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Nice Walt Disney Vacations photos

Check out these walt disney vacations images:



Disney Vacation
walt disney vacations
Image by pixarman


Disney Vacation
walt disney vacations
Image by pixarman
Crowds + Heat = Sweaty Day

Totie Fields, "Live"

Some cool vegas deals images:


Totie Fields, "Live"
vegas deals
Image by Max Sparber
Oversized Las Vegas comic whose routines mostly dealt with her weight and the unliklihood of her fame.

For more, check out the Vinyl Oddities blog.

P7044467

Some cool travel vacation images:


P7044467
travel vacation
Image by jon|k

Nice Resort Family Vacation photos

A few nice resort family vacation images I found:


Tucson Trip
resort family vacation
Image by adwriter
Our family vacation at the Tanque Verde Ranch resort in Tucson, Arizona.

2011 Summer Vacation California Las Vegas July 24, 201122

A few nice vacations images I found:


2011 Summer Vacation California Las Vegas July 24, 201122
vacations
Image by stevendepolo


2011 Summer Vacation California Las Vegas July 24, 201123
vacations
Image by stevendepolo

Cool Vacation To Hawaii images

Some cool vacation to hawaii images:


IMG_0368.JPG
vacation to hawaii
Image by jasontsuggs


IMG_0479.JPG
vacation to hawaii
Image by jasontsuggs


Paddle boarding
vacation to hawaii
Image by bobosh_t

Port side

Check out these vacation resort florida images:


Port side
vacation resort florida
Image by David Reber's Hammer Photography
I never made it to the pool.

www.DavidReber.com


Dance Hall 2
vacation resort florida
Image by inajeep


Ellinor Village Family Resort, Ormond Beach FLORIDA
vacation resort florida
Image by 1950sUnlimited

Nice Vacation Sell Off photos

A few nice vacation sell off images I found:



vacation sell off
Image by wakingphotolife:
"So what do you want to eat?" I said. He was sitting across from me, at a table inside Denny's. He looked at the menu with intent focus. He was sitting on his hands with his feet swinging back and forth against the vinyl upholstery. After some time, he pointed at the photo of the All-American Slam with his right hand and a vanilla shake with his left. He titled forward and smiled gleefully. I motioned the waitress over.

She smiled at the boy and then looked at me with disapproval. It was 2:30 in the morning. "What can I do for you?" she said.
"We'll have an All-American Slam. I'd like the eggs scrambled. And a vanilla shake," I said.
"And for him?"
"That's for him actually. I'll have a coffee," I said.
"Alright," she said. And turned to the boy, "You're a big boy aren't you?"
The boy didn't respond. He had not said a word the entire night.


I was working late that night from home. I'm a real estate auditor for an accounting firm downtown. I had forgotten some paper work at my office and had decided to go and get it. It didn't take that long since I lived across the bridge in West Sacramento. I parked the car in the parking garage inside Downtown Plaza, got my papers and came back down. I drove up the parking embankment, onto the street and was about to cross onto the other side of the river when I noticed something stirring in my rear view mirror.

The child stretched and yawned. He rubbed his face with the bottom of his palm in the same way that drunks do in the morning. As impossible and improbable as it was, had I drove off with the wrong car. I put the car into park right there in the middle of the street and turned on the interior lights. He couldn't have been more than six. I closed my eyes thinking that I was dreaming and opened them. I wasn't. "Who are you?"


When I was seven, I was lost at the San Jose Flea Market on Berryessa Road once. My aunt and my mom were with me. They were watching a man claim small miracles out of some washing detergent as he worked a patch of carpet on a wooden board. I held onto my mom's hand but let go after some time. I was thinking of the game vendor that we had passed on our way.

It was a Saturday afternoon of the first of the month. The crowds was at its peak. I found the game vendor and picked up the controller that was placed deep inside the center of the tent. It was connected to a small television set with a Super Nintendo attached to it. I joined another boy who was playing "Ninja Turtles: Turtles In Time". He grinned at me and I grinned back. I pressed start.

After the boy left and after the store keeper realized that my time was too much time, he turned the Nintendo off and told me to get out. I stood outside the shade of the blue tarp overhead and waited. I looked out and up. There were endless blue tarps overhead. I had forgotten which one was the one with the carpet washing man and my mom and aunt. I didn't cry. I never did. Only cried from things like getting my finger slammed by the car door or when I broke my leg the year of the earthquake. I walked out into the crowd.


