffs around Edinburgh Castle. We didn't go into the castle, wanting to save it for morning, but instead climbed up the steep hills to look down on the city from the castle's base. Then we explored an old textile mill for making classic tartan scottish regalia, and a few "Scotch Shops" selling ridiculous trinkets from swords to kilts to bagpipes to shotglasses. Then we continued to stroll through the streets, the sunshine blasting down onto the snow, the sky clear and unblemished as we watched a man blast triumphantly into his bagpipes on a streetcorner. There was also a girl singing a very beautiful rendition of Rufus Wainwrights Hallelujah, framed by ancient architecture and pure snow. Finally, exhausted by snow and sunshine, we headed back to the hostel. After wolfing down some homemade fare (super-peppery spagetti) we made friends with our dorm mates, which included two Canadians, two frenchmen (named, of course, Julien and Geoffrey), two girls from Chicago, a girl from Sweden, and a girl from China. All were amiable good company and we made friends quickly, especially when we offered to go out and get movies from blockbuster. Predictably, we chose cartoons (Ice Age 3 and Madagascar 2) and fell asleep giggling to these wild romps of movies. Madagascar was much more enjoyable since it wasn't set in the snow (Ice Age was far to reminiscent of Icy Edinburgh). It seems that cartoons are a running theme on this gap year, and I am perfectly fine with that.

Our final week passed far too quickly. We worked hard, as always, as the spa entered into its final chaotic phase. Wednesday, we were joined by an entourage of wonderfully eccentric artists, led by Oliver Cronk (Paul and Harry's son, Katy and Lotty's brother, there, you know the whole gang now). They moved into our hotel (the only other guests) with us, and we spent two great nights with them, discussing everything from art and music to politics and whether or not we should go wandering around the deserted construction site at night. More on that later. Our final few days were jam packed with goodbye's, as we were again astounded by how many new friends we had made. From the gardeners to the management team, spa girls and cleaning ladies (we graced them with an undeservedly kind farewell), construction workers to concierges and the many wonderful townspeople of Thorpe, we had a lot of fond farewells. We went to The Prince of India to bid farewell to Habib, and were warmly welcomed into the new abode of the ever-eccentric head porter Xavier. We even ventured into the dark recesses of Clacton (not recommended) to bid farewell to Nigel, our fellow gardener.

Thursday afternoon was the coldest day we had had yet, and also one of the most exciting in the garden. The reason was that we were planting mature trees (just delivered from an exotic distant nursery and valued at, well, more than I care to imagine) in the entranceway to the hotel. Yan allowed Casey and I to each choose a tree to plant personally as our own, one that we could return in future years to see, to feel a sense of pride and ownership (also possible he just didn't want to deal with planting them himself). I chose a Mulberry, with tall, soaring branches and wide, tropical-looking leaves, adn Casey chose an Acacia, with a delicate form and beautiful foliage. We planted them with care, and as we were finishing, the entire gardening team assembled in front of the building with the sun turning brilliant pinks and purples with the sunset, it began to snow. Soft flakes flickered through the radiant sunset in a beautiful shower as we worked energetically to finish a long days work, laughing as we always did at the end of the day. It was bright and brisk and brilliant.

Thursday evening, we bid farewell to our home, the spa itself, and celebrated by dashing into the dark construction site (not remotely dangerous, save for glass and rusted metal on the ground and bits of concrete falling from the roof) and leapt into the pool, which had only just been filled and was icy beyond imagination. Hollering with cold and excitement, we ran back through the long hallways, from cement to carpet, from dark to light, and into our cozy beds to sleep a final night in the Mulberry Wing (as our part of the hotel has only just been named).

Friday, we were almost incapable of working. Our bags were packed, farewells said, and trees planted. We forced ourselves to do some half-hearted shoveling, and then were treated to an incredible farewell treat. The garden crew (like family now) took us out to a nearby pub for lunch. We were given gifts of pork pies, to sustain us on the next leg of our journey (forgot to mention, we were going to Scotland). We also presented gifts, small trinkets like a ball for Sherriff (with whom we had previously had to play catch with rolled up work gloves) and a pair of binoculars for the team (who love spying on the comings and goings of the spa). The food (steak and ale pie for me, ham and chips for Casey) was delicious, the company joyful (especially when the Boss Paul Cronk deigned to take precious moments from his busy schedule to join our hard-earned lunch), and the prospect of leaving bizarre. We were warned what to do and what not to do in Edinburgh (mostly it was Nots, including simply Not to go there). It was strange seeing the garden crew, so familiar perched over soup and  tea in the caravan, or watching the weather, in a strange new setting, drinking cider and playing snooker and relaxing gratefully. We raced back to the garden, speeding dangerously accross open fields and dirt roads and, again unable to work, we taught them how to play baseball (silly American sport! they said, and we couldn't help agreeing). Finally, it was really time to go, so we left them with the sun setting again miraculously over the garden. They will not soon be forgotten, that strange group of wonderful misfits that found their way into our lives.

We sped down to London on the train with Cronk, where we made a vast feast and spent a few hours chatting with our fantastic boss (we will be lucky to get one like him again in our lives, that I know. But don't tell him that, the old codger). We left him working away as ever at 11PM at his flat in Farringdon and sped over to Victoria Station to catch the late night bus to Edinburgh, Scotland. As it bumped its way out of London into the icy wilderness, we were back on the open road, on the move, adventuring. We nodded fitfully, excitement and exhaustion warring for control. Back on the road.

