Less than a week after moving in to my cute little house, I’ve completely unpacked and am settled in.

It took me two days to get most everything finished, but there was one box I kept forgetting to unpack. Today, it finally went out to the recycle bin.

I haven’t had any difficulties since moving in, except our washer is possessed and it’s incredibly difficult to turn on the shower. There’s a little pull thing on the faucet? I’ve never seen that before. And our microwave doesn’t exactly open all the way either. Oh well.

Here’s a photo tour of the house (minus my roommates’ bedrooms and their bathroom)!



Dearest BR,

From March 2010 to August 2015, we’ve been basically inseparable… for the most part. Our on again, off again relationship since August 2013, well, you knew it wasn’t going to be like it was in the good ole days, right? You knew it had to end eventually.

Tomorrow morning, I’m officially leaving you, even though we’ve already said our goodbyes. It’s weird, looking at you now. It’s like I don’t even recognize you.

Don’t be too upset. I inadvertently left some strands of hair and dead skin cells for you to remember me by. I might have left an old bobby pin too, if you’re lucky.

We’ve had a pretty decent run, you and me. Granted, we’ve had our differences. You weren’t always the nicest to me.

Remember how every summer you’d decide that I was too good for air conditioning and you basically forced me to sleep in the basement? And every winter you decided to keep it so cold that I needed at least 12 blankets or I was afraid I’d get frostbite? Thanks for that.

I guess I wasn’t the best person to you, either.

Remember that time when that bottle of aloe vera exploded all over you and left massive blue stains everywhere and regardless of how much stain cleaner I used, it just wouldn’t come out? Or when I decided rearranging my furniture was a good idea and then I left black marks all over you? Sorry about that.

Besides those things, you were great.

You’d let me jam out to everything from Wiz Khalifa to Jason Aldean and you wouldn’t really care. You didn’t mind having me clothes all over the floor when I was too lazy to do laundry. You’d let me vent about my frustrations and (hopefully) not judge me for them. You kept the light out when I was sick and wanted to sleep through the day. Because of all of those things and more, you were basically the best.

I’m sorry that I’m leaving you, but then again, I’m really not that sorry. I have bigger and better things to move on to. Sure, I’ll probably see you again, but I won’t hang around for long.

Best of luck to whoever you end up with next. Just remember, I wasn’t your first and I won’t be your last. Someone new will come into your life eventually. But, it just won’t be me.

Good luck out there.



“If only these walls could talk…”– Gregg Olsen

The past two days have been a rollercoaster of emotions. When big things start creeping up on the calendar, I get a little anxious. Nothing too crazy, but the emotions are still there.

August 1. Today was the last day that I would find out if I won the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation scholarship. I tried keeping myself busy so I wouldn’t think about it. I went to Hobby Lobby, Scheel’s and went to get my car washed. As my car was covered in suds, I realized I missed a call… from Beverly Hills. I immediately gave the number a call back. It was Linda McCoy-Murray, Jim Murray’s widow and the CEO and Founder of the JMMF. She was calling to tell me that my column was one of the five national winners. I was (and still am) in shock. I couldn’t believe something I wrote is something of that high of caliber. I also couldn’t believe I won $5,000.

I started the process back in April. I spent the week of April 20-27 slaving over my computer in the library, researching what I was going to write about.

The prompt was to “write a column that tells the story of an event, incident or person who figures prominently in the sports history of your university. It could be a memorable game, or coach, or player, or even an artifact that has become an indelible part of the story of your college (or maybe town).”

After a meeting or two with Professor Scott Reinardy, we came to the conclusion that the story of Cliff Cushman was one that needed telling. The following is a summary about him. I’ll be sure to share my column when it’s published.

Cliff Cushman. Photo credit: Grand Forks Herald
Cliff Cushman. Photo credit: Grand Forks Herald

Cushman was a hurdler for the University of Kansas from 1958-1961, and won the NCAA title in the 400-meter hurdles in 1960. In that same year, Cushman earned the Silver medal at the Olympics in that same event. Four years later, Cushman was expected to win on the Olympic level, but fell in the Olympic Trials. After that, he retired from track and field and continued his service in the Air Force.

Just a little over two years later, Cushman received his notice that he was going over to Vietnam. He felt that he wasn’t going to come back, and tried purchasing a life insurance policy from his best friend. But he couldn’t.

