Posts from Across the Pond

The End

2010-06-28T23:17:00.000+01:00

I apologize for the long lapse since my last update, but considering my previous difficulties with blizzards and volcanoes, I thought it would be prudent to enter the Natural Disaster Victim Protection Program well in advance of my departure date. However, I’ve been safely back in the States for more than a week now and so far no earthquakes, fires or tornadoes have found me, so I think the coast is clear.

Let’s catch up on my last few days across the pond, shall we?

Do you ever notice how you never seem to have time to visit that castle in the town next door, so you just keep putting it off because you can see it anytime? No? It must just be me. Seven minutes away from Brighton by train, there is a little town called Lewes, which is home to your run-of-the-mill medieval English castle, and somehow, I never made time for it. Fortunately, Giulia G. and I scheduled a trip for the Friday before I left, and this was one of the best decisions I made in the last few weeks. I won’t bore you with my standard “awesome sense of history” spiel, and instead I will just give a round of applause to whoever manages the property. The main attraction is the castle’s exterior because there isn’t much left inside, but the grounds are beautiful, and when you stand on top of the tower with a beautiful view that extends for miles, you can pretend for just a moment that you’re not carrying a cell phone in your pocket and that a horse, rather than a train, will take you home. And if you need some extra help getting into that frame of mind, Lewes Castle has you covered. Quite literally. Two floors of one of the medieval towers have been turned into large, walk-in closets filled with medieval dress up clothes for the young and the not-so-young. Giulia and I spent the largest chunk of our visit trying on funky hats and robes and taking ridiculous pictures, and it was one of the highlights of the day.

I picked a good summer to be in England, because how else would I have discovered how patriotic the English can be? A few weeks ago, English flags started popping up everywhere. Cars, windows, you name it, there was a flag. Being the political science student that I am, my first thought was that it was some sort of symbolic support for the British National Party, an extreme right party that is sometimes identified with the flag. However, the term “World Cup” kept floating around, and I put that fine university education I’m supposed to be getting to work to connect the two. The England vs. USA match just happened to be on the Saturday before I left, and fortunately, I stumbled upon a small enclave of familiar American, Iranian and non-English faces in the middle of the crowded and very patriotic English pub. The stares we received when we cheered at the English goalie’s fumble? Priceless. I couldn’t have had a better introduction to this strange sport called “football,” and I’m officially hooked on the World Cup.

I took my final exam on Monday, and after a frenzy of shopping and packing, I had my last supper in Brighton with my friends at the Asian buffet I mentioned a few weeks ago, and then we met up with more friends for drinks on the beach. I almost cried when my friends presented me with going away presents, including a UK flag with all of their signatures, a cute book about this unique town that I’ve called home for the past few months, and a new travel journal (even though none of them knew that I kept a travel journal or that it had recently run out). Thanks again, guys! <3 I couldn’t dream up a better sendoff.

The next day, we gathered one last time for coffee and cake, and many hugs later, I lugged myself and 50 kilos of luggage to London, where I came full circle and stayed over at Riki’s flat. We had a delightful evening at a Caribbean restaurant (people who knew me when I refused to eat anything other than pizza, hotdogs and grilled cheese sandwiches, did you ever imagine I would write such a thing???), and I was awake and out the door the next morning probably before most of you back home had even gone to sleep.

Despite the stack of books, the three complete meals and the extra clothing I stuffed in my backpack, there were no travel disasters. Not one. The plane took off on time, I had a window seat, and despite an unpleasant neighbor, I caught up on chick flicks. Without further drama, my European adventure came to a close.

I’ve had almost two weeks’ distance from England, and I’m far from done with processing and reflecting on the experience, but since I like lists, here are some preliminary thoughts:

Things I’ve learned:
-What zucchinis look like.

-Volcanoes are public enemy #1.

-Karaoke is actually fun, even if I sound like a dying ground squirrel. (Trust me, I’m writing this from Galena, I know what a[n alive] ground squirrel sounds like.)

-Chivalry is really sexy. I’m talking to you, American guys.

-Italians do almost everything together. Laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, bus ticket shopping…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

-Europeans kiss. A lot. “Hello” and “goodbye” aren’t European unless they are accompanied by a kiss (or two, or three, depending on nationality). I’ve been kissed more this semester than in my entire life (on the cheek anyway…)

-I can survive and thrive in a foreign country, albeit one as easy linguistically and culturally as England.

