The Epistle of Brother Alexander

It’s Matins in The North Spire of Solitude.

Brethren and Sistren,

Good Tidings! In my most recent epistle, I imparted to you my desire to replace you all with new, anthropomorphic animal-friends, but in recent weeks I have repented. Rather than replace you, I have chosen to retain you, in fact, but with a new stipulation: I shall no longer be able to actually see you, physically.

Because I have taken the holy orders.

Driven by my inability to procure an internship, I have found refuge in The Moste Secluded and Holy Monastery of Our Lady of Glade Street, and am currently residing there as a monk. I was tonsured only yesterday, and, already, I am becoming acclimated to a lifestyle of asceticism. But despite what you may have gleaned from Monty Python films, the monastery is not without its pleasures, and I have chosen to focus mine energies on its positive aspects: the rather forgiving brown habit, the simple, physical labor, the happy lack of stress, and the singing to wayward Austrian children are only a few of its moste blessed boons. And just last week, sister Mary-Silas permitted me to try on her wimple! If these are not enough to make a postulant out of you, consider my daily routines:

I arise at the moste early hour of 9:00 A.M. and immediately concoct a double espresso (you will remember, of course, the monks of Capuchin, for whom that heartbeat in a mug, the cappuccino, is named)*. While enjoying our avian choristers, who are ever chirping sacred melodies from the clerestory, I practice my daily devotions.

From the hours of ten thirty to one in the afternoon, I scribble away in the North Spire of Solitude, praying fervently to the patron saint of writer’s block. I drink often and deeply from the consecrated coffee pot, and mortify mine stubborn mind my standing on my head.

This is usually followed by lunch in the refectory, where, since I live in a monastery, no television is watched. I have certainly not, in the span of one month, watched two seasons of a television show concerned with the miraculous crime-solving abilities of a forensic anthropologist named for a Cardinal Virtue. This would be sinful, and would result in my expulsion from the order.

In the afternoon, mine earthly body is committed to chores (picking apples in the orchard, laundering our habits, giving last rites to the grass before cutting it) and errands. When my time is unencumbered, I am often reading books such as the moste holy novel “How To Buy a Love of Reading” by Saint Tanya Egan Gibson or the equally holy “The Patron Saint of Liars” by Saint Ann Patchett**. In the coming days I will fortify myself in order to reade Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, which, of course, is a moste evil book. I am only reading it in order to formulate strong arguments as to why it should be burned, not for any feelings of intense pleasure or happiness.

In the evenings, I am often meeting with and witnessing to my friends who inhabit the secular sphere. Occasionally, we attend movies together, so that I might point out the evils in said films. After viewing these movies, I retreat to the monastery for a time of intense meditation and prayer, wherein I implore Our Lord to cause accidents on the set of the upcoming Judd Apatow endeavor. Such evils must be stopped.***

All in all, monastic living has been agreeable to me. I send my love to mine sisters at The Moste Crowded New York Nunnery of the Holy Trifecta, and to mine lone brother at the Praise Be To Our Lord’s Moste Wondrous Mercies Monestary in Koreatown. I am sorry I am unable to join you in person, but, until I see you again, think of me in the cloister, and when you pass the fancy shops on Fifth Avenue.

Yours Moste Humbly,

Brother Alexander.

A Moste Necessary Addendum:

It is time we all began a second round of posting on this, our blog with the interrogative title. I do not wish to see you, brethren and sistren, two months from this date, and be forced to ask “What did you do this summer?” Better, I would rather simply say, “Did you bring me any of those delightful pastries you mentioned so often?” Blessings upon you, my children.

A Moste Helpful Set of Footnotes

* This is not a fabrication, but the light of truth!

** These novels are not holy in the least, nor were they written by saints, but they were both extremely enjoyable.

***I am moste serious in this point.

A Heartbreaking Letter about Squirrels

It's 11:10 A.M. at The Bookstore.

