Travel Journal: Entry 1
I hate traveling like a Muggle.
How the hell do they do it all the time? It takes hours to get anywhere, no matter what form of transportation we use, and there are crowds of other people involved, jostling against me, being loud, being rude, and getting far too close for my comfort. I already dread having to take an "aeroplane" to the States, which Remus informs me will entail being cooped up in a metal cylinder hurtling through the air at speeds I don't care to contemplate with hundreds of other people for longer than either my patience or sanity will last. We've already discussed the possibility of giving Cymbeline a mild sleeping potion for the duration of the flight with Nanny Stella, and I'm giving serious thought to dosing myself to oblivion as well. Remus can wake me when we reach New York City and not one damned minute before.
For now, however, we are in Rome, and I have a few minutes to catch up while Remus bathes and dresses in preparation for the book signing this afternoon. Cymbeline will remain at the hotel with Nanny Stella, a portly, no-nonsense woman of A Certain Age who has 25 years experience as a nanny which, in addition to being Muggle born, made her a suitable candidate, far better than the giggling, simpering young chits who tried to apply for the position.
Our first stop was in Paris. Although the book signing wasn't until late afternoon, we had to leave early nonetheless as we were to travel across the Channel by boat. To my chagrin, I discovered that my "sea legs" are wobbly indeed. Remus seemed torn between sympathy and amusement at what he termed my "turning green around the gills", but a potion put me right soon enough.
I brought a small bag -- protected with charms against breakage and theft, of course -- filled with nothing but various potions I thought we might need plus bottles, ingredients, and a small, collapsible cauldron to make extra doses if what I brought was not enough. Remus says Muggles have medication for nausea and headaches as well as sleeping pills, but he's mad if he thinks I'll trust any kind of Muggle medication to do the job better than a potion of my own making.
Fortunately, the trip from Calais to Paris was via land rather than water, and we arrived with enough time to settle into the hotel and rest before the signing. The bookshop was located next to a patisserie, and I thought I might have to drag him forcibly away from the window. It was a good thing he has been practicing taming his wolf as Serafina instructed, or with his strength, his nails might have left grooves in the bricks as I carted him off.
And now he's standing behind me, peering over my shoulder and protesting that he wasn't as bad as all that. He is reminding me that all I had to do was grasp his elbow and steer him away, and besides, with his senses not as keen as they usually are, at least it meant he didn't turn the wolf eyes on me and beg me to fetch him an eclair in the middle of the book signing because the scents wafting over from the patisserie were driving him mad. To which I reply if a certain wet haired werewolf drips on my journal, there shall be a spanking and not of the good, fun kind. Also, if he wants any hope of arriving at the signing on time, he had best get his be-toweled self out of my sight as soon as possible.
There. Now he's gone off, laughing. The wretch.
At any rate, the signing itself was uneventful. Translation charms allow us to avoid the language barrier, which is useful, and I have been posing as Remus' personal assistant rather than as his partner. I'm not fond of the ruse, but his agent explained the damage the news that Remus is not only gay but also in a committed relationship could do to his career, thus it seems best to maintain a low profile. For now, at any rate. If she thinks I'm going to remain his unseen and unheard partner for the rest of his professional life, she doesn't know me well at all. Remus isn't keen on the idea either, thus I foresee a time when she will simply have to accept the fact that we refuse to remain stuffed in the closet.
Remus remained at the bookshop long after his alloted time was up, signing autographs until everyone in line had received one and remaining his usual affable self in the process. He seems to genuinely enjoy interacting with his fans and is far more polie with them than I would have been had our positions been reversed. Even being asked "where do you get your ideas?" or "is Serena based on a real person?" for the hundredth time doesn't tax his patience, although the second question does seem to amuse him more when I am sitting by his side, and sometimes, he gropes my thigh under the table when he tells them yes, she is.
"Haven't they got eyes?" he asked after the signing in Barcelona yesterday, his tone one of wonderment. "Can't they tell Serena is sitting right beside me?"
I replied that of course they couldn't. Humans, especially Muggles, are adept at seeing only what they want to see and remaining blissfully oblivious to everything else. We manage to keep our entire world a secret from them, including the existence of dragons, thus it doesn't surprise me when they fail to notice the resemblances between Remus' personal assistant and his hero's love interest.
It was after dark when we finally left the bookshop, and Remus insisted on taking a walk, claiming it would be a shame to waste a chance for a romantic walk in the City of Lights. He also thought I should see the Eiffel Tower by night. I said I thought I should see the club where he'd once performed in the cross-dressing revue.
"Already ready for an encore performance, Severus?" he teased.
"Only if it's a private showing," was my response.
We agreed that dinner should come first, before any sight-seeing, although nothing on the menu of the restaurant we chose appealed to me. I was craving pea soup quite strongly. Remus suggested that I could have onion soup topped with cheese, but that didn't sound appetizing. I didn't want onion soup; I wanted pea soup. I still want pea soup, for that matter. Nothing I've eaten has satisfied the craving, and I'm tempted to Apparate back to London to get some, but I haven't had the chance thanks to our whirlwind schedule. Meanwhile, my craving goes unsatisfied and will likely remain so for the rest of the trip. Remus says he can't understand how I stomach the stuff to begin with, much less how I can crave it, but if I don't get an entire tureen to myself the instant we're home, heads will roll.
Remus is dressed and ready to go to the next signing now. He says he isn't kissing the back of my neck in order to distract me from writing, but because he has a craving of his own that is going unsatisfied. I understand the feeling quite well.
