Flooding the Bathroom.... Inverness, Scotland

Our host in Inverness, a young Latvian man named Maris, wasn't actually home the first day we spent... umm... in his home. In my couchsurfing request, I had asked if he'd be available to host on Thursday and Friday. He responded that he wouldn't be home until Friday evening, but that we were quite welcome to let ourselves in. We just needed to call him when we arrived so that he could tell us where the key was hidden, and that we'd all meet up on Friday. 

"That," I told Boy incredulously, "is the most trust I've ever experienced from another couchsurfer. He's letting us into his house without him being there and he's only read my profile. Probably hasn't even looked at yours." 

So when we arrived at Maris' home, we gave our absent host a call, he directed us to the keys, and we let ourselves in. 

"Thanks so much," I gushed into the phone. "Your home is gorgeous. Is there anything we need to know to keep it safe while you're away?"

"No, not really," Maris said nonchalantly. "You know, just don't burn it down." 

Boy and I took a power nap (five hours of hitching is pretty exhausting), and then set out to explore Inverness, capital of the Highlands (which boasts a bustling population of nearly 60,000 -- if you include all the surrounding areas). 

Bagpipes and coffee shops abounded. Gorgeous bridges stretched across the River Ness and unfinished cathedrals speckled the horizon. I decided that I liked Inverness.

The building on the left is Inverness' cathedral. Maris told us (when he returned on Friday) that in order to upgrade from town to city, Inverness needs a finished cathedral. Unfortunately, they ran out of money whilst constructing this cathedral (note the absence of spires), so even though Inverness is the capital of the Highlands and is the fourth most touristic city in Great Britain, it is not a city.

Inverness' very modern looking castle

A church with spires.

On our way back to Maris', we stopped at a Lidl to pick up groceries for dinner and the next morning's breakfast. Then we settled onto the living room floor, drank a bottle of wine and soaked in the precious feeling of privacy. A feeling we've been pining for during our two months of travel.

We've stayed with some of the BEST people on this trip. Mori and Elly. Doug and Emily. Spela and Craig. Freaking Jack. But there's always the underlying feeling of, "Aimee... you're in someone else' space." And after what happened with Yien and Teh, I've started feeling uncomfortable expressing physical affection to Boy in front of hosts. Even cuddling on the couch makes me feel on edge. Like I might be offending someone. In normal circumstances, I couldn't care less if me being myself offends people. I just think, "well, if they're bothered, we probably shouldn't be friends anyway." But in this world, my housing is at stake. And for better or worse, nearly five years of not really having a place that's my own has taught me to be timid where housing is concerned. 

So it's nice. It's so nice. To be in a gorgeous little home with no one else but Boy. 

We fried up a traditional Scottish breakfast the next morning. Tomatoes and black pudding and haggis and sausage. We also decided it would be a swell idea to wash our laundry. After a week and a half of hitching around, our clothes were undeniably nasty. And if we delayed washing, it would mean another week and a half with dirty clothes -- because we would stay for just one day in each place. And while everyone in the UK has washers, about five percent have dryers. And as it's rained in Scotland a hundred percent of the days we've been here, one needs at least two days to dry clothes.

I hate that washing is so damn complicated in Europe. I mean, I'm thrilled that Europe is so environmentally friendly and that people haven't got dryers, but I'm still annoyed at the inconvenience of line drying in a country that sees one day of sun a week. 

So we gratefully popped our clothes into the wash, then retired to the living room floor to feast upon our sausage of lungs and liver (haggis). About ten minutes into our scrumptious mountain of offal, I heard an ominous swishing sound.

That washing machine makes an awful lot of noise...

I left my delicious hot plate of sheep lungs and blood pudding to check on the clothes.  And discovered two inches of water on the bathroom floor.

"SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!!!!!!!!" I screamed under my breath and turned the machine off.

"What is it?" Boy rushed onto the scene.

