The Rhythms of Life: Drenoc


As I write this I’m sitting in the communal living room of an 18th century kulla, a traditional Ottoman-Albanian tower-house, in the small historical village of Drenoc in the west of Kosovo. The “guest room,” as they call it, is a large elegant space in the top floor of the tower, with a perimeter of sheepskin cushions for sitting on. The floor is covered in red woven carpets, while the datk wooden beams of the ceiling add to the cozy atmosphere.

The shoes come off at the door, so we’ve all padded softly up here in socks and house slippers. Our hosts have explained that this room was the traditional cultural hub of village life – the place where disputes were settled, business deals struck, and marriages arranged – while Turkish coffee stimulated the mind and eased conversation.

This is where we’ve come to work for two weeks. The magnificent top floor was refurbished in 2006 by a USAid project, but the second floor, the less formal domain of women and children, still needs work.

Hey, those floorboards look pretty good for being almost 300 years old!

But a walk through the village yesterday afternoon showed that Drenoc’s traditions extend beyond the seven historic kullas that make the village a significant cultural site. I got a taste of how life operates in a historic village, in the foothills of the mountains, far from any public transit link, in a region still recovering from a war that touched every family less than a generation ago.

The village is wonderful. From a certain spot you can stand and see nothing in either direction that postdates the 18th century, giving you a chance to visualize, if you can, what the world looked like centuries ago when every village looked like this.

Dog: I could swear I left some sheep around here somewhere…

Our walk took us past a local mosque, which stands in the middle of the village cemetery. Overgrown with an abandoned air, the best-kept graves are of those who died in the recent wars and ethnic attacks of the late 90s. A boy of 19 stands dressed in his dugs holding his kalishnikov while an Albanian flag flutters brightly over his grave.

A husband and a wife lie next to each other, dead on the same day in 1998. The graves of the war victims generally have a more kempt appearance, local communities ways of commemorating their fallen and working through grief. As we wander quietly through the weeds, we notice that all the stones share the same half-dozen surnames. Nita, one of our hosts, stops at a worn unmarked stone to light a candle, which sits beside several others.

“She is a person who used to live in the village,” she explains. “She had no arms or legs, so she was very good.” Nita doesn’t know when she lived or died, but people from the village come regularly to light a candle and make a wish at her grave.

Once we leave that solemn place and shut the gate behind us, the village takes on more life than I’d previously noticed. Two men escort a line of five or six reluctantly obedient cows down the street and into a dirt lane.

Every spare patch of land is cultivated in its small way, with a few rows of potatoes or onions, and perhaps a few fruit trees. The courtyard of our Kulla has fig and plum trees, and stands selling fresh strawberries line the roads between the village and the capital.

We stick out – were as conspicuous as can be in our practical work clothes (everyone here seems impressively well-dressed all the time, even in the countryside), with our backpacks and our wallets (comparatively) heavy with euros, snapping photos of the most mundane sights with our iphones. But the locals seem pleasantly intrigued. They invite us into their homes for coffee even though we don’t speak a word of each other’s language, and don’t seem to mind us poking around their village taking pictures of their houses, their cows, or even them.

Everyone I see seems to be out-and-about doing something, from the woman out hoeing her garden with a tool straight from the 18th century to the man mowing his lawn with a sickle. Perhaps people with few possessions take care of them all the more diligently: boys out riding bikes stop at a roadside fountain to wash the dust off their bikes; men hand-buff the hubcaps of their ancient cars; and the living room of our host’s house – even though the entire family has been living and sleeping in this one room since we’ve put them out of their own bedrooms – is immaculately spotless.

So I’ve painted a picture of a pastoral paradise – and I hope these depictions don’t come off paternalistic or condescending: “Oh look at these charming poor people who live such simple but wholesome lives, aren’t they charming!” No, it’s obviously much more complex than that.

But there’s no doubt that a different attitude governs the speed of life here, and it’s refreshing. Because we’re here to complete a project – there is work that we must complete before we leave – it’s very tempting, particularly to some of us who are used to a more intense pace, to focus on the job – wanting the work to move efficiently, to begin on time and for breaks to be for strict lengths at specific times. But so often we show up at the time were told, to find that despite our supervisors being present and all of us being assembled, another 45 minutes might elapse before we head up to start working. Then in the middle of the day, the work might be suspended as by some unspoken agreement everyone drifts outside to spend a few minutes chatting and sitting in the sunshine. The workday ebbs and flows to a natural rhythm as people pay attention to their bodies and the weather instead to to the clock. In the evenings we all sit in the same room – Albanian-speaking family with hopelessly English-speaking guests – to pass the time however we please. Some play cards, some flick through faceook, some play around with face swap, and some try to expand their Albanian vocabulary through a combination of charades and pidgin German (which most people seem to have studied in school here).

