A note on apartment names

I get a kick out of really sleazy apartment complexes that give themselves these grandiose names in an attempt to lure in residents. It's like they're trying to trick people into thinking they won't be living in a hole of despair.

They have names like The Bel Air. Malibu. Coronado. Anything named after Southern California. Anything with "Heights" or "Vista" in the name. Sometimes they even throw in the word "Beach." You might be hundreds of miles from the nearest beach but hey, they have a pool. Sometimes you even see a combination of the above names, like Coronado Heights or Mailbu Vista. Don't be deceived. "Vista" generally refers to a view, so in a complex called Malibu Vista, all this really means is that you'll be living in a rat-infested hell hole AND your window overlooks a non-rat-infested complex, so you'll have a perfect view of the life you could be living. That's what we call a double whammy.

That's not to say all apartments with these names are rat-infested hell holes but you can be sure most rat-infested hell holes have splendid names.

And you know, if I was looking the apartment up in a phone book, I might just fall for this tactic. "Oooh, The Bel Air must be really nice. I know the real Bel Air in Los Angeles is ritzy, so this must be also... even though it's on the wrong side of town. Must be an oasis of beauty tucked inside the ghetto." But if I'm there in person and can see the peeling paint and the missing letters that read "_he Be_ _ir," I'm not going to fall for it. Why? Because I can see. And smell. And was that a gunshot I just heard? So much for that "oasis of beauty" idea. Hey, that's a pretty good apartment name...

VCWhat?

Now that the new television season has started it is time, once again, to dust off the VCR.

Yes, you heard me right, I said VCR. I didn't say DVR. I didn't say Tivo or Hulu or some new-fangled Satellite recording device that has yet to hit the mainstream home market. I said VCR. You know that machine with the tapes... the one that used to sit in the livingroom underneath the television and flash 12:00 because you never knew how to set the time? Yeah, that one.

With all the selections out there, good old fashioned VHS tapes are still my recording method of choice. Why? I'm glad you asked. I'll tell you why. Because it's hard to justify a monthly fee to be able to record my shows. It's as simple as that. DVR is a fantastic technology and I know as soon as I get it, I will never go back. But why would I pay a monthly fee to record my shows when I can do it from home for FREE? And have you seen the price of tapes lately? I could find that much in my couch cushion... and I don't make a habit of losing money in the couch.

Sure, Hulu is free and a lot of the networks stream shows on their websites, but not all of them. If I want to catch, for example, an episode of the Odd Couple, circa 1972, that I know is going to be on TV Land, I'll be disappointed to learn that ABC isn't streaming Odd Couple re-runs on the Internet. Yes, that's right, ABC has abandoned this show. It's a pity, really. And TV Land does stream old shows but the Odd Couple doesn't happen to be one of their chosen few. If, however, I notice the episode I want to see is on television, I simply pop the tape in and press record. Voila. And I can even set it to record hours or days in advance... as long as the power doesn't go out.


Anyway, so mom was at the grocery store stocking up on tapes to get us through the latest TV season (since I'm gone five nights a week and am a TV junkie). After roaming around the store for a while, mom finally spotted some tapes. And they were a quarter each. Jackpot. She grabbed three (though she thought about clearing them out and taking everything they had) and went to check out. That's 18 hours of recording magic for under a dollar. I have two words for that - Hells. Yeah.

So mom got to the checkout and when it was her turn in line, the checker spotted the tapes and said, "Oh, what are you going to do with all of these VHS tapes."

....

Seriously? Are you unaware of how these tapes are used? Or are you just another snooty DVR user who thinks everyone has this technology? Think of these black plastic bricks as an ancient DVR. Mom was taken aback. She said, "Uhh, tape things on them" and when the girl didn't really respond, mom said, "I don't have DVR or Tivo or anything." And then - this is the kicker - the girl said, "awww." And it wasn't just any, "awww," this was an "awww" full of pity. As if anyone who doesn't have DVR is experiencing a hardship worthy of a government bailout. As if you could find people on street corners with cardboard signs that say, "I have a home but no DVR. Anything helps."

After the fact mom realized she should have come up with some great answer to explain why anyone would want to use a VHS tape. So I've compiled a list of the Top 25 answers she should have given when asked, "What are you going to do with all of these VHS tapes?"

