My grandpa made his Instagram debut yesterday. It's because of him (or his parents, rather) that I can attribute some of my multicultural heritage to the Scots (and Irish); specifically, that of royal blood. Please note: It wasn't until two weeks ago that I discovered the second part of that fact. (Please also note: its legitimacy has yet to be thoroughly investigated. I'm on it though.)
the Vintage with Stephanie didn't hurt either. Nor did Lorelei and I's twilight adventures with the British Army. To recreate such a positively unforgettable experience, I'd additionally recommend: strolling down the Water of Leith Walkway, shelling out for Edinburgh Castle, saving pounds at the National Gallery, enjoying Princes Street Gardens, having casual afternoon tea, visiting Her Majesty's local residence, dining at Khushi's, and winding down with Brass Monkey brews. Slàinte!
My parents were gone and my birthday had been celebrated. I'd been crying pretty consistently for about a week--mostly through goodbyes. Thankfully, a month or so prior, I'd decided to soften the bidding-Paris-adieu blow with a city trip I'd been hoping to make for just about two years. And so I left two big suitcases at Charles de Gaulle airport to fly to Edinburgh for "the jolliest last European hurrah (in the UK (pour l'instant))" with my dear friend Lorelei. Upon our return, I had roughly four hours to then switch terminals, check in, and board my flight to les États-Unis. Never a dull moment, eh? It's no wonder I've already tired of the present-day quiet and calm wait for Los Angeles! Speaking of, by the way, mi abuelo is already planning his visit. He told me so last night. 'Twas a happy Father's Day all around.