-I know what it feels like (I think) to be an adult. At Wash. U., I never really feel like a grownup (probably because I still use that word). Yes, I live away from home, but I have the cafeteria a few steps away, my parents are easily accessible by phone 24/7, and I’m insulated from the real world in the people I see, the place I live and the things I do. At Sussex, I cooked for myself, I unclogged my sink, I paid for my groceries (it’s not as convenient as just swiping my student id!), I went off campus multiple times a week (as opposed to multiple times a year, if I’m lucky, at Wash. U.), and I figure out how to get myself from one building/city/country to another. While those responsibilities come with their share of stress and frustration (does anyone remember my rants about black mold?), it also comes with a healthy sense of independence, and I truly hope that is a feeling I can transfer to my life here in the States.

-My mother won’t be happy to read this, but if I had to, I could live there. A few people asked me if I would ever want to leave the States to settle in Europe, and up until mid-May, the answer was always been a resounding “no.” It’s not that I don’t appreciate some of the perks of living in Europe (like efficient public transportation), but in general, I find quality of life to be better in the U.S. (I’m sorry Europe, I just love my air conditioning too much) and of course the most difficult part of the last few months has been being away from all the family and friends that I love. None of that is likely to change, so my preference right now is to stay in America. But I discovered that it’s the people I surround myself with who make all the difference in the world, so if I knew I would be living with people as amazing as the friends I’ve met here, I could do it.

Things I don’t miss:
-Anything and everything about York House (except the porter who almost cried when I left, and while giving me the tightest bear hug in the history of the universe, said “I wish that everything you touch turns to gold.”)

-Windows without screens (but not the cute guys who show up shortly after incidents involving screen-less windows).

-Sinks with two faucets, one for lukewarm water, one for scalding hot water.

-Scrimping and saving for weeks to have enough pound coins for laundry. You wouldn’t believe how difficult they are to come by.

-Being turned away from the gym I pay a fortune to use when I forget a sweat towel.

-Sussex bureaucracy. If it’s not a hassle to get done, you’re doing it wrong.

-Sitting on a bus (even a double-decker) for an hour to get to and from Brighton.

-Unintentionally smoking a pack a day just by breathing.

-Queuing. For. Everything.

Things I miss:
-British English. When I use words like “biscuit,” “revise” and “queue,” I get all of the accomplishment that comes from speaking a foreign language without the difficulty of actually learning one.

-Sinks in bedrooms.

-The BBC iPlayer. Every show that airs on any BBC channel is available for the next week online. For free. I love it.

-Primark. Think Wal-Mart prices, department store quality. What’s not to miss?

-Having conversations like: “What are you doing this weekend?” “I’m going to Paris/
Amsterdam/Berlin/Venice. No big deal.”

-European dinners. I have been fortunate enough to experience mealtimes in a variety of countries, as well as on a regular basis with my friends on campus, and the contrast to American dinners is striking. While I may not have witnessed “typical” European dinners because I was often a guest in friends’ homes, I don’t think I can be accused of being too naïve if I make a few generalizations. The length of the meal is the first hint that you’re not eating in the country that invented fast food. European meals are long and leisurely, and even longer if you’re eating with people you don’t like. At home, we may gobble down our food in under thirty minutes, just in time to catch a Scrubs rerun, but there, dinners can easily last 1 1/2 hours or more. Part of the difference is due to the absence of tv watching and because of the multiple courses; sometimes, there’s an appetizer, a main course, a cheese course depending on the country, and dessert, with plenty of wine throughout. I’m still trying to figure out how Europeans don’t top the list of the world’s most obese people. Perhaps it’s only the presence of food and drink that I wasn’t used to, but European dinners often feel a little more special than American dinners. They’re a perfect ending to any day, and they’re an event, not just another scheduled activity. It’s not that I never have nice and special meals in America, but they’re less frequent than in Europe.

-the English attitude towards alcohol. It’s much more relaxed than the American perspective. The English may drink at inappropriate times, and they may drink in inappropriate places (buses, beaches, theaters…you name it, you can drink there), and yes, they may drink ever so slightly more than the doctor-recommended one glass of wine a day, but they’re much less dramatic about it.

-Hand in hand with the last point, being legal. For about a month anyway.