Here they are:

25. "Wouldn't you like to know..." *wink*

24. "OH! Is THAT what those are?"

23. "I'm building a fort."

22. "I'm using them to re-tile my floor. You wouldn't believe how much cheaper these are than standard tile. And nobody will ever know the difference........"

21. "I've been feeling a little depressed and you guys don't sell rope."

20. "Paper weight."

19. "I'm using them to level my desk."

18. "I'm using the tape to line the bird cage. It costs less than a newspaper."

17. "It's an arts and crafts project."

16. "I'm brushing up on my survival skills. Didn't you ever see Cast Away?"

15. "I'm making a film set in the 80s and I want it to be as authentic as possible. I'm hoping to track down some MC Hammer pants and a Members Only Jacket."

14. "I'm putting together a time capsule to be opened in 50 years. I'm searching for things that won't be around in half a century, note the 35 millimeter film that is also in my basket. By the way, do you guys carry polar bears?"

13. "I'm from 1987 and in my time, tapes cost more than a quarter."

12. "I'm from the post-apocalyptic future, where all satellites have failed and we've had to revert back to this antiquated method of information storage... and in my time, tapes cost more than a quarter."

11. "I'm from Soviet Russia, where we do not know of this Dee Vee Arr or TeaVogue. And where I'm from, tapes cost more than a quarter."

10. "The end is nigh. Once the nukes blow and all infrastructure is destroyed, your DVR will be useless."

9. "I'm a collector. I already have a bunch of Maxells but I've been having trouble finding the Fujifilm. These are going to be worth a lot of money someday. "

8. "I ran out of packing peanuts."

7. "I need a bow to put on this gift I'm wrapping."

6. "I'm going to pull the tape out and use it as Easter Grass. Gotta tighten the belt. We are in a recession, after all."

5. "I'm making Pom-Poms."

4. "Dude, plastic is a petroleum product and I'm hoping to recycle these into a new form of fuel to reduce our dependency on foreign oil. Dude."

3. "They make great shoe laces."

2. "My Betamax player broke so I'm upgrading."

And last but not least, the number one answer my mom should have given the cashier...

1. "Because it's a f***ing quarter!"


Simple as that. 'nuff said. Not everyone has made the switch to DVR and if you have a VCR that still works, why not use it? When this one dies, maybe I won't go out of my way to get a new one but I sure as hell will use this thing until it begs for mercy and screams the safe word.

Who wears short skirts?

Dear ladies of the world,

If you decide to wear a short, short skirt to the mall, don't stand next to the glass railings on the second floor. That is, unless you're an exhibitionist and want everyone on the lower level to see your Magic Kingdom.

If that's the case - mission accomplished. Congratulations.

Thank you kindly,
The Accidental Panty Peepers

The Magicians: A Review

The Magicians

By Lev Grossman

On the book jacket of Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, a reviewer uses the phrase “Harry Potter goes to college,” so when I cracked open the book, I turned on my Harry Potter mindset. I was ready for magic, adventure and a replacement romp with a Potter-like character now that the Rowling-penned series has come to a close. That mindset didn’t last long.

Imagine Harry Potter’s life post-Hogwarts. Ditch Harry’s trademark round spectacles and lightning bolt scar and toss his high moral fiber and supreme sense of right versus wrong. Throw out his intense courage and add a few glaring character flaws for good measure. Put him in a brown and blue Brakebills uniform and now you have Quentin Coldwater. In short the book’s hero, if you can call him that, is Harry’s polar opposite. The similarities between the Potter series and The Magicians end after the phrase, “school for magic.” Add a dash of hard drugs, a few helpings of sex and copious amounts of alcohol and then we might have a comparison.

For most of his life, Quentin Coldwater has been obsessed with the fictional, Narnia-like world of Fillory. He’s an otherwise normal (but brilliant) high school senior who can’t catch a break until he’s swept off to Brakebills, a magical university that only accepts 20 students each year. Quentin is lucky enough to be among the 20, so he skips high school graduation, leaves his uncaring parents behind and settles in for five years at a school where he’s certain he’ll find his way. But it’s never that easy. Graduation comes half-way through the book and Quentin is thrown back out into a world where he can (and does) get away with anything.

