Whilst yet to prove.

Well tomorrow I am off to Amsterdam. [Insert anxiety/excitement/anticipation here]. But more as for today, there was another day trip with lots of British countryside and historical nonsense. I am not quite sure if it is the lack of sleep or perhaps that I woke up this morning with my right eye practically swollen shut from what could be a variety of things-- one professor said a spider bite (in which case I will find the nearest row boat to the US ASAP), hayfever, or simply a sty-- but I came to the conclusion today that I really just don't know the social conditions of being a tourist. (As far as my eye goes... no worries, I'm going to nurse myself with some English medicine and hopefully all will be well for my travels tomorrow morning). I suppose being touristy is something that goes well with a nice tall glass of age but I can't help but thinking I continue to put off this dreadful American persona. I take lots of pictures, yes and I try to read as much as I can on the tour but sometimes I find myself incredibly disinterested. NOT in a I-hate-walking-lets-find-a-pub-disinterested-type-way but that I wished I knew more about the subject before hand so I could make some sort of educated connection. Does that make sense?

For instance, the other day at St. Paul's cathedral in London there was this overwhelming vibe from students that this was one boring day trip to take whilst being in such a great city. And I have to admit, the tour guide spoke some kind of crazy jibberish British and smelled like he hadn't showered since the Victorian era so it was hard to be enthralled with the experience and not tag along with the rest of the miserable student.

So, naturally, instead of being frustrated, I found other ways to occupy my time by exploring (although I technically wasn't supposed to) and taking lots of photographs. Strangely enough, it was on my escapade and through all of the archaic tombs and stained glass that I found a rather small dedication on an obscure wall commemorating the death of poet John Donne. My heart fluttered a bit and I was so excited that I could have at the very least had a small conversation about that wall space. That's what these places are for right? To open a discourse about a learned experience? I refuse to let my European adventures to become some kind of whore house for other Facebook goers to live vicariously through. It's just cheap and hungry. So I wont. =) On the bright side, boy do I adore English poets...