How do people manage? This is a legitimate question. Every time I attempt to eat a croissant, it is a massacre. There are flakes of pastry everywhere – places I know it should be impossible for pastry to get in (I will leave you to your imagination for this). It is lucky I don’t like croissants that much, otherwise I’d be distressed over my inability to properly devour them. I’ll just continue to avoid them now.
I met up with Panos at a Greek coffee shop today. He babied me and talked me through my Macedonian weaponry essay. He helped me figure out a structure. And while it is going to be hard as hell, and I have a ton of research to do, I feel better knowing I at least have some sort of path now. That’s the hardest part for me, figuring out where the hell I’m going and making sure I go that way. My essays generally start as miserable ramblings, something I picture being similar to trying to talk to a half-mad crack addict.
He also explained to me how in Greece, lactose intolerance is viewed as mildly absurd. Most women apparently say they want a non-dairy milk, not for their inability to digest regular milk, but because they think it will make them bloat. So asking for something like this in what is essentially an all-Greek London coffee shop makes me weird. I explained to him it was not because I’d bloat. It was because I’d break out something terrible, and then be in the bathroom for awhile after. Which is not always true. I mean, the break out is. But the bathroom part is iffy. Why risk it, though?
I’m seriously going to be a hunchback after this year. I carry so many dang things in my backpack. I’m currently a traveling library with six books and my laptop in tow. So maybe six doesn’t sound like a library, but if this was Beauty and the Beast, Belle would definitely prefer my backpack library over her small town one. This scenario is pre-library gift from the Beast, obviously. I can’t compete with that.
Speaking of Beauty and the Beast, I have been singing it nonstop. It’s my happy music which gets me through traveling. And while I’m sure people around me wish I would stop (poor Melanie hears it all the dang time), I just can’t. I need the cheer. It’s gotten to the point where I’m sort of dancing and acting out the songs while walking down the street. It looks odd enough and slightly psycho on its own, but add in my backpack and I look like a crazy, homeless wanderer.