Could the work get done more efficuently? Yes. But as someone has spent so long doing what I “ought” to do that I have trouble knowing what I actually want to do, this way of doing things is different… But nice:)

University of Decay – A View of Prishtina 

As anticipated, a further wander through the city yesterday refined at bit farther my views of Kosovo’s capital city. Let’s just say the realities are not as, um, nice as they appeared from the car. Unfortunately I was just on a wander about with a couple other Americans, and so don’t have the benefit of a local’s insight into what I was seeing: What’s the cultural significance of these structures? What do the local population think about their appearance? By western standards things looked pretty grim, but someone who has lived here through the growth of the city and the conflicts of twenty years ago could probably tell me a lot about how it’s evolved. Maybe things now are booming and blossoming compared to the past? Unfortunately, I don’t know. So the things I’m going to show you have little context, and that’s my disclaimer.

Our wandering took us first abouft a half mile down the high street to the University. Now I was a bit excited, because I’d actually heard about this place, how in 1971 the foundation of an Albanian-language university in the Serb-dominated region was a huge cultural triumph, acknowledging Albanian needs and legitimacy. And besides, my roommate had read that they had an absolutely extraordinary library building – like I was going to pass up a chance to see that.

So we were walking down the street, and through the telephone wires I got a glimpse of an abandoned Orthodox Church. And what’s my motto? “I love a good ruin!” So off we went to have a closer look, when we came upon this sign:

Well, it looked like we found the university’s main quad. That’s the ruined church in the background, quietly crumbling away in a park that looks more like an abandoned lot, complete with stray dogs that slunk about panting and growling.

Unfortunately, I had a growing suspicion that the building in the background was going to be the library I’d heard about. A closer look at the church showed it to be a burned-out shell of a once beautiful building. The entire porch was blackened and scorched, and what once must have been plaster and mural frescoes had been stripped back to the bare bricks. An opening in the bars of the door led me to duck inside for a moment for a peek (and now I can just see my mom putting her head in her hands). Inside was covered with graffiti and scattered with broken glass and the remains of dozens of fires. And no, I didn’t get attacked by any lurking hobos, but the thought was definitely there, so I didn’t linger.

As I’ve said, I know nothing about why this building was being treated and neglected this way in the middle of the capital. The best theory I can come up with is that because orthodox christianity is the religion associated with Serbia, the active mistreatment and desecration of an Orthodox church probably has strong political implications. But that’s just a guess.

And it turns out that that shocking building in the background was the National Library of Kosovo, doubling as the Prishtina University library. Holy. Mother. Of. God.

The underlying structure, if you can picture it, is the blocky, aggressive construction known as the Brutalist style, for obvious reasons. Then at some point, deciding they didn’t care for this ugly style any more, they added these grilles and bubble-domes to “beautify” it. I’m not kidding.

And although it looks like a falling-apart wreck, it is apparently open and functioning. That being said, we couldn’t spot anyone going in or out.

Look at that lovely Italianate campanile in the background… *sigh*

Walking back through town, we came up agains a political rally that was so loud we could hear it from our hotel.

As you can kind of see in the video, there were hundreds and hundreds of people rushing away down the street as the protest was disbanded, and the demographic is almost entirely male.

And finally we came across a statue erected in 2008 to celebrate the country’s new independence:

Ended the day with an evening editing photos while watching Eurovision in the hotel lobby.

With a foamy cappuccino:)

Pristina, Kosovo – Twenty minutes, a hundred first impressions

So approximately thirty minutes after picking up my bags from the airport, I find myself already sat down – armed with the foamiest cappuccino I have ever enjoyed – to write about this new place called Kosovo. Except it’s not new – but it is – but it isn’t. See, the Republic of Kosovo only declared itself in 2008, but many countries – in particular Serbia – still don’t recognize its sovereignty (much more on that later, I’m sure). But Kosovo the region has been a battleground for centuries, all the way back to the 1389 Battle of Kosovo, the definitive legendary battle of the Serbs against the Turks, which inspired myth and epic, and gave birth to Serbian national pride as, like, even a thing.