"WE FLOODED HIS BATHROOM!" I cried. "What do we do?"

"Well... get some towels," Boy replied, keeping the calm.

We spent the next hour sopping up the freaking bathroom LOCH (Scottish for "lake") and wringing out our wet clothes. The machine had had enough time to thoroughly flood the floor, but not to even get to the point where the soap met the dirty clothes.

So our clothes are now soaked through and still just as dirty. Perfect. 

Boy hung the clothes to dry on a broken clothesline, conquering his arachnophobia as he destroyed spiderweb after spiderweb to make room for our wet and rancid clothes.

"What do we tell him?" Boy and I asked each other the same question, over and over again.

"Well... we definitely have to tell him that we flooded the bathroom. Apologize and ask if there's anything else we can do."

So we sent Maris a text.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited for him to respond.

"He trusted us with his home..." I wailed. "And what did we do? We flooded his bathroom."

"At least we didn't light it on fire. In fact, we did the opposite of that," Boy threw in his two pence.

"I feel awful," I mourned.

Maris texted us back a few hours later.

"Hey, I forgot to tell you about the washing machine. Don't worry about it. My ex did that once too."

Boy and I both breathed probably the largest sighs of relief in the history of all time ever.

Maris, Carolyne (a French couchsurfer), Troy and I spent the evening laughing about the bathroom we'd accidentally flooded, drinking wine, whiskey, and all manner of homemade liqueurs from Eastern Europe that Maris had been collecting. Which resulted in me going to bed early, drunk facebooking my friend Robert and passing out before I remembered to hydrate.

The next morning, I woke up horribly nauseous and with a maddening headache.

And we're planning on hitching 70 miles today... Gosh... I don't even know if I can be in a car right now. 

My head pounded. My stomach churned. I threw up all the yogurt I'd eaten for breakfast.

DAMNIT. 

But I still went to Loch Ness with Maris, Troy and Carolyne. And learned that my commitment to Nessie was dwarfed by the chap who's been living in a trailer by Loch Ness for twenty five years, holding onto a faint glimmer of hope that one day, he will glimpse the legendary monster. 
 

And after twenty five years, he has yet to get a glimpse.

Maris. The Latvian host whose bathroom we flooded.

Touching the lake. It was unbelievably cold. And there were people flapping about in it without wetsuits. I love Scottish people, and I don't think I will ever understand them. Just like I love Boy, and I will never understand his sense of direction.

 

Maris went to meet some friends and Boy and I walked to the outskirts of Inverness, set down our bags and woozily (on my part) started our hitching. Within ten minutes, a Romanian named Alleen (sp?) pulled over. 

Alleen was fabulous. He took us exactly where we needed to go, provided many stories about Romania and seemed thankful for our company. However, my hangover and Alleen did not make the best of friends. Alleen drove like a maniac. As in, he would pass drivers at breakneck speeds, slam on his brakes, swerve madly about at the last minute and all sorts of other dangerous maneuvers. He finally happened upon an ambulance with its lights flashing, and thought it would be a grand idea to tailgate the ambulance. While smoking cigarettes in the car with the windows rolled up. 

I spent the entire journey gripping the door, sweating and thinking, please don't throw up.... please don't throw up.... please don't throw up. 

I didn't throw up. Alleen dropped us off in Spean Bridge, where we found a cafe and waited for our next hosts to answer their phone. 

Never a dull moment. 

Hitching! -- Aberdeen, Scotland

I'm starting this post from a little red cafe in a little grey village where our Scottish host named Stuart owns a wine shop.

We're couchsurfing with a wine and whiskey merchant. In Scotland. Holy bananas, how did I get here? 

I'm in Lochgilphead. It was a rather embarrassing experience hitchhiking here and telling our three rides... "Umm... I'm not really sure how to pronounce it... but...errr... we're going to Loch..GIL.. fead? LochgilPEAD? LOCHgilphead? You happen to be going anywhere close to anything that sounds like that?" 