Dear Everyone*,

The recent dearth of posting has been, at the very least, deplorable. "Execrable" may perhaps be more fitting, but I found "reprehensible" too kind for you villains. Indeed, each one of you is behaving like a gluttonous story-squirrel, burying away the chestnuts of narrative under the cold snows of selfishness. How am I to know, squirrel-friend, about the health of your whiskers? Or about the bushiness of your tail? For all I know, your respective trees have been logged and shredded, and you and your squirrel-family lie flattened on a highway, your once glossy fur now imprinted with the cruel treads of a tire. I can no longer stand the sense of abandonment. Therefore, I have decided to find new friends.

Looking around the bookstore, I see a myriad of options. First, there is Richard, who, like a wise and friendly badger, serves my coffee every morning with gentle questions and sound advice. Richard's flattop and his penchant for hearty fruits (he is always trying to sell me a fruit salad, which I occasionally buy) add to his badger-like appearance. Additionally, most of the badgers I have known allow me to write reviews for the books in their stores. Richard has kindly chosen to do the same, showing him a true badger. He is option #1.

My second candidate for friendship is a woman I shall call Luna, though I do not know her name. From time to time, Luna meets older, wealthy white women in the café and speaks Spanish to them for an hour or so. I assume that they are paying her for her services, though it is possible she is just extremely friendly. She is a lovely woman and says "¡muy bien!" so emphatically, and with such an encouraging warmth, that I have chosen to think of her as a golden retriever. Every thirty seconds or so, she must fetch the wayward sentences of these women and bring them back, clutched gently between her jaws to the mesa. She reminds me of someone I used to know, before the great blog-nut-fallout of 2009, but the name escapes me. She is option numero dos.

Another bookstore employee, Kathy, also promises potential. So often I have seen her fluttering about her corner of the store, taking frightened customers under her wing and gossiping loudly about the books she's read lately. This practice is made all the juicier by the area in which Kathy works: Romance Novels. The entire section is labeled "Kathy's Picks," because she has read every book, cover to glossy cover. Because of her rapid head-movements and feathered gray hair, Kathy reminds me most of a woodpecker. I have considered re-naming her section "Kathy's Pecks," but Richard has not yet granted me this measure of power. He will soon see reason. She is option # 3.

So, squirrel-friends, if any of you are indeed still alive, I would consider your advice regarding my new companions. They seem like lovely people, the lot of them, and I'm sure that once we start chatting about John Updike's recent demise, the conversation will keep flowing, like a stream of pecans from a nut-laden tree.

Post, or I'll Flatten You Myself,

-A.

* This excludes you, Smithy.

An Open Letter

It's 11:45 P.M., Tallahassee time. 

Dear Europe, 

Let me be frank.

I don't miss you. 

Sure, you make a mean croissant, and really, I was fond of your liter-and-a-half-big-mamba-jahamba-bottled-water, but...I don't miss you. It's true that, during my time living abroad, I enjoyed a few glasses of wine and two espressos each and every day. It's also true that I spent four weeks in Barcelona hitting up Buenas Migas and uncorking uncorkables atop monumentos nacionales. It's, furthermore, true that my only class-related responsibilities were taking photos of old people and charming alleyways, but... I don't really miss you. 

You've got a point when you mention my going to Venice, and scoring a genuinely Italian bed and breakfast with Max & Cody. Your argument continues to be strong when you remind me of the gnocchi we ate there and of the breakfasts we lingered over each morning, but...I don't miss you.

I am nearly convinced of the tiniest twinge of longing when you recount my week in Paris, France, where the wildly entertaining Andrew Threlkeld and I had the most fabulous quiche of Julia Child's afterlife, and, yes, I do remember the uncannily-named "Old Man Tea" we enjoyed. It's true that I bought four kinds of coffee there, and it's also true that a French McActualperson recommended a White Bordeaux for a picnic we bought at an open air market, and it's even truer that I got to eat at Chez Gladine twice, Katherine...

But, gosh, I just don't miss you.

Amor/Amore/Aimer

-A. 

Lisbon(ding)

It's 11:23 A.M.
Fifteen thousand feet over St. Tropez, en route to Venice.