All I’ve done so far is grab my bag, send a few quick texts to let people know I’ve arrived, take a fifteen minute cab ride, and plop myself down in the restaurant of my hotel. You may think I’m exaggerating when I say that my hand way itching – literally twitching – to start recording everything I was seeing. That short ride was its own battle inside me – my brain’s desire to jot down every single thing I passed in the car, warring against the sheer unbearability of looking away. Even now my writing is all chicken scratching a because I just can’t get the words out fast enough and why oh why did I leave my laptop at home?!?!

Really the first impressions began before even landing. Flying from Istanbul had been cloudless, the sun shining down strong and uninterrupted on vast arid plains and the occasional ridge of lovely mountains. Beyween the flight map and GPS on Google Maps, I was keeping eager track of our progress, trying to pin down if this river was the Macedonian border, if that city was Skopje, and whether those mountains in the distance might actually be in Greece.

But then, as we crossed into Kosovo airspace and the pilot announced our imminent descent, I know it sounds extraordinary but the plane suddenly swooped down – no really, with a swoopy engine noise and everything! – into the only cloud bank we’d seen the entire flight. And suddenly the unrelenting sunshine gave way to a dull grey cloud through which we sank down, and down, and down, before breaking into a world of gloomy deep-green mountains below. Ominous. Omen-ous.

And really, if I could use only one word to describe Kosovo thus far, it would be green. I don’t know if it’s just that time of Spring, but from the instant I stepped out of the airport – no, even when we were flying over – which sits face-to-face with a sizable hill-slash-mountain, everything here is green, growing green. The grass is thick, velvet green, the trees are energetic and springy, and the mountains are a deep, mysterious green, entirely appropriate to their looming presence under the gloomy sky. I hadn’t expected this lush growth, this pervading impression of fertility. And actually, the earth does look sort of dry and crumbly, but you’d have to look pretty hard to notice it because it’s entirely covered in green stuff.

So Kosovo is solidly Greener Than Expected – what else? Well there’s the airport, apparently so new that it still smells faintly of construction. It’s filled with shiny, welcoming, cosmopolitan duty-free shops that are all eerily empty. It’s got that Sochi Olympics vibe of a place built to resemble the west but which ends up a ghost town. The Swarovski crystal display stands glittering hopefully and imploring passers-by, “Please, someone… Can’t anyone afford me?!” Sorry, buddy. I couldn’t afford you in Glasgow and I can’t afford you here. So I too pass on. The cab stand is populated enough though, so I check the price to the city – fifteen euros – and hop in.

And the whirlwind begins.

From the lines of cars two decades out of style, to the dude parked just outside he airport selling from the boot of his car what appear to be rusty antique landmines brightly painted with clock-faces. And the green – of empty grassy fields, cultivated plots, small groves of fruit trees, and garden centers apparently growing acres of decorative shrubbery – contrasts with the bright copper of new brick houses – new construction everywhere, it seems – topped with cheery terracotta roofs.

But sometimes it’s difficult to tell – is that house a bombed out shell, or still being built? Are things going up or coming down? Both, certaibly, but I’m thinking a bit more of the former. Kosovo is the new kid on the EU block, an up-and-comer with international sympathy on its side, trying to unshackle themselves from the specter of Serbia, which still officially claims the region as theirs. It’s just come on the euro, has a brand new “International Airport” and even a Mango going up in its new shopping mall. So it’s probably no accident that the route between the airport and the city is buzzing with construction projects of capacious, modern-style houses that any westerner would envy – I certainly do. Whether anybody actually lives in them, of course, is less certain. But they certainly look impressive, and that’s the point.

Further into the city the ghosts of communist-era housing still remain, and I’m reminded of the noxious 70s high rises that line the route into Moscow. You get the odd minaret and the Albanian flag here and there – the country is 99% Muslim and ethnically Albanian – but the people walking on the streets look like you’d find in any city in the UK (except perhaps a bit more tanned…).

And aside from the curious sites that conjure the past, like the dude selling landmines, or the “Association for Kosovan Prisoners of War” located across from my hotel, my first impressions are all of a place that is trying desperately to escape the mortifying past and catch up with the rest of Europe.

Maybe in a bit I’ll have some further thoughts, when I’ve spent more than twenty minutes in the place. But now perhaps a nice nap… Zzzzzzz.



