Look Ma, I'm an International Felon!


     Yes, I'm serious, I'm actually an international felon (how cool is that?!). But I'll get to that in a minute. A lot has happened in the last three weeks. Some of which I will share with you here, some of which I can't be bothered to write anywhere.
     But first of all, let me clear something up. I made a mistake in my own update letter (cue shocking music). A mistake so blatant to some that a correction was sent my way within hours, and it hit me like a firefly to the back of the head. How could I have missed it? I should have known. The mistake I speak of is this: The "out, out, dammed spot!" rug which I had searched for in Hamlet's Castle in Roskilde, Denmark was an entirely misguided operation. It has come to my attention that the object that I should have been searching for was in fact not a rug at all. It was a pair of hands. A pair of hands stained with blood (I knew it was something stained with blood). Hands belonging to none other than Lady MacBeth (Macbeth? McBeth?). She, who apparently lived in Scotland. So I was at the wrong castle, in the wrong country, looking for the wrong object while thinking of the wrong play. Criminy. At least I got the playwright right. Playwright right. Playwright right. I say, at least I got the right playwright, right? :) So there, I've said it. And thanks to my Uncle Rob for pointing it out.

      In Norway, Trondheim was uneventful, and Oslo had not much more to offer then a sea of blonde hair and a statue of Franklin D. Roosevelt. I have photographic proof. Of the statue, not the blondes (or maybe I do, I don't remember). During my four days in Oslo, I walked past a small duck pond in the middle of a city park every day on my way into town. Every time I passed by it, the ducks in the pond were swimming closer together as the ice around them steadily crept in like the crushing grip of Old Man Winter personified. And those that no longer wanted to deal with the crowd in the shrinking pond stood around the edges like wallflowers at a jr. high school dance.
      After a few cold nights in Oslo, I was ready to move on to London. Ready, but almost not able. Which brings me back to that international felony mentioned before. But before that, I must explain that there are a few unions in Europe these days. There's the European Union, which is most of Europe, including the UK, and then there's the Shengin Union, which is most of mainland Europe, but not including the UK and Ireland. It is those countries West of (but not including) the Czech Republic, and North of (and including) Greece. But not Switzerland (which still tries to be as neutral as possible), and not Liechtenstein. Clear?
      When I tried to leave Oslo for London, I was stopped by passport officials at the airport for a fun and educational conversation that went something like this:
     P.O.: "How long have you been here?"
Me: "Where?"
      P.O.: "In Norway."
      Me: "About a week and a half."
      P.O. Searching for my non-existent entry stamp which the authorities in Italy neglected to put in my passport in May when I arrived: "Where did you fly into?"
      Me: "Italy."
      P.O. as she looks through some more of my unstamped passport pages: "When?"
      Me, not realising I should have lied at this point: "May."
      She stopped. "No, that's not possible."
      "Sure it is. See? Here I am!"
      "But you're only allowed to stay for three months."
     ...oops. Dammit! September! Why didn't I just say September?!
      A one-sided phone conversation in Norwegian took place in front of me as she spoke to her supervisor. One-sided because I could only hear one side of it...and understand none of it. Shortly thereafter I was led to a small room upstairs (not quite like the interrogation room from so many TV police dramas, but very much like the waiting room to that area) with a few people in uniform with no sense of humor . They didn't seem to relate to me very well. So after about half an hour in "the little upstairs room" being asked the same questions by people in uniform who couldn't figure out how I had been through so many countries without getting caught yet (frankly, I was wondering the same thing at this point, no one had hardly looked at my passport in the past six months, through 20 countries!), and answering just enough of these questions to avoid the body-cavity search which I was sure was imminent (thankfully, it wasn't), I was finally allowed to get onboard my plane. I guess they realised that I had told them everything I knew. Everything. So I was allowed to leave with one small condition;
      "If you come back, you'll be arrested at the border."
      I couldn't come back to what they call the Shengin Union for at least two years. That's fifteen countries. Thankfully not counting Switzerland. And Liechtenstein. Where would I be without Liechtenstein? Luckily, I have seen just about everything I wanted to see, except Paris. But really, what's Paris got to offer anyway?
      So I left the Shengin Union having unwittingly, and unknowingly beaten the system, only getting caught in the end because I didn't realise I was doing anything wrong to begin with. But oh, how exciting it is to know that merely waking up in the morning, or taking a step out on the street, in short everything I'd done for the previous three months had been illegal! I wonder if Oprah would be interested in my story.
      I got on my plane and flew safely to London. By the time I arrived about two hours later, I had mostly put the whole story behind me. But not wanting to have a repeat episode of the little upstairs room, I asked the Customs Official how long I was allowed to stay in the UK. He looked me square in the eye and asked, "When are you leaving?" Man, some people just don't understand the concept of travelling. Eventually, I got an answer out of him. "Six months," he said. "But NO WORKING!" Right.
      London, England. Native Language, English (not to be confused with American). I no longer have to take those extra few seconds to translate strange, foreign words in my head like toiletter, autobus, and parkering. Instead taking those same precious seconds to translate British into American. Where a queue is a line of people , a tube is a subway, a lift is an elevator, and a lorry is a big-rig truck. Where phrases such as "Mind the Gap," "Way Out," and "hitherto" pepper the language like the rain that threatens to fall at any hour of every day. And then follows through on those threats. This is the hardest language I've had to learn yet!
      A place where simply walking into the front door of ANY house is cause for a "cup o' tea," and the woman who wrote Harry Potter is the second richest woman in the country. Second only to the Queen. The perfect place for an international felon such as myself to lay low for a while until the heat dies down. Special thanks to the Acton Aussies for letting me stay at their hideout while the fuzz was about. I'll gettcha back.
      A beautiful country where people drive on the wrong side of their cars going in the wrong direction on the wrong side of the road! Wait. No, that's not right. Let me rephrase that...
      A beautiful country where people drive on the other side of their cars going in the other direction on the other side of the road...and a Bath is a town. But it's not weird, or wrong...it's just different.
      In London, I went to watch the changing of the Royal Mounted Guard, and witnessed one of the mountees being thrown off his horse. I was able to contain my laughter until I was sure he was all right. Then I went to Buckingham Palace where at the changing of their guard, the band played "Hooray for Hollywood," the theme from "Pink Panther," and "76 Trombones." I love this town, and if there weren't so much more of England and Ireland to see, I would stay here as long as possible. But as it stands, there is so much more of England and Ireland to see...and I've stayed here as long as possible, for now.
      Today I'm in Oxford, enjoying the hospitality of a house inhabited by three English ladies and one Irish lass (I'm behind enemy lines and I love it!), keeping my eyes open for Chelsea Clinton. No sign of her yet, but I'm still lookin'. And in a country obsessed with Harry Potter, even the highest institute of learning opens it's doors to a little commercialism. The Great Hall of Christ Church at Oxford University is the very same place where film crews set their cameras to recreate the school in Harry Potter (Hogwart's, is it?). They advertise it at the door, and they sell copies of the books in the church gift shop! I guess Wizards and magic don't go against everything that God stands for afterall.
     That's it for now. Merry Christmas, everyone, if you don't hear from me before then!

Props to my Peeps, and Peace on the Mothership,
Chris