Thursday night we were honored with an invitation to a drinks party for the management team of Lifehouse Spa. Now, how Casey and I qualify as part of the management team I have no idea, but Americans are in high demand in this part of the world, so after work we found ourselves rapidly changing from mud soaked jeans in tatters, high visibility jackets, hard hats and steel-toed boots into sweaters and scarves. We were driven by Ian (the incredibly friendly and vivacious General Manager) to his apartment on the water in Brightlingsea, a much more pleasant town than any we had seen in Essex so far. There we were swept into a chic brand-new bar called Tarcini, where we were gien endless plates of h'ors d'ouevres (including melon and prosciutto, tomato and mozzarella, olives, prawn sandwiches, and other delicacies and heaps of desserts) and treated to all sorts of drinks by the super-generous executive team into which we had been accepted. Feeling exceedingly professional, we chatted with the head chef, marketing director, spa manager, as well as a few strangers and bar tenders. A cool jazz band played exuberantly, including a multi-talented, multi-instrumental frontman, a bassist who may have been asleep, and a drummer who, while technically profficient, didn't seem interested in any of the ambience of jazz. They were, however, excellent, as was the atmosphere and, ultimately, the evening. It was a big improvement on our previous office party experience, and made us determined to someday be part of the executive team (as much as we love the gardeners).
Friday, we were swept along by the wonderful English rail network to Brighton, where we were greeted by Katy Cronk. Upon arrival we quickly launched out into the streets and grabbed a couple burgers at GBK, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, a really cool and delicious place. Then we wandered the streets of the town and stopped at a pub called the White Rabbit. Brighton, which is on the southern coast of England, is a city of bright lights and bright people, lots of color and loud, happy voices. It is the gay capital of England, and is super liberal and sort of reminiscent of a combination between San Francisco and Sebastapol. The streets were garlanded in christmas lights, and trendy shops and healthy vegetarian restaurants caught the eye as we strolled through the North Lanes. Katy was a welcome change after a long line of Essex acquaintances, just as Brighton was a welcome change after Essex. After a glass of wine we walked through town and up to Katy's dorm (she is studying architecture at the University of Brighton) and met a few of her friends before collapsing cozily in front of the classic Disney Robin Hood, a favorite of all of ours and a wonderful brief trip back to childhood. We fell asleep to the joyful whistling of "Little John and Robin Hood, walking through the forest..."

Saturday we had a quick breakfast and then darted into town to complete our first and most essential task: Watching Harry Potter #7 Part 1. It was predictably dark and magical and overall could not have been more satisfying. Faithful to the book and deliciously indulgent (hard not to be with two long movie to spread it over) it was utterly absorbing, even for Katy who has somehow managed never to read a single HP book or see a single HP movie. I gave her a crash course in Wizardology before the movie started, and Casey answered questions like "Who is that white-faced guy in the dark robes with the red eyes trying to kill Harry Potter?"

After that absorbing experience, we were thrown quickly into another. We went to the Prince Albert, a dark little pub that we squeezed ourselves into (we were joined by three of Katy's very stylish and outgoing friends) to watch some incredible live music. We were in a tiny room with tons of people, and as it was afternoon the attitude was chilled out as opposed to overwhelming. The first act was a solo guy who played mournful tunes that brought to mind Thom Yorke, Jon Swift, and the Decemberists (if you can believe those three have Anything in common). He sang loud and forcefully, and seemed to really believe what he was singing. He was also clearly classically trained on the guitar, and played very beautifully. The next act was a duo from LA (we came all the way to England to see a band from LA...ironic) who sang folksy tunes with hand percussion and simple guitar. Their incredible harmonising and outgoing engagement with the crowd reminded us strongly of Jela (wished Linnea was here for all this). After they played, Casey went and introduced himself, complimenting them and inviting them to come play in the Mystic in Petaluma, on condition that they wait a few months till we are home. 
The final act (named Gregory and the Hawk) was utterly entrancing. A petite, dark-heared, big-eyed woman climbed onto the stage, muttering apologies for herself, and immediately captivating the whole room. Something about her was wonderful, delicate, beautiful. She was adorable and yet impressive and no one could turn their eyes away from her, even before she had begun to sing. And once she began, in a lilting lullaby of lyrical perfection, the room went into utter silence. People forgot to sip their drinks, eat their food, or flirt with whoever was next to them. All anyone could see was this strange little angel strumming a harp (literally, she played the harp, beautifully) and singing wonderful songs, with the occaisional interruption for another endearing joke or apology. We never wanted her set to end. But end it did, and we were thrust back out onto the streets, now dark. We were reeling, but joyful, and we walked excitedly back to Katy's dorm. 

That evening was a whirlwind of new people and excitements. All of Katy's friends were wonderful, fitting us just as well as the city of Brighton fit us. We hung around the dorm for a while, pre-lashing, and then went out on the lash, and rounded the night off by chundering everywhere. (If you don't understand this English slang then watch this iconic piece of english cinema http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKFjWR7X5dU). The people were entertaining, the city was lively, and we had great fun. It was the closest we have yet come to being in college, and both of us are Seriously considering switching to Brighton University!

The next day started late (perhaps due to the activities of the night before...maybe) and consisted of a long idyllic walk along the beach and Brighton pier. We relaxed on the smooth stones of the seashore and watched waves and clouds roll by. Katy found a rock shaped like a salamander, Casey found a heart, and I found a dinosaur egg. We got hot chocolate and organic chocolate cake at a super-healthy cafe and sat outside with Tom and Kate, two of Katy's friends. We explored a really cool vintage clothing shop and gave the streets of Brighton a thorough exploration. Then we made a massive feast of pesto pasta, salad, bread and brie. This was our thanksgiving. Not remotely similar to the true American thanksgiving, but sitting cozily in the Brighton dorm eating our homemade feast and drinking mulled wine (incredible heated wine with cardamom and cinnamon and a million other spices, tons of sugar and oranges), it was easy to give thanks. We dragged ourselves to our feet and completed the 4 hour journey back to Thorpe, thankful for Brighton, Katy, new friends and memories, a warm meal and, eventually, a warm sleep.