The waitress has already told us that if we ask for water one more time, she's going to charge us thirty pence. I'm starting to feel a wee bit uncomfortable in my red window seat.

We're only going to stay another half hour or so... we just have to wait for Stuart to close his wine shop. Please don't kick us out before then... the weather is crap right now. Even for Scotland. Which is saying something.

Boy and I left Andrew's on Tuesday morning.

Our first time hitching together. Boy's first time hitching, period. My first time hitching in Scotland. Here we go. 

We walked (for what seemed like hours) to the outskirts of Dundee and found a decent spot near the bottom of a hill for a car to pull over. 
 
It would be better at the top of a hill... when cars are going a little slower... but this'll do, I suppose. Mostly because I refuse to carry Ellie another step.

"Are we doing this?" I asked Boy.


"We're doing this."

If we can't find a ride, we can walk for hours to get back to Dundee. And then take the bus to Aberdeen. So if we can't find a ride, it's not the end of the world. Not by the longest of shots. 

So we stuck out our thumbs. A few cars whizzed by with tunnel-visioned drivers, and I started to feel self-conscious.


That feeling of being deliberately ignored is so unpleasant. Dehumanizing. I feel embarrassed to be here. 

Then one person gave us a thumbs up. Another honked his horn and waved. Another threw her hands up in the air, as if to say, "Wish I could stop, but there's nothing I can do."

People in Scotland seem so supportive of hitching... I mean, I realize I'm making a generalization after about ten minutes into the process, but still. In Croatia, I'd occasionally get the middle finger. Maybe a few people showed support, but just as many people flipped me off. 

Those few gestures of acknowledgment lifted my spirits. Boy and I laughed. We joked. The disconcerting feeling of "I shouldn't be here... " melted away.


And then someone pulled over.

There are few feelings that lead to such profound exhilaration and gratitude as a car pulling over after half an hour of standing on the side of the road.

Boy and I rushed to the window and asked the driver where she was off to.

"Aberdeen," she replied, eyeballing our enormous bags.

"Perfect! That's where we're heading. Thanks so much for pulling over."

So we all crammed into Moira's posh car (Boy, me, and our intimidating bags) and traveled the whole 67 miles to Aberdeen, making far better time than we would have if we'd taken the bus. And getting to share the journey with Moira, who shared her story and told us a thing or two about Aberdeen.

"The economy revolves around oil in Aberdeen," she explained. "Since petrol prices have dropped to nothing, a lot of people are out of work."

Five dollars a gallon for petrol is next to nothing? Goodness. She should see petrol prices in Grand Junction. I think it was 2.30 a gallon when I left in June.

"Do you get a lot of hitchhikers around here?" I asked as we neared our destination.

"No, actually. You're only the second hitch hikers I've seen," she mused. "It's not so popular these days. Not sure why."

Moira dropped us off in the city center of Aberdeen.

Our next host, an Indian fellow named Veera, wouldn't be available to meet us until after five, so we lingered in parks and cafes until evening. Picnicking, journaling, people watching, sipping coffee and listening to the odd bagpipe.

What an idyllic afternoon. Sometimes I struggle to believe that this kind of life is real. 

William Wallace

I introduced Veera to Yin Yoga and he shared a bottle of wine. Then Boy and I went to bed on his living room couch -- before eleven -- and celebrated our success of achieving a normal bedtime.

The rest of our time in Aberdeen feels like it all blended together somehow. For me, the things that tend to stand out are my memorable experiences with hosts. Veera was very hospitable, but also quite distant. As in, he wordlessly took himself out to a movie our second night in his living room and messaged us from the theatre, asking if we would let in some new couchsurfers who would arrive around 9:30.

So my memories of Aberdeen are the pianist playing songs from the Titanic and Les Miserables, bagpipers on the corners, the way the grey city melted into the grey sky, and the cute little fishing village that Aberdeen encroached upon many years ago.

