Before you start judging me about the fact that I'm posting about the "teenage vampire saga", hear me out. I have a strong love/hate relationship with the series. The order in which I prefer these books are as follows:
1. Eclipse
2. Breaking Dawn
3. Twilight
4. New Moon
I'll preface this by saying that I'm a closet fan. I hate how entrancing this series is. I abhor that I couldn't put any of the books down once I started them, including New Moon.
Also, I'm Team Jacob. I have nothing against the vampires; I don't consider the Cullens to be "blood-sucking leeches". Edward sounds gorgeous, I'll admit. (I say "sounds" because the movies are awful representations of the books.) And this sounds cliché because it's the same reason my fellow teammates worldwide give for not liking Edward: he left. My reasons are different, however. Those other girls say that if Edward truly loved Bella, he wouldn't have left her there alone. I do realize Edward's concern. He realizes that his 'family' sucks, literally. And Jasper really, really wants to suck Bella's blood. Here are the things I don't understand. First of all, why the monkeys would he choose Bella? Why the monkeys would ANYONE choose Bella? C'mon! She's boring! Everything about her exudes "damsel in distress". She's not the main character; she exists to make Edward look amazing and make Jacob look like a desperate idiot. And Stephanie Meyer succeeds in this. Second of all, if Edward is really almost a century old, shouldn't he know that his family will like the smell of Bella's blood? I'm not even a legal adult and I knew that. Thirdly, he's with Bella because she smells good. Way to build a strong relationship there. Lastly, Edward leaving was a little too relevant in my own life at the time that I read it. Last summer, my '09 Senior friends and friendliers left for college. It was hard to see them go, especially the ones that said they would leave. The literally dismissal wasn't as much of a shock or a disappointment as the figurative one. When people that you love so dearly leave for bigger and better things, you have to accept it and encourage them. But when they stop contacting you, it's difficult. I guess that's why I like New Moon least.
I like Eclipse best for the sole reason that Edward and Jacob have to share a tent. It's the best scene ever. That is all.
Later Days
Peace
H
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
New York, New York
You left Boston at 11 a.m. It should only take two and a half hours to get to New York City from there. However, thanks to some unbearably fresh Bostonian Clam Chowder, your Pops has the barfs. You finally get to the City at 5 p.m.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.
The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.
The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
American Food
It's no wonder America is thought of as the fattest country.
Mozzarella sticks: breaded cheese sticks. I recently found out that they taste the same without the cheese in the middle.
Hamburgers: ground steak on bread. Then people start stacking patties. Double and Triple quarter-pounders.
Hotdogs: mystery meat wrapped in sheep intestine. Yum. And you're wrong. You really don't know what's in a hot dog. They put leftovers, also known as Variety Meats, in hotdogs. That means livers, hearts, a mixture of beef, turkey, pork, chicken, and whatever else is left. Have you ever noticed that hotdogs are relatively cheap? It's because low quality leftovers are used to produce them.
Snack Cakes: daily calorie hogs. I have to admit that zebra cakes are like manna from heaven. However, one package would make up one-fourth of my suggested caloric intake.
Onion Rings: breaded onions. A vegetable that's healthy for the body but that wreaks havoc upon the breath is coated with flour and spices then fried. What's the point? I still don't see how someone came up with doing that.
French Fries. Nuff said.
Hot Wings.
Chicken Fingers.
Chicken Fried Steak.
Chili. (maybe you'll be lucky and find a finger!)
Steak.
Pan Pizza. (Italians made pizza thin for a reason)
Vienna Sausages. (I've seen someone drink the leftover juice - not pretty)
Jello. (there are cow bones in that stuff)
Those individual fruit pies. (they use beef fat. I'm still not sure why)
Tex-Mex. (Mexican food already involves frying; why refry?)
It's often said, "You are what you eat." I guess that would make us as Americans stereotypically greasy and fried. Looking around, I see that it's true. It's been proven that chocolate intake doesn't cause acne and other skin problems. However, eating greasy foods does. I see greasy faces and greasy hair that stem from our greasy fingers. Of course, the body naturally produces its own oils but the amount of oil put into the blood stream through food consumption adds more. As for fried, we fake bake. We bleach and color our hair until it's a lovely shade of tye-dye. In the end, we are popcorn chicken. We're crispy, fried around the edges, and too 'chicken' to do anything about it.
I'm not trying to turn anyone vegetarian, but maybe we should do unto our bodies as we would want them to do unto us. In other words, if you wanna be greasy, eat greasy foods. If not, don't.