Cushman wasn’t over in Vietnam more than 60 days before he was shot down by enemy fire. His body was never recovered. He was listed as Missing in Action for nine years before being officially declared as dead.

Winning this award means so much to me, but it means even more to me that I put Cushman’s story out there. Before writing this I didn’t know a thing about him. As a Jayhawk, that’s not right. In his honor, I’m dedicating this award to Cliff Cushman. He made the ultimate sacrifice.

Even though I’m a journalist, I’m having a hard time putting my feelings into the right words. Without being guided by two of my bosses, Dave Skretta and Herbie Teope, former editors Blake Schuster and Brian Hillix, current editor Emma LeGault, fellow Murray Scholar Mike Vernon and advisor Scott Reinardy, I don’t know if I would be at the place in my writing that I am now. I realize there is still progress to be made with my writing, but winning this award gives me encouragement that I am on the right path.

Thanks to everyone for all the support over the years. I appreciate every one of you who continues to believe in me.


It’s been a few days since I’ve blogged, but I’m still training! I just suffered a bit of a setback two weeks ago when I crashed a bike I was test riding. I took three days off, tried walking one day, and that still hurt, so I took another three days off. I still haven’t hopped in the pool since, but I’m hoping I do that tomorrow.

Since I resumed my training on July 23, I’ve pushed my limits and have accomplished more than I thought I could.

On day 14, I biked 33 miles. Before my training, I didn’t bike more than a mile at one time. I was pretty sore after that, but I didn’t need any motivation to go that far.

Today was a whole different thing. Running. When I got on the treadmill, I told myself I was running three miles– without stopping. I’ve never gone that far without stopping before. I sprinted all throughout high school. Every time I had to run 600 meters without stopping in high school, I thought I was going to die. But today was going to be the day. I was going to push my limits.

Today’s motivation? Eric Berry, an NFL player I’ve had the luxury of interviewing. Back in November he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Today he was back on the practice field with his team.

After a mile and a half, I was dripping in sweat. I wanted to stop, but I kept going. I kept telling myself that EB didn’t quit. He didn’t stop. If he could return to football after beating cancer, I sure as hell could run three miles. Three miles is nothing.

It took me 37 minutes and seven seconds to finish what I started, but I did it. I averaged 12:33 per mile, but I did it. I was covered in sweat and smelled really gross. My feet were in a lot of pain, but I did it.

Can’t wait to be able to do five.


Going into my training, I thought that swimming would be my easiest third of my workouts. Man, was I wrong. I hopped in the water and I could barely finish a 50. It was hard to admit that I am very much so out of swim shape.

By the end of my workout, the longest I went without stopping was 150 yards. Considering I used to be a 400 yard IMer and 200 yard butterflyer, I have a long way to go. I’m still proud of myself that I racked up 1000 yards in 35 minutes.

After my workout, I went to Scheels and started looking at bikes. I really enjoyed one that I saw on paper, but I wanted to get on one, and Scheels didn’t have my size. (I’m apparently short. This is news to me.)

I went to a local bike shop, where they had one in my size. I went for a test ride. Only, unknowing to me at the time, the brakes were not properly functioning. I found that out as I was cruising toward a dumpster and the rear brake locked up.

I hit my head and right arm on the dumpster, resulting in a minor laceration and bruise on my arm, sustained some gnarly road rash on my left leg, along with taking off some skin on my knee, and opening up two areas on my right knee. The bike was fine though. I’ll be fine. I’m just banged up.



(If blood makes you queasy, I suggest not scrolling down much farther.)

My right arm and the least of my injuries.
My right arm and the least of my injuries.
My left leg.
My left leg.
My right leg.
My right leg.


Watching my best friend kick her first half-marathon's ass is what put the voice in my head that told me I needed to follow suit.
Watching my best friend kick her first half-marathon’s ass is what put the voice in my head that told me I needed to do something too. So, I’m doing it.

I knew I wanted to get into better shape while I was watching Charlene Schrock, my best friend, compete in her first half marathon. I just didn’t know how I wanted to go about it. I’ve always been a sprinter. A half-marathon? That’s crazy. I could never imagine myself running that far in one shot.

I was sitting at the back table at the Westerton Arms pub in Bridge of Allan, Scotland when I opened my Facebook. The first thing that showed up was a post from Rich Watson, someone I went to church with back when I lived in Funk. He had just completed his first IronMan Triathlon. Knowing Rich’s story, I told myself that I couldn’t make any more excuses for myself. I needed to get in better shape. (If you haven’t read Rich’s story, you need to. It’s remarkable the things he’s accomplished.)