-Rock beaches. Despite my initial misgivings, I found that they are superior to sand beaches in every way.

-The international community in Brighton. It took me longer than it should have to really tap into this fine group of people, but I’m glad I found my way to them in the end. There’s a sizeable population of foreign students studying in Brighton, some just for a few months, and some for a full degree, but no matter where they’re from or what they’re doing, what sets them apart from other groups is how inclusive everyone is. The dominant mentality is “the more, the merrier,” and this applies to dinners, picnics, parties, clubbing and outings of every kind. If a few people are going out, no one thinks twice about texting or messaging their friends (or people they just met, which benefited me a few times!), with the expectation that friends of friends will come along. In this way, almost everyone knows each other, if not by name than at least by face. From my experience, this is not an American attitude at all. It’s not that Americans tend to be purposefully cliquish, but it just doesn’t occur to most people here to include those outside of their circle.

-My social life, especially in the last few weeks. I had my core group of friends who I saw almost every day for dinner, dessert or a study break throughout my time at Sussex, and then there was the larger group of friends and acquaintances who I often went out with. The only time I was alone in the last two months was when I wanted to be.

-I’ve alluded to it, but just for emphasis: my wonderful friends. Even though I was barely there for five months, I found some amazing people who made the ups and downs that come with starting over in a new place more than worth it. They are the largest reason this was such a good experience for me.

-Waking up with a purpose every day. This is tough to explain, but I’ll try. A lot of time, money, and opportunities were sacrificed for me to have the experience of living and studying in England for the semester, and the only way to make it all worth it was to embrace the experience and everything it could teach me. In a weird way, I gave myself permission to make the here and now the center of my world; not my studies, my social life, others’ expectations, my past or my future, but the present. Sometimes I succeeded, other times, I failed, but I never doubted that I was there for a reason, to learn and enjoy my time to the utmost. It felt like a long vacation from my real life. Although just to be clear, I should point out that this isn’t an absolute truth. Of course I paid attention to my classes, of course I applied for internships in the interest of my future, and of course I didn’t forget about my life in the U.S. It’s just that these issues lost some of their intensity with the physical distance, and now that I’m back home, it’s hard to feel that same sense of purpose with all of these concerns back in focus.

-Lastly, blogging. Constantly writing a summary of my time there forced me to reflect on this journey as I went along. This was valuable in so many ways, and in the process, I created a (novel-length) document that I will look back on in five, ten, and fifteen years to remember this exciting period of my life; in addition, I think it has made me a better writer. Perhaps even more importantly, I’ve gained confidence in my writing from all of your compliments and just knowing that someone other than my parents thought this was worth reading. So, a big thank you to all of you for bearing with me through exams, volcanoes, clubbing and everything else over the past few months. And if anyone has suggestions for any future blog topics, let me know! There’s no topic I enjoy writing about more than myself…

I’m no good at writing conclusions, mostly because as you’ve seen over the past few months, my writing goes on, and on, and on... I don’t know what I would do with myself if I wasn’t typing. So, I will lamely conclude that if you’re reading this, chances are I want to hear from you, so I look forward to seeing and catching up with you soon!

The End

I’ll always have Paris

2010-06-03T12:34:00.001+01:00

This may be hard for some of you to believe if you’ve read about my previous travel adventures, but maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing because I made it to Paris last Tuesday without any issues. It’s amazing to think that with only three trains, I can get from Brighton on the island to Paris on the continent, in just a few hours. Guillaume was waiting for me at the station, and I was soon reacquainted with the Paris Metro, which I used much more than I did four years ago, when I was in Paris with my grandparents. The Metro is impressive, right on par with the London Tube. It took one or two transfers to get anywhere from Guillaume’s home, but there is nowhere in the city that the trains can’t take you. I was also impressed with how efficient the system is; we rarely waited more than two minutes for a train. CTA, please take note.