In a sense, The Magicians brings magic into the real world, complete with all its real world problems. The Magicians is a more realistic, less idealistic version of a fantasy; it’s hard to even call it fantasy. Sure there’s magic, but there’s also addictions, heartbreak and depression. The Magicians is three parts reality to every one part fantasy. Even Quentin comes to learn that his beloved Narnia-inspired Fillory isn’t so innocent. If Narnia is a bedtime story, Fillory is the Tim Burton version of the same story. It’s dark and it’s twisted and it’s not as innocent as the magical land on which it draws its inspiration.

Grossman borrows from more than just C.S. Lewis and the Potter series and any reader of children’s fantasy (or fantasy in general) will appreciate the references. It hints at The Wizard of Oz and The Lord of the Rings and even gives a gentle nod to Dr. Seuss. In that way, The Magicians does what other books about magic fail to do – it acknowledges what came before it.

That said, the book is by no means perfect. It's 416 pages but it reads like it should have been much, much longer. 500, 600, 700 pages… Grossman seems to be in a hurry to brush past details that seem important and at times it felt downright choppy, as if Grossman’s literary exposition was hacked and diced by an editor’s cruelly efficient red pen. The result is literary slaughter. With one exception, everything in the first half of the book is given equal weight. Things that seem important are glossed over, their mention almost casual, and a few chapters read more like a list than a novel - "This happened, then this happened, then this happened..." and so on, until we come to a major event that forces time to slow down.

It was difficult to put my finger on the specific problems of the book’s early chapters but I could tell there was something off. A friend of mine, who is currently a few chapters into the book, stated that she wanted to yell, “Lev, SHOW us, don’t TELL us.” And that’s precisely it. As a reader, we want the words to show us, in great detail, what is happening to these characters. It sounds cliché to say, “paint a picture with words,” but that’s exactly what needs to happen. In some places, Grossman does this just fine but in others he is simply too rushed to get on to the next major event. I’m not sure if this is a problem with Grossman as a writer or if his original manuscript was an enormous tome that was whittled down to something more approachable, but the first half of the book is difficult to read. What they should have done, in my opinion, is split the story into several works, rather than mangle the lengthy volume into submission.

Grossman’s writing style, which is unique but not stylistically comfortable, also caused problems at times. He didn’t really settle into his style until the second half of the book and even then it was still a little on edge. Grossman seemed to be trying to develop his own literary style – he wants to be remembered as a unique voice in American literature, or so it would seem – but at times it felt like he was trying too hard. He wants to develop a style that’s unlike any other and he didn’t fail completely at this, there are a few passages where he really brings this new style to life, but it took 200 pages for him to get comfortable with his own voice.

Grossman is hardly an inexperienced writer. By day he’s a Time Magazine book reviewer and he holds degrees in comparative literature from Harvard and Yale. He’s a smart guy who knows good literature, so I find the glaring problems with The Magicians a little confusing, which is why I'm inclined to blame the editor. But Grossman is relatively inexperienced as a novelist (Warp was released in 1997 and Codex in 2004), so I think the trouble lies in two places: first, Grossman is a journalist, like it or not, so he’s used to changing projects every thousand words. Taking on a project of this length can be problematic for a journalist (trust me, I know). The second danger zone comes at the meeting of an overzealous writer with an editor and his vicious red pen – a dangerous combination.

I'm inclined to blame Viking for the majority of The Magicians’ problems, including a few minor annoyances that, individually, aren't enough to make me set the book aside, but they do add up. On the inside cover of the book is an artist’s rendering of the mythical land of Fillory. If you pay enough attention, the map in no way resembles Grossman’s depiction of the country. Things that should north of a certain landmark lie to the south and things that should be east are west. Out of desperation, I checked the map’s key to see if north and south were opposite in Fillory but no such luck, things were just out of place. It seems like Viking handed the artist a list of names and locations and told him to go to town, without any regard for Grossman’s original vision. To me the map, which is supposed to serve as a helpful guide to interested readers, caused more problems than it solved.

But of all the things in this book that bothered me, and there were quite a few, I think the biggest (it was actually the smallest but it pissed me off the most) was a sudden hair color change for the female lead. On page 51, upon her introduction, Alice has straight blonde hair. On page 287 she has dark hair. What happened? I can’t recall a dye job or a bit of hair magic. This one detail, though it seems minor, really did a number on my head. I’ve been picturing her as a blonde this whole time, so when Grossman changed her description, he pulled the rug out from under me. It’s like watching a movie adaptation and thinking, “well that’s not how she looked in my head.” In my head (and on page 51), Alice is a blonde. But really, I don’t care what color they make her hair, just pick one and stick with it.