Later Days
Peace
H
Mozzarella sticks: breaded cheese sticks. I recently found out that they taste the same without the cheese in the middle.
Hamburgers: ground steak on bread. Then people start stacking patties. Double and Triple quarter-pounders.
Hotdogs: mystery meat wrapped in sheep intestine. Yum. And you're wrong. You really don't know what's in a hot dog. They put leftovers, also known as Variety Meats, in hotdogs. That means livers, hearts, a mixture of beef, turkey, pork, chicken, and whatever else is left. Have you ever noticed that hotdogs are relatively cheap? It's because low quality leftovers are used to produce them.
Snack Cakes: daily calorie hogs. I have to admit that zebra cakes are like manna from heaven. However, one package would make up one-fourth of my suggested caloric intake.
Onion Rings: breaded onions. A vegetable that's healthy for the body but that wreaks havoc upon the breath is coated with flour and spices then fried. What's the point? I still don't see how someone came up with doing that.
French Fries. Nuff said.
Hot Wings.
Chicken Fingers.
Chicken Fried Steak.
Chili. (maybe you'll be lucky and find a finger!)
Steak.
Pan Pizza. (Italians made pizza thin for a reason)
Vienna Sausages. (I've seen someone drink the leftover juice - not pretty)
Jello. (there are cow bones in that stuff)
Those individual fruit pies. (they use beef fat. I'm still not sure why)
Tex-Mex. (Mexican food already involves frying; why refry?)
It's often said, "You are what you eat." I guess that would make us as Americans stereotypically greasy and fried. Looking around, I see that it's true. It's been proven that chocolate intake doesn't cause acne and other skin problems. However, eating greasy foods does. I see greasy faces and greasy hair that stem from our greasy fingers. Of course, the body naturally produces its own oils but the amount of oil put into the blood stream through food consumption adds more. As for fried, we fake bake. We bleach and color our hair until it's a lovely shade of tye-dye. In the end, we are popcorn chicken. We're crispy, fried around the edges, and too 'chicken' to do anything about it.
I'm not trying to turn anyone vegetarian, but maybe we should do unto our bodies as we would want them to do unto us. In other words, if you wanna be greasy, eat greasy foods. If not, don't.
Later Days
Peace
H
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
So Long a Letter
Dear G-ma,
You're sick now, really sick. I read Jessica's letter yesterday and figured that I should write one of my own. It's true, obviously, that I'm not one of your real grandchildren. Sure, Chandler and I are extremely close, but I'm not actually one of Sherilyn's kids. Ashley and Lucas aren't my siblings, neither is Brent. But, somehow, I always felt like I belonged right in the middle of your family's shenanigans.
Gratitude is the first thing I want to express to you. I'm thankful that you love me as one of your own grandchildren. You came to see my musical last semester just to see me. Chan wasn't in the musical at all and you didn't know anyone else in the production, but you came anyway. I spat on you right before intermission, but you still loved every minute of it. My favorite part of the care you gave me is that it "killed two birds with one stone", as Chan would say. The compassion and love you show me not only makes me feel special and one-of-a-kind, but you manage to make every single person you come into contact with feel the same way. I know we never really got to know each other, G-ma, so let me brief you. I hate conformity. I don't like the idea that I'm the same as someone else. If it were anyone else giving every individual as much attention as you do, I would be jealous out of my mind. It's still a mystery to me how I don't ever feel that way at all. I'm not jealous of the way you care for every single person with whom you come into contact. Your heart's big enough for the world over and I appreciate that greatly.
Secondly comes awe. As I sat in the hospital with your lovely, lovely family, I've heard stories of your past. Jessica, Chandler, and Lucas sang me your special alphabet song. I nearly peed myself from laughter. Though I never got to read it with you, I've heard that the miraculous Sleep Book written by the wonderfully philosophical Dr. Suess has hypnotic powers. Another thing about me, I'm a pessimist. I've always figured that being negative is ultimately beneficial in life: I'm either proven right (which I always enjoy) or I'm pleasantly surprised. It was there, in that hospital room that I learned the true powers of an optimistic mind. When I walked in, I saw tubes, IV's, packets of donated blood and bone marrow. When your family walked in, all they saw was you. Tubes and IV's didn't have that negative connotation in their eyes; they were proof of hope. Donated blood and bone marrow didn't exhibit dependency; they showed the love of a stranger. Every single person that walked in that room admires you. They admire your strength, your perseverance, your faith in God. But out of all of them, I think I admire you most. Out of anyone I have ever known, you have the most right to be cranky and to force that miserableness upon everyone. You don't, though. You never complained once. You hold your head high because you know where you're going after this small pit stop. You know that you have something stronger than cancer. You have God. That faith amazes me. I appreciate it greatly.