The boy looked at me blankly.
"Do you know where your parents are?"
The same blank expression.
"Jesus. What have I gotten myself into," I muttered to myself. It was two already. I parked the car on the sidewalk.
"What's your name?"
He was looking out the window name.
I took a legal pad out from my dash and a pen and gave it to him. He scribbled his name on it. I could only assume it was his name as I was unable to make it out.
I spoke slower, "Can - you - talk ?"
The boy shook his head.
"Can - you - hear - me?" I pointed at my mouth.
He nodded.
"Where - are - your - parents?"
He neither nodded or shook his head. He looked at his stomach. It growled. I turned the inside lights off.
"Alright. Alright. Alright." I took a big breath. We had passed a Denny's on the way. It was also next to the county sheriff's station. Less than a mile alway. I brought the car off the sidewalk and turned around. I had no idea what I was doing.


The disapproving waitress placed the food in between us. She also brought a cup of coffee, the vanilla shake and two smaller plates. I pushed the All-American Slam towards the boy. Three scrambled eggs, two bacon strips, two sausages, hash browns, and toasted white bread. Combined with the shake, the amount of food looked ridiculous in front of him as he picked at it clumsily with his fork. Fist wrapped around the bottom of the handle right above to chunks of hash browns he pierced.
"Good?"
He nodded with his mouth gorged.
"Don't forget to swallow."
I watched him gulp and handed him the milkshake. "You got to wash it down kiddo," I said and pretended to pound my chest.
He ate as if he had not eaten anything the entire day. He left a few scraps of scrambled eggs, and a slice of toasted white bread.

I tried to think about what happened. I wasn't gone from the car for too long. Half an hour at the very most. The idea of a six year old child opening the door and sneaking into my backseat at two in the morning in a parking garage was beyond absurd. And surreal. I couldn't get my head around it. I knew I left the door unlocked by accident. But no parents. No belongings. He was mute. Nothing. Except that he was hungry. And why me.

I had the waitress refill my coffee and watched him eat. "Want to try some?" I put my cup in front of him and added a pack of sugar. I usually take my coffee black.
He smelled it. "Yeaaaah. Smells good doesn't it?" I said.
He held the cup with both hands and brought it up to his face. It scrunched together and he put the cup back down and stuck his tongue out. Back to the milkshake.
"Don't worry kiddo. You'll be drinking a lot of this stuff later on," I said and took a sip. It tasted terrible with sugar. I asked for the check.
"A little past your bedtime isn't it," the waitress said.
"Yeah. It is," I said.


I was never good with children. Never knew how to act around them or how to treat them. They made me feel awkward. Nervous. My mom and aunt were the ones who raised me. My dad lived in Singapore and the only trace of him was the money he sent home to my parents. I found out about this later on. I never wanted to say that my lack of a father was the reason why I was never good with them; it's a cop out since you'd think being without one would make you a better one right? But maybe. Maybe it does the opposite to a man.

Addison and I fought about it many times. I said and did whatever I could to keep from committing to it. I'm not the father-type. I wouldn't make a good father. I lack paternal instinct. Honey, I love you with everything but I'm just not ready. When are you going to be read? We had everything, a nice home, nice cars, we went on nice vacations around the world but it wasn't enough to keep her from looking at me with scorn and resentment every time we passed the young couples with their chubby cheeked children riding in child seat of shopping carts.

If I wasn't ready, then she would find someone was, she said. And after awhile that is what she did. I didn't hate her. I didn't blame her for anything because she deserved to have a child of her own.


It was already late in the afternoon when flea market security found me. The sky was amber. The security guard had pulled up next to me with his go-kart in a remote corner of the flea market. The area where they sold hardware supplies and tools. The walkie talkie belted to his waist hissed at me. "We got him. Down by the hardware supplies. I'm bring him back." He grabbed my arm and lifted me into the passenger seat of the goal kart.

They were all waiting for me. A woman who spoke Chinese smiled and waved goodbye to my mom and aunt who then talked her profusely at the visual sight of me."Where have you been!?" my mom screamed at me. She slapped me across the face as my aunt watched on. It was already late in the afternoon and a sizable portion of the crowd had gone home. There were a few on-lookers who stopped to watch a woman slap her son while crying at the same time. I started crying.


We parked in front of the sheriff's station on the sidewalk. Police cars came in and out of the garage. With a full stomach, satisfied now, he fell back into sleep as soon as we left the parking of Denny's. He held my hand while we left the restaurant. It was the softest skin I had ever held. Enough to make me swoon and be so much more aware of the hardness of my hands.