On top of its issues, the book closed with several loose ends. I smell a sequel. But after the disappointment here, I can't guarantee I'll read it. There have been several series in the past that I would read even if the pages were made out of dog poop. If the words inside are guaranteed to be good, I'll take a chance on it. With The Magicians and any other Grossman books that may follow, it’s not a given that I’ll read on. There's too much uncertainty.

So my recommendation? Skip it. Or, if you're still interested, check it out at the library or wait a year or so for it to land in stores as a paperback. It's not worth the $26.95 price tag. All in all, I didn’t hate The Magicians. In fact, after the midway point there were a few parts of it I actually enjoyed, but the attempt as a whole, to me, fell flat. Two-and-a-half bowls of soup out of five. Though interesting at times, The Magicians failed to live up to its promise.

A Wicked Friendship

I love the Wizard of Oz. I love it for its painted sets and its cheery optimism and the full Technicolor spectrum. I love it for its imperfections and the downright cheese factor of the whole affair. It’s safe to say the 1939 film is my favorite of all time.

I read the L. Frank Baum classic a few years back expecting a delightful Harry Potter/Narnia hybrid romp down the brick-lined path and it was nothing of the sort. It was childish and simple and at times downright bizarre. It really was nothing like I was expecting, nothing like the movie; that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it but it just loses something without the vibrant colors and Judy Garland soundtrack. I followed it up with a reading of Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, which provides a back story for the infamous Wicked Witch of the West. I found the concept for Maguire’s novel intriguing but in execution it was wordy and complex. The character relationships were anything but straightforward, add to that Maguire’s immensely broad vocabulary (for a book based on a children’s story) and you come up with a novel that left me a little cold.

Despite being underwhelmed by both books, my affinity for all things Oz made me curious about the musical stage adaptation of Wicked. The show appeared, at least to me, to have captured a little bit of the magic that made the Wizard of Oz movie so inviting, even if I wasn’t a huge fan of the novel. So when the show came to town I arrived at the theater with my Oz obsession in tow, knowing it might not live up to the hype.

But it did. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. The music is fantastic, the cast was excellent and everything about the look and feel and sound of the show was even better than I could have imagined (it did win Tonys for Best Scenic Design and Best Costume Design, after all). For more than a month I’ve been pondering what it is about the show that makes it different. Besides the music and the sets and the amazing performances, what is it about this show that makes it so touching – so beautiful? It doesn’t hurt that it’s about two strong women (name one other live show with TWO female leads) but I’ve decided that what makes all the difference is that Wicked is, first and foremost, a story about a friendship. Romantic relationships are interspersed, a love triangle is thrown in for drama and tenuous family relationships are tossed into the mix but at the heart of the story exists a friendship between two very strong – but very different – women.

It seems to me that this is a completely new genre for show business. You have your love stories where the ups and downs of romance are the driving force behind the dramatic structure. Then you have your family stories with blood-related broods that are either very happy or very sad (usually sad with a gentle crescendo to happy or at least moderately happy). Next you have your buddy stories where two characters (sometimes more), go through something that either bonds them or rips them apart. These stories are usually either comic fluff or sappy melodramas. One other category, ensemble pieces, exists in its own sphere.

Most of the friendships that are portrayed in the stories we read/see/consume are in solo stories. In these types of stories, one character goes through trials and the obligatory tribulations and there’s usually a less important friend by their side that gets downgraded to a sidekick or, worse yet, “comic relief.” They grow very little throughout the story; the story arc for these types of characters tends to be very short. But a friend story that is neither fluff comedy or melodrama and places both friends on the same level seems revolutionary.

Wicked doesn’t seem to fit into any of the above formats. Elphaba (the Wicked Witch) is the “main character” but the story here is as much Glinda’s and, even more importantly, the two women are placed as equals. Glinda doesn’t take on the role of “sidekick” in Elphaba’s story and while our sparkly Good Witch of the North is unquestionable funny, she’s hardly comic relief. Just when you think she’s about to step into that role you start to notice a character arc building, and a growth begins that surpasses even her green-skinned friend.