The Allure of Castles: Dunscaith

The Western Isles of Scotland are a magical place. Although many were once heavily populated, famine, migration, and clearances have left them peopled mostly by ghosts, and the structural remains of past peoples.

For me, it is the archaeology of remote places that create that particular “magic of the desolate” that was so beloved of Romantic poets and painters. From undateable cairns to Iron-Age broch forts, all the way up to the roofless stone crofts of the past century, remote Scottish islands like Rum, Barra, Orkney, Shetland, and the world-famous St. Kilda are littered with evidence that for a long time these places were of great importance to a great number of people. Important enough to fight great sea-battles over, pitting Norwegian Vikings against fledgling Scottish kings; important enough to defend with castles and hill-forts and brochs, expensive and labour-intensive statements of dominance and power; important enough to erect cairns, stone circles, and massive burial mounds for figures whose long-forgotten names are commemorated only in the remains of structures that required an astonishing feat of labour, engineering, and social cooperation by the “primitive” peoples who build them.

For whatever they can tell us about history, to me such remains ask a question that thrums in the insistent western wind, and repeats with the waves that pound inexorably at the barren coast: Where did everyone go?

The Isle of Skye is hardly the remotest of the islands, and is by far the most visited by tourists (on account, I have always suspected, of its beautiful name), but its not difficult to find places on Skye that evoke that same feeling of poetic desolation, particularly if you can manage to turn off the well-traveled road that takes the ubiquitous coach tours from Kyle of Lochalsh to Portree.

At the very south of the island on the Sleat peninsula, a rough single-track with a constant obstacle course of sheep leads seven miles to a small cluster of houses called Tokavaig (in such places, a collection of three or four houses is enough to earn a name on a map), just past which, on an outcropping of rocky coastline, are the remains of a castle.


You knew there had to be a castle involved eventually, didn’t you?

Dunscaith Castle (or Tokavaig Castle, in honor of the village) was originally a stronghold of Clan Donald (or MacDonald), but there is no definitive beginning date for the structure, the earliest terminus ante quem being sometime in the 14th century, when the castle is already referred to as changing hands (ergo, already built in some form) to the MacLeods.

But it’s not the history of the castle that continues to fascinate me – it’s how little we know of it. Other than its capture by James I in the 15th century, its abandonment in the 17th century, and its designation as a protected scheduled monument in 1934, almost nothing is known about it.

And the question that obsesses me is, How can that be? How can a place that has been continuously inhabited for at least the past millennium forget its own history?

Now of course I speak from a particular place: the severing effect of warfare and emigration means that I only have four generations to keep track of since my ancestors came to America from Poland and Austria-Hungary, and any knowledge of or ties with family who still live in the Old Country are mere luck. The astonishment I felt when I found out that my Polish relatives have equally little idea of our ancestry beyond a few generations – despite living in the same village for centuries – was enormous.

I am a historian (if only a fledgling one), and so I understand the forces that lead people to lose their own history: lack of documentation, indeed of literacy means that for most people in most places, preservation of history must be oral – how many families do you know that maintain a formal oral memory, like the King Lists of Ancient Ireland? Even today the surest way to preserve family history is orally. Sure, if you wanted to know the name and birthplace of your great-grandfather, there are many resources to hand that can give you the answer, with a little digging. But even this requires a kind of “re-discovery” of genealogy, not to mention requiring an interest in the first place. Whereas if you were told from a young age that your great-grandfather’s name was Stefan and he was born in Detroit… The knowledge is that much more able to play a part in your cultural consciousness and self-identification. It is known, rather than learned or studied.

Dunscaith Castle has a manifold allure. Its situation on an almost-island connected to the mainland by a particularly treacherous bridge makes it exciting – you can vividly imagine the castle defending itself under siege, rival clansmen trying desperately to take that bridge.

And the setting is spectacular – surrounded by sea on three sides, with majestic views of the sun setting behind the mountains of Rum.


But even though it’s a scheduled monument under the care of Historic Environment Scotland, it has this overwhelming air of forgotten-ness. Through warfare and clearances, the people of Tokavaig have survived in an unbroken line from the people who built and lived in this castle. Where is their self-history? How did Dunscaith Castle go from the fiercely contested regional stronghold, to “That old run-down thing? The clan hardly uses it any more,” to “Wow, what an amazing old pile of stones. I wonder who built it, and why?”