The distance between Aberdeen and Inverness is 105 miles.

The most I've ever hitched in one day is... 150 miles? So this isn't the greatest distance, but it's still a bit intimidating. And Inverness isn't the straight shot from here like Aberdeen was from Dundee. Roads wind in and out of little villages and towns. And Inverness itself isn't a huge enough hub that people will be going straight there from Aberdeen. We'll probably spend about... six hours getting there. 

Veera dropped us off outside of town on his way to work the next morning, where we thanked him for his couch, the wine and the ride. He wished us luck and then sped off to work.


"Here we go again," I smiled at Boy. "What time is it?"

"8:15."

"Okay. I bet it'll take us six hours to get to Inverness."

"No... won't be more than four."

"FOUR? Nah. Definitely six."

"You're so pessimistic."

"You're so optimistic."

We stuck out our thumbs, and for a good while, it seemed as if even my prediction was optimistic. Car after car sped by, drivers shaking their heads but giving us encouraging honks and waves. Finally, at around 9:00, a van lurched to a stop.

"We're not going far," the woman said, "but it's further along than you are now."

"We'll take it," we placed our bags in the back, next to a brightly colored, wee bicycle.

"What's your name?" Boy asked. Boy is always excellent at asking for (and remembering) names.

"I'm Jenny, " our driver replied. "And this is Kai."

"I'm wearing pants," Kai informed us, beaming with grownup pride.

"Pants?" I asked, forgetting (as I always do) that pants mean underwear in the UK.

"He's chuffed that we've run out of diapers and now he's wearing pants," his mother clarified.

"Wow, good for you!" I congratulated the little boy in the front seat.

When Tessa and I hitched through Eastern Europe, only one woman pulled over for us. In five weeks of hitching. So far in Scotland, our only two rides have been with women. I love that in this country, ladies feel safe enough to stop. Even with kids in the car. 

Jenny dropped us off at a fairly inconvenient location, so Boy and I walked for a good half an hour to get to our next spot, passing several people who asked where we were off to, and then told us, "Aye, you'll find a lift. Someone will be going that way."

As if the only issue is whether or not people are going in that direction. That they'll stop is just... assumed. Like, if people are going the same direction, of course they'll stop. 

After a half hour walk (during which I cursed myself multiple times for packing so many damn yoga pants), we found a safe enough place where drivers could pull over. So we plunked down our bags, faced the oncoming traffic, smiled and stuck out our thumbs. 

Jillian and her ten year old daughter, Aspen, pulled over. Aspen studies Highland dancing, Jillian teaches Highland dancing, and both were on their way to Elgin to get a new car.

"I picked you up because Troy looks like my son. With the long hair and everything. And this seems like something my son would do. I hope people pull over for him."

The rest of the journey, we chatted about aspen trees, Scotland, Colorado and how much Aspen loves American style pancakes.

Another fifteen minute walk to a hitching place. Another twenty minutes of sticking out our thumbs. And John pulled over.

John may be the most hardcore ex-hitcher I've ever met. He decided it would be an adventure to hitch from Belgium to India in the 80s. As in, right after the revolution in Iran and whilst Iran and Iraq were at war. When he arrived at the border of Iran, the Iranians deported him to... Iraq. The country they were at war with. This deportation stamp on his passport did not look good. So passport control at Iraq deported him. To Syria. John's passport was stamped in Syria, but he wasn't deported. Israel thought all this looked a mite suspicious, however, and thought it would be a good idea to imprison John for three weeks. After which they took all his money (because they'd fed him in prison) and sent him not to Scotland, but to Egypt.

With no money.

A random Egyptian guy in the marketplace told John to cheer up (apparently John was looking a wee bit depressed), and John explained his series of unfortunate deportations. Then the random Egyptian guy invited John into his home and became John's fund raiser. After a couple of weeks in Egypt, they'd gathered enough money to send John back to Scotland.