The day I got home from Scotland, John Butler, one of my best friend’s older brothers, finished his first triathlon. That reaffirmed everything. If John and Rich can do it, I sure as well can do it too.

My eyes are on the Ad Astra Sprint Triathlon on September 27. I’ll sign up as soon as I can afford a bike. This specific Sprint Triathlon consists of 500 yards of open water swimming in Clinton Lake, 10 miles of biking around the lake, and a 3 mile run.

My end goal is an IronMan Triathlon. I realize that this will take a long time to get to, but I believe if I set my mind to it, I hopefully will be able to complete one by my 22nd birthday. That’s 70 weeks away.

My first day of training consisted of running for an hour. Like I said before. I’ve always been a sprinter. I don’t do distance. At least, I’ve never done it before. I couldn’t run for the whole time. I’m not in good enough shape to do that. Not yet. I ran for 15 minutes, walked for 15 minutes, ran for 15 minutes, walked for 10 minutes and sprinted for five. By the end of it all, I ran/walked 4.15 miles. That’s the longest I’ve ever gone… ever.

My second day of training was biking for an hour. Since I don’t have a bike, at least not yet, I went to the YMCA and hopped on a stationary bike instead. I managed to bike 13.39 miles in an hour. I can’t remember if I’ve ever biked that far before.

Two days in? So far so good. I know I have a long way to go, but we’ll see what happens throughout the rest of this first week.

Motivation is what gets you started. Habit is what keeps you going.” – Jim Ryun

Sorry for the delay! I’ve been insanely bombarded with papers and projects this past week. Over the Fourth of July weekend, I went up to the Highlands with three of my friends and about 14 other people.

Over the three day trip, we saw amazing the amazing scenery of the Glencoe mountains, Glenfinnan Viaduct (better known as the Harry Potter Bridge), Eilean Donan castle, the Old Man of Storr, Kilt Rock, the Isle of Skye, the Quarang, Faerie Glen, Faerie Pools and Loch Ness. Photos don’t do these places justice.

Over the entire weekend, I would have to say jumping in Loch Ness was my favorite thing of everything, and truthfully, I almost backed out. The temperature in the loch stays relatively constant at 40 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s some pretty damn cold water. Colder than any swimming pool that’s been graced by my presence. The only thing that rivals it was the one time I jumped into Lake of the Ozarks in early March.

But I said I was going to do it… so I did. While we were getting ready to jump in, there were many tourists and locals alike at the pier where we were… and all of them had their phones and cameras at the ready.

Lots of pictures and videos were taken.

Katelynn and another girl jumped in first. They screamed and shouted their expletives when they surfaced.

Kaitlyn and I were next. We grabbed each other’s hand and prepared ourselves as much as we possibly could for what we were about to do. Nory (our tour guide) counted down from three and before I knew it, we were in the air. I was flailing my arms and screaming the whole way down.

When I hit the water, an adrenaline rush went right through me. The water was so cold. When I was under, I opened my eyes. The water was green, but was still clear. No, I unfortunately did not see Nessie.

I was freezing when we got out, but I remember thinking “that was totally worth it.” And it was. Taking the plunge into Loch Ness was easily my favorite thing I’ve done while in Scotland. And just to think, I almost backed out. I chalk it up as a learning experience.

Take the plunge, even if you’re scared. If it’s crazy, if it’s something completely out of your comfort zone, do it anyway (within reason of course). Sometimes it’s the “small things” that end up meaning more to us in the end.

Originally written for my study abroad class.

When you’re far from home, you look for the little things that give you a sense of comfort. It’s those little things that give you peace. Picking up and starting up in some new place without ever having been there is a little discomforting. There are things from home that you can live without, and there are things that you have a hard time getting on without.

In Scotland, a first-world country, there isn’t a whole lot of disparity between it and the United States, but there are small differences. And some of those small differences feel very big.

Since I’ve been in Scotland for almost three weeks now, I’ve realized some of the things that I miss about home.

1. WatchESPN (and other streaming sites)

As someone who loves sports more than the average Joe, being without WatchESPN has made me feel like I’ve been living under a rock for the entirety of my stay in Scotland. Back in the States, every day when I wake up, I turn on SportsCenter and get my daily update.