It would have been really easy to have gone awry with this story. They could have dropped the curtain with Glinda laughing as the munchkins dance around singing “Ding Dong the Witch is dead.” But I somehow think that would have been so much less satisfying. Instead it ends with Glinda tormented over the loss of the only friend that has ever meant something to her.

The friendship that is forged here becomes the story. It’s not a subplot or a sideline story that gets dusted over on the way to the real meat. It’s not a small story arc buried inside a larger, more complex series of arcs. It’s the story in full, Elphaba is the meat and Glinda is the potatoes. And that allows the friendship to develop before our eyes into something very touching. To watch these two characters change together, change one another, is a truly beautiful thing. As an audience we can see how each life was touched by the other. It’s a different kind of love than is normally seen in the stories we consume. The love of friendship can be just as strong and just as life-altering as a romance and it’s something everyone can relate to. We’ve all had a friend that has changed our lives, the way Elphaba and Glinda change each other.

The Ancient Greeks had four distinct words for love, all describing different kinds of love in different kinds of relationships. They were each elements of the same concept but they all had a separate meaning. There was romantic love, of course, but the love of a friend warranted its own unique definition. We’re inundated on a daily basis by stories of sappy romantic love but it’s rare to find a story of friendship that is so deep and heartfelt. I knew I was going to like Wicked for its music and its general stage presence but it was the heart of the story that helped it surpass even my most giddy expectations. If you haven’t seen it – go. Now.

Please tell me that's a candy bar...

The hot hot weather recently has gotten me thinking about summers past and, more specifically - summer camp.

I went to Girl Scout camp for four or five years in a row, beginning when I was about 8. I always looked forward to my annual trip to the Texas Hill Country, so it’s interesting to find that I don’t have a lot of camp memories left as an adult. I liked camping and all the silly activities that go along with it so it's strange how little I remember of the experiences. And sadly, the memories I do still have are mostly unhappy ones. I feel like my camp experiences were generally good but what I remember is the bossy girls who treated me and other campers like the leftover ash after a campfire, kicking it around and grinding it into the dirt with their hiking boots.

I’ve been racking my brain for a good summer camp story to share, one that highlights what a positive experience camping was growing up but I haven’t been able to come up with a single one. I know I had fun, at least some of the time, or else I wouldn’t have gone back. My parents didn’t force me to go; it was my choice to return each summer, so it can’t have been all bad. But since I can’t think of a happy story to share, I’ll give you a story that’s a little gross and weird. Because, let’s face it, those kinds of stories are usually the most interesting to read anyway.

Summer camp was different every year. You would pick a program from the brochure based on what activities you liked; one year I chose “Wet and Wild” and we learned about water safety and went canoeing. Another year I went to “Night Owl” camp and we went for a night swim and a night hike and tried stargazing (that year, while my fellow campers were bitching about being tired, I was thrilled we didn’t have to wake up so early). But regardless of which program I chose, we always took daily trips to the pool. Every campsite had a set swimming time that remained in place throughout the week. All the activities around pool time would change daily (except for meals) but pool time was fixed. Every year I hoped for an afternoon timeslot because the pool was just too cold at 8 am and an afternoon swim was always a nice way to cool off after a full day of activities under the hot Texas sun.

We didn’t do much at pool time but it was always nice to have the pool to ourselves to splash around in the over-chlorinated water. There weren’t any old ladies try to do laps across our game of Marco Polo (which we played by substituting other words, I would say “macaroni,” another girl would say “cheese” or even “peanut butter” and “jelly.” Clearly I was a hungry child.) and there was no such thing as “adult swim.” The pool was our respite – an oasis in the baked desert.

Every now and then they would close the pool for cleaning or to fix the chemicals but to us kids it was just a lame way to punish us for something we didn’t even know we did. Everyone was always grumpy on no-pool days.

Before we could get in the pool, all the girls would cram into the changing room to put on swim suits and goggles and any other pool gear our parents had sent us with. On one occasion, I remember glancing over at a fellow camper and noticing a certain stain in her panties as she dropped them to the floor. The girl, I’ll call her Skidmarks, didn’t realize I had seen, not that she would have cared because she didn’t even try to hide her sinful stain, she just let her panties drop and went about her changing as this was totally normal; as if the chunky brown lines were just the pattern on her panties.