So that's why John picked us up. And probably why he drove thirty minutes out of his way to drop us off at a better location.

From this better location, Gregor picked us up. Gregor was Polish and didn't speak much English, but was kind enough to share his garbage truck with us and drop us in the city center of Inverness.

It took us five hours to travel the 105 miles from Aberdeen to the capital of the Highlands.

"You optimistically said it would take four hours. I pessimistically said it would take six.The universe realistically said it would take five," I told Boy as we made our way to Maris' home.

The City of Couchsurfing -- Saint Andrews and Dundee, Scotland

I'm starting this post from a community coffee shop in Oban, Scotland. The room is small and packed full of people, all enjoying donation based coffee and pastries. Posters for permaculture, gay pride, and mental health services hang on the walls. A sign on the table tells me that this cafe is run entirely by volunteers and relies solely on donations to stay open.

"Give what you can," reads the sign to my left.

A singer songwriter strums his guitar and sings a traditional song that tells the history of Scotland. He tells jokes in between verses and encourages all of us to join in on the choruses.

I could sit here all day. 

The singer is taking a "wee break" and I can reel in my attention back to writing. Boy's out of his walk in the rain, and I'm taking the time to post as many blogs as I can.


There are free tampons in the bathroom. Because (unknown to me) tampons are taxed heavily in this country, and an average woman will spend 38 days working to pay for her tampons.

That's bonkers. Just crazy. Thousands of dollars spent on feminine hygiene. 

Boy and I hitched into Oban this morning. We'd spent the night in Spean Bridge, a little village close to Fort William, with a lovely couple from Scotland and Ecuador. We shared a dinner, wherein Boy and I chopped various vegetables and referred to Helen as "Chef". They owned a dignified, sixteen year old cat named Sooty Yot, whom we cuddled relentlessly.


I just... want a cat. A cuddly cat of my own. 

We caught a ride with Claire, a middle aged woman who was on her way to Glencoe for a bit of Geocaching (which is like treasure hunting for adults). Our second ride was with a couple from Glasgow who were planning to kayak around Connel for the afternoon. Third ride was with an English couple whose car was absolutely packed to bursting, but who managed to make room for us, nonetheless.

I would visit Scotland simply for the hitching. This is the best kind of adventuring. 

Boy and I struggled to find a place in Perth, Scotland. I'd hoped to stay with a friend of mine I'd met in Germany, but she already had visitors. And all the couchsurfing hosts in Perth had already declined my requests.


"So... wild camping? Ugh... but Perth is a pretty big place. I don't think it would make sense to have to walk for hours to leave the city... with these giant bags... and then walk back. But I'm not sure what our other options are."

Our last day in York, I received two invitations to Dundee, a city just east of Perth.

"That would be incredible," I exclaimed to Boy. "But... I'm pretty sure that neither of these people have read my request properly. They're both single guys with not a lot of references who sent me the invitation as if it was just me staying... I'll write them back and ask if they can take both of us, though. Gah... I'll just be so disappointed if they say they can't take us... and I'll be thrilled to pieces if they can. I don't want to be this affected by just two people like this... I feel like I'm basing my idea of the goodness of the human race off of courchsurfing. Like, is the whole of humanity only going to be generous if they think they can use me? When in reality, it's just these two guys on couchsurfing. Goodness. I'm awesome at generalizing and catastrophizing."

Both of the couchsurfing young men who invited me to stay ever so quickly declined when they discovered I was coming with a partner. But I decided to send out one last minute request to another fellow in Dundee.

"Yeah man, don't worry about it," was Andrew's response. Just like that. He'd have another person staying Sunday, but that was it. And we were welcome to stay for as long as we'd like.

"What a roller coaster!" I exhaled. "I found us a place to stay!"