His parents must be freaking out right now. But then I thought about the situation and circumstance. Maybe he didn't have any. Maybe they had fallen on tough times and...I tried to keep my mind from going further into any other kinds of thoughts. Instead, I wondered what Addison would think if she was here right now. She would probably say, "I told you so. Just look at yourself."

I put my hand on top of the boy's head. It felt like like placing my palm onto of a warm pillow and slightly prickly. I drove away from the sheriff's station to McKinley Park a few miles away. I parked the car underneath a street lamp set my alarm for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes would be okay I thought. I leaned my seat back. And then, leaned his seat back.


Everybody and his brother
vacation sell off
Image by kern.justin
Another image from a very famous place
Do we need another image from Tunnel View in Yosemite National Park? One could argue that after Adams took his iconic "Clearing Winter Storm, Yosemite National Park" in 1944 there has been little need to recapture the public's imagination with the view of this grand valley from a simple roadside pull-out. Yet there is rarely any shortage of photographers and nature lovers peering out over the stone wall making memories and photographs of the valley's major features laid out in such stunning symmetry. So then, what is the reason for snapping away (see below for proof of just how many people bore witness to the grandeur represented in this photograph)? Do we need more nature images of landscapes thoroughly inhabited and (theoretically) protected? Why is a culture so hell-bent on consuming and utilizing every natural resource possible even interested in nature photographs, especially of landscapes which have been (at least temporarily) spared from mining, drilling, clear-cutting and development? I have two answers to these questions - the general and the personal.
The Wellspring

The valley called Yosemite, and a few other spots on Earth, have served as the nursery for ideas. These ideas were the basis for a series of successful and unsuccessful marches in the name of conservationism and environmentalism. The valley was the gray-walled and sand-floored crib of Muir's preservationism. If Muir loved the wilds before (and he certainly did) he came to Yosemite, he got so near to the heartbeat of the Earth that he wanted for the rest of his life to try and get nearer. The valley was the luminous, storm-ravaged epic landscape of Adams' classic photograph - laid out like some glamourous nude, covering just enough with a lacy veil of fog and snowcloud to elicit excitement and inspire others to the same end as Ansel. Camp 4 was the cradle of the American love affair with rock climbing and the first rungs of Rowell's ladder from a poor mechanic to influential photojournalist and world-explorer. Perhaps too The Valley has been the nursemaid to our love of hiking and exploring the wilder places of America as something, if not vocation, then more dear than avocation. Thomas Jefferson famously wrote, "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is it’s natural manure." Conservationism did not die as some antiquated nineteenth century ideal, but it too must be refreshed from time to time. It's night-soils were the words of Muir, the photographs of Adams, Rowell, and others. There is much yet in this world, and even in the Yosemite Valley, that needs protecting and conserving. I don't know that my photographs will change anyone else's mind about how to behave in the valley or in their own backyards, but I do know the process of taking photographs of this place has fixed in my mind the value of this wonderful place. The argument, therefore, is that ideas need expression and the continual flow of nature imagery is an effort to convince the apathetic and timid of the great value inherent in conservation. Great photography is a call to action, it draws the breath from our lungs and the blood from our hearts for a moment only to rush it back two-fold and inspire us to do more (by doing less) than gnaw with an axe at old, pine-perfumed gardens. Maybe Ansel's was just an aperitif to some great and yet-unmade masterpiece more completely encapsulating the million-fold images, emotions and experiences that are Yosemite. Not all of us are going to make these still epics, however, and the reason to justify our personal photographic efforts are perhaps subtly different.
Making memories and photographs
The process of taking photographs is more about what is not in the photograph than what makes it into the frame. This is true in the compositional sense - often exclusion of extraneous elements and isolation of subject is the key to a successful photograph (a lesson I must constantly learn and a tree that is continually refreshed by the "manure" of deleting photographs poorly executed). This statement is also true in the figurative sense. These photographs are about more than their subject. They are about an amazing light show as dessert to a full meal of hiking and camping, they are about sitting at what seems like the top of Eden and enjoying a simple cup of hot soup as the blood-crimson of sunset gives way to steel-blue of twilight and finally to soot-black of night. They are about the fan-blade whoosh of ravens' wings over the Pines campground and the long light of drawing winter skies in the high country of the Tuolumne Meadows - sundogs and all. The act of photographing is an act of personal education and change.