We set off for Napoleon’s tomb soon after dropping my suitcase at his parents’ flat. (Yes, suitcase. Normally, I would just take a backpack for such a short trip, but after the volcano fiasco, I’m afraid to not bring every charger for every electronic I own and minimally five extra pairs of socks and underwear. So much for learning how to pack light while I’m here.) I thought I had seen just about every variation on the “beautiful dome” theme that seems rather prominent in most of the European cities I’ve been to, but I have to give Paris credit, because this building was a work of art. It was obviously built in the neoclassical style (no self-respecting emperor would be buried in any other way) and from the outside, the dome was golden and ornate. I distinctly remember admiring it from afar last time I was there. The inside didn’t disappoint; it felt open and “breathable” compared to some of the other architectural wonders I’ve seen. Around the sarcophagus, there was a wall full of tablets with French inscriptions. Guillaume was obviously not being a good translator, because an American tourist walked by, and with a smug look of satisfaction, told us what the tablet said. “Thank you very much” Guillaume replied, and to both of our credits, we managed to stifle our laughter until he was out of ear range.

Our next stop was a French military history museum. Guillaume complained that many Americans he talked to were under the impression that France has never won a war, and the museum did its best to correct this impression. I am not going to go so far to say it was a biased account of history, but the displays presented a very French point of view. Still, the collection of war artifacts was huge, especially when it came to clothing. I haven’t seen so many uniforms since my days at Catholic school.

For the rest of the afternoon, we walked around a ritzy neighborhood in the city that vaguely reminded me of Michigan Avenue—lots of high-end stores with names I’ve never heard of. We passed by cafes that famous authors once frequented and a beautiful old church called St. Germain des Prés. (Don’t be too impressed with my knowledge of Paris, Guillaume had to remind me of its name!) We stopped by Science Po, the university Guillaume and Mary attend, and it was a shock to see students wearing suits, heels, and mascara, just to take finals. During finals time at Wash. U., sweatpants, tee shirts and messy pony tails are the norm. Different strokes for different folks, as someone once told me (many times)…

I met Guillaume’s lovely parents that evening, and my family will be proud and perhaps a little disgusted to hear that I ate foie gras, which is a fancy French specialty, according to Guillaume’s mom. She had five different flavors for me to try, including fig, grapefruit, and spices. The spices kind was my favorite, and then we moved onto the main course, followed by a cheese course and pastries for dessert. I’ve decided I’ve fallen in love with European dinners, but more on that another time.

The next day, we went to Cité des Sciences et de l'Industrie, the French version of the Museum of Science and Industry. It was pretty awesome. There were exhibits about genetics, astronomy, physics, mechanical engineering and just about every other field of science.
Some interesting tidbits I learned:
-1 out of 1000 neuro-somethings is responsible for all the differences between people.
-Scientists are compiling the medical histories of people in Iceland to study inherited diseases because the community has been relatively insular and stable over generations.
-In the future, clothing could regulate our body temperatures.
It was definitely one of my favorite parts of the trip.

We took the Metro to the Buttes Chaumont neighborhood and ate at a Chinese restaurant. It was a very multicultural week for me, and this counts as culture #2. We then met up with Mary, and after many hugs, we spent some time wandering around the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. It’s a gorgeous green retreat, and for a while, I forgot I was in one of the biggest cities in the world.

Because we hadn’t quite been out in the rain enough (it was like Irish weather—ten minutes of sunshine, ten minutes of rain), we visited the very crowded Père Lachaise Cemetery, which is the largest cemetery in Paris and where Jim Morrison is buried. We didn’t actually go visit his grave because we found a large tree to shelter us from the rain, and that was much more interesting than getting soaked walking around.

We enjoyed delicious hot chocolate across the street and then parted ways for the evening. Guillaume’s mom cooked delicious chicken tortillas (culture #3!) and we had another nice European dinner, and then we watched a South African movie (#4 too many cultures…I’m going to stop counting now). Like I said, it was a multicultural week.

The next day, I felt like I was back in England. We agreed to meet Mary at the Catacombs, but when we arrived, we discovered they were flooded. I guess I used up all my good luck on the trip there. It started to rain just as we missed a bus, and it didn’t stop until the evening, which was unfortunate since all of our plans involved walking around outside. We were troopers for a while and decided to ignore the rain, and for once, our timing was good because we observed a march of striking garbage collectors. It was a truly French experience, so I felt cultured. We walked around for a while, and our experience was characterized by Guilluame getting splashed by a bus and laughed at by an Italian couple. Then, we decided warm drinks were in order, so we regrouped over hot chocolate and tea.

Our next plan of action took us to the Eiffel Tower, where we snapped a few photographs and retreated to the very indoors Musée Guimet, where I successfully impersonated a British student to gain free entry. It turns out EU students in France can get into museums for free, but not American students, so that British accent I’ve spent five months perfecting came in useful. (And when I say “British accent,” I mean Sussex student id card. I knew that piece of plastic would be good for something, someday.)