We spent Friday night in Sunderland with Joe, a twenty year old journalist/chef/everything else. He made us dinner, shared a bottle of wine and we chatted about everything from bears in Colorado to immigration issues in Europe.

As there is a great deal of nothing to see in Sunderland, Boy and Joe and I went on a quick stroll, ate an enormous English breakfast, and then took the tube, bus and train to Dundee.

We disembarked in Dundee at 9:45, walked up a rather large hill and passed by a Tesco.

"I want cider..." I gazed longingly into the shop.

"Should we buy some?" Boy asked, trying to be supportive of my love for cider. Which sometimes interferes with his love for wine.

"Well, should we buy it now, or should we ask Andrew what he likes to drink and then run back and get some?"

"Good idea. Let's wait."

We walked past raucous pub after uproarious pub, music blaring into the street and light glinting off of amber pints of beer and cider. 

Seems like everyone in the whole of Dundee is out drinking...

We  met Andrew at his home just a few minutes walk outside the city center. When asked what he likes to drink and if we could pick up something at the shop to share, he told us that it was too late. That Scotland has a law wherein shops aren't allowed to sell alcohol before ten in the morning or after ten in the evening. This is the government's attempt to crack down on the binge drinking culture so pervasive in Great Britain.

So instead of cider, we drank tea, chatted for a bit, and then Andrew nonchalantly gave us his bed while he slept on couch.

"When me and my ex were couchsurfing in Spain, one of our hosts gave us his bed. And that was the host we remembered. We were always like, "You remember that guy who gave us his bed?" So I decided that whenever couples stay here, they get the bed."

As Boy says, the couchsurfing.com comunity is like a city. There's going to be a lot of generous, open people like Andrew, and there are going to be a lot of creepy, manipulative "sexsurfers" like Klaus. I need to stop expecting everyone on couchsurfing to be Andrews and I need to not become too discouraged by the Klauses. Regardless of how frequently or infrequently I encounter either of them.

Boy and I spent a lazy Sunday, meandering through the rain, squatting at cafes and trying haggis for the first time.

I feel like I've just reached an important life milestone. First time tying ones own shoes, first time riding a bike without training wheels, first time hitchhiking, first time eating haggis. Sheep lungs, you are delicious, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. 

Andrew made Boy, me and another German couchsurfer named Florian a delicious dinner of rice and pork and we settled into the comfortable couch for a night of watching disturbing documentaries.

Boy and I followed Andrew to Saint Andrews the next day, an idyllic neighboring town where our host works as a marine biologist.

I laughed like a twelve year old when I saw this sign.

We met Andrew for lunch, where he brewed us coffee, introduced us to his lab and gave us a DNA sample kit to take home as a souvenir.

I guess in a way, I'm glad couchsurfing.com is a community like any other city. A community full of all sorts of people who have every kind of motivation. While I'd definitely prefer everyone be an Andrew, the fact that so many aren't helps me to really cherish easy generosity like his. To fully appreciate what a beautiful thing it is. But at the same time, don't think we need bad in the world in order to appreciate good. I don't think we need dark to see light or winter to enjoy summer or any of that rot. I think that people who are aware and participating fully in life will appreciate good in and of itself, and not just because it "isn't bad". I don't like bacon because it isn't a can of cold beans. I like bacon because it's bacon. 

Before the Stories? -- York, England

 I'm starting this post from "the Coffee House" in Aberdeen, Scotland. I'm using my little blue notebook because boy is writing his family on my laptop. We have one of the best seats in the house -- cushions, great view, ample table space -- and have been enjoying the seat for probably three hours now. 

One of the challenges Boy and Girl have encountered in this "traveling as a couple" business, is that not even a couple likes to be together 24/7. I don't like how committed Boy is to walking down narrow alleys that smell like garbage and urine, and he doesn't like how desperate I am to sit in parks that smell like duck poo. So we use our coffee shop time to get the hell away from each other. I order a coffee, do a bit of writing and send a few couchsurfing requests and Boy takes himself, his decrepit black journal, and his umbrella named Madeline for on an hour long walk. Then he returns and we switch places. 