Since I’ve been in Scotland, I feel like I’m completely out of the loop with all things sports related. I missed the last few games of the NBA Finals. I missed the NBA Draft. I missed the last few games of the NHL Finals. I’ve missed the majority of the Women’s World Cup. I’ve missed 17 Braves games (so far). I will be missing the majority World University Games.

2. Warm weather

Granted, this past week has been considered a “heat wave” by the locals, but all in all, it’s been quite cold. Some days it doesn’t get above 50 degrees Fahrenheit.It’s very weird to me that I need to wear a sweater or jacket when it’s June/July. I definitely miss my sticky and gross Nebraska heat. I miss the traditional summer that I grew up with: the lake, the pool, shorts, the list continues. Everyone knows where I’ll be when I get home.

3. Taking a long, uninterrupted shower

Showers are my happy place. My showers back home are where I can go think, sing as loud as I want, take as long as I want and get as clean as a whistle. Showers here live up to none of those things from the States.

  1. I understand the necessity and practicality, but I really don’t like showering with a “BopIt.”
    1. I can’t have a solid stream of conscious thought when I’m thinking, “did I press the button? Am I going to run out of water?”
    2. At home, I take 15-20 minute showers. In Scotland, I take 5-10 minute showers. Afterward, I don’t feel as clean as I do after I shower at home.
  2. My timing here is always very, very bad.
    1. Over half of the times I’ve taken a shower while at the University, I’ve been interrupted. I’ve been in the shower three times when the fire alarm has gone off. I’ve had the cleaners come into my flat twice when I’ve been in the middle of a shower. Thanks to that, I’ve been quite rushed.
  3. Singing? No chance.
    1. My roommates are all very quiet people. Half the time I don’t even know that they’re here. Whenever I’m playing music, I’m asked to shut it off. Whenever I’m on the phone, I’m asked to take it outside. If I were to sing in my shower, I’m sure it wouldn’t go over very well.

4. Having space

My flat isn’t very big. My room in my flat is even smaller. There is barely enough room for me to stand in between my bed and my desk comfortably. Even though I’m a small person, I take up a lot of space. I like to stretch out. Sometimes I like to lie on the floor. (I’m kind of weird. Don’t ask why.) Without having the space I have at home, I feel very cramped.

Do I like it here in Scotland? Yes. Of course I do. Traveling and diving into different cultures is something I love. However, there’s just something about the place you’re from and all the things you’re used to.

“There’s no place like home.”-Judy Garland

I’m really good at making things difficult for myself (June 26)

After a class excursion to Scottish Parliament and the Queen’s Scottish castle in Edinburgh, I started my long journey to Dublin. Johanna (a fellow KU journalism student), Chris (goes to UW-Green Bay) and I split a taxi to the Edinburgh Waverley train station. Johanna was headed to Amsterdam, Chris to meet up with some friends in Edinburgh and I to Ireland.

However, I wasn’t very smart in booking my flight. There’s a perfectly good, functioning, airport in Edinburgh that has flights to Dublin. I’d flown into Edinburgh twice and out of it once by then. But nooooo, I decided to select a flight out of Glasgow, an airport two hours by train and bus away from the city centre of Edinburgh.

At 2:00, I boarded the soonest train to the area I needed to go to. That was Helensburgh. There was a train headed for Glasgow Cental about five minutes later. I was just ready to embrace the long train rides as a punishment for making things unnecessarily difficult for myself, so being impatient, I boarded the train for Helensburgh. Once the doors shut and we got to rolling, I was completely ready for my weekend to begin.

However, three stops later (I had like 17 left at that point), the conductor comes on with bad news.

“Everyone needs to disembark the train at Bathgate. There has been a gas leak reported up ahead.”

Cool. That meant I had to take a different train from Bathgate back to Edinburgh Waverley and hop on the train bound for Glasgow Central. (The Helensburgh and Glasgow Central trains take different routes.)

While I was sitting and waiting for my new train to go back to Edinburgh Waverley, I was scrolling through my Facebook feed and saw that one of my classmates, colleagues, and friends who is a congressional intern in D.C. this summer posted a photograph of the Obergefell v. Hodges ruling. Bathgate, Scotland. That’s where I was when same-sex marriage became legal in the United States..

It was 3:30 by the time we stopped back in Edinburgh. I quickly disembarked and hopped on the train bound for Glasgow Central. Luckily for me, it took off right as I walked on.