A few more characters, back by popular demand:

Habib: Originally from Bangladesh, Habib is a rigid Muslim (his only experience with alcohol was a disastrous one several years ago and since then he has stayed true to the faith and away from the poison), who has been living in England for seven years, manages the Prince of India with grace and hospitality (I should add that the Prince of India is a restaurant, not a...oh nevermind). Habib is currently in a state of wild excitement since next month he moves to Michigan to be reunited with his wife to be, who is living there now. Their situation is unusual and exciting to him, as theirs is a Love Marraige, and not the more commoin Arranged Marraige. He talks with touching fondness about his bride to be, and with excitement about the marraige ceremony and his new life. He is extremely engaging and entertaining.

Anjay: The Polish Head of Maintanence at the spa, a loud and enthusiastic jokester who struggles with English but is wonderfully friendly and upbeat. He is in a bit of a bind because the spa have not seen fit to give him any staff, so he squeezes himself in with the gardening crew, who are not thrilled.

Jenna: The PA of MD Bernie who I mentioned before (for those of you who don't have a real job like us, PA means personal assistant and MD means managing director), Jenna is the ultimate hard-ass who is obeyed by everyone. Her dog is a massive Alsatian, who obeys her meekly. Her husband is a hero of the military in Afghanistan, who also obeys her meekly. She is fiery, intense, and utlimately very sweet, but not the ideal person to have ordering you to "Lift that cupboard and move it to my office (a mile away). NOW!"

Three Nameless Clacton Girls: Acosted us on the train and proceeded to ask whether we were married, how old we were, whether we knew Miley Cyrus personally, why we would ever come to Clacton, why we would ever want to travel the world, and a million other annoying and bizarre questions we had to answer in the short train ride. Although these 13-year-old nightmares seem absurd to us, no one here seems remotely surprised by our description.

Stuart: Another one of the garden blokes, Stuart is a quiet but humorous tower of strength and ingenuity, who can reverse the tractor uphill at 50 miles an hour, can lift or fix or build anything, and doesn't take any bullshit. Nor should he.

Celvin: The extremely good-natured member of the Garden crew who seems to see through each and every flaw in the vast scheme that is building this place. He asks the questions that no one wants to ask like: Where do they expect people to park now they have dug up the parking lot? and Why are there 35 cleaning ladies cleaning an empty hotel? He should really be on the management team, or at least be hired out for consultancy, but for now he keeps everyone laughing on the very skeptical garden team.

The Cleaning Ladies: Now I know I have been making everything sound light and easy here, but it is not. We have adverseries. Enemies. The 12 Cleaning Ladies. Now as I mentioned above, these cleaning ladies are surplus in the first place in an empty building, but they show up every morning right as we are going to work, and crowd into the kitchen for six cups of tea (there is no work to do, remember?). They force us (trying to throw together some meager breakfast) OUT of the kitchen, and then proceed to glare at us and quickly busy themselves re-cleaning every spotless thing we try to use: toilet, shower, kitchen, even door handle. They are constantly outsmarting us, with a combination of superiority, hostility, and wicked cleverness. Today they even took apart the little singing birthday card Casey had recieved from home. Oh yes, it is WAR. I should add a little conversation I had with one of them:
"So what do you do?"
"We work in the garden mostly."
"Oh....a gardener" [End of conversation, she supercilious and viciously derogatory when she says "gardener"]
In my head: You. Are. A. Cleaning. Lady.

Boris: But it's not all bad news, at least we have Boris, Jan's psychopathic and hilarious Jack Russell, who keeps everyone going in the garden. Jan introduces him as "the real head gardener."

I will add one more thing. And that is about the radios. Each member of the garden crew has one, and the management team has a few. These conversations, though they are meant to be official, are one of the ways everyone keeps the humor going and the work not going. Here are a few conversations.

Louise: Why has the water stopped running in the shed?
Celvin [As rain pours down from the heavens]: Drought?

Jan [After a shipment of beer is delivered to the restaurant]: Stuart, has that beer been delivered?
Stuart: Whaaad dijoo sayy?

Bernie, MD [After a load of furniture has come in]: Gardening crew, come in.
Gardening crew: silence.

Bernie, MD: Jan, where have those two American boys gone? I need help moving furniture.
Jan: I don't know who you are talking about. I haven't got anyone I can spare. [Thank you Jan]

Anjay: YANOUSH! [Very loudly yelling into radio the Polish version of Jan's name]
Jan: [Long pause] Hi again Anjay.

And now, into our penultimate week at the Spa. The garden work is still demanding and satisfying, our vast unoccupied hotel still luxurious, and our day-to-day still fulfilling. The weather, though, is vastly altered. No more rain for the last two days (it is Tuesday) but it is cold. Each morning, we wrap up in every item of clothing we have brought with us (damn California for never teaching us about coldness) and step out of our warm luxury into the gardens. The ground is so thoroughly covered with frost it looks like snow, and each leaf that has fallen is delicately outlined in white crystals. As we cross the bridge over the waterfall (which is sluggish in this cold) to the Gardening Cabin, the mist rises over the lake, reminding me of the iconic line from Great Expectations, which I have just finished (thank you to Brandon Spars for teaching me about quote integration) : "It was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen, and the world lay spread before me."
It is truly a beautiful sight, despite the cold, as the wisps rise up off the lake and again as they settle onto the fields as we finish work in the evenings, and indeed we are constantly surrounded by the feeling that, despite our employment and location, the world truly is spread before us. It is a good feeling. And it is aided by the sunsets that we have on the cold, clear days. These sunsets put Mediterranean and Caribbean vistas to shame, exquisite layers of pinks and purples and oranges flowing over our heads and settling finally down into the trees over the Essex fields and the gardens. One night, I went running around with a camera, desperately trying to capture various moments and views in the tiny interval between when we finish work and when complete darkness settles. Running with light steps (obviously no longer in my steel-toed boots) up and down the stone staircases and past the ponds and rose bushes, I get an overwhelming sense of joy and excitement. Cheeks flushed and smile bright as they can only be when you come into somewhere very warm after being outside somewhere very cold. The same feeling we get when we return to the Gardening Cabin for a cup of tea after hauling cut down trees or re-planting shrubs or clearing out ponds or one of our various other jobs.
This week we have been moving the offices of the management team, no easy task as they are in overdrive mode and literally grab telephones and computer cables out of your hands before you can set them down. But everyone is good-natured, though they are all work-weary, and so the new offices are quickly filled with massive cupboards and desks that miraculously appear with no help from us. They are extremely grateful and eager to reward us (today we even got a mini mince pie for our efforts, which was an unparalleled delight).
So the week wears on, with all our accustomed trials and triumphs, and we soldier on through the icy cold, which brings rewards like sunsets, flushed cheeks, a cup of tea, and the mists rising solemnly every morning.

