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Gill and I at our professor’s Christmas party this past Thursday. The picture was taken by Louisa, a fellow design student, with an artful blend of flash and ambient light. Our professor, whom we were not allowed to call professor, threw an amazing party in his amazing loft space near London Bridge underground station. We all came bearing gifts for the Nerici?s annual ?present trade.? After all of the numbers were called I had received, joy of joys, my teacher’s present: a three-dimensional storybook entitled My Granny’s Purse. I knew then why he had said that he ?hoped a bloke would get it.? The party was perfect, our teacher?s friends and wife were as outrageously Italian and cosmopolitan as we had predicted and the hors d’oeuvres and gin and tonics were unimpeachable.

It is now Sunday night and I am winding down from several days of solid toiling. All of my design work is due Tuesday at noon and then I will have thirty-six hours to see everything I wanted to see in England, tie up my loose ends, pack all of my bags, mail what won?t fit and console all of the British maids that won?t be seeing me for some time now.

It has been an embarrassingly long time since I posted to the site, as Mother Salit and Father Becker have duly pointed out, but I would be wont to mention that my picture galleries are quite up to snuff and my collection of work from my video sketchbook class (located conveniently on the home page) is thorough and up to date. Speaking of which, they showed my final video project, along with all of the others, at the end of the year DIPA party. To my surprise there were at least one-hundred-some people in attendance (including my architecture professor who had to suffer my ranting about my 2000-word Christopher Wren paper) and they all howled in laughter at my piece. Thank god I wasn?t in it (as you all know it was only my voiceover), but there were more than a few ?who?s that guy??s bubbling around the crowd; suffice it to say I?m somewhat of a celebrity around campus.

And now for the important travel-logging. If you have been consulting my Harry Potter Picture Wizard of late, you would know that I have spent the past two weekends in Prague and Amsterdam. I will tackle the former first and the latter last.

Like everybody says, the Czech Republic is beautiful and inexpensive, however both are relative terms. While I absolutely loved Prague, I felt like Ireland was prettier and cheaper in its own way, but perhaps I am already nostalgic.

When we arrived at the airport, I promptly exchanged $100US and received approximately 2300 of the local currency. I, of course, proceeded to frivolously spend my new limitless supply of money on outrageous things like wind blowers, ten-gallon hats and fur-trimmed boots à la Dumb and Dumber. I believe I was handing our airport cab driver eight-hundred to tie my shoes when Gill slapped some sense into me. The first night we ended up at a dance club that we were recommended and we ran into the group of American girls who were seated in front of us on the plane from London.

The hostel we stayed at, called The Boat House, was spectacular. It was on a river of some sort, we had our own private room for three (Gill, Karen and myself) and they served a complimentary breakfast everyday till noon! Not even I could miss that.

Now we arrived in Prague late Thursday night and left early Saturday morning so we really only enjoyed only one day there which we spent at and around the Charles Bridge—a gorgeous stone structure adorned every few meters with ancient, frozen, dark and sooty statues holding, each of them, a shiny gold object. That day we saw the castle on the river, ate sausages (the pictures do not lie), failed to find the Mozart museum and found Gill a ridiculous hat with earflaps. The trip was short and sweet and I think everyone had an amazing time.

Now to describe a much trickier beast, my trip to Amsterdam. Now cover your ears and get the kiddies out of the room, because here we go!

At the last minute Karen decided that she had too much work to go lose two days of her life forever in Amsterdam. I lamented her decision, but respected her work ethic and Gill and I went on our own. We stayed at another excellent hostel (at the Museumplein tram stop) in a private bunk bed room with television and sink. That was the home base for our chicanery the next couple of days. This hostel offered a free breakfast as well and we exploited this to the fullest. Bread, Nutella, jelly, peanut butter, cheese, OJ, coffee, tea and that?s just what I could fit into my pants!

Now I?m not sure what I can really tell you about my recreational activities that weekend. Let?s face it, some I can?t remember and some I can?t say. I can certainly tell you what we didn?t do: The Anne Frank House (because I had already been), The Van Gogh Museum (because we showed up half an hour before close but they still wouldn?t let us in) and avoid being photographed in a popular Dutch newspaper! See exhibit A below:

Now I?m not sure what?s in Gill?s hand there but I hope she put it out before the whole room caught fire. While we were sitting in this lovely coffee shop (I would put them in direct competition with Starbucks) we were approached by this couple who said that they had till the end of the day to file this piece about smoking versus drinking and that they needed our picture (for some strange reason) and that it would be in the next day?s newspaper. Gill and I affably nodded and lo and behold, the next day we found this journal with Gill beneath a section header. She will have that paper to cherish for the rest of her days; a snapshot of her youth.

Now for any more information on my goingsons in Holland, you are going to have to ask me personally. I?m sure what I tell you will be drastically different depending on who you are and your heart condition.

And what would this post be without a tantalizing reveal of my sister?s latest snail mail attack on my character. I received the following piece of blackmail by post this weekend:

Now let me just adjust my glasses here … hmmmm … now it would seem that there are three, no wait four, pigs suckling at my teat. Clever girl! There are so many things at play here, just confronting the image is an emotional journey. First you think, oh my god, Sam is a pig and he?s falling. But then you realize that everything is ok, because he has been carefully fitted with a parachute (one that is monogrammed, no less). You?re also oddly comforted by the small piglets that are going to sedate Sam as he drifts to earth. But then your eyes drift down to the crimson flames below and you think, perhaps we?re going to have pork chops tonight accompanied by pigs in a blanket! A dirty jab Zoe. I shall return from the UK with an elaborate image I?ve penned of struggle, despair and llamas that will keep you up nights.

Now I would like to put up one more post before I leave on a jet plane to do a more proper recap and possibly show you some of my work (yes, I?ve actually been doing something productive here the past four months). But if I don?t get the chance before I leave, then I would just like to say that I have spent an amazingly spectacularly awesome time here and I would like to thank my devoted viewers, all of the people who helped or encouraged me to come here, the DIPA staff and any Brit whose life I have changed in some profound way. I haven?t left and already, I can?t wait to come back!

So long, maybe,

Samma Lamma

PS Gill and Karen had photographs take for them at a London modeling agency:

It?s like Charlie?s Angels, but students studying abroad instead! I guess that would make me Farah Fawcett!