The museum’s collection of Asian art is extensive. Unfortunately, walking around in the rain had taken its toll on me, and I couldn’t appreciate it as much as I should have. Our next stop was a very French McDonald’s. Now, before you make all sorts of snotty comments about me eating McDonald’s in Paris, you should know one thing: French McDonald’s are classier than American Mickey D’s. How do I know this? Well, the portions are smaller, the menus are larger (they have mini croque monsieurs), and they serve potato wedges in addition to fries. How much fancier can you get?

In the spirit of experiencing as many cultures as we could in three days, we decided to see the movie The Prince of Persia for a taste of Hollywood. I was pleased to see that going to the movies in France does not involve half as many queues as cinemas in England.

We wandered around after the movie, snapped pictures of the Tour Montparnasse, one of the most hated buildings in Paris, and then went to one of Guillaume’s favorite traditional Breton crêperies. I had a delicious egg, ham and cheese crepe with special Breton cider. My only regret is that I wasn’t hungry enough to try a dessert crepe. We bid a fond farewell to Marie and then headed home to watch a French comedy. I didn’t know they even made those, but I appreciated it more than South African humor!

The next day, the weather was of course gorgeous. I’m beginning to think Paris was trying to tell me something. It was a morning full of sad goodbyes, first to Guillaume’s mom, who was so warm and hospitable, and then of course to Guillaume, who was a perfect host. It's unfathomable to me that it may be years before we see each other again. He took me to the station, and we had time for a quick cup of tea before my train left.

Final thoughts on Paris: I am so lucky not only that I have such wonderful friends to show me around, but also in that I saw most of the Parisian touristy sights four years ago. It freed my friends and me to check out places “off the beaten track” as my idol for everything Rick Steves would say, and we could focus on catching up and enjoying our time, without the pressure of checking attractions off of a “must see” list. Thanks again, Grandma and Grandpa! Also, I’m happy to report that just as my childhood cartoons taught me, French people do indeed walk around carrying baguettes, especially on the Metro after work. My faith in stereotypes is restored. This was undoubtedly one of the best three days of my time in Europe, but I’ve been having a good time back here at Sussex as well.

It was good to see my friends here again on Friday night, and I spent probably too much of Saturday observing how “football” (soccer, for those of you reading from across the Atlantic) is played on Playstation. Eventually, it occurred to the guys I was hanging out with to teach me how to play, and a few moments later, I was holding a controller. I haven’t felt so helpless since being stranded by a volcano. Before I knew it, the game was in motion and “my team” somehow ended up with the ball. I started randomly pressing buttons, and then all of the sudden, I apparently scored a goal. The guys I was playing with were kind of impressed. And by kind of impressed, I mean they watched the replay five times, and hours later insisted on showing another friend. However, lest you get the wrong idea, I should probably mention at this point that it was the only goal I scored all evening. Beginner’s luck is a fickle thing.

The weather was lovely the next day. A beautiful day anywhere is a great thing, but in England, there’s something truly special about a warm and sunny day. Maybe it’s because I don’t expect them, or maybe there’s a genuine change in people’s attitudes, but you can almost touch the happiness in the air. Obviously, the day had to be enjoyed outside, so friends and I took a bus into town, listened to live music and hung out on the beach. It was a perfect afternoon, and to top it all off, we went clubbing that night. I met some other really friendly international students as well as a creepy Austrian, who was hanging out in a club alone (warning sign, anyone?) to “find inspiration” for his rock band. A likely story… It was getting light out when I returned home, and this is quickly becoming the mark of a good night.

You might notice that for the first time, I have intentionally referred to this place as home. When I’ve written these blog posts in the place, I often slipped up and wrote “home” to refer to York House or campus, but I always tried to change it, because I never wanted England to be home. “Home” was for years the place I was raised and surrounded by family, or more recently, a specific location at Wash. U. where I was comfortable, happy and close to friends who knew me inside and out. For most of the past four months, England hasn’t met all of these criteria. I had some great experiences and I’ve met some wonderful friends here, but it always felt like too far from my real homes to count. And York House? It’s a far cry from even my freshman dorm at Wash. U. But it’s not so simple anymore. I don’t know whether it’s the generally nice weather, the lack of academic stress, or the knowledge that this all ends in less than two weeks, but all of the sudden, I find myself happy here. I’m finally secure in my friendships, I’m meeting cool people I want to get to know better, and I’m not done finding new experiences. I’m more torn than I ever thought I would be about leaving.