What I've learned in my time as photographer hobbyist is that you cannot collect or consume nature images. This is where I think most of us who aspire to wonderful amateur photography fail. There is an oft-considered difference amongst photographers between "taking" a photograph, like a vacation snapshot or a record shot of some event, and "making" a photograph through careful composition, consideration, patience and thought. So too there is a difference between remembering things and making memories. Stopping at a roadside pullout and clicking away at even the most gorgeous and tumultuous light shows of our Earth, only to pop back into the car and head out along a drab ribbon of asphalt is to take a snapshot in your mind's eye and does disservice to the photograph, no matter how grand. If I could have told something to my younger self when looking to learn about how to make photographs, I would have told myself "Sit the $ &#@ down and absorb the world you're trying to photograph - you can't photograph something you don't understand and you won't understand it until you let it in." I say all this because the photograph above of the valley from the famous Tunnel View pullout was populated with an enormous number of photographers, each very earnest and very serious and very talented. I counted at least two workshops going on and quite a bit of knowledge seemed to be in the offing. By the time I took the second photograph - my wife and I were alone. We had been alone for an hour by the time I took the fourth photograph on this post.

"Letting it in" is something different for everyone and I probably couldn't teach it to my younger self, let along a stranger. It's something like how Buddha can't share enlightenment, but can only share the "way." It is a balancing act between imaging, imagining and observing. Compare the difference in the quality of the light between the photograph that leads this post with the one below (taken just a moment apart). The conservationists problems would quickly end if only he or she could bring all the skeptics, miners and misers to Tunnel View for a late-fall light-show and therein lies the dichotomy.

The Dichotomy of the Valley
Tunnel View is famous because it presents the major aspects of the valley so harmoniously. Yosemite's scale seems to grow in proportion to its distance from the viewer. Half Dome is distant but towering, El Capitan is accurately represented as an impossibly sheer and impossibly beautiful slab of granite, some titanic slab table laid on its side, and nearest of all is the Bridalveil spilling fresh mountain run-off from the high country into a flower garden of amber- and ocher- and scarlet-leaved trees. The valley has just overcome the crisis of its birth, trees new and the cataclysm so near that water has not yet had time to erode its way, crashing instead from precipitous heights and providing our only clue of the impossible scale involved. I had made the pull-out having just hiked 12 miles of the valley floor trail that day and the complementary 10 miles the day before. In that hike I was struck with the out-of-place luxury of the guest resorts within the valley. To me there is something idealogical irreconcilable between a luxury hotel and a preservation of wilderness like Yosemite. I had many thoughts rattling around in my head while I took this last 16-minute exposure. I was thinking about originality, documentation, and the value of an image. The idea I wanted to convey was the dichotomy inherent to these national parks of ours. Yosemite village has a gift shop that sells purses and t-shirts and other trinkets designed to separate bused-in tourists from their money. The shop has a large plaque decrying how many plastic water bottles were consumed in Yosemite the year previous. The plaque is hung above a display selling plastic water bottles. Forever increasing pressure from the outside world to bring more visitors, to consume more wilderness, is one aim of these parks. In stark opposition is the initial, Muir-esque ideology of the parks - a preservation outside of development and the mar of humanity. So I waited for the last rays of twilight to fade and I left my shutter open for what seemed like an eternity, capturing the light pollution of a parade of cars, thundering past Tunnel View, casting their headlamps on the bows of nearby pines and then, on the valley floor, weaving through the gathering fog along the park road between the Pohono bridge and the northern park destinations; I imaged behind it all and above the valley the collected pollution casting a red pall on the sky like the representation of distant war by some Renaissance master.

Originality
To take a step back, and to put an end to my ramblings, it is hard not to take a good photograph from Tunnel View, or for that matter, of the valley. In two trips, I have been able to produce what I think are two rather unique images of the place (at least to the degree that any photographic act is one of creation or uniqueness): "The Dichotomy of the Valley" (above) and "We are Killers" (below). Far more importantly I spent two unforgettable evenings trying to absorb a bit of the grandeur in the thin and chilly mountain air. Had I to boil down the thesis here at play I would simply say that what is lacking in poor photography when compared to great photography are ideas and the successful expression of those ideas. The world is full of information easily found about how to successfully express a photographic idea, but often woefully short of fresh ideas themselves. This is why there was only one Muir, one Adams and one Rowell and why there is only one you. The reason that we need more images of nature, of Tunnel View, of the valley is that no two images are the same, they are all products of their respective creators and our thirst for brilliant creators is never quenched though the wellspring of Yosemite has provided amply. The trick isn't to represent Tunnel View, but to represent yourself through Tunnel View.

