So, here are the Bottom 4 Moments of the trip:
4) The Thistle Attack. Did you know that one of the symbols of Scotland is the thistle? It's because it's tough and hardy. And well, because it grows there. Which is a key fact I learned. When I took that goofy picture of myself on the Edinburgh crag next to the "Falling Rocks" sign, I supported myself with my right hand.
As I put my hand down, I felt a prick on my wrist. Thistle. A few minutes later, I pulled up my hoodie sleeve because my wrist was itchy and aflame. Sure enough, I had this giant hive there. So did another boy who I talked in to taking the goofy photo as well. Nurse Pure Heart came to the rescue with wet naps and all was well. But still, it really itched there for awhile.
Teaches me to take stupid pictures. I also then lost that beloved hoodie in Edinburgh. I blame that on the thistle, too.
3) Italians. OK, so we weren't in Italy. And I don't dislike all Italians. But we did have problems with about 8 certain ones. I've always heard stories about how young ladies visiting Italy should be aware of how, umm, friendly Italian men can be on the street. We learned that without even going there.
In a Cathedral at Oxford College, our tour guide was giving a talk about a certain monument when two Italian guys pushed their way into our tightly bunched group. Believe it or not, they were not interested in the history. they were trying to be close to some of the girls in our group. And take cell phone pictures. And I believe, even touch. I wasn't a big fan of this. Soon, two became 4. And then 4 became 6. It's like they were coming out of the woodwork. And jabbering really loudly.
Early on (I think when it was just 4), one guy was getting way to close and just kept pushing in on the girls. I put my hand on his chest and said, "Back off." It worked for about 30 seconds. And more of their friends came in. As it reached it's worst point, I decided I had enough. I grabbed the leader and was about to escort him away when one of the teachers on the trip said, "Richard, it seems our group has grown and we now can't hear you. We'll have to ask them to go."
Thankfully, they went.
The plus side of all of this is two-fold: 1) I kind of got the chance to come off looking gallant and 2) One of our boys happened to snap a photo right when I had my hand on the kid's chest. You can see my mouth stuck in saying, "OFF!" It's kinda tough.
2) Regular Travel Inconveniences. We didn't have any major issues. Everyone survived. Nothing happened that was trip-ruining, but we seemed to collect a lot of minor annoyances. On the way there, 2 people lost their luggage (one of the suitcases never caught up with us.) On the way home, we ALL lost our bags. Mine came three days later (by Santa, you'll remember.) Pure Heart's came the next night (by Vampire Courier, I think.) We had hotels mix up our reservations (waiting in the lobby with a group of 27 is not as fun as you expect). And we had one night accommodations not quite live up to the billing.
When we heard that we'd be taking a ferry across the English Channel to France--and landing in Normandy at 6:20 a.m. like on D-Day, it seemed quite wonderful. Charming, even. But it was actually a pain in the rear. First of all, our bus driver was only paid to be with us until 7 the night of our departure. But the Ferry didn't board until 11:30. So, we had to wait in the Ferry station for a long time. Second, by the time we got boarded and into bed, it was about 1 a.m. Third, we had to be off the ferry as soon as it docked which meant getting up a full hour before to wake up kids and be prepared. Fourth, we lost an hour due to time zones. So, that meant going to bed at 1 and up at 4:30. With 22 teens. Good times.1) The Angry French Woman. This was a huge downer on my trip to France. To be honest, most of the French we interacted with were great. But this woman made them all look as advertised. I wrote about my triumph of buying stamps by speaking in only French. Well, this experience just an hour before that made the triumph so sweet.
I walked into a small store that sold a lot of postcards. I assumed it would also have stamps. I politely greeted the woman in French by asking, "How are you?" She was kinda grumpy, but I carried on. Usually, if you try to speak French and show that you aren't just expecting them to do all the work, they cut you some slack she didn't.
I asked if she had any stamps, in French. She went off on a long, fast tirade of French. I was lost. I asked, "How much is a stamp to send a postcard to the United States." She again, began to rant in French. She rudely pulled out a sheet of stamps. I knew from my long battle to get stamps in France that these weren't the right ones. I needed 85 cent stamps, not 60 cents.
That was my down fall. I wasn't sure how to explain that. So, I said, in broken French, "No, I need an 80 cent stamp for a postcard to the United States."
Apparently, one of three things happened: 1) She didn't like me correcting her, 2) She was aggravated by my broken French and gull at trying to come into her shop without knowing the language or 3) My French was off and I insulted her dead grandmother.
All I remember is a frenzy of fast and emphatic French. I said, "Merci!" And walked out. As I left I heard her yell, "Un American!"
If it weren't for my triumph later, that could've ruined my day.
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