In retrospect, January to June was the very worst amount of time to come to Sussex. If I had been here for fall term and only stayed three months, I would have been more than ready to leave in December, which is sort of how I felt during the spring. But five and a half months is just long enough to truly feel adjusted and comfortable, and if I had stayed for the whole year, I would have had a few more months to enjoy being settled and happy here. Still, I can’t regret my decision because I wouldn’t trade my fall semester at Wash. U. for anything, and I’m lucky that I can still make the most out of the short time I have left in England.

And that starts….now. Yesterday was a girls’ night out and involved an all-you-can-eat Asian buffet, including literally a wall of desserts, as well as Sex and the City 2. It turns out that buying movie tickets online ahead of time reduces the trauma involved in going to the cinema in England. Now if only all of this “carpe diem” stuff would involve studying for my final exam, maybe I could maintain my low stress level…unfortunately, studying too hard anytime soon does not appear to be in the forecast!

I could have danced all night...oh wait, I did!

2010-05-29T00:55:00.000+01:00

What’s that you say? I’m supposed to be writing essays and studying for exams at this time of year? Oops. I didn’t get the memo. It’s all England’s fault, really. We’re friends again, and it’s been distracting me with positively unEnglish weather. Almost every day last week, it was sunny and in the 70s, or as England likes to say, in the low 20s. You try studying under such difficult conditions!

By some miracle, I managed to turn in my final essay last Thursday, but before I could start studying for my Politics of Australia and New Zealand exam on Monday, I had to study clubbing. Believe me, in Brighton, clubbing is an art. The observant among you may remember that I tried it in January and came back with mixed reviews. However, a few things were different this time around. The weather was about a thousand times nicer. Never underestimate the influence of a warm evening. Also, in January I went clubbing mostly because I felt it was an experience I should have and I didn’t know when I would have another chance. This time, my friends and I had all had a long week of hard work, and I genuinely wanted to go out.

The night started out sounding like a bad joke, 5 Italians and an American walk into a Japanese restaurant, but fortunately it had a good punch line. I tried Japanese food for the first time, although my sweet and sour chicken tasted suspiciously like the sweet and sour chicken I’ve had at every Chinese restaurant I’ve ever eaten at, so I’m not convinced. We walked around a bizarre fashion show at the Brighton Festival for a while, and then we headed into a club.

Revolution, the club, has recently been remodeled, and it shows. There was a nicely decorated room with a bar and a lounge (and a chandelier!), and another bar and a dance floor next door. My friends and I snagged a table in the nice patio area and chatted over drinks. Although I was not sipping a cosmopolitan, I had a difficult time believing we were in Brighton and not on the set of Sex and the City. We started to get chilly just as the patio got loud and crowded, so we migrated inside to the lounge and drank more while marveling at the things English girls wear. (No offense meant towards any English readers I may have, but take my word for it, your fashion sense is completely unique and worthy of being gawked at by tourists. It’s a good thing.) The girl who showed up in pajamas might have been my favorite, but she wasn’t nearly as entertaining at the girls in the bathroom, who I overheard attempting to speak in Southern accents. The look on their faces when I said “not bad” in my very American accent? Priceless.

Feeling very…well-hydrated, we moved on to the dance floor. The music was decent, and it was an ideal girls’ night out. Early in the morning, Giulia and Martina left (the poor souls had class in a few hours), but Irene and I stuck it out. Not too long after that, some of our guy friends showed up, and we moved down to the spacious (and by this point, hot and sweaty) basement, which I did not even realize existed. We kept dancing until the club closed. Me, closing down a club? Who would have ever guessed? The guys decided they required some greasy food (after all, doesn’t everyone eat at 3 a.m.?), so along with all the other club-goers within a five-mile radius, we stopped by the place next door. By the way, if anyone is looking for an investment opportunity, I recommend getting into the fast food business. The key to success is location; rent property near establishments that sell alcohol, don’t bother opening before midnight, and you’re guaranteed to be a millionaire in no time. We took the Lemon bus back to campus, finally rolling in at 4 a.m., by which point, it was getting light out. All in all, a pretty epic night.