Cool Vacation Spots images

A few nice vacation spots images I found:


Taal Batangas - 42
vacation spots
Image by Dexter Panganiban
Welcome to Taal Batangas

Photo Taken by Dexter Panganiban


Kakanin - Taal Batangas - 13
vacation spots
Image by Dexter Panganiban
Kakanin from Taal Batangas

Photo Taken by Dexter Panganiban


Barong Tagalog from Taal Batangas - 05
vacation spots
Image by Dexter Panganiban
Barong Tagalog from Taal Batangas - bit.ly/TaalBatangas
Photo Taken by Dexter Panganiban

Vacation_20080717_062625_2008

A few nice vacations images I found:


Vacation_20080717_062625_2008
vacations
Image by chemisti
The Daschund squint is contagious

More from this set here

Las Vegas

A few nice vegas vacation images I found:


Las Vegas
vegas vacation
Image by Tomcio77


Las Vegas
vegas vacation
Image by Tomcio77


Downtown Las Vegas, USA
vegas vacation
Image by Paul Mannix

Perdido Cove RV Resort & Marina, Perdido Key Florida

Check out these vacation resort in florida images:


Perdido Cove RV Resort & Marina, Perdido Key Florida
vacation resort in florida
Image by Innisfree Hotels
We are a RV Resort, Marina & Vacation Townhouses in Perdido Key, FL. We have 56 RV sites, 24 deep water-slip marina and 7 fully furnished townhouses available for daily, weekly and monthly rentals. We are in Perdido Key directly on the Gulf Inter-Coastal waterway, conveniently situated approximately half way between Pensacola, Florida and Orange Beach, Alabama. Our resort and marina are just a couple miles from the endless sugar white sand beaches and emerald blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and only thirty minutes by boat to Pensacola Bay Pass and Alabama Point Pass.



Perdido Cove RV Resort & Marina, Perdido Key Florida
vacation resort in florida
Image by Innisfree Hotels
We are a RV Resort, Marina & Vacation Townhouses in Perdido Key, FL. We have 56 RV sites, 24 deep water-slip marina and 7 fully furnished townhouses available for daily, weekly and monthly rentals. We are in Perdido Key directly on the Gulf Inter-Coastal waterway, conveniently situated approximately half way between Pensacola, Florida and Orange Beach, Alabama. Our resort and marina are just a couple miles from the endless sugar white sand beaches and emerald blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and only thirty minutes by boat to Pensacola Bay Pass and Alabama Point Pass.

Indian Village

Check out these vacation village images:


Indian Village
vacation village
Image by Umpqua
Indian War Canoes, Disneyland - 1956

www.yesterland.com/village.html

IMG_2242

Some cool vacation sell off images:


IMG_2242
vacation sell off
Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.


11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.

I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.


12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.

I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That's all for England!


At the Butcher Section
vacation sell off
Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.


11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.

I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.


12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.

I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That's all for England!

Cool Vacation Resort Florida images

Check out these vacation resort florida images:



Walt Disney World resort trip 2008
vacation resort florida
Image by HeySandra
Expedition Everest ride - a crazy shot.

Cool Vacation To Mexico images

Check out these vacation to mexico images:


Mexico 2013
vacation to mexico
Image by tonitunes
Mexican Vacation with Greg & Kat June 24 to July 3, 2013
Standing by the table looking toward the door of our room.


Trip to Cancun Mexico 2009
vacation to mexico
Image by Dan Pupek
Dog show at the Resort

@Club Mahindra Resort, Binsar

A few nice resort family vacation images I found:


@Club Mahindra Resort, Binsar
resort family vacation
Image by manishmo


Resort Dining
resort family vacation
Image by fredcamino


Kick The Can
resort family vacation
Image by Scott Ableman
Tyler Place Juniors run to find hiding places to start a game of kick the can

Photo featured on the Tyler Place website and on Bing Travel LINK and The Today Show LINK

Desert Climate

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Desert Climate
vacation to hawaii
Image by bobosh_t



Hana Highway
vacation to hawaii
Image by bobosh_t

Nice Vacations photos

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2011 Summer Vacation California Las Vegas August 03, 2011398
vacations
Image by stevendepolo


