Planes, trains and automobiles...

More specifically: two trains, a plane, a shuttle, a plane, a "plane," and a subway which was supposed to be a limo.

Yesterday I traversed four countries for Love. Beat that. (Unless you've ever donated an organ: you win.)

I saw so many things yesterday that I'm almost beginning to relish the fact that I nearly always travel alone. Having no one to talk to means you get to look at lots of things. Like the man and woman in line in front of me in Belgium, with a height difference of nearly two feet. The woman barely came up to my shoulder-- the man was a good head taller than me. They spoke the poorest flemmish french I've ever heard.

I also might not have noticed a certain string of brilliant coincidences concerning the luckiest of all numbers. First off, my obsession with the number 16 requires a small amount of explaination: when I was little my parents took my to see Disney's The Little Mermaid (Le Petite Sirine), a film which begins when Ariel is absent from her royal 16th birthday party. I promptly fell asleep and had a Disney-induced dream where Ariel and I swam up a river and sat under a bridge, having a tea party. A mermaid ditched her own birthday party to have tea with me: therefor 16 is a very lucky number.

That being said, I woke up at 6:16, my first train ticket was for seat 16, I rode in car 316 to the airport, and my first plane ticket was seat 16A, directly over the wing. None of this was planed or requested in any way. One of two explainations is possible:

1) This is divine providence, meaning that I am not crazy for leaving Europe to see Tim (whom I plan to see frequently for the rest of my life, if possible) for just two short weeks.

2) I'm crazy for both leaving Europe and for noticing stupid crap like reoccuring 16s. Bah.

Everyone in Lille gave me a hard time for coming home, but I bite my thumb at them. All the museums here are free, food is cheaper, the accommodations are free, and I'm in rediculously good company.

Never mind that JFK airport sent me to Reagan airport on a plane that was more like the glove-compartment of a real plane with wings stuck to it, instead of sending me to Dulles Airport where Tim had booked a limo to pick me up. Instead of a limo I got a ride in the subway, but it doesn't really bother me because mostly I was half passed-out after 23 hours of international travel anyway.

In case you're wondering I haven't seen a thing in DC yet because our main priority yesterday was to sunburn ourselves as badly as possible (we're talking queezy, blistering sunburn) and eat lots of sub-sandwiches. By the way- I know they're called sub-sandwiches because they look like submarines but...

Listen- this is rediculous. Calling them "Sub-sandwiches" makes them sound in some way inferior to other sandwiches. And the synonyms for Sub-sandwich are just as bad: hoagie sounds like something painful your older brother does to you; grinder well, that does too; and po'boy- it's only acceptable because it's got southern charm, but it's one of those stupid terms like "highwater pants" or "clod-hoppers" that makes you wonder who's grandfather couldn't remember the actual word. Unfortunately though- I'm really fond of submarines so I'm not going to suggest that we go so far as to rename the sandwich something like "super-sandwiches," because that mostly just sounds like a lame advertising ploy.

Anyway- the whole point is that I didn't get to ride in a submarine on the way here. But I'm satisfied anyway.