Thankfully, that train didn’t have any delays and arrived on time at Glasgow Central. Only Central wasn’t my final destination. I needed to get to the Paisley Gilmour Street exit, which was just one exit up on the Ayr train. So scramble around I did. It only took me 10 minutes to figure out where I was going. Considering the size of Glasgow Central, I was pretty impressed with myself.

While I was waiting at the platform for the train, a woman came up to me and asked me if I was waiting for the Ayr train. I told her that I was. Five minutes later, the same thing, with a different woman. I have no idea if they asked me just to reassure themselves or if I actually looked like I knew what I was doing. I’m hoping for the latter, but I’ll never know.

Sooner than later, the train I needed showed up, and I was set for that leg of my journey. That train ride was just a short jaunt, just one stop up. Once I arrived, I waited outside for the bus that was to take me to the airport. That bus was one hell of a bumpy ride, but it got me from point A to B.

After I got through security, I found a pub near my expected gate, ordered some dinner. As I was nearing closer to the bottom of my cider, I noticed some fine print on top of my boarding pass.

“All non-EU passengers must get their boarding pass stamped BEFORE going through security for passport/visa check. If not completed, travel will be denied.”

Well shit. I hadn’t ever needed to do that before and I’ve been to 25 countries. So, I downed the rest of my cider, packed up my things and headed back to security. I explained my situation to a nice security worker and I was on my way downstairs to get my ever-so-necessary stamp.

Thankfully, it was only a couple minutes walk away and the line to get my stamp was non-existent.

“You’re the only passenger on the Dublin flight from the States,” the lady told me as she was glancing over my passport. Within seconds, my boarding pass was stamped and I made my way back upstairs.

So, I went through security for the second time. Thankfully that line wasn’t long either. It took me maybe 10 minutes to get back through. By that time, my gate had been announced (long story short, they announce the gates an hour before departure), so I booked it to where I needed to be.

While waiting in line to board the plane, the lady in front of me turned around and started making small talk.

“Going home?” she asked.

I chuckled and said, “Nope. Just going to the land of my people.”

“Oh, I saw your claddaugh ring and with your red hair and freckles, I just assumed,” she said.

“Not to worry,” I said, ending our conversation with a smile.

The flight from Glasgow to Dublin was full. There wasn’t a seat left on the plane. Fortunately, the flight was only 45 minutes, so we weren’t packed like sardines for too long.

Upon landing, going through customs was easy, considering I was one of like five people who didn’t have an EU passport. The customs officer grilled me with a bunch of questions, but that was to be expected.

After five minutes or so of grilling, I proceeded to find the bus that would take me to my hostel. I was sitting next to Australian guys who were interning in London and were spending the weekend in Dublin. We got to chatting so much that we all missed our stop and had to walk even further to our respective hostels.

The Irish love their alcohol (June 27) 

I couldn’t sleep. I was going to be seeing my two of my best friends in just a few hours and I could hardly contain my excitement.

We're cute. Our friendship is great.
We’re cute. Our friendship is great.

Tyler got to my hostel at 11:30 and we went out to grab some lunch. Only problem was, it was 11:30 and most Irish on Saturday mornings aren’t up that early because they drank a lot the night before. So what did we do? We ran across a local pub and ordered a drink and just chatted until noon or so.

Cailey was supposed to arrive around noon, so we went back to the hostel, got on our wifi and saw that she was going to be getting in a little later. So, we went out for lunch. I had a burger, half a sandwich, some chips, a cider and Jameson. I could already tell that this was going to be a long day.

When Cailey got in, she managed to find where we were eating and we were all finally together. After we walked for several minutes, we headed to O’Connell Street to find some of the people Tyler lives with so we could watch the Pride Parade.

[On May 22, 2015, same-sex marriage became approved following a referendum that was passed. Marriages are expected to be performed starting this fall after the referendum is ratified. Dublin pride week was from June 19-28. The week consisted of different events, with the pride parade on June 28. The pride parade was the first pride parade since the referendum was passed.

The parade fell less than 24 hours after the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that the ban on same-sex marriage was unconstitutional, and the support on social media was overwhelming, and at least one person was wearing the American flag draped over their shoulders during the parade.]

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening walking around Dublin, seeing some of the sights (Dublin Castle and St. Patrick’s Cathedral), as well as hitting up more pubs and just chatting.

Chatting with two of my best friends, just catching up and reminiscing? Sometimes that’s exactly what you need.