Saturday November 13th was Casey's birthday. We rose fairly early for breakfast in bed, which broke our standard diet to include bagels and tomatoes and bananas and biscuits and tea (and teaffee, Casey's new bizarre beverage, the name of which explains it all) and juice. Then we caught a train in to Colchester, the neighboring town (probably roughly the same size as Petaluma, though far less nice). We headed straight to the local Castle, which was a powerful piece of Norman construction, William the Conquerors biggest keep, as well as Britains Capital under the Romans, and a place ravaged by the famous warrior princess Boedicea (think Bianca Bisson but a tiny bit more vicious, if that is possible). The castle is a place swimming in history, with a cool historical museum inside (complete with a warhammer bedecked scaled model of the town in Roman times) and sprawling public gardens outside. In the gardens we had a picnic lunch (pork pies!) and watched the local teenagers and the local squirrels play nearby (we liked the squirrels a lot more actually, and they seemed a lot happier). After our picnic we went to the local movie theater and saw Due Date, which was absolutely HILARIOUS ("What are you, a girl or something?") and was a fun treat since we haven't watched a movie in ages and both love to do so. Then we rode back to Thorpe, where we went out to the local Indian restaurant for an incredible (my mouth still waters at the though, days later) meal of chicken and lamb tikka, mushroom rice and, of course, popadoms. After the meal the owner found out it was Casey's birthday and ordered us over to the bar for some free drinks and a talk about his upcoming move to America. We talked to Habib for hours. He is a fantastic guy, and we will be spending more time over the next few days at the Prince of India, in his company. We walked back to our home (a massive resort, it is still hard to believe we live there) down the long oak-lined avenue, leaping over puddles in the pitch darkness as hurricane force winds tore past. We went up to our room for a final treat of chocolate cake and ice cream, and then sleep even richer than the cake which preceded it. Despite fairly low expectations (Thorpe is not exactly the dream place for your birthday) the day was utterly enjoyable and utterly memorable.
Sunday we woke late, and went outside to find the whole site and gardens utterly deserted, as they had never been since we arrived. So we wandered around the gardens, for the first time just for enjoyment and not for work, and it was a beautiful (though grey) morning, with birds singing and the garden looking excellent. The whole place is expertly designed and laid out, and the paths meander through its avenues, some wild, others organized, but all delightful. It was an excellent way to start the morning. The day that followed was a leisurely one, as Sundays really should be, that consisted mostly of getting caught up on correspondence, travel planning, and blogging, as well as an utterly useless trip into Clacton and several cups of tea.

Needless to say, returning to little Thorpe-le-Soken was a shock, but showing it to Whitney was enjoyable. And as we arrived, the weather descended mercilessly down upon poor Essex. Amazingly, although already November, we had thus far been spared wet weather, and had enjoyed a few brief showers mixed with cloudy and more than our fair share of sunshine. In fact, the weather was so good that working in the gardens was easily the best job on the whole Spa site, as we got to enjoy for nine hours a day that endless angles among the trees and shrubs and flowers and ponds. Not so, starting Monday morning. The only thing worse than the pouring rain was the mud it created and constantly enlarged, and the only thing worse than that was the biting wind that would nip inside our inadequate layers right at the wetest and rainiest moments. But still we worked our long hours, in good company and slightly-less-good-than-usual cheer. (I was reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato-Peel Pie Society, a joyful clever book recommended by Pooty Mahood, which I also recommend, and that helped to lift my spirits a bit). But for the most part we were wet, sopping wet and the cups of tea that we would enjoy in the gardeners caravan became utterly precious. But, after a few days, we were greeted by sunshine, the value of which had increased ten-fold by its pointed absence.
Whitney left after a few days (apparently there wasn't enough going on in Thorpe...Ridiculous!) and changed residencies. We had been living in a B&B owned by a harmlessly mad little old woman who treated us with excessive (almost cloying) kindness and care, but on Monday we moved up to the Spa itself.
But first, our departure. We left with a bang. Our hostess had been increasingly kind and generous every single day for two weeks, had never denied us anything, and had gone far outside her duties as a B&B owner. She even took our wet clothes after work and put them in the drier when it was raining. So Monday evening, returning wet and finding her asleep, we stuck them again in the drier and went upstairs. What followed when she found the clothes in her drier without her permission was a rant of such cataclysmic proportions that plaster rained down from the roof. The rant included lines such as "You are the most disrespectful children I have ever met!" "I hope you don't treat everyone you meet like this!" and "How Dare You" [Got that last one quite a few times]. Honestly, I have not embelished the story, we truly just stuck wet clothes in the drier as she herself had done a few days before. But she broke off from her rant to kiss us goodbye and then continued to steamroll as we faded away down the street and towards our new destination.

And what a place it was (and is)! The site, which included two hotel blocks and a massive spa as we

Our first night there (Whitney was still around) we explored the endless halls, and had massive secret agent battles running from room to room. Having 89 hotel rooms to choose from and no one to stop us from firing or swinging lightsabers at our enemies is the fulfillment of a lifelong childhood dream, when running down hotel halls is forbidden and reprimanded. Now we have a little paradise to ourselves, and after about 8:00 every night, it is totally empty.