I did some real studying on Friday and Saturday (because lying in the sun with my notebook open counts as studying), and then it was time for another distraction. Giulia, Martina and Irene were going to a tango and salsa lesson they heard about at a dance studio in Hove (one town over from Brighton), so I decided to join them. It may have been more than a little outside the ol’ comfort zone, but I closed down a club; I’m obviously an expert dancer, right?

Well, as it turned out, not so much. My friends and every one of the poor, random strangers I was paired with quickly discovered that I’ve inherited my dad’s two left feet. Thanks for nothing, Dad! In my defense, the studio was sweltering hot, but all the same, I don’t think I’ll be auditioning for Dancing with the Stars anytime soon.

On Monday, I couldn’t put it off any longer, and I took my Politics exam. Despite the nice weather, I think I managed to do enough studying because I felt ok about it. As a reward, I took the train to Paris for the week. I certainly do know how to relax after assessments, don’t I? Against the odds, I had a disaster-free trip to and from Paris, and a blog entry will be posted in the next few days. It’s that or study, so take a guess as to which I’ll do!

An Open Letter to England

2010-05-13T18:05:00.000+01:00

Dear England,

I thought we were friends. I really did. But after your behavior (or behaviour, if you prefer) these past two weeks, it’s clear that our friendship doesn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.

I admit, we got off a rocky start back in January when you decided to have the biggest blizzard in years while I was struggling to get to Brighton. I didn’t appreciate that, and it made me wonder what kind of a country you were. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt, I forgave you, and we moved on. I thought my faith in you was justified, because of our lovely spring. With all of the sunshine, I was even beginning to wonder where the fuss about English weather came from. Do you remember that time I was on the continent for spring break and Iceland tried to keep us apart with that giant volcanic ash cloud? I fought to get back to you. I took a maddening assortment of planes, trains and, well, just planes and trains really, all for you. I thought you were happy to have me back, and I promised you that I wouldn’t do any more international travel for a while.

The past two weekends, I have faithfully kept my promise to you. Instead of going to Madrid, Dublin, Prague or somewhere exotic like that, I planned to travel in Kent, which, in case you need a geography lesson, is well within your borders. And what do you do? You rain, and you pour, and you don’t stop! And if that wasn’t enough, the minute I return, you’re sunny, you’re warm and you reek of spring while I’m stuck inside staring out the window, er, I mean, writing papers and studying. Why England, why? There’s a Katy Perry song to describe you, and it’s not “Thinking of You.”

But you know what, England? I didn’t let you ruin my travels. Two weekends ago, I went to London and had a free meal courtesy of ACCENT (remember, that company Wash. U. hires to make sure us UK study abroad students don’t die). The ice cream I had for dessert was delicious and definitely worth the trip.

And then, Riki and her family took me to stay at her in-laws’ magnificent home in Kent. The estate is so cool, it even has its own name and Wikipedia page: Sharsted Court. The house is amazing and has been there for hundreds of years; supposedly, it has a resident ghost, although I did not make its acquaintance on this trip. I concede, England, that you played by the rules that Saturday afternoon, and Riki gave me a tour of the grounds that was uninterrupted by rain, despite some ominous-looking clouds. The grounds have something for everyone. There are woods with beautiful flowers, a maze that one can safely get lost in and perfectly maintained gardens, which include elaborate bush sculptures that I thought only existed in the movies.

Iris’ antics kept me laughing the entire weekend, and Nick’s entire family was very welcoming. We had a great dinner, and I discovered that I’ve acquired a taste for red wine. It was a good night.

But then, England, you showed your true colors. All of Sunday morning and afternoon, it rained. No amount of “rain, rain, go away, come again another day” chanting could convince you to stop. Not that you kept Riki and me from taking a walk in the woods anyway. Yes, it was wet and cold, but it was fun, and I’d do it again. It was a lovely weekend away in the country, no thanks to you!

One weekend of bad weather I could overlook, even if it did come while I was on such a nice trip. But two? I signed up to go on a day trip to Kent with the International Office, and our first stop was Canterbury. There was intermittent drizzle in the morning, although I didn’t mind it so much, since I was mostly inside Canterbury Cathedral, which is gothic and remarkable and there’s really not much more to say about it. However, I am impressed that for 840 years, someone has remembered the exact location where Archbishop Thomas Becket was murdered in 1170, a spot that is marked with a burning candle. How eerie.

