Guess where I went over spring break? NO. Try again . NO! I’ll give you one more chance. Ha ha ha.. That’s funny, but sorry, no. Even after I gave you a hint! It’s francewere scheduled to leave from Stanford about 2, because the train for the airport left a bit after that, which got us there in time for the airplane. But one thing after another got in the way of me packing, and I ended up packing for the 10 day international trip after my ride arrived, in a span of about 3 minutes. And I found out the last day of the trip that I had done a decent job, except that I had a ton of excess underwear, and not enough socks. Go figure.

And that reminds me of the trip I made to Berkeley a while back… I was to meet Yeva at the bus station because the bus left at 1:20. So I went to get on the Marguerite, the free shuttle that runs all over Stanford, killing pedestrians and such. I had never ridden it, and I realized I didn’t know what side of the street to board on. At this point I realized with my luck, either choice I made would turn out to be the wrong one, so I saved myself a 3 meter walk and got on on the closest side. Bzzzz. Wrong. It went to the end of the line, and circled back to the stop where I had gotten on, and began towards the bus station. Unfortunately, at this point it was 1:12, and the schedule said the bus would wind around and arrive at the station at 1:25. Too late. I realized that the bus would stop at the end of palm drive, which was a straight mile long shot to the station. So I jumped off the bus there and began running, to arrive at the station about 6 minutes later, in time! So public transportation served me well, at least in respect to getting me nowhere fast.

We saw the peak of police work in the airport… We were shopping in a over- priced store with seven dollar wooden pens (no, they didn’t shoot a deadly laser beam, or fold out into a car), and saw some nervous looking police come into the store. They were looking around like they expected to get shot at any moment, and stuck together (they were staying close to one another, I mean, not that getting shot would stick them together, although it might). Soon their business was made apparent; they began to inspect a pile of Beanie Babies, turning them over and over in their hands, looking at the tags, and replacing them carefully. I don’t know if they suspected someone had been switching look-alikes for the real babies, or what, but they seemed satisfied after a couple of minutes, and left. Thank God we in America have this sort of protection, unlike Russia, where Beanie Babies are just left to the unwary hands of the public. I think the British have an even more developed system of protection for their Beanie babies than we do - heard of their BBC? No one’s told me what that stands for, but I figured it out - “Beanie Baby Cops.”

The guy at the boarding gate said to me as I got on, in one of those British accents that a lot of newscasters seem to have, “Thanks, nice to see you again.” Now don’t get me wrong, I like the British - they gave us the wonderful shoe line, “British Knights.” But this guy had never seen me before in his life, and he lied about it. I don’t know what his motive was, maybe to make me feel guilty that I hadn’t sent him a Christmas card, but it made me question my impression of english people. (Except Margarets).

More on France to come, I am spontaneously falling asleep here, so I’m going to go to bed, if that’s ok with you. Ah, thanks.

Quote of the nanosecond:

Me, upon beating Ed “Good-foosball-player” Froehlich for the second time, to remain undefeated against him: Woohoo!

This is Bradley, signing off, and slumping over.