So this week, despite the rain, became a wonderful one, as every evening we would return from work, wash and dry our clothes in the massive industrial machines, shower under powerful boiling water, make some dinner, and explore a new part of our castle (I cannot disclose further details of our explorations while we are still in the employ of Mr. Cronk, who might be reading). Evenings end with a cup of tea, falling asleep on the heated cushions in the spa while reading, and then crawling upstairs to collapse gratefully into bed.

But I haven't even gotten to the best part, which is the acoustics in the stairwell. The echo and amplification are wondrous, so we go in ever few minutes and play, everything from old favorites to new compositions, to gypsy-style jamming and crazy new inventions. None of it ever gets old, and we make new discoveries every day. We have gotten into a rhythm, in every facet of our lives. ll as a smaller treatment center, (also a pool, hot tub, sauna, juice bar, real bar, five star restaurant) is not yet completed, except for the small treatment center and one hotel block. As yet no one has slept in it, but there we were, courtesy of Mr. Cronk. We chose the biggest suite in Block A, in the center of the second floor, with sweeping views of the gravel garden (into which we had planted), the upper pond (which we had weeded around), and the sunken Victoria rose garden. The room is not yet furnished so we wrapped the (incredible!) mattresses in sheets and put our sleeping bags on top. The room is big and comfortable and luxurious, and as we will never be able to afford it when the place opens (it is literally one of the nicest rooms and we could not afford a broom cupboard here) we are relishing every moment. We spend much of our time in the small spa, which has (among other things) an incredible shower, heated floors, and comfy couches. We make meals in the little kitchen and drink tea and read sitting on the heated floor after a long day's work. It is beyond delightful.

With the long week done, a hundred trenches dug and paths laid, we had earned a break. So with Friday turning into a very wet and rainy day, we departed after work for Oxford. There we would be reunited with ubiquitous Whitney Turley and the wonderful Katherine Skingsley (who is attending Oxford University's Keble College), Whitney's best friend, who has visited California. But before we could see them we had to make the journey, which is another long one. We saw two interesting things at Paddington Station in London (we realized that between Grand Central, Gare du Nord, and Paddington, we have seen some of the greatest Train stations in the world). One was a bit upsetting: they charge you to go to the bathroom!! What? That cannot be legal. i am fairly sure that urinating is a human right. Apparently not. Apparently it is just another commodity. Disgusting. The next was more exciting. A massive orchestra of wind and brass instruments called the Paddington Station Band, made up of very old professional musicians, who gather regularly to sight read and perform incredible music. We listened to Handel's Water Music and Fiddler on the Roof, and I met the conductor, and then we had to depart. Very, very cool group.

Oxford was a bizarre place to drop into. Over the course of the night, we walked all over the town and were introduced to hundreds of people, none of whose names we could hear over the surging bass of the club we were in. It was a serious college scene, unlike any we have ever seen (oh yeah, we have never been to college). But ultimately it was a great party and we had a great time, stayed up into the small hours and ended up crashing in Katherine's dorm, apparently the social grand central of the whole University. The next morning Whitney gave us a tour of the college, where she had been several days, and it was incredible. It is hard to unstate the beauty and power of a school so established, with such rich history, tradition, and stunning architecture. Walking around it felt like an incredible privilege, although the people there are utterly normal.

And then, before we had really begun to feel the ground under our feet, we were on the train again, grabbing a few minutes sleep before arriving in London.
OH LONDON! A brilliant city! A place I feel so inadequate even attempting to capture in words. People! Culture! Theater! History! Food! This is the best I can do in lieu of a real description. Exclamation points!!
This city, we realized as we wandered, is the city of everything. Now, although that may sound like a ludicrously vague description, it was, in fact, our overwhelming impression after seeing various Shock and Awe elements of this great city.

 Saturday, arriving on the train we went straight to Portobello Road, a famous street market north of Hyde Park. We wandered for several hours up the long winding street, never reaching it's end. To either side were rows of brilliant shops bursting at the seams with trinkets and treasures, and flowingn out onto the streets were stalls selling even more. Every few blocks would be a massive self-contained market, a dark cave into which we dove, only to be surrounded by more brilliant oddities. We were surrounded by throngs of people, in themselves fascinating and exciting, but there was simply too much to look at. We saw more strange and wonderful treasures in a few hours on that narrow London street than we had seen in any market across the world before. Any attempt to sum up what we saw seems futile, but the wonders included more vintage records than Casey had ever seen (that's saying something), dazzling clothes and furniture, venetian masks, a Scottish or Scotch shop, old-fashioned leather soccer balls, maps, beautiful art, ancient leather-bound copies of Dickens and Shakespeare, knives and coins and truly everything that you can imagine and many things you cannot. And the food section was a maelstrom of overpowering scents, paella, roast pig, pizza, foccaccia, chickens turning on the spit, cheeses and bread and fresh vegetables and all mouth-wateringly presented. And the street-performers we mgnificent and bizarre, ranging from two Scottish blokes reminiscent of the Proclaimers, and a very cool indie guy playing Somewhere over the Rainbow on the Ukelele.

But eventually, tragically, we had to tear ourselves away, hop back on the Underground, and zip over to Covent Gardens and the West End, where after a delicious baguette enjoyed sitting on a fountain in the center of a wild crossroads, we collapsed into the red-velvet seats of the Cambridge Theater to watch Chicago. We had seen it before, on the screen, but there is no comparison. It was hot. Red-hot, sexy, wild and overpowering. Lustful, bloody, and beautiful. The dancing was breathtaking, gorgeous choreography, stunning musical numbers,great acting and singing, tragedy and trauma and victory and hilarity and
All. That. Jaaaaaaaaazzzzzzz!