Later that evening, during what was likely a championship game of Macaroni/Cheese, the lifeguards and camp counselors tweeted their whistles and called for everyone to get out of the pool. It was way too early to be heading to our next activity, so we all inherently knew there must be a problem. As we were leisurely making our way to the sides of the pool, griping that pool time was being cut short, someone spotted something brown at the bottom of the pool. It was a turd. And once spotted, all hell broke loose. We began scrambling for the sides as if we were reenacting a scene from Caddy Shack. Our leisurely paddles to the edge turned into Michael Phelps style sprints to get out of the dirty, poopy water. And of course, the pool was closed the next day so it could be disinfected. Another grumpy no-pool day.

They never figured out who did it but I, of course, knew who it was. I don’t think Skidmarks ever came forward and admitted her crime but I knew her secret. I probably whispered it to my camp buddy, who whispered it to our cabin mates. For Skidmarks’ sake it’s probably a good thing we weren't a gossipy group, or else this girl’s official camp nickname would have been “Skidmarks” and her life would have been ruined… for about six days.

Not to worry, Skidmarks, your secret is safe with me. I can’t reveal your true identity since I never knew it in the first place, so even though you made me swim in your toilet water and caused me a lifetime of undue stress wondering what’s at the bottom of the pool, I will bear your burden. I will keep your secret.

Happy Summer, everyone!

Not-So-Jolly Old England

I wrote this a while back with the intention of whoring it out as a freelance humor piece (a-la-David Sedaris) but here it sits on my over-crowded hard drive, gathering virtual dust. So, rather than let is slip away into The Nothing (Neverending Story reference!), I'll post it here for all to enjoy with the hopes that maybe someday it'll see a page. A real page... made of paper.

It's kind of long-winded but if you stick with it, it does get to a point eventually. I apologize for the weird font changes throughout the blog but blogger is really acting up tonight and I can't get it to stick with one font all the way through. I'll see about fixing that soon but for now I just want to get this posted. Enjoy!

I think the United Kingdom must have a picture of me posted behind the counter at the London Stansted airport. There’s a yearbook, of sorts, of dubious characters from around the world. My face is pictured alongside the likes of Osama bin Laden, who has surely been placed on the “no fly” list by now, and good ol’ Saddam, who was still alive and kicking at the time of my June 2004 trip to Jolly Old England. Flip a few pages into the book and you’ll find the shoe bomber and those nice fellows that blew up the subway in Madrid just a few months before my trip (nearly leaving me out a $500 non-refundable deposit). This was before those other nice young men decided to blow up the London underground, so they weren’t in the 2004 yearbook. I guess I’m a few grades above them.

I don’t really know how I came to be included in this yearbook. Something about a very innocent-looking 19-year-old American girl traveling alone just screams, “detain me!” Maybe it’s because I’m young (that’s discrimination!). Maybe it’s because I’m American (also discrimination, albeit warranted at times). Or maybe I look alarmingly like some diabolical London swindler who jimmies vending machines to steal “crisps” and “biscuits.” I have been told I vaguely (very vaguely) resemble Charlotte Church. Not to imply she’s a swindler…

The scourge of the earth sneaks across international borders on a daily basis (or so my TV box tells me) to claim sanctuary on foreign soil and hide embezzled funds in Swiss bank accounts and other untraceable offshore locations. Diligence on the part of airport security and immigration officials pays off but these uniformed workers are hardly infallible. Terrorists somehow manage to weasel their way through every now and then. So do the snobby, the sickly, the downright rude and Republicans.

And yet, me they detained. I arrived in the United Kingdom on the heels of a 5-week-long study abroad trip in Spain, saying “si” and “no” in endless repetition, nodding like a bobble head doll. From there my two roommates were headed to Italy while I was being shipped off to the outskirts of London to stay with my mom’s sister’s friend’s brother. One more degree and I would have been bunking with Kevin Bacon himself.