We've been at the cafe for three hours because both of us took our walks and then the foreboding clouds commenced belching rain. So now we're camping out. Buckling down. Doing our best to not interpret meaningful glances at our empty mugs as "you should buy something else if you're gonna stick around for three hours..."

There's a pianist to my left playing the theme song from "The Titanic" so beautifully. I feel nostalgic for my family's fireplace room and our little keyboard, where Jason would play this magical song and I'd wish I'd learned to play something other than the Fur Elise and Scarborough Fair. 

Homesickness is really starting to settle in hard. Part of me assumed that traveling with Boy would just eliminate the whole homesickness aspect of traveling. I mean, I've got the best of both worlds, right? I have the road, adventure, newness, inspiration -- and I have my Boy. But so much of homesickness is attached to... routine. Routine and the comfort of knowing that you're in your own home. Your own space. Your own coffee pot with your own coffee that you can make whenever you fancy a cup of coffee.

We took the bus from Liverpool to York on Wednesday morning, still scratching our heads about our Polish host and her absentmindedness.We had a short layover in Leeds, where we left the bus station for a quick wander about, and found ourselves in some manner of Middle Eastern market where half the women had their heads covered. 

Where am I? This feels like I've been transported back to one of Istanbul's neighborhood markets. But this isn't Beylikduzu. This is Leeds. In England. 

 We boarded the bus from Leeds to York. As we neared the city, Boy's face began to glow with an excitement that is usually reserved for cinnamon rolls with an exceptional amount of frosting and houses with a garish amount of Christmas lights. 

This is the most fairy tale I've seen England... 

 As our host, a Yorkshire man named Jack, wouldn't be able to meet us until five or six, Boy and I shared a coffee at The Nook, then moseyed down to the river. We collapsed with our bags together for a few moments, then took our walks. 

I followed the river into nature, glimpsing several benches full of scenic old people, bikers that whizzed past and prams that trundled along.

Then Boy followed the river into the city (and a supermarket. Where he bought a bottle of wine).

During Boy's walk, he discovered a patch of grass that was next to a church near one of York's pedestrian streets. So we shouldered our bags and heaved them back into town and away from the river.

This will be my life with this person. Always drawn towards crowds of people, cobbled streets and old churches. Whereas I could just sit by the river and watch the changing reflections in the water. I will appreciate such different parts of life because of him.

Jack texted, letting us know that he was back in town and would come meet us. And that we would recognize him because he looked like the sunburned homeless person.

"Great," we texted back. "We'll look like the homeless hippies."

We had absolutely no problem finding each other.

Jack led us back to his apartment (at a breakneck speed. People in English cities walk much more quickly than people in the Welsh countryside). At Jack's house was the essential furniture (as he was moving on Sunday) and a myriad of couchsurfers.

I like this guy. 

Two other couchsurfing Americans from Washington and a couchsurfing German from Cologne. The German was vegan and traveled with her trusty chia seeds, but the rest of us enjoyed a fine carnivorous meal prepared by the Americans.

This is when couchsurfing gets really great. Sitting around a coffee table with five strangers -- strangers who already feel familiar because we've chosen to trust each other -- sharing stories and jokes and food. 

Jack walked the Americans to the train station so that they could catch their train to Newcastle.

"I can never understand why people bother with Newcastle," Jack commented. "Why not just head straight to Edinburgh?"

We're going to Newcastle... wonder how bad it is? Gosh, I'm really not used to this at all. Traveling to places for the sole purpose of seeing pretty things. Purposefully picking the touristic destinations instead of places where I can learn something new. Like beekeeping or permaculture or how to take care of temperamental alpacas. It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that I'm a legitimate tourist this summer -- that I'm on holiday. Travel has never felt like holiday before. It's just felt like life. 