When we emerged London was dark but still buzzing. We had bite to eat at a funny little Bento Box place and then went to Foyles Bookstore, a place Whitney had discovered and which has forever altered the course of my life. The place was massive, a temple of literature and knowledge and art. Four stories, shelves overflowing with every book I ever knew existed and hundreds of thousands I cannot even conceptualize. There were whole wings of the bookstore dedicated to sub-sub-subjects like Late 20th Century Comedic Theater Critisism. My head was spinning and I could barely see straight. The site of so many people in such bliss surrounded by books was exhilarating. There were millions of places to read. So we spent hours there, Whitney launched off to the Coffee and Culinary sections, Casey to Architecture and Art and Tolkein, and me to Music and Theater and Shakespeare and Dickens. Finally, after endless wandering we regrouped in the children's section, where Whitney read out-loud Charlie and Lola, and then I read Dr. Seuss and a brilliant bok (courtesy of Kate Detrick) called Instructions. Exhausted but exalted, heads spinning, we merged again onto the street, secretly wishing we could spend the rest of our lives within that brilliant temple.
We wandered past St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tate Modern, Shakespeares Globe, and across the Millenium Bridge. We settled down in a warm pub on the Thames and had a beer, as the city glittered before us. By the time we decided to head home (home was a brilliant little hostel in Chelsea called the Boka Hotel), the underground had closed (I didn't even know that happened) and so we had to walk home. Seven miles, down the twisting and winding roads of London, past Buckingham Palace and St. James Park, Sloane Square and down Kings Road. Navigating a strange city where all the streets are curving and street names change every two blocks was not easy, but eventually we made it (with the help of some rejuvenating ice cream) and stumbled exhausted (REALLY EXHAUSTED) down Eardley Court Road, into the hostel and onto our beds. We lay down to momentarily take the weight off our feet before getting ready for bed, and woke up hours later. An Odyssey, and a brilliant way to see the city.

Our second day in London started bright and beautiful. I woke up rejuvenated and walked around the endlessly stately and elegant avenues and private parks of Chelsea (Aston Martin parked on every corner) before meeting up with Casey and Whitney. We walked over to Hyde Park, past the Albert Memorial and Royal Albert Hall and the Victoria and Albert Museum (God damn Victoria really did have a major crush on that guy didn't she?) and arrived at one of my favorite places the world over: The London Natural History Museum. The entrance into the ornate victorian building is shocking, a massive hall of stone and glass with a full skeleton of a Brachiosaurus dominating the space with it's archaic majesty. We then wandered endless halls of dinosaurs (including live Velociraptors and a T-Rex) and incredible skeletons, and stuffed birds and animals, full scale models of whales and dolphins and creepy crawlies, an incredible wildlife photography exhibit, and basically every wonder of the natural world, astoundingly showcased in a gorgeous old building. Best Museum Ever.

Afterwards we had lunch (wierdly at another Bento Box place, very suspicious) and wandered up one of London's main shopping drag. Continuing our Shock and Awe tour, we went into Harrods, the most vast and lavish excessively opulent Departmet Store Complex in the world. Harrods was a vast maze, a beehive of jaw-dropping clothing and perfume, furniture and electronics. The selections were vast and the prices were even greater. Luxury and wealth (or an aspiration at both) dripped from the people elegantly wandering and inelegantly grabbing from the overloaded shelves. Christmas music played seductively in the background, sneaking into subconscious minds to increase the need to purchase (Now! Presents! For everyone!). We wandered in exuberant wonder into the Toys sections, streaming down memory lane with nostalgic shelves of Playmobil, Legos, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and the Gruffalo. The old favorites and the new creations were equally delightful and we all would have given anything to be transported back in time to the days where we could point and cry and within a month the desired treasure would appear under the christmas tree. We left in a daze and dragged now exhausted feet down the street to Victoria Station as evening fell rapidly over London.

On the bus back to Thorpe, listening to Vampire Weekend, my sense of awe at the vastness and variety of the city only grew. I have been there a hundred times, but this time the incredible scale of it was thrust upon me, having seen the wilderness of Portobello Road, the temple of Foyles Bookstore, the catacombs of the Natural History Museum, and the decadent palace of Harrods, as well as our midnight romp through seven miles of Belgravia and Mayfair. Stunned, but satisfied. Everywhere we went we saw more quantity, more quality, and more beauty in the vast and flawless collections of everything from dinosaur skeletons to vintage records, clothes, books, food, and people.

Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
The Gunpowder treason and plot!
I can thin of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Today, Nov. 5th is Guy Fawkes Day, the celebration (including lots of bonfires and fireworks) which marks the failed attempt of Guy Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

It is also exactly two months since we departed on the Greyhound that distant day in the fog of the past.

Unlike the last set, these people are not meant to paint a picture of Thorpe. Rather, they are just interesting and for the most part enjoyable people we have met on the work site.

Sherrif: Sherrif is easily one of our greatest friends so far. Having immigrated from the Gambia to England (where he found his "missus" and settled down here) he has incredible stories of an amazing homeland and odyssey, as well as a killer sense of humor and a great attitude. Despite that fact that most of his jokes are either about Marijuana or Tomato Soup, he is very amusing.

Russel: Just as amusing, not quite so likeable. Russel is the fitness guru at Lifehouse, and walks around constantly in army pants and boots (he was never in the army) and a Parachute Regiment sweatshirt (wasn't in that either). In stead of being a real fitness expert, he relies on a loud voice and overwhelmingly boisteous good spirits. He runs Boot Camp, the workout class for the spa management team. I investigated this apparently armly style workout regime and it turns out they just play games like tag and leap frog for 45 minutes twice a week. Anyway, Russ never misses an opportunity to yell something like "Shocker!" "Are you feeling the love??" or just "Yeah Guys!" He has also lectured on whether you can hear a tree fall in the forest, and it was, well, ridiculous.

Jan: Jan is the head gardener, a fascinating guy who can talk for hours about classical music, rock and roll, bread-making, beer-brewing, prison-guarding, and, oh yeah, gardening. He is a polymath with a great sense of humor and as well as being a good boss and leader, he is great to be around. Member of the Royal Horticultural Society and former prison guard and former hippie, he is writing a book on these gardens.
Louise: The former head gardener, who was demoted when it was realized that she had no experience in the field. She still works here, but has trouble relinquishing her tyrannical control over all gardeners, especially "the American boys." Suffice it to say she is tough to deal with, bossy, and condescending. Ultimately though, she is good-natured. We often forget that.