And that, in a nutshell, is my castle quandary. How do we come to forget what’s been right in front of us all along?

The Allure of Castles

If I really go back to the very beginning, my love affair with Scotland began with a castle. I was volunteering on an organic farm in Fife, and one afternoon I was taking a walk in the surrounding countryside, when I saw this in the distance:


Really it was much farther away, only just recognizable as “a great big cool-looking thing.”

So obviously, I had to tramp through every farmer’s field and cow pasture in outer Kirkcaldy until I reached the bloody thing! I never did manage to get inside it – I could say I was deterred by the enormous “Danger – Unstable Ruins” sign, but let’s be honest, it was really the impenetrable thicket of nettles that kept me out.

Pitteadie Castle. Run of the mill 15th/17th century tower keep with a fairly intact but unremarkable structure and few remaining decorative features. That’s how I understand it now, after I’ve spent a year intensely studying castles. But then, in that adventurous summer of 2011… It was awe-some.

I might chock it up to having never seen a castle before. Now, I’d recently spent two days in Edinburgh and, yes, visited the castle, but I feel it doesn’t count. It may sound rich to say that Scotland’s most famous castle is not really a castle at all, but honestly I don’t consider Edinburgh Castle a castle. In look, in atmosphere, in historic material – it’s more of an 18th century fortress turned into a tourist attraction by the lure of the crown jewels and a few key restorations. But I digress.

So I stand by my guns, that I was a castle virgin until I came across Pitteadie, and that that unmarked, neglected, shabby ruin of a building was the starting point for my castle addiction, although it took me several years and several more trips to Scotland to recognize it.

I had been staying in Fife for a week already. I had been briefed on “things to do and see” in the area quite thoroughly, I was assured, by several people, including my host family, yet somehow no one had mentioned that marvelous old Pitteadie Castle was only a fifteen minute walk northward.

And so I think it boils down to this: What kind of magic must there be in a place where marvels like this are so commonplace, so frequent, as to not be worth the mentioning? If this country, this Scotland, could hide a treasure like that beautiful bloody ruin out of sheer blasé-ness, what other heart-stopping secrets must be out there, hidden behind watchful forests, lurking in the deep glens, waiting for discovery down winding single-track roads?image1(2)

The Cult of Empress Sisi

This is a post that I wrote after visiting Vienna in 2012 but somehow never published. Enjoy!


Empress Elisabeth of Austria had everything the world and God could offer. She was beautiful and slender. Fiery and determined and frighteningly intelligent. She was born into great money and married into even greater. Her husband was not only a prince, but a good and gallant one, who married her for love, not money. She had several healthy beautiful children. In a restricted court society, she had great freedom, and when she lacked freedom, she took it anyway.

Empress Elisabeth had absolutely everything. And was incredibly, tragically unhappy.

Many said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Her hair was so long she could stand on it.

She had an 18-inch waist (if that):

Picture courtesy of my iPhone

She was the queen of fashion in the Austro-Hungarian Empire:

Empress Elisabeth of Austria was the most beautiful woman in the world. And she knew it.

I would summarize Elisabeth’s personality using the following three (or four?) words: vanity, and mental instability.

A staggering proportion of her life’s energy was spent on the upkeep of her famous beauty. Her hair required an average of three hours of care and styling daily. The rest of the day was devoted to exercising vigorously, and to eating as little as possible. Like Catherine of Siena, Elisabeth was another historical figure who clearly had an eating disorder. I won’t call it anorexia, or bulimia, or exercise bulimia, because it was a combination of all these. Suffice it to say, Elisabeth had disordered eating. She would go on crash diets, eating nothing but oranges and chicken broth for weeks. She had a private exercise room in each of her palaces. Walking was a popular Victorian pastime, and Elisabeth loved walking. Except her walks sometimes lasted 8 hours. And instead of walking she practically ran. Her other favorite form of exercise was horseback riding, which she practiced daily and fiercely. She preferred eating while standing, and when forced to sit at public functions and state dinners, she never took more than 25 minutes to finish eating (a great inconvenience to the guests, because one had to stop eating when the person of highest rank set down their fork).

