"Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo?"

Quick trivia question: where was Constantine crowned Emperor of the Roman Empire?

Chillin'

Cue the Jeopardy Music and think... ?

Rome? But that would be too easy.

While sitting on a golden toilet seat lined with fur stolen from the German barbarians? That fits Will's interests, but no, that can't be it.

I know you're dying to know the answer to this question. In fact, who am I kidding, of course you know the answer—it's York!

Peppermint Patty?

Our last stop was visiting my friend Jenny and her husband Pete in York. They were absolutely wonderful hosts and took us around all around the northern countryside of England during our short stay. We got to see a bit of York where they went to school and now live. Aside from being the location where Constantine was crowned Emperor (crazy right?), it is known for its beautiful Minster, the still standing city wall's (where apparently it is still legal for Welshmen to shoot Scotsmen on certain Sundays... or is it Scotsmen to shoot Welshmen?), and more than a couple colonnades and walls from the Roman era.

Just another backyard in the Lake District.

We also spent a weekend in a beautiful bed and breakfast owned by a friend of theirs in the Lake District. 

"Emma, how do you feel about our B&B location?"

The area is a well-known English vacation spot, but the little section we stayed in was quiet and nestled in the countryside. In fact, our b&b was a converted stone barn that the owner had recently renovated. We awoke to cows grazing in the pasture outside our window—they had the most massive udders I have ever seen, I mean massive. I wish I took more pictures.

SHI-to the-ER

One of the days we were there we went for a walk. “Walk,” in the classically English understated fashion, can mean anything from a short stroll after dinner to a strenuous hike requiring boots often above vomit-inducing heights with more than a small chance of death should one, you know, trip, on their, “walk.” The hills we walked were magnificent—I don't think we have anything like it in the states, or at least I wouldn't know where it is. Large hills and mountains that have few trees and are dotted with sheep—sheep, everywhere. Truly, this is the land of Middle Earth. As we “walked,” the Shire turned into Rivendell and we climbed over stone steps laid next to a bubbling downhill brook. 

And then we saw it. Mordor, looming in the distance. “We can walk over that or we can take the alternative route,” our hosts said— "walking" in this case meant climbing with hands and knees without ropes. It was mostly okay, except for those points where we were exposed on the ridge and the wind howled against our bodies as we slowly made our way from one sure footing to another. The seventy-year-old who passed us remarked that this little bit can be “interesting”--here translated as, "this is the spot in the Lake District where the most people have died."

Maybe I'm being a little dramatic here, but actually, if Emma was telling this story she would say that I am not dramatic enough. Halfway through she was ready to throw in the towel before Jenny remarked that it would more "suitable" (read: chances of death less likely) to continue moving upwards. We ate lunch on top of the hill with the sheep, but none of our wooly would-be friends were brave enough to let us pet them. 

Then, in the middle of our meal, a sheep appeared over the crest of the hill and wandered over. We thought he must have heard the sound of our potato chips crackling, but when we threw one to him he didn't take to it. We tried our sandwich bread and our apple cores, but only a few nibbles, as if he tried it and said he prefers the grass. I have no idea why this sheep came over at all. But I can tell you this—we desperately wanted to interact with a sheep on our trip—and the fact that this stupid sheep came over means only one thing: we witnessed a miracle.

We made it to one of the oldest Abbeys in Britain. I think it was constructed sometime during the 15th and 16th centuries. After Henry VIII took control of the Church, he ransacked the Abbeys and they were left to ruin. Tourism in the late 18th century revived interest in this Abbey, as continued today.

The best part of this picture is clearly the Scot standing behind us.

More 'Redwall' than 'Downton,' and all the better for it. "Wot! Wot!"

As a final treat, Jenny and Pete took us to see a "Mystery Play" in York. These plays have dramatized the story of Christianity, from the fall of Satan to the Final Judgment, since the medieval times. It was pretty spectacular, especially because the stage was set up in front of the ruins of a former Abbey in the middle of town.

More ales and great food followed in our time with Jenny and Pete. I especially recommend the brews made by “Innis and Gunn” in oak barrels if anyone can find it. We are thankful to them for their hospitality and friendship--also for their great cooking!

"I have wished you joy since first I saw you."

Finally home!

At least that's how Edinburgh felt. We immediately fell in love with the capital of Scotland. The structures don't have the ornate beauty of Paris or Prague, but rather a character of humility and resolve. The castle in the middle of the city sets the tone for the rest—old stonework is everywhere but without gaudiness or pretense. We passed the home of John Knox, founder of the church of Scotland (or what we know as the Presbyterian Church) and the statue commemorating Edinburgh professor David Hume, one of the foremost philosophical thinkers in history.

Mr. Hume

We immediately noticed the friendliness of the Scots—not that we could understand half of what they were saying. Our airbnb flat was nestled a mile away from the city center, a row house with a small garden in front and in back. During the two days we stayed we met both neighbors on either side and felt like we knew them better than any of the neighbors we had in Boston, besides our landlords.

The best pub name I have ever seen.

We also happened to be in Edinburgh during the Fringe Festival: the biggest theater, music, and comedy festival in Europe that happens every year in August. We didn't make it to any shows, but we enjoyed street performers galore and the vibe of the city as it doubles in size during this season.

When the Heather Was Purple. Thank you Scott Cunningham.

