Many, many thanks to all who have posted on Facebook! I do feel dreadful about the shameful slowness with which I have been communicating of late. I'll try to pick up the pace now I'm fully conscious again. For now, here are some arbitrary musings I typed onto my laptop whenever I could pry it out of my brother's hands. Pictures shall emerge from the mists of my computer soon as well.

Dearest, loveliest comrades,
Whereas a (for once) caffeine free Alison nevertheless trembled all the way to the airport in the taxi, and
Whereas once she arrived at her gate she immediately "opened" her lovely yearbook and
Whereas in said yearbook her beloved TASPers-in-arms expressed a desire that she "keep in touch," and
Whereas T. E. Lawrence carried out a notable and extensive correspondence throughout his life (although it became difficult when he broke his wrist and refused to have it set (due to some sort of tough guy machismo),
It is generally resolved in the Alisonian grey matter that you had absolutely no clue what you were in for when you innocently requested that I keep you posted….
P. S. At 9:27 AM, Alison, past security, made a beeline for the Starbucks, where she purchased a mocha.

Dear TASPers,
I hope you are all safely arrived (with the exception of the unfortunate Spencer) and somewhat recovered from the greatest TASP "ev-er" (accentuate that last bit a la Ryan).
I am in London, in the domestic departures lounge in Heathrow’s Terminal 1. It is 8:40 local time, which makes it 2:30 Saint Louis time. Planes really were designed for TASPers: they let one sit down, they show one an eclectic assortment of films (such as Thank You for Smoking), they permit one to sleep, and they wake one up to feed one. T. E. Lawrence like airplanes: indeed, he spent his latter years serving under a false name in the RAF… That is a story for another day, however.
I miss you all madly. I think this may have been a result of extreme sleep deprivation, but I kept waking up during the flight because I thought I heard Ruben, Leonel, Ryan, and Miranda talking…
Ahhh, it’s good to be back in civilization. For a start, the outdoor temperature is conducive to existence and sanity. Moreover, there are good Sunday newspapers to be had for ready money. I am currently accompanied by a rather hefty copy of the Sunday Telegraph (in a purple bag, Kathryn), complete with what my mother likes to term its "quasi-pornographic supplements." (Those Sunday magazines can be so risqué…) Today’s headline: "I’m staying for another year at least, vows Blair." I raise the eyebrow at that fellow…
The tea here is also good: I had some for breakfast in honor of our dearly beloved factota. Without Cynthia and Mina to help me outwit the cunning ploys of modern packaging, however, I managed to get the half and half all over myself.
The people in the terminal are giving me strange looks as I click through the TASP photos on my laptop. I know I should probably be crying, but I can’t help but laugh at the sight of Kathryn saucily sprawled on the floor of the computer lab, Katharine ever lady-like, Fuyuo with a flower in his hair, Tyler sporting Mina’s sunglasses, or the images of Lynn in demoniac babushka mode. Alright, my fellow passengers are definitely convinced I’m a chipmunk on crack in disguise.
Alas alack! My plane to Aberdeen is boarding. Farewell!

Alison

Dear TASPers,
At the moment I’m picnicking in a black Peugeot outside Duff House, a structure too young and a bit too small to be a proper castle despite its elegant set of sweeping entrance stairs. (My grandfather also wishes it noted that we are overlooking the Royal Duff golf course.) Breanna will no doubt approve of the choice of picnic fare: tuna fish sandwiches. (No cheese was involved, however.) It is overcast and vaguely suggesting the possibility of precipitation: in other words, the perfect day for a Scottish beach. You see, just as wearing the drafty kilt proves one’s Highland machismo, so too does going to the beach in Scotland test one’s endurance and will power. In Scotland, one does not merely walk on to the beach, just as one does not simply walk into Mordor: one struggles through a gale force wind up and down a labyrinth of tall sand dunes covered in sharp dune grass…
Later~
Here I am on the aforementioned beach, the temperature hovering at __ degrees Fahrenheit. It is delightfully chilly. The sands here are whiter than Ryan’s stomach, Lynn’s legs, or Gerardo in general: whichever you prefer as a paragon of paleness. In homage to dear TEL, I feel I must now go and stick my feet in the water. Lawrence was so hardcore he used to go swimming in the North Sea. (Indeed, a misled American psychologist took this as proof that Lawrence was a sado-masochist, failing to appreciate that such insane behavior is really quite typical of the general British population.) We British are many things, but we are not wimps: this explains why we keep beating the French (Agincourt, Blenheim, Waterloo, etc., etc.).
Later~
The water was lovely: just what a jet-lagged TASPer needed to ward off the creeping spectre of slumber. I have been falling asleep far too easily since I arrived in Scotland I slept for 12 hours on Sunday. This shocking behavior shall not be allowed to continue. How have you lot been sleeping?
Scottish beaches are very interesting places. Thus far I have seen three Bedlington terriers (the type who have the body of a whippet and the fur of a poodle), two fighter jets ("as long as they’re bombing the beach…"), one hybrid car (en route to the beach), and, most unusually, someone in a bikini.
Back at 111 Springfield Road (my current residence)~
Snaps to whoever thought of giving us each a picture of all the TASPers. I am looking at it fondly as I type this e-mail into the computer. (I wrote it out on Manasi’s legal pad on the beach.) The photo really helps. I am worried because my memories of Danforth are already going out of focus. I can still see odd things clearly, like the ramp at Mellincrockdt, Tracy’s ears twitching, Katharine’s eyebrows, Rodney’s feet, Leonel’s wooden snake… The lounge seems to have planted itself firmly in my unconscious and is en route to taking over, but it refuses to come out on demand. Rawr. I shake my fist at the fifth of August.
Oh dear, there are many things I didn’t appreciate about TASP at the time but which I sorely miss now. For example, I must confess I got quite a shock when I came into my room to find my mother rifling through my papers. Is nothing sacred! Having got rid of the prying maternal unit, I thought it advisable to conceal all traces of my coffee-drinking exploits with all due expediency. I found an empty drawer into which I deposited the Sumatran coffee and the empty mocha bottle. Of course that would be the drawer my mother had earmarked for storing my papers… Fortunately, I somehow managed to persuade my mother that I "never drank coffee at TASP" and the mocha bottle was a "joke." Actually, I don’t think my mother would mind if she found out that I drank coffee… Anyway, the Sumatran coffee is safely stored under the Black Power platform, safe from any further meddling.
I’m afraid I’ve bored you all. Ahh, well. I must away! What have you been up to? I can’t wait to hear all about your current activities and to access some of those lovely photos on Facebook. (There has got to be free wireless Internet somewhere in Aberdeen: my brother and I have been reduced to driving down the street with the laptop perched on our laps in a vain attempt to find wireless that isn’t password protected.)

Alison

P. S. I had a dream about Before the Rain last night. This is not a good sign...

Haha! Flash drives are wonderful things. I’m getting glares again, so I’d better be off. I promise I’ll send e-mails soon (I forgot to bring the contact list to the library with me, curses).
Tally Ho!