Bernie: The Managing Director of the whole project, she is a frenetic but forceful boss, who seems to know everything that is going on at all times and also tries very hard (perhaps too hard?) to keep everyone in wildly high spirits. Constantly feuding with Paul, so we try and stay out of her way. She not only atttends, but Loves Boot Camp, which is another reason to stay out of her way. She is also ex-military, our real reason. Apparently she was the youngest woman ever in the British army to see active service. Seriously. Impressive.
Baldie: A friend of Nigels (who I wrote about a few posts ago, a friend from the gardening team and a local guy) who took us out for a late-night drive around Thorpe, driving far too fast and making obscene jokes at every opportunity. Farting loudly and constantly. Talking even more loudly and constantly. Fairly obsessed with smoking (forget 'fairly'). Probably won't be looking him up again.

This week was another stretch of long, satisfying days in the garden. As long as the sunshine holds (and it did) working in the garden is the best job in the world. We dug 13 trenches one day, and spent a lot of time planting various trees, shrubs, hedges, and flowers around the gardens. While the whole estate is already in spectacular shape, there is more and more to be done as opening nears, vast tracts of land that need to be beatified. So we planted and transplanted and weeded and made everything immaculate for several days. I should add that there is simply nothing better than the planting part of our job. Feeling the cool earth wrap around your fingers as you extract the plant of choice, getting it just so in the ground, making sure the roots are comfortable and the level and location are perfect, re-filling the whole and pressing the earth firmly against the root ball. Knowing that you have planted something, whether a powerful half-grown birch tree or a tiny fern, that will grow spectacularly in the near future. We continue to get on extremely well with the garden crew. In addition to all this, we continue to work on fitting out the newly completed Block A of the hotel. Curtains, chairs, desks, and various other delivery and unpacking jobs are exciting when they involve wandering the evolving halls of a beautiful resort. We get on well with the construction workers, and work well both as parts of a big a team and working alone.
I should add a note about our diet. Thus far, hosted by various friends and a variety of brillant cooks in countries serious about their culinary arts, we have eaten like kings fairly regularly. Now however, we make our own food, budgeting by substaining primarily on pasta with tomato sauce and rice with curry sauce. It does the trick, works as fuel, but we can't help pining for our normal diets rich in fruit, veg, sugar, and gourmet delights of all sorts. But it is a small price to pay for this independence, and the thrilling experience of being up at 7 and in at 5 every day, working long hours in a real job. The work feels good, it is hard and demanding and constant, but also rewarding, fueling a big appetite for food and sleep. We are happy to work long hours and flow thoughtlessly along. We are not intellectually stimulated but, just for this brief moment in life, we don't mind.

At the end of a standard, exhausting Friday, we met Cronk at the train station, where we sprinted to make the 5:55 to London and barely leapt on board in time. It was only once the train was moving we realized we had no tickets. We waited for someone to ask us for them but no conductor appeared and so we disembarked in a bind (you can't get through the ticket machine exit without a ticket). So we headed toward the exit, knowing we would have to buy a ticket and probably be fined too. Now, in addition to all the machines, there is one big exit for wheel chairs and pass holders guarded by railway staff. We asked to buy our tickets but just then, there was a mix-up with someone who was shouting at a railway employee, the gate guards went running over followed by two policemen. The gateway to freedom was open! But how would our boss feel about us slipping through like this. I glanced at him and he was watching the gate-guards intently. "Go, go, go" he muttered, the perfect secret agent in his business suit and black brief-case, aiding two fellow members of the CIA to sneak behind enemy lines. The first adventure of the night was a success as we melted into the crowd and then regrouped, and after that we had a new bond with the boss.
The rest of the evening was an incredibly enjoyable whirlwind of great Indian food, Cobra Beer, running about the streets of London, and conversations about everything from fine art to the spa gardens. Cronk was not only lugubrious but hilarious, regaling us with stories of his childhood and his wild and illicit adventures (which I will not put down here because, well he is my boss and he might read it). He was able to relax for the first time we have seen him, so we got to actually communicate, which was a lot of fun. Then we returned to Cronk's flat in Farringdon and spent an extremely comfortable night.
The next morning was a series of train rides up to the Cronk Residence in Wiltshire. I am reading Dicken's Great Expectations and Casey is reading Tolkein's Unfinished Tales, so the long rides were a perfect time. Before arriving at Cronk's house, we swung by the Caen Locks, an incredible series of 24 locks climbing up a hill, a masterpiece of engineering that has recently been re-done. It was a truly impressive examble of old-fashioned, but still very effective mechanics, and was mind-blowing in it's scale. Then we surged on to Millie's House (the name of the Cronk's house, all the houses in small English towns have names like Manor Hall or Abbey Corner or White House, very funny), where we were greeted by Harriet Cronk, and Lotty (awesome English abbreviation of Charlotte) their daughter. We had an incredible lunch of sausage and apple stew and mash, and spent the entire day luxuriously lounging around the warm kitchen table as everyone talked and drank tea and read and did crosswords and sudokus. We also played music with Harry, who is an extremely accomplished classical pianist and choral singer. It was a perfect, mellow day, that ended with another incredible meal of roast chicken. The evening ended very late with everyone dancing around the kitchen table to great old tunes which Casey, of course, DJed. We went to sleep in perfect comfort and bliss. In the long journey's and trials ahead, we will probably try desperately to remember the feeling of that night.
The next day was much the same, although it included an expedition to Castle Coombe, a breathtaking quintissentially English medieval town. The trees glowing in their brilliant autumn colors, and the houses and streets were picturesque. We went because one of my favorite plays (Warhorse) was just filmed here. We walked across the ancient stone bridge, past the imposing town center, and through the church. Everything from the doors to the stonework, had ancient and delicate artistry. Smoke from the kitchen fire of one house drifted out across the valley. It was a truly beautiful place.
By that evening, as we took multiple trains and buses (all in all a 5 hour journey) home, we felt ourselves already missing our new refuge. It was a brutal journey back, and we arrived with massive backpacks that we had brought from the Cronk's and walked the long trek back through the dark (Thorpe is too small for streetlights) to the B&B where we our now staying. We are no longer at the Bell Pub where we stayed at the beginning, but are now at a little house with two very old pensioners who take very good care of us. It is cozy, but also full of surprises (as they are a bit difficult and unpredictable to deal with). It is very hard to find privacy of any sort, but ultimately, a comfortable place. So we walked the miles back in the dark, dodging shadows that leapt from the bushes (it was Halloween, after all) and collapsed gratefully into bed.