While we're up here, let's talk about flying in Europe. Positive experiences, everyone? Sure, the planes are small, and, not five minutes ago, I paid 3 USD for a Dixie cup and a tea bag, but they get us where we need to be. Unless, of course, you're Max Su.

As he reported in his post on Valencia, Max is a cursed traveler, and I mean it: the kid has a Kennedy Family level of bad mojo. So as Paige, Katherine and I were checking in at el mostrador for our flight to Lisbon, Portugal, we weren't at all surprised to see that Max's boarding pass, in fact, read: "Suarez."

And, no, not mi amiga, Betty.

But all's well that ends well, and, a few hundred Euro and several hours later, we were all in Lisbon enjoying the sweltering, face-meltingly hot weather.

(You'll notice, gentle reader, that my commentary on the Lisbon weekend may carry an unusually high degree of sarcasm, but that elevation, from acerbic to darn near vituperative, is a defensible one. You see, in light of the rolling-in-the-puppies-sacharrinity Paige, Katherine, and Max all share, it is my place, nay, my duty to restore balance to the universe. Yes, just like in Star Wars.)

Back to Lisbon. After four flights of stairs, we were greeted at our hostel by Mona, our host and newest friend from Somalia. In a shocking twist, Paige and Mona became B.F.F.A.E.S., a development after which the former offered to bring the latter a beer from our night on the town. Mona may have won Paige's heart by having some genuine life-troubles, but she didn't get on my good side until the following morning, when she arived with some sort of fabulous breakfast roll concoction/jamboree/carbohydrate medley. Even a heart of stone may melt over a good bread, gentle reader.

We had a wonderful, if largely uphill visit to Lisbon. While we toured a castle, wherein Paige attempted to do to a peacock what she had done to poor Mona (obviously with less success), Ms. Smiley managed to flash at least three strangers, one of whom attempted a Kodak moment. I shall attribute the, wait for it...exposure...to the inimitable Katherine Wilson, who nearly lured Paige over the castle wall in search of the most-cutest-everest profile pic. Bending at the waist thirty feet above ground level isn't the wisest of postures, and, while Katherine may have been the responsible party, everyone below reaped the yellow, polka-dotted consequences.

After touring the city, castle and all, we decided to embark on a day trip to The Beach and a picturesque little town called Sintra. The Beach featured, as you might expect, men, women, and children in questionable states of dress and nearly uniform degrees of unattractiveness. The sand was hot, and the water frigid, but good reading and good company cover a multitude of annoyances and old guys in borderline-pornographic banana hammocks.

Suddenly, after what seemed only four long hours, six long hours had indeed passed. We realized that we needed to pack it up and begin the journey to Sintra if we would be able to explore the mythic village before nightfall. In order to meet our ETA, we were required to delay lunch. Mistake numero uno.

Two hours later, we were wandering the streets of Sintra, and idyllic town to be sure, but one in which nearly every storefront lay shuttered and dank. The certain person who had planned this portion of the trip (let's call her Pamela Snaggletooth) had neglected to realized that by five p.m., the entire town could, in fact, be closed for business, which was quite a disappointment to us, having neglected our almuerzo. Luckily, we stumbled into a quaint cafè and had a fabulously delicious meal. It's true that we paid very dearly for the privilege (so dearly that Pamela herself felt it necessary to exit the restaurant with pockets full of free mints), but, at the time, the meal was well worth the cost.

After "lunch" ended at six thirty, we began our tour of Sintra. No longer starving, we stepped out of the cafè and breathed a sigh of relief . Lovely flowers over there. Ahh, see! A castle on the hill! May I have another mint, Pamela? It's a bit chilly, hmm?

The girls lasted about ten minutes before the demanded that we return to Lisbon. We had, after all, forgotten to dress properly. We spent three hours traveling to a restaurant where we paid far too much for a lunch in the middle of the afternoon, and we left Sintra without ever having begun.

Now I know this may seem like an excessive amount of lampooning, especially where poor Pamela is concerned, but the trip really was a bit of a wreck. Not very well-planned, you see, but, without a doubt, gentle readers, four of the most enjoyable days of my life.

