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.