Thursday was a day when we realized that we really were learning a variety of lessons on this year, and not only the expected ones. Today's lesson was how to break into a caravan, and we passed with flying colors. The gardening team of which we are now a very established part has their tea and lunch breaks in a caravan in the garden compund. It is a cozy little room full of couches with only a kettle, TV, and microwave as amenities. it is not a whole lot, but it is a great place to retreat to for a moment of relaxation in the exhausting chaos that is the project right now. Anyway, Thursday morning arrived and everyone seemed to have forgotten their keys at home. So we found ourselves poking a wire through a hole in the window, to undo the latch, and then crawling through this tiny space to crash onto the couch and open the doors from the inside. Only a few days as employees and we already had the place pretty well figured out.
That night our position as official employees of a major business became even more exciting, as we were invited to our first ever Office Party. It was frighteningly like a scene out of Steve Carrel's "The Office." The party took place in the computer room at the financial office of the spa, so the festivities were interrupted by the fact that everytime the atmosphere got good, someone would go back to their computer to look something up (buzz kill) or worse, work! But there was still Mexican beer (the party was Very loosely Mexican themed, that is two paper cactuses on the wall and, well, the Mexican beer) and pizza. And we chatted with coworkers and had a pretty good time. It was hilarious watching the awkward conversation and even more awkward flirting of the various coworkers. Everyone was very mixed up about how social they were meant to be and whether they should treat their boss as their boss. This is all at 6PM right after work. Around 8:00 people started to leave and by 8:30 there were only five or six left, plus us. And then, shockingly, out came the tequila shots, and then we observed a real office party. Let's just say, the Managing Director did some things she probably isn't thrilled were captured on camera.
The next day was an exciting one because we installed the beds, mattresses, and chairs into half of the hotel rooms (the hotel part of the spa is divided into two parts, only one of which is currently finished, Block A). This involved about 20 gardener's, coworkers, and Spa Girls (an all inclusive term for masseuses and other health therapists who are forced to help out with heavy lifting work even though they couldn't possibly be less interested, or qualified) lifting massively heavy furniture up three flights of stairs and distributing them to various rooms. It was a massive, sweaty job, but a satisfying one, as we got to watch the rooms slowly transform. We then vacuumed the entirety of Block A which was full of mud and dust on the freshly lain carpet.
We were also treated to a walk-through (or rather a run-through) tour of the whole project by our boss, Paul Cronk. Cronk (affectionately known by Cronkie by his employees) is and old mate of my dad's and a very funny guy, who has been working on this spa project for about 10 years and, as it is in its final stages, is in Hyperactive mode 24/7. But he showed us around the whole spa, which is currently a serious construction sight. Plaster, concrete, wood, glass, electrical cables and dozens of constructions workers running, shouting and working (was it my imagination or did they work much harder when Cronk walked past?) furiously. The spa includes a grand entrance, an airy atrium, a pool and hot tub, a 5 star restaurant and bar, a juice bar, a library, and dozens of treatment rooms for everything from acupuncture to massage, pyschotherapy, pedicures, and The Oriental Treatment (a mysterious 3-hour long extravaganza, at the end of which you get to lounge and nap for an hour to recover. Wow.). This place is incredible, and is very much under construction. The question on everybody's mind is whether it can be completed by the opening date at the end of this month. Walking through a construction site it is easy to be doubtful, but the work is moving at an incredible pace, and it is possible.
We are now kitted out in brand new work boots (steel toed and very impressive), high-vis neon green Hutton Construction vests, and Hutton Construction hard-hats. Pictures, of course, to follow.

The characters of Thorpe-le-Soken.

These are various people who we have met, whose stories have served powerfully to reinforce and remind why we are here, where we want to go next in our lives, etc.

Robbie: 18, the local Scot, Bell bartender, a charismatic self-professed ladies man, whose aspirations are, well to be a ladies man and whose qualities make him the Hot Shit of the town.

Dave: 23, works seven days a week at the Bell for which e is amassing a lot of money. But what is he saving for? Nothing. He wants to work forever at the bell, never goes out, occasionally buys drugs and will not travel because his friends don't want to travel.

Dave #2: 20, already a father, no money, save enough to buy a couple drinks. Fascinated by Americans.

Nigel: 20,works with us in the gardens but does not get paid since it is just for course credit for his course on horticulture, about which he is indifferent. With no money though he cannot travel, which is his great dream. Where would he go if he could travel? Some exotic
Eastern land? Australia? No, simply Amsterdam which is a short 50$ ferry ride away. But that is 50$ too far, and he has never left England.

Xavier: 40, the head concierge at Lifehouse, a flamboyant gay Frenchman who is desperate for friends and has chosen us as the most interesting people in town. He is a great guy but I have a definite feeling he is in the wrong town and possibly the wrong country.

Elis: 18, smokin hot blond girl, the Hot Shit of the town. Nasty, bitchy sense of humor but is worshipped for her singular good looks (and I mean singular, she is the only pretty girl in town). Quite happy to get around too it would seem. The phrase "not my type" is a vast understatement.

Kit: 18, Elis' best friend and side kick. She does not make the decisions. She just worships and makes her friend look good. When she asks for anything she is denied. This barely resembles a friendship.

An interesting cast of characters... More to follow soon hopefully.