But her beauty was reserved only for herself.  Even though she had a handsome royal husband who worshiped and adored her, she would have none of him. She spent years at a time away from the Viennese court, and even when she was home, her husband had to petition to see her along with everyone else. But she never took a lover, either. Because Elisabeth hated sex. She was [reportedly] frigid, and wrote poems on the disgusting nature of physical passion. We are not dealing with Helen of Troy here, people. She posed for many famous portraits, as was her royal duty, but she was very reluctant to have her photograph made. She had a personal photographer who had exclusive rights to reproducing her image (and only rarely did she give him permission), and when paparazzi got too close, she thwarted their efforts with a fan she kept handy at all times.

Elisabeth’s favorite pastimes were riding, not eating, and writing volume after volume of melancholy, nihilisic poetry.

I guess what finally fascinates me about Elisabeth, is her infinite self-absorption. Okay, I get that not all people who “have it all” are happy. I understand that the pressures of the court, the pressures of her royal mother-in-law (who was super strict regarding Elisabeth’s behavior in Vienna and restricted Elisabeth’s role in the raising of her own children) can make being rich, famous, beautiful, and powerful not all that fun. But Elisabeth demonstrated that she wasn’t afraid to break the imperial mould. Contrary to the wishes of her husband, her mother-in-law, and her government, she spent the majority of her time far away from the Viennese court, traveling for years at a time all around Europe. At some point, Elisabeth learned to do what she pleased, and to hell with everyone else. And yet, somehow… she never managed to do anything to make herself happy. She was skinny and beautiful. Not happy. She traveled wherever she wanted. Not happy. She could have had any lover she chose. She didn’t want any. She spent millions and millions building fabulous palaces for herself. She used them once and then promptly sold them. She threw all her energy into helping the “plight” of the Hungarians. After being crowned Queen of Hungary, she promptly ignored their political problems.

Elisabeth had the resources and the strength of will and character to do whatever it took to make herself happy. And she tried – why else would she have built the palaces, why else would she have roamed the world? I think she was looking for something she never finally found, and never even really knew what it was.

Imperial champagne – Sisi is rosé, and Franz Josef is blanc…

Now her face and her beauty of which she was so jealous are plastered on cheap knicknacks that people covet, talismanlike, just to touch a bit of her melancholy mystique. Sissi dressup dolls and fashion figurines fly off the shelves at the Hofburg Palace in Vienna; she is every girl’s fantasy of a fairy princess. But her dark hair and shimmering gowns just keep reminding us that being beautiful is more important than being happy.

The Road to Bristol

The path I took here was unpredictable. If you’d asked me a year ago to guess where I’d be, Bristol, Rhode Island would not have made the top 5. Or the top 100.

I hope there will be more in the weeks to come about this year in the country’s tiniest state. The whole thing feels like a blip, an isolated pocket of time that was never meant to happen. But if this was a blip, it was a beautiful blip, and if it was never meant to happen, I’m still awfully glad it did.

But there I go, talking vagueness. Really, I have some interesting and highly digestible posts in the works that come directly out of this time I’ve spent among strangers in Rhode Island. But after such a long hiatus it felt odd to jump right into 18th century cheese-making, or the proper way to lace your corset, or the secret vocabulary of chickens.

So let me give a brief recap of the the past year – that is, how I unexpectedly and randomly came to be where I am now – and then we can get down to the fun stuff, like just how many strangers can you fit into an 18th century bed? It started with a boy who was working in New York. I liked him; we were dating. I had a year to kill while I applied for a Fulbright Fellowship and the world was my oyster; all options were open! So I decided to move back to New England and see if things could work between us. I’d dreamed of working at someplace like Plimoth Plantation and this seemed my time to try, before I flung myself abroad the following year (I hoped!) to Scotland. So around this time last year I sent my resume to every open-air and living history museum between Philadelphia and Boston (no really, I was working off a list), and I heard back from exactly one of them, a tiny farm in the tiniest state, Coggeshall Farm Museum in Bristol, RI. They weren’t hiring me, merely granting me an interview, but that was enough. I chucked all my eggs into that basket and my worldly possessions into the car and put a deposit on a rental house in Tiverton, RI.

I’ll tell you the ending: They DID hire me, and I’ve been working there since October. Other key facts about my life since then: A neighbor put me in the way of a troupe of Gilded Age living history actors in Newport, with whom I’ve had the joy of performing since December; The boy is long gone; I DID get the Fulbright, so I’m off to Scotland in September.

Many adventures and shenanigans to report this past year, and hopefully a few of them will make it into tidbits on this blog. Get ready for a history lesson, boys and girls.

(Oh, and just for reference, here’s an actual picture of the road to Bristol, RI. But more on that later😉

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