Everybody poops.

It’s what we do with it that makes all the difference.

And yes, Grandma: I know I just typed the word “poop” in a public, online forum. I am so, so sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Take a moment to be embarrassed, maybe brew yourself some tea, and read on. Because this is the post you’ve been waiting for - the infamous how-did-Laura-ride-a-horse-around-a-Dublin-roundabout post.

Buckle up.

…er, saddle up, as the case may be.

After a healthy mourning/photo-editing period of about 24 hours, I’m back online and in Bulgaria after returning from my Easter break. This holiday took me to Oxford, Edinburgh, Dublin, and London. I revisited friends and familiar places, and I explored new sights and scenes. It was a wonderful holiday; I boarded the plane to return to everyday life rather forlornly. But now, thanks to this blog, I can relive all my adventures!

Get excited.

Even for a focused foodie like me, it was impossible to visit Rome this Christmas without a little excitement at the prospect of seeing the Coliseum. In fact, my inner historian was practically tap-dancing with glee.

With the Coliseum serving as a remaining, massive representation of an entire culture that lived, thrived so long ago, only to meet its demise, arguably, on the point of its own bloody gladius - who could stand in the shadow of such an amazing monument to human accomplishment, ingenuity, gluttony, and cruelty, without feeling at least a minimal sense of awe and gravity?

Not this vagabond, to be sure.

Attending university in West Texas, wind became a constant companion. Whether it was twisting our skirts, ruffling our hair, or scattering our papers across the campus mall lawn, the wind kept girls griping.

And that was on calm days.

Other days, it blew in dust storms, propelled ash from nearby brush fires, knocked over fences, and increased (or decreased) gas mileage significantly.

On the Great Plains, the wind never stops. It’s perpetual, varying only in intensity. For me, it became like the big, Texas sky - larger than life, comfortingly constant, and wrapped up in my purest perception of “home."

A little more than 6,000 miles.

That’s how far from home I am. I’m surrounded by new people, new sights and sounds, new foods, and altogether new experiences.

Yet I can’t quit blogging about home.

I didn’t always like to read. And to this day, my out-loud reading remains only bearable. I still read relatively slowly, even slower when the material is a textbook. (We’re talking 30 minutes per page, sometimes - I kid you not.)

In first grade, I remember bringing home readers to read aloud to my parents for homework. Dad and I would sit on the couch, and I would sullenly read, “Max drove fast. Go, Max, go,” sighing at every. single. page. turn.

But then my second grade teacher, Mrs. Turner, gave me a taste for The Boxcar Children and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Dad read The Mouse and the Motorcycle aloud, and Mom read The Chronicles of Narnia.

In the turn of a page, I was hooked.