Last, I just want to say some things. This is in no way you giving up. I would never think that of you. This is what you want for yourself. You've spoken to God and you know this is what He wants for you. Your family is still trying to wrap their minds around the thought. But don't worry about them; you've taught them well. I'll take care of them for you, if you'll let me. In my mind, there was so much I had wanted to say, but, suddenly, nothing will come out. In that case, I'll say one last thing. Cancer didn't beat you, not at all. You aren't succumbing to it. This is God's way of healing; He has many different ways and this is just one of them. He's taking your damaged earthly body in exchange for an unimaginable and wonderfully new one. He's giving you one that's brand new, that never hurts. Now, if you ask me, that's the best kind of healing I've ever heard of.
With Love,
Hayleigh
P.S. When you get up there, say hello to my great-grandmother. She doesn't speak English very well, but I'm sure if you ask nicely, God will teach you some Ukrainian.
You're sick now, really sick. I read Jessica's letter yesterday and figured that I should write one of my own. It's true, obviously, that I'm not one of your real grandchildren. Sure, Chandler and I are extremely close, but I'm not actually one of Sherilyn's kids. Ashley and Lucas aren't my siblings, neither is Brent. But, somehow, I always felt like I belonged right in the middle of your family's shenanigans.
Gratitude is the first thing I want to express to you. I'm thankful that you love me as one of your own grandchildren. You came to see my musical last semester just to see me. Chan wasn't in the musical at all and you didn't know anyone else in the production, but you came anyway. I spat on you right before intermission, but you still loved every minute of it. My favorite part of the care you gave me is that it "killed two birds with one stone", as Chan would say. The compassion and love you show me not only makes me feel special and one-of-a-kind, but you manage to make every single person you come into contact with feel the same way. I know we never really got to know each other, G-ma, so let me brief you. I hate conformity. I don't like the idea that I'm the same as someone else. If it were anyone else giving every individual as much attention as you do, I would be jealous out of my mind. It's still a mystery to me how I don't ever feel that way at all. I'm not jealous of the way you care for every single person with whom you come into contact. Your heart's big enough for the world over and I appreciate that greatly.
Secondly comes awe. As I sat in the hospital with your lovely, lovely family, I've heard stories of your past. Jessica, Chandler, and Lucas sang me your special alphabet song. I nearly peed myself from laughter. Though I never got to read it with you, I've heard that the miraculous Sleep Book written by the wonderfully philosophical Dr. Suess has hypnotic powers. Another thing about me, I'm a pessimist. I've always figured that being negative is ultimately beneficial in life: I'm either proven right (which I always enjoy) or I'm pleasantly surprised. It was there, in that hospital room that I learned the true powers of an optimistic mind. When I walked in, I saw tubes, IV's, packets of donated blood and bone marrow. When your family walked in, all they saw was you. Tubes and IV's didn't have that negative connotation in their eyes; they were proof of hope. Donated blood and bone marrow didn't exhibit dependency; they showed the love of a stranger. Every single person that walked in that room admires you. They admire your strength, your perseverance, your faith in God. But out of all of them, I think I admire you most. Out of anyone I have ever known, you have the most right to be cranky and to force that miserableness upon everyone. You don't, though. You never complained once. You hold your head high because you know where you're going after this small pit stop. You know that you have something stronger than cancer. You have God. That faith amazes me. I appreciate it greatly.
Last, I just want to say some things. This is in no way you giving up. I would never think that of you. This is what you want for yourself. You've spoken to God and you know this is what He wants for you. Your family is still trying to wrap their minds around the thought. But don't worry about them; you've taught them well. I'll take care of them for you, if you'll let me. In my mind, there was so much I had wanted to say, but, suddenly, nothing will come out. In that case, I'll say one last thing. Cancer didn't beat you, not at all. You aren't succumbing to it. This is God's way of healing; He has many different ways and this is just one of them. He's taking your damaged earthly body in exchange for an unimaginable and wonderfully new one. He's giving you one that's brand new, that never hurts. Now, if you ask me, that's the best kind of healing I've ever heard of.
With Love,
Hayleigh
P.S. When you get up there, say hello to my great-grandmother. She doesn't speak English very well, but I'm sure if you ask nicely, God will teach you some Ukrainian.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
"Want a bottle of water?"
"I need something way stronger than that..."
--a conversation between my father and a coworker
"I need something way stronger than that..."