 Boy and I left Jack's around eight the next morning. We splurged on a gorgeous breakfast of eggs royale at a corner cafe and I felt deeply content to "be on vacation".

Then we wandered. I've discovered that Boy has a quite reliable sense of direction, so I'm usually in charge of getting us to a place for the first time (with google maps on my old iPhone) and then Boy takes it from there.

"How do you know where we are?" I ask, flabbergasted. Again and again and again. Because having an innate sense of direction is such a foreign concept to me.

"I have a sense of direction," Boy always replies. And then magically gets us to where we need to go, tolerating a good deal of harrumphing from me about how unfairly senses of direction get distributed.

The Shambles. This is the most adorable area of York, in my opinion. Houses are topsy-turvy, leaning this way and that as they like. In some of the upper stories, it seems quite feasible to reach across and and hand your neighbor a cup of tea. Which is a very English thing to do.

Constantine was proclaimed Roman Emperor in York. Which came as a surprise to both Boy and me, neither of us being up to par on our Roman history.

We glared at his statue for a bit, resenting him for ruining Christianity for everyone.

The Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of Saint Peter, also known as York Minster, is a grand affair. It's so grand that you have to pay to enter, which didn't suit either Boy or me or our budget, so we just took pictures from the outside.

You would be such a fine library. Or hospital. Or school. Or provide so many beds for homeless people. 

I have a mostly "hate" relationship with fancy cathedrals and churches. A tiny bit of me is in awe of what people can create, but most of me is just annoyed that religious organizations choose to create luxurious buildings with the tithes they receive. Instead of, you know, helping people.

There was always someone playing music in this square. We lingered for quite a while.

A shop where you can drink beer, coffee and repair your bike.

View of York from the wall that surrounds the old town area.

Walking along the wall.

One of the many churches we visited had a knitted display of the Last Supper.

The Museum Gardens.

During one of our wanders, we popped into a wine tasting room so that Boy could expand his palate. He's become very dedicated to this palate expansion thing, and is always eager to step into a shop for a quick browse. If we can't afford tastes, he just gazes longingly at the bottles.

Our server approached and nearly sent us into a fit of laughter with his thick accent. Never before have I struggled so hard to not giggle at the way someone speaks, but his accent was so marvelous that I could hardly contain myself. 'Twas straight out of a movie. He could have played a character in Robin Hood.

"That's a jolly good pork pie, it is," he complimented us on our choice of food to accompany the wine flight. "Yes, jolly good."

 
Boy and I joined Jack and some friends for a pint on our last night in York. And we got to hear how proud York is of Sean Bean, and that the only reason everyone from "The North" in Game of Thrones speaks with a Yorkshire accent is because Sean Bean refused to give his up for the show.

We had an absolutely stellar time with Jack.

Couchsurfing experiences like those with Jack in York and Spela and Craig in Bristol are so encouraging. Just feel so energized now. 

Jack and I chatted about workaway and wwoofing and where we might meet up next. Boy made all his typical horrible puns, and Jack threatened to throw him out. I watched and laughed and felt deeply satisfied that Boy's puns could annoy others just as much as they annoy me.

On the couchsurfing reference Jack left, he wrote that Boy has a great sense of humor and that I have all kinds of stories. Which made me wonder.

What did I have before I had stories? It wasn't so long ago I was the homeschooled girl who'd never been outside her homeschool bubble, let alone journeyed into the rest of the world. What did I have to share then? Was I even sharing? Or was I just absorbing?

I've often thought that I tell too many stories for my own good. As in, I spend far too much time talking and not enough time listening. Far too much time ruminating about things I've done and not enough time considering what I'm doing now.  

Are my stories a good thing? And can I even have a conversation without telling a single story? 

I don't know...  I've built my identity around things I've done... as I'm sure most people have... but how much of the present am I not experiencing because I'm so busy telling stories about what I've been?