How the hell do they do it all the time? It takes hours to get anywhere, no matter what form of transportation we use, and there are crowds of other people involved, jostling against me, being loud, being rude, and getting far too close for my comfort. I already dread having to take an "aeroplane" to the States, which Remus informs me will entail being cooped up in a metal cylinder hurtling through the air at speeds I don't care to contemplate with hundreds of other people for longer than either my patience or sanity will last. We've already discussed the possibility of giving Cymbeline a mild sleeping potion for the duration of the flight with Nanny Stella, and I'm giving serious thought to dosing myself to oblivion as well. Remus can wake me when we reach New York City and not one damned minute before.
For now, however, we are in Rome, and I have a few minutes to catch up while Remus bathes and dresses in preparation for the book signing this afternoon. Cymbeline will remain at the hotel with Nanny Stella, a portly, no-nonsense woman of A Certain Age who has 25 years experience as a nanny which, in addition to being Muggle born, made her a suitable candidate, far better than the giggling, simpering young chits who tried to apply for the position.
Our first stop was in Paris. Although the book signing wasn't until late afternoon, we had to leave early nonetheless as we were to travel across the Channel by boat. To my chagrin, I discovered that my "sea legs" are wobbly indeed. Remus seemed torn between sympathy and amusement at what he termed my "turning green around the gills", but a potion put me right soon enough.
I brought a small bag -- protected with charms against breakage and theft, of course -- filled with nothing but various potions I thought we might need plus bottles, ingredients, and a small, collapsible cauldron to make extra doses if what I brought was not enough. Remus says Muggles have medication for nausea and headaches as well as sleeping pills, but he's mad if he thinks I'll trust any kind of Muggle medication to do the job better than a potion of my own making.
Fortunately, the trip from Calais to Paris was via land rather than water, and we arrived with enough time to settle into the hotel and rest before the signing. The bookshop was located next to a patisserie, and I thought I might have to drag him forcibly away from the window. It was a good thing he has been practicing taming his wolf as Serafina instructed, or with his strength, his nails might have left grooves in the bricks as I carted him off.
And now he's standing behind me, peering over my shoulder and protesting that he wasn't as bad as all that. He is reminding me that all I had to do was grasp his elbow and steer him away, and besides, with his senses not as keen as they usually are, at least it meant he didn't turn the wolf eyes on me and beg me to fetch him an eclair in the middle of the book signing because the scents wafting over from the patisserie were driving him mad. To which I reply if a certain wet haired werewolf drips on my journal, there shall be a spanking and not of the good, fun kind. Also, if he wants any hope of arriving at the signing on time, he had best get his be-toweled self out of my sight as soon as possible.
There. Now he's gone off, laughing. The wretch.
At any rate, the signing itself was uneventful. Translation charms allow us to avoid the language barrier, which is useful, and I have been posing as Remus' personal assistant rather than as his partner. I'm not fond of the ruse, but his agent explained the damage the news that Remus is not only gay but also in a committed relationship could do to his career, thus it seems best to maintain a low profile. For now, at any rate. If she thinks I'm going to remain his unseen and unheard partner for the rest of his professional life, she doesn't know me well at all. Remus isn't keen on the idea either, thus I foresee a time when she will simply have to accept the fact that we refuse to remain stuffed in the closet.
Remus remained at the bookshop long after his alloted time was up, signing autographs until everyone in line had received one and remaining his usual affable self in the process. He seems to genuinely enjoy interacting with his fans and is far more polie with them than I would have been had our positions been reversed. Even being asked "where do you get your ideas?" or "is Serena based on a real person?" for the hundredth time doesn't tax his patience, although the second question does seem to amuse him more when I am sitting by his side, and sometimes, he gropes my thigh under the table when he tells them yes, she is.
"Haven't they got eyes?" he asked after the signing in Barcelona yesterday, his tone one of wonderment. "Can't they tell Serena is sitting right beside me?"
I replied that of course they couldn't. Humans, especially Muggles, are adept at seeing only what they want to see and remaining blissfully oblivious to everything else. We manage to keep our entire world a secret from them, including the existence of dragons, thus it doesn't surprise me when they fail to notice the resemblances between Remus' personal assistant and his hero's love interest.
It was after dark when we finally left the bookshop, and Remus insisted on taking a walk, claiming it would be a shame to waste a chance for a romantic walk in the City of Lights. He also thought I should see the Eiffel Tower by night. I said I thought I should see the club where he'd once performed in the cross-dressing revue.
"Already ready for an encore performance, Severus?" he teased.
"Only if it's a private showing," was my response.
We agreed that dinner should come first, before any sight-seeing, although nothing on the menu of the restaurant we chose appealed to me. I was craving pea soup quite strongly. Remus suggested that I could have onion soup topped with cheese, but that didn't sound appetizing. I didn't want onion soup; I wanted pea soup. I still want pea soup, for that matter. Nothing I've eaten has satisfied the craving, and I'm tempted to Apparate back to London to get some, but I haven't had the chance thanks to our whirlwind schedule. Meanwhile, my craving goes unsatisfied and will likely remain so for the rest of the trip. Remus says he can't understand how I stomach the stuff to begin with, much less how I can crave it, but if I don't get an entire tureen to myself the instant we're home, heads will roll.
Remus is dressed and ready to go to the next signing now. He says he isn't kissing the back of my neck in order to distract me from writing, but because he has a craving of his own that is going unsatisfied. I understand the feeling quite well.