take me to wanderland
Proving once again that journalism is most certainly not dead, news reports across the country (and the world) broke a massive college admissions scandal on March 12, following an FBI press conference.
50 people have been charged in Operation Varsity Blues, also known as the “biggest college admissions scandal ever” (though a Texan broadcast team labeled it much more accurately as “the biggest college admissions scandal ever prosecuted in the US.”) The wealthy scammers include former hedge fund CEO’s, authors, doctors, various corporate positions and, as the news repeatedly reminds the public, actresses Lori Loughlin and Felicity Huffman.
The revelation sparked heated discussion throughout social media, in addition to many vloggers’ reactions. At the risk of jumping on the bandwagon, I felt the need to address the subject myself.
”Is she becoming Amish?”
I cannot count how many times people have uttered the word Amish since I announced my move to Lancaster back in September. These conversations normally forewarned that I was headed for “Amish country.” My grandmother, however, directly inquired of my dad whether her oldest granddaughter was in fact, turning Amish.
Thanks to an adventurous spirit handed down from my mother and grandmother, as well as various adulthood obligations, I am often away from home during Christmas.
But, as I recently reflected on past holiday experiences, I realized that I am never without some form of family on this particular day.
This time four years ago, I was all too familiar with waking up at unreasonable hours.
My usual shift began between 7:15 and 7:30am, with the route for Coronado starting at 6:18. My alarm was always set for 5, though weeks of being physically drained had taken its toll and I now woke up at 4am after falling asleep around 7 or 8pm.
For the first part of last year, I’d often be awake at 6 to catch the bus to catch the train to make my shift at 8:30am. There was one day where I worked a 13.5 hour shift, standing.
Still, none of my shifts ever started before 7am - until yesterday, when I worked the earliest and longest shift of my life. (Thankfully, I sat for this one.)
October 18, 2017.
Somehow, a year has come and gone since the day I watched the Emerald Isle disappear into the clouds.
It was difficult to say goodbye. I’d made friends there. I’d created a family. I attended a church I loved. I’d worked three jobs, one of which finally put me in my field, however temporarily. My life was there, in that county known as Cork.
Bonjour! Ça va?
Over the past three years, I have become quite accustomed to hostels. I enjoy the way they are set up, allowing travellers to easily interact with other travellers.
This time, however, I decided to try something new. Rather than pay for a hostel, I looked at both Couchsurfing and Airbnb. The former didn’t pan out, so I chose the latter.
I am happy to say that I made the right decision.
I suppose in my family, leaving is just something you do.
Three years ago today, I boarded British Airways for my first international flight. Thanks a mill, Facebook; reading that wasn’t depressing, at all.
I don’t even remember the first time I stepped foot in an airport.
When I was a child, I hated history.
Melanie Martin was so cool, 10-year-old me thought as I dove into another Martin adventure. Carol Weston’s adventurous Mel and her brother, Matt the Bratt, had already been to Italy, Spain, the Netherlands and of course New York by the time she was 11. I could only dream of such things.