2011 Summer Vacation California Las Vegas August 02, 2011348
vacations
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2011 Summer Vacation California Las Vegas August 02, 2011349
vacations
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Fort Walton Beach, Florida

Check out these vacations beach images:


Fort Walton Beach, Florida
vacations beach
Image by Jeremy Wilburn


Fort Walton Beach, Florida
vacations beach
Image by Jeremy Wilburn


Fort Walton Beach, Florida
vacations beach
Image by Jeremy Wilburn

Nice Vacation Resort Florida photos

A few nice vacation resort florida images I found:



vacation resort florida
Image by She Who Shall Not Be Named
Ritz-Carlton Naples

Nice Vacation And Travel photos

A few nice vacation and travel images I found:



Blytheville, Arkansas
vacation and travel
Image by lbj79us
Made a stop at a gas station for a few minutes

Cool Vacation Beach Resort images

A few nice vacation beach resort images I found:


La Luz Beach Resort
vacation beach resort
Image by Batangas Beach Resorts
Here are pictures that I took during our vacation in La Luz. Check laiyabeachresorts.org/laiya-beach-resorts/a-comprehensive... for my comprehensive review of the resort.


La Luz Beach Resort
vacation beach resort
Image by Batangas Beach Resorts
Here are pictures that I took during our vacation in La Luz. Check laiyabeachresorts.org/laiya-beach-resorts/a-comprehensive... for my comprehensive review of the resort.

Nice Vegas Deals photos

A few nice vegas deals images I found:


Mix 941's Meet & Greet and Private Show with Christina Perri at Marquee's Boombox at The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas
vegas deals
Image by The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas
Las Vegas, July 16, 2011 - Christina Perri played a private show in an intimate setting at Marquee Nightclub's Boombox inside The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas where a few of Mix 941's lucky listeners enjoyed the private show. After the performance they each had their picture taken with the singer-songwriter. Mix 941 and Christina Perri also gave away an autographed piano to one lucky winner in attendance.

Christina Perri played to a packed house later that night at Book & Stage at The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas, which was the kick-off of her first official U.S. tour. See photos here from her Book & Stage performance.

In July 2010, a struggling singer-songwriter and musician named Christina Perri had a life-changing moment when she was asked to perform a song she had written, a defiant break-up anthem called “Jar of Hearts,” on the Fox show So You Think You Can Dance. The raw, emotional quality of her performance connected with viewers and catapulted the 24-year-old Philadelphia native into the public eye. “Jar of Hearts” went on to sell a million downloads and land Perri, who was then supporting herself as a café manager in Beverly Hills, a deal with Atlantic Records...continue reading more on Christina Perri.

For upcoming shows and events at The Cosmopolitan see the Events Calendar.

Find The Cosmopolitan on...
Twitter: @Cosmopolitan_LV
Facebook: www.facebook.com/TheCosmopolitan
YouTube: www.youtube.com/user/TheCosmopolitanLV
Website: www.cosmopolitanlasvegas.com


Mix 941's Meet & Greet and Private Show with Christina Perri at Marquee's Boombox at The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas
vegas deals
Image by The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas
Las Vegas, July 16, 2011 - Christina Perri played a private show in an intimate setting at Marquee Nightclub's Boombox inside The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas where a few of Mix 941's lucky listeners enjoyed the private show. After the performance they each had their picture taken with the singer-songwriter. Mix 941 and Christina Perri also gave away an autographed piano to one lucky winner in attendance.

Christina Perri played to a packed house later that night at Book & Stage at The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas, which was the kick-off of her first official U.S. tour. See photos here from her Book & Stage performance.

In July 2010, a struggling singer-songwriter and musician named Christina Perri had a life-changing moment when she was asked to perform a song she had written, a defiant break-up anthem called “Jar of Hearts,” on the Fox show So You Think You Can Dance. The raw, emotional quality of her performance connected with viewers and catapulted the 24-year-old Philadelphia native into the public eye. “Jar of Hearts” went on to sell a million downloads and land Perri, who was then supporting herself as a café manager in Beverly Hills, a deal with Atlantic Records...continue reading more on Christina Perri.

For upcoming shows and events at The Cosmopolitan see the Events Calendar.

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Twitter: @Cosmopolitan_LV
Facebook: www.facebook.com/TheCosmopolitan
YouTube: www.youtube.com/user/TheCosmopolitanLV
Website: www.cosmopolitanlasvegas.com

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