We have the best friends - better than other people who claim to have "the best friends." They are wrong, and we, dear amigos, couldn't be more right.

So this rather lengthy post goes out to all the folks I haven't seen in a few weeks. I really do miss you, and I hope you know that I'd go to Sintra and back just to see your snaggletoothed little face.

Mushy Mushy,

-A.

P.S.
This was, as I mentioned, written on an airplane. I was delayed in posting until we arrived in Venice, where I have now paid six Euros to make this post. Pictures to come, and, you're welcome.

It's 11:11 A.M. in Barcelona, Spain.

Ever seen a postcard with the words "Wish you were here!!!" scrawled across the back? Excessively enthusiastic punctuation aside, I've never been much of a fan of the time-tested platitude. You see, when I take vacations, I'm trying to get away from you. It doesn't work so well if you're here with me. Vacations should be a time of reflection, meditation, and of course, room service. 

So, for two days, that was Spain. I lounged in a luxe hotel room: the photograph to the left is the view from my balcony, and, yes, if you look closely, you'll see a green icon at the street's end denoting the entrance to the American Embassy, which is, in some circles, known as Starbucks. I ventured out into Barcelona, slowly but surely, enjoyed some truly fantastic carbohydrates, and began blazing a trail for my comrades-in-coffee, Max & Cody. I was enjoying my own company, thanks very much. 

Then, everything changed. I had the pleasure of taking a thirty dollar - I'm sorry, thirty euro taxi to another hotel where our CEA orientation was to be held. Within minutes, Max & Cody interrupted my enjoyment of Sydney Bristow's butt-kicking (she lives in my laptop) to rub their freshly unshowered bodies all over me. This was truly sick/nasty, but probably not in the way it sounded in the sentence above. I was, if begrudgingly, truly glad to see them. 

For the next few days we enjoyed, but, at least together, the process of having our personal freedoms slowly stripped from us by the friendly CEA staff. They herded us around like cattle, or worse, like the junior high set at church camp for hours upon end, mostly warning us not to get too plastered. So far, we have succeeded in their eyes by avoiding the two evils: death-by-tequila, and speaking-too-much-English. 

After our fantastically fun orientation, we were escorted to our tres chic apartment, which we call, simply, The Pug. We have given the apartamento this designation due to the similarities it shares with the canine of the same name, that is, it's so completely unfortunate-looking that we can't help but love it. Pictures to come. The shower spews water all over the floor, and, by proxy, all over the apartment; we're at least twenty minutes from our classes by way of metro, and the charming air shaft, upon which our windows open, smells like a sweaty cigarette with an untreated foot fungus. But, The Pug, well, we loves him. 

Wish you were here. 

-A.

Don't Talk About Bottled Water.

It's 12:32 in Prosper, TX. 

And in less than twelve hours, I'll be in the air. Thankfully, I'll be protected by a pressurized cabin, really big engines, and, of course,  The Immutable Laws of Physics. I hope to be fine. Tonight, I just wanted to share a quick piece of advice before storming the continent like B List celebrities at an Obama campaign rally. Ready? 

Don't talk about New Balance shoes. 

There's a lovely little blog called Stuff White People Like. And, no, it does not concern the newest Eddie Murphy film. It's a charming, sardonic sort of treatise, on, you guessed it, the odd proclivities of caucasians. And, for our purposes of European travel, 'White People' can pretty much be translated as 'Americans.' If you want to survive in Europe, do not, under any circumstances, discuss Scarves, Grammar, Music Piracy, or Not Having A TV. Any of these topics will cause the natives to verbally, or, if you're Max or Cody, perhaps literally, rotisserie you. Friendly advice. 

As for me, well, be thinking of your dear friend while he's confined to a chair for nearly twelve hours tomorrow. And, in the event that his plane goes down, just pray that J.J. Abrams doesn't hear about it. In that instance, his life will quickly become

ONE! PLOT TWIST! AFTER! THE NEXT!

-A. 

This Preview Is Rated Awesome.

It's midnight in Prosper, TX.

Earlier this week, on a lovely, cloudy Sunday, I chunked deuce to the First Baptist Church and turned tail to Dallas. Mostly, because Dallas is a holy city, there was little traffic. 