--a conversation between my father and a coworker
Monday, March 15, 2010
Road Trip Entry #2: Boston
You cling to the seat in front of you as the worst flight you've ever been on lands. Now that the menace journey that's comparable to the Texas Giant is over, you overhear natives speaking about "the T". The wind blows your hair askew and cold rain stings your retinas. It's no Texas thunderstorm, so you're set, but the rest of the town isn't. Rain water floods the highway so the airport shuttle takes twice as long to find you a rental car. You drive around aimlessly for an hour, trying to find your hotel. Nothing is on TV. The wi-fi doesn't work. You go to sleep.
The next morning, the alarm clock sounds. You get up. The GPS becomes your best friend as you scramble back into your car. Major intersections and roads are closed and you're already late to your meeting. Your possible future is minutes away, but your so-called best friend won't give you correct directions to the college campus. The rain lightens as you pull up to the Undergrad Admissions Reception Center. Up and down both sides of the street are quaint brownstone-style dormitories.
It's then that that classic feeling all your older college friends speak about happens. You begin to remember all those times you "wanted to get away" but couldn't afford Southwest. Closing your eyes, you were able to escape any overwhelming stress or emotional trauma. Autumn would fill your mind; trees had leaves in the summer but didn't in the winter. There were seasons. But most of all, you would see a fresh slate. Reminiscing, you close your eyes, still standing like an idiot on the slippery marble stairs. You remember where you are and your eyes snap open. When you open your eyes, that image that has brought you so much peace is still there. It's tangible; it's real.
The college information session draws to a close and you've fallen even further in love than you were when you were standing numbly on the front steps. Your tour guides show you the rest of the campus. The group you're with complains about the cold and the rain and how they can't seem to make their umbrellas stay in their original formations. Unlike them, you're satisfied; you're in love. You haven't met the love of your life, no, but you have looked into your future. You know this is where you're meant to be.
This is Boston Unversity.
H
The next morning, the alarm clock sounds. You get up. The GPS becomes your best friend as you scramble back into your car. Major intersections and roads are closed and you're already late to your meeting. Your possible future is minutes away, but your so-called best friend won't give you correct directions to the college campus. The rain lightens as you pull up to the Undergrad Admissions Reception Center. Up and down both sides of the street are quaint brownstone-style dormitories.
It's then that that classic feeling all your older college friends speak about happens. You begin to remember all those times you "wanted to get away" but couldn't afford Southwest. Closing your eyes, you were able to escape any overwhelming stress or emotional trauma. Autumn would fill your mind; trees had leaves in the summer but didn't in the winter. There were seasons. But most of all, you would see a fresh slate. Reminiscing, you close your eyes, still standing like an idiot on the slippery marble stairs. You remember where you are and your eyes snap open. When you open your eyes, that image that has brought you so much peace is still there. It's tangible; it's real.
The college information session draws to a close and you've fallen even further in love than you were when you were standing numbly on the front steps. Your tour guides show you the rest of the campus. The group you're with complains about the cold and the rain and how they can't seem to make their umbrellas stay in their original formations. Unlike them, you're satisfied; you're in love. You haven't met the love of your life, no, but you have looked into your future. You know this is where you're meant to be.
This is Boston Unversity.
H
Road Trip Entry #1: Tennessee, Arkansas
You speed down the backroads faster than you ever would on the highway. It's a two lane road. A rusty road sign stands lazily to the right, telling you to take the upcoming curve at least 30 mph slower than you're driving. As always, the left lane is empty as it has been for about an hour, so you swerve over and drive down the middle. You rev the engine and smile as the 8-cylinder Ford pickup hums beneath your foot. There's no point in carrying a license around; no one is out to get you. Static from the poor radio reception fills the cab. Feeling a little like Fonzie, you smack the dashboard and, depending on the day, the radio either fixes itself or turns all the way off. The next curve nears and you start back towards the center of the lanes until you hear the rumbling of a '67 Chevy. You pass the driver, an adorable, young, blond kid in a plaid shirt, and exchange an embarrassed smirk. The accelerator scrapes the floor; the speed increases.
Horses gallop across fields whose fences couldn't stop them. The wild beasts, muscles tensing and pulsing, run in circles just to feel the breeze. Cows chew cud. Cell phones don't get reception. Internet is available only by a modem. But it's beautiful here. When it rains, the grass is so green that Ireland is put to shame. You might think it's impossible, but, at night, it's pitch black and, yet, so bright. The moon and the stars glisten in the pure, smog-free sky. Prudent, unabridged, natural beauty.
This is the country.
H
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