Our best day was hiking to the top of Arthur's seat, a large hill located within the city limits that offers an awesome view of the city.  We asked a friendly Scot nearby about the whereabouts of a particular pub we had seen on the internet. "The Sheep Hide? I 'aven't 'eard a pub bah that name. Oh! Yeh mean the Sheep Heed--you know, like 'Sheep's 'ead.' Thars a wee village by the loch down thar on th'other side. You'll fin' it."  We struck the trail, narrow and filled with pollen, very nearly ravaging my sinus system.  After a short ramble, we feasted our eyes on the village walls. Through a short tunnel and we arrived at the oldest pub in Scotland—The Sheep Heid Inn. For almost 700 years a pub has stood in this location. Further evidence of the Scot's friendliness was exhibited here when I realized that I didn't have our credit card and we were forced to return hours later and pay for our meal. No big deal, said the bartender.

In Honor of Travis K.

The beer experience was different in the U.K. than in Germany. Here people drink mostly ales instead of lagers. Neither of us had been very keen on ales before we came, but we're keener now.

This is me, you know, scaling the castle.

The Castle View from Arthur's Seat.

Of any of the cities that we've visited—friends and family ties not being taken into account—Edinburgh and the surrounding Scottish countryside is the one we'd most like to return.

A'hve nevah seen a lass so beautifool in all m'life.

"What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and rats roll on the floor with the dogs?"

Ou est la boulangerie?

Our one night was in Paris was less than impressive.

Paris was one of the more beautiful cities that we visited. It had the Victorian architecture that we had enjoyed elsewhere, but almost always on a grander scale with taller and longer buildings. Unfortunately, we did not have enough time to enjoy the city, nor were we well-informed on where to go. Case in point: we couldn't find a bakery to enjoy French bread the one morning we were there. We couldn't find a bakery in Paris! That's like going to Israel and wondering where all the Jews are! Like overhearing an argument between freshmen at Wheaton and not hearing the name C.S. Lewis!

We were initially excited to visit the Latin Quarter where much of Midnight in Paris was set. Yes, us, in a small cafe, hanging out in the French neighborhood frequented by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso. Imagine Sartre, lecturing in a corner as female undergraduates gaze adoringly while Simone de Beauvoir walks out composed, but obviously irritated. A bottle of wine is passed around the room and all agree that their hunger means it's time for... kebab?

Yes, Midnight in Paris paints a nice picture here—about 90 years ago. Now the neighborhood crawls with tourists and chicken breasts, slowly twirled round and round on a metal skewer. We found the bookstore that is home to one of the main scenes in the film—and indeed, Shakespeare's is pretty cool—but decided not to eat at the restaurant next-door because it was too expensive. We walked and walked looking for that “right” place, eventually deciding to eat across from the Notre Dame. Paris rule #1: don't try to save money in Paris—you won't no matter how hard you try—just enjoy it. Our food was lame, we got in an argument, and the ceiling paint in our apartment fell on our faces while we slept that night.

Baxter!

But all was not lost. The next day we met up with one of Emma's dear coworkers from Dorchester and her partner who are staying in a flat owned by a diplomat from El Salvador. Nice, right?

The view of the Eiffel Tower and surrounding rooftops was incredible—if only we had eaten dinner with them the night before!

Are you kidding me?

We ate lunch in an old Jewish section of town that has now become somewhat of a Middle Eastern hodge-podge, with rival Jewish and Palestinian falafel stands on the main drags (I think Jeff showed us a movie like that) and fine restaurants, jewelers, and thrift stores on the side streets. Our meal was very good and our company was even better. While not totally redeemed, our afternoon with these friends at least gave us the impression that Paris deserved another shot someday. 

"I feel something. A slight tingle in my fingers. I think it's affecting me."

Do Germans really drink beer for breakfast?

Yes, my friends, the answer is yes.

Proof... well, actually this picture isn't exactly proof that Germans drink beer for breakfast. Maybe it was all a cleverly constructed fabrication made by our hosts, but I'm pretty sure if one travels to Bavaria, she'll find the Bavarian breakfast to include a delicious glass of Hefeweizen.

"His strength returns."

After a while, cities start to look the same.

So apparently, this clock was so revered by the local government that they feared its maker would replicate his work in other cities. They decided the best course of action would be to gouge out his eyeballs to keep him from continuing his work elsewhere. In revenge, he asked if he could work on a piece of the clock. Using only his memory, he broke one of the clocks key components and the hands stood still for over a hundred years.

"A red sun rises, blood has been spilled this night."

On Thursday we said fond goodbyes to our family in Romania and arrived for the night in Budapest, Hungary. We were welcomed by the family of my former roommates and floormates, Matt and Tim Hiltibran, living outside the city as missionaries with Reach Global. We did some sightseeing that day (Thank you Kristi!), ate some fantastic homemade pizza, and settled in for some much-needed rest. That is, until Emma woke me just after my first REM cycle with panicked desperation: "Will, wake up! There are mosquitoes buzzing in my ear and I can't sleep!"

Captain Ahab and her wearied spouse, the evening of the bloodshed.

"Please, Mr. Gandalf, sir, don't hurt me. Don't turn me into anything... unnatural."

As squirrels are to suburbs--trash eating, nearly domesticated, bird food masticating, creatures that are everywhere in abundance--so dogs nearly are to Romania.

At first I was shocked by the amount of dogs that I saw on street corners, fields, and every locale I visited in Romania. All of a sudden I understood the "dog-catcher" references in Disney movies from my childhood.