Simple pleasures. 

I arrived at Camp Smiley, triple shot in hand, to see the radiant Coral Zelon reheating quiche. She seemed unusually luminescent, a quality I am tempted to attribute to the scent of twice-nuked spinach filling the air. Piage was in the corner, looking, well, less-than-glowy, pretending to help Coral. From Piage's bedroom, I heard the sounds of Grittney and Kelly B giggling/snuggling/rolling in puppies. Soon thereafter, Aaron arrived. He had gone to church that morning and had then made a detour to the Northpark Apple store (redundant?), for which he blamed his tardiness. 

We made pancakes and chatted with The Jude about the evils of Barack Obama. The man is a socialist, and, in non sequitur, pancakes of the banana variety are superior. 

That evening, Aaron, Piage, Kelly, and I reconvened to take in a showing of The Chronicles of Christian Conservatives: Prince Caspian. At one point, during a particularly rousing speech, an awkwardly bipedal bear bellowed, "For Aslan!" Kelly, rather predictably, tittered the quietest whisper of a giggle guffawed. It's true that the entire theatre was disturbed by her cacophonous, pealing laughter, but I wouldn't trade her and her sexy bed-hair for the world. 

Because we were having such fun, we all, with the exception of Aaron, who claimed to have a dentist appointment (I suspect he was back at "church") agreed to a farewell breakfast. This is where the picture at the top of the page comes in. Kelly, Piage, and I had a two and a half hour al fresco breakfast in a French cafe. I had the most mindblowing almond croissant in the universe, and Piage had some "normal granola."

This is us, guys. 

In mere days, many of us will be having to ask for our croissants in a foreign language. I had a little preview, a small taste this weekend, and let me tell you that it's good: sugary with a hint of nutmeg. 

Ready?

-A. 

Dobro Dosli Starbucks!

It's 4:24 P.M. in Zagreb.

Two years ago, a few architect types got the wildly bright idea to recreate a Croatian fishing village north of Dallas, Texas. It's shameful; I know. I'm fairly certain that none of the architects were natives of that fair, war-torn land, and I'm even more positive that none of the moms ordering ten-syllable lattes have ever heard of the country. I have yet to personally encounter any land mines or crossfire, much less the fish suggested in the development's catchy moniker, but, for reasons I can't put my usually xenophobic little fingers on, I have adopted this strange, hybrid coffee shop as my own. 

I visit Starbucks, Croatia every morning.

Most days, when I drag myself to the counter, Woundingly Cheerful Senior Citizen rings me up, Weirdly Distracted Mom Jeans froths my milk, and That Apparently Cuban Lady orders a triple espresso - either five minutes before or two minutes after I arrive. Some Ordinary Person works the drive through.

It's funny how normal it seems - the coffee, the chit chat - until you remember you're sitting in faux-foreign-bucks instead of gig-em-in-v-necks-bucks. Sometimes that's what being "home" feels like. A few shots short of  Red Eye; one or two Mary-Kate Olsens off the mark. 

You too? And yet there are adventures to be had. I'm not sure what or where they are, but I promise to keep you updated, gentle reader. Until then, know that you're always welcome to pull up a chair and have a cup of coffee. Except for you, Pan. You...don't need any caffeine.

-A. 

Final(ly)

It's 4:24 P.M. in Armpit, Texas. 

Today, I've already done a load of laundry; I've eaten my bagel; I've replaced the blinker-bulb in my car; I've eaten lunch; I've had two pots of coffee; I've arranged my pencils so the tips all face the same way, and I've resisted the urge to watch television once twice. 

There has yet to be any studying. 

Sometimes I'm the most productive when I'm trying to avoid production altogether. 

Strange, yes? So, in the spirit of avoiding the things I ought to be doing, I thought I'd turn you on to The Sartorialist. It's a nifty little corner of the interweb that should prep us all for the fashion-shock ahead. So, study up, kids, because in less than a month, you could be canoodling with a foreigner in this very archway. 

Don't you want to look the part?

- A.