Dumyat x2 (Night Edition) (June 24)

I loved the pain of hiking the Dumyat so much, I decided to do it again. Only this time, it wasn’t nice outside. It wasn’t even light out. A group of us wanted to see the Northern lights, and what better view than from the top of the Dumyat, right?

Well. It would have worked if it hadn’t been rainy and cloudy. The view as we were walking up was gorgeous, but it most definitely wasn’t what we wanted. At that point, there was no turning back. We were going to the summit. Again. In the rain. Being sized up by sheep. Hiking through the mud.

By the time we were about halfway up, my shoes were at maximum water capacity, as were my socks. My sweatpants were disgusting as well. But it didn’t matter; we were having fun.

It took about two hours for us to dredge through the mud to reach the top. Were we exhausted? I know I was. Did we see the Northern Lights? Not a chance.


We spent several minutes trying to get the perfect picture of all of us before we sat to take in the scenery. I don’t remember how much time went by before we looked over and saw that the clouds were slowly starting to creep up to where we were. We took that as a sign that it was time to leave.

The walk down wasn’t near as bad as I thought it was going to be. I didn’t fall down once. I was proud of myself. Y’all know I’m clumsy.

The Mecca of Golf (June 25)

7:00 a.m. came quick after the night hike to the Dumyat summit. But I didn’t care. We were headed to St. Andrews and I was overly ecstatic. It’s not everyday you get to go to where a sport was invented. (I mean, I kind of do, I work at the basketball Mecca. And that never gets old.)

It was a long bus ride and I couldn’t fall asleep. I was too excited. When we arrived, a group of us wandered around to find a place to eat breakfast. After a few blocks and a slight deterrent, we ended up at the Bean Room and I had the best vanilla latte I’ve ever had. The food was decent as well.

After that, we headed down to the Old Course. Most of the group didn’t care in the slightest about golf, so they headed to the beach. Ole Miss Ryan and I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get exploring around the Old Course. So, we were by ourselves for the majority of the rest of the day.

It's really hard to put the beauty of the Old Course into words.
It’s really hard to put the beauty of the Old Course into words. It’s just magical, simply put.

In the earlier part of the day, it was partly cloudy and relatively nice outside. I really couldn’t complain, considering St. Andrews is generally cold, completely overcast and rainy.

The course was closed in preparation for the Open. This was both frustrating and relieving at the same time. Frustrating because I wanted to see actual golf being played on the Old Course, but relieving because we got to walk around on the green without any care in the world.

As Ryan and I were walking around, we came across the Himalayas or the “Women’s putting green.” Now, I’m not sure about the history to the name, but there were men playing on it, as well as little children. But, yes, there were several little old ladies killing it out there as well.

Ryan asked me how much it was to play, thinking that it was going to be astronomically high, because it’s, you know, the Mecca of golf. We walked around to where we were to rent clubs and balls… and it was 3 pounds per person. Personally, I would have paid a lot more than that to play, but I was definitely not complaining.

I was pretty darn excited, OK?
I was pretty darn excited, OK?

While we were waiting to play on the first hole, Ryan was totally geeking out while I was making fun of him. One of the little old ladies in front of us turned to me and said something to the effect of how cute of a couple we were. I laughed on the inside, but told her thanks anyway. I didn’t feel that it was necessary to correct her. Besides, Ryan was too busy paying attention to the fact that he was about to play golf at St. Andrews.

I started out real hot, getting a birdie on the first hole, but that was about the extent of my success. In the 18 holes that we played I had two birdies in total (including that one) and made par four times. I’ve never been real good at golf. Ryan on the other hand, was toying with finishing below par from the 8th hole on. He was even after 17, but miraculously birdied on 18 to finish one under.

After my failure of a showing on the green, we walked around the course some more, taking in all of the history, and then met up with some of our friends to grab lunch. To finish out our afternoon, we went to the British Golf Museum and learned even more about the sport.

Being in St. Andrews was definitely my favorite experience so far.

Several hours later, once we were back in Stirling, we got ready for the night. Since it was a Thursday, we were headed to the Kilted Kangaroo, an Australian themed restaurant and bar that holds karaoke night every Thursday.

Throughout the night, I sang two songs (and kind of helped out on another). Ryan and I belted out Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi because we clearly love our American music (we performed Don’t Stop Believing about a week and a half before this), and Haley (a fellow KU journalism student) and I (with the accompaniment of some of our friends) sang Cable Car by the Fray. (I kind of sang with Cole on whatever song he did. I don’t remember what it was though.)

Until next time…