Throughout my five-week stay in the Spanish town of Vallodolid, I latched on to my roommates and scored invitations to several weekend outings, including a very smoke-filled train ride to Barcelona and a drama-filled excursion to Paris. It was my intention to do the same with Italy but as the program reached its limits so did my bank account. Alternate arrangements had to be made. I had a week left in Europe before my flight home and if I could find someone to stay with (preferably not an axe murderer or a vending machine swindler) I could probably coast by until I landed in Texas. Hotel rooms were out of the question, even hostels were iffy. I needed someone to take pity and offer me a couch or a bed or a little corner in a 2 by 3 closet.

I booked a dirt cheap, last-minute trip on Ryan Air and called in reinforcements to help make the arrangements. My mom called her sister, who called her friend, who called her brother. Then the whole chain reversed and worked its way back to my mom, who called the brother directly and translated his Scottish accent into a agreement. It was settled– I would be staying with the McMurdos, one step removed from Kevin Bacon, in the suburban English town of Romford. I had a name, a plane ticket and somewhere in my e-mail inbox I had an address. I was on my way.

My 2004 Eurotrip was my first transatlantic journey and my first trip alone. On top of that, the flight to London was the first leg of my journey without a teacher or a family member fetching me on the other end. I didn’t have anyone to coach me about the ins and outs of sweet-talking English Bobbies or immigration officials and I sure as hell didn’t have enough money to toss a bribe into the mix. After an unexpected financial nightmare leaving Spain (who knew it would cost so much to get six weeks worth of luggage home? No wonder the flight was so cheap.), I arrived in London ill-prepared for what was ahead of me.

When I arrived on English soil, thankful for my comparatively broad vocabulary repertoire, I was handed a sheet of paper and asked to fill out some very basic information, which basically amounted to “where are you from, why are you here and when are you leaving?” The only question on the sheet that threw me was the one that asked where I was staying. My Internet access in Spain had been limited, at best, and with the completion of my university-sponsored program it had been almost non-existent. My access to a printer was even more sparse, so I didn’t have the opportunity to print out my mother’s e-mail, so when faced with a question I didn’t have an answer to, I did what any good college student would do and left the question blank. At least I think I did, though thanks to the events that followed, the whole encounter is a little fuzzy. I pray to all things mighty and holy that I didn’t put a smart ass answer like, “Alistair McMurdo’s house,” which would have only taunted the already charming woman behind the counter.

I waited in line and handed in my paperwork, test complete, minus the one question I didn’t know the answer to. I studied hard but I must have skipped over that chapter in the text book because damn if I don’t remember seeing that in the reading. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was about to encounter the most embittered immigration official on either side of the Prime Meridian. This was no surly professor or grumpy lunch lady. This woman was a piece of work. Not only was she rude and unforgiving, she had a fiery devil tongue that could eat your self-esteem and chew at your soul. This woman made me doubt myself. She made me cry and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

"You mean to tell me you've come into a foreign country with absolutely no idea where you're staying?" asked the surly She-Devil in her snotty, posh accent. And the way she said it – so… judgemental.

After determining “That’s how I roll, bitch” to be an inappropriate answer, I informed her that yes, I had indeed arrived in a foreign country without an address and yes, I was still interested in entering her fine country. Saying what I was thinking (“Who are you to judge me, you good-for-nothin’ public servant?”) was likely to get me into more trouble, so I proposed ideas for how I could obtain this all-important address. The exchange went something like this.

Me: "I have a name. Do you have a phone book so I can look it up?”

She-Devil: "No."

Me: "I have the address in an e-mail. Do you have a computer where I can check my e-mail?"

SD: "No."

Me: "My mom has the address. Do you have a pay phone where I can call my mom?"

SD: "No."

Me: "Any phone?"

SD: "No."

Me: "Well, the man I’m staying with is picking me up here, he’ll have the address. He should be right outside those doors, his name is Alistair McMurdo."

SD: "Do you know how many Alistair MuMurdos there are in London?"

At this point the smart ass in me is itching to rear its ugly head and ask, “No, do you?” but that’s not going to help matters. The woman politely informed me that there are probably hundreds of Alistair McMurdos in London alone. Of course, silly me. My mistake. There are probably hundreds of John Smiths also but what are the chances every single one of them is in the same teeny tiny airport on the same day? What, were they all in town for a convention?

Now, Alistair McMurdo doesn’t sound like a very common name to me but then what do I know? I’m just a stupid American. Don’t you have a loud speaker? In America we have loud speakers. And even if there is more than one Allistair McMurdo in the building, you can simply ask them which one is expecting the stupid American girl. How hard is that?

At this point she made me get out of line and sit on a bench to wait for, oh I don’t know, the address to come to me in a flash of brilliance, I guess. By then I was starting to regret not making up an answer. I suppose that kind of thinking would have really done my half-complete college education proud, even more than leaving it blank. I should have put something – anything – just so the little box wasn’t blank. I suspect the blank is what tipped her off that I didn't study. If it wasn’t blank, she would have never known the difference. London Hotel, 123 London Road, London. But my perpetual fear of being caught and perhaps arrested and thrown in jail (a “you’re not really in England yet so we can do whatever the hell we want to you” kind of jail) to rot with the other diabolical characters steered me away from dishonesty. Damn my good character and high moral fiber.

As I sat on the bench my throat started to close up and hot tears burned at the edges of my eyes. Don’t blink, do not blink. If I blink it’s all over and I cannot let her see me cry. I will not give that Vile Woman the satisfaction. I had visions of sleeping on an airport floor for the rest of my vacation, the dirty filthy floor where thousands of foreign shoes pass every day of every year. And it wasn’t even the same airport I was set to leave from in a few days. I was in England but I wasn’t officially in England and I was miles and miles away from Gatwick, where my flight to Houston would take off without me. I, meanwhile, would still be sleeping on the floor at Stansted, where I would likely be sleeping the rest of my nights for all eternity. I would live like a bum on the carpeted airport floor until my dying days, without ever officially entering the country. I could have left England right then and there without any documented evidence I had ever passed through the country except for a half-complete immigration questionnaire and the popular t-shirt reading, “my friend tried to go to England but they wouldn’t let her in and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

Finally, after making me sweat it out for a while, the She-Devil apparently took my suggestion and sent someone to fetch Alistair, who was standing at the gate the entire time, holding up a sign with my name in big block letters colored with bright yellow highlighter. The sign couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d lit it on fire. If I hadn’t been so pissed at the She-Devil I would have been excited about the sign. Nobody’s ever made me a sign before. I felt so important. Or at least I would have.

If she’d taken my advice from the beginning, this whole mess could have been bypassed. Madame McGrumpyPants could have seen for herself that Alistair McMurdo is in fact a real person, he is waiting for me and he’s probably the only one in the airport by that name. Perhaps the only one in the city. Or the entire damn world. As for me, no, I’m not a terrorist, no I don’t have the bird flu or SARS or any other flesh-eating virus (that I know of) and I only voted Republican that one time in college when I was still experimenting. Okay, maybe twice but I am from Texas.

After she confirmed Alistair’s existence, Lady Lucifer was all sunshine and daisies and Popsicles. She even wished me a happy stay. F**k off, bitch.

Since that incident I have been informed by a friend that one should never, under any circumstances, approach an immigration official without securely fastening your “F**k Off Face.” If only I’d known that at the time. On my first approach to her counter, my F**k Off Face was still buried in my luggage beneath about 8 thousand pounds of crispy, line-dried laundry. Oh how young and naïve I was. I was happy to be in the Queen’s England, happy to be in Europe, happy to be travelling and away from everything familiar and boring. If only I’d known that The Bitch From Hell had a happiness filter surrounding her counter and she made damn certain nobody (not nobody not no-how) passed into her country without being strained through the happiness filter, which strips your being of every good thought that hath ever occurred to you.

After making me wait on a bench in humiliation and treating me like a complete moron, the F**k Off Face was firmly affixed. Even after she pulled out the fake ass lollipops-and-fairy-tale-creatures attitude that F**k Off Face stayed put. Your unicorns and ligers aren’t going to change the fact that you treated me like a piece of used gum stuck to the ass of a stinky baboon with leprosy.

Five years later and I still hate that Devil Woman with the passion of a million burning hellfires. I suspect I’ve cleared my name from the no-fly Facebook since I have since entered Europe without a problem (though the United Kingdom may still have it out for me, I haven’t been back yet), but I learned a lot on that trip. For starters, always know (or make up) the address of where you are staying. Never tempt an immigration official by asking them questions they enjoy saying “no” to. And last and most importantly, always ALWAYS pack your F**k Off Face in your carry-on. At the top. Next to your uranium.