I didn’t complain about the cold (well, maybe I did a little) when I wandered through Canterbury with a Finnish classmate. We sipped piping hot tea and then explored the most beautiful river walk I’ve ever seen, complete with ancient medieval towers and trees that are minimally hundreds of years old. And then, because I’m me, we got more than a little turned around trying to find the bus. But on the bright side, we saw the residential area of Canterbury, and we got our exercise speed-walking from one end of town to the other, and then back again.

All of this is to say that I could have forgiven the crummy weather in Canterbury, but for it to downright rain the entire time I was at Leeds Castle is simply inexcusable. Leeds Castle is a medieval castle (obviously), and for a few centuries, it was traditionally owned by English queens. The Tudors even stayed there for a brief time, so I felt right at home among my old friends. It eventually passed into private hands, and in the 1920s, it was purchased by Lady Baille, an American who ended up living in a castle. She’s obviously my heroine and new model for life. Apparently, the key to her success was marrying and divorcing three members of the British aristocracy. I only have a few weeks left here, so I better get on that… She restored and improved the castle throughout fifty years. She must have done a good job, considering all the famous people who came to her weekend parties in the 1930s, and at one point, negotiations for peace in the Middle East took place there. How many castles can add “world peace” to their resume? Or at least “attempting world peace.”

The building interior can’t compete with Windsor Castle or Blenheim in opulence, but I haven’t seen any estates as large or perfectly landscaped since the chateaux in the Loire Valley. And this is why we are fighting, England. Even in the pouring rain, I could see how marvelous it would be to walk around this beautiful place in the sunshine. It’s a long walk to the castle from the car park anyway, and it doesn’t help that half of the castle’s attraction are outside. Why couldn’t I have that perfect day of sunshine, just this once? After a while, the greenery was just too pretty to walk by, so I tried to ignore my numb fingers and take a few pictures anyway, but I don’t think I will ever get over the missed opportunity for blue skies, green trees and a castle. At least until I go back, which I have vowed to do someday.

I think I’ve said all I need to say, England. If you want to apologize, I could use some nice weather this Sunday, when I’m planning to walk to my favorite tiny village for tea. Or better yet, put in a good word for me with your old buddy France, since I’m visiting Paris later this month, assuming I ever finish my papers and exams.

Sincerely,
Elyse

P.S. As a political science student, I should probably say something about the elections that were held last Thursday. Everyone was pretty excited about it here, although the fuss couldn’t compare to the U.S.’s last election. Still, there was a crowd of students watching the results live at a campus bar, so it was obviously big news. It was common knowledge that the Conservatives were going to beat Labour, and although the term “hung parliament” was floating around, I think a lot of people were surprised when no party gained the majority of votes. As a result, the past week’s headlines have been dominated with the party leaders’ every movement and their attempts to form Britain’s first coalition government in decades. After lots of drama, the Liberal Democrats, the largest third party, decided to team up with the Conservatives, which everyone pretty much expected, and Gordon Brown stepped down, much to almost everyone’s relief.

Here in Brighton, I think the large and very liberal student population may have had something to do with the election of the first-ever Green Party MP. However, any joy my classmates may have felt was mostly extinguished when David Cameron became Prime Minister. Sorry guys, better luck next time, but cheer up, he has to call another election sometime in the next few years!

The Isle of Wight: The (Wannabe) English Hawaii

2010-04-30T10:06:00.001+01:00

Once upon a time, the British people decided they needed a proper holiday (a British holiday, mind you, otherwise known as a “vacation” in American). Not just a weekend in the country, or even a trip to somewhere exotic like London, but they thought that a relaxing, warm escape was in order. The Caribbean and the Mediterranean were too far away (and who wants to risk running into pirates), so they set their sights on an island a little closer to home: The Isle of Wight.

Queen Victoria started the trend when she built her summer home on this tiny island due south of England, and fashionable Victorians followed, including the famous Alfred Tennyson (“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”? Yeah, that guy). They convinced themselves that its sandy beaches and fake palm trees (I kid you not) meant that it was warmer than the mainland, and thus, it qualified as a resort destination.

That’s my theory, anyway. Today, tourism dominates its tiny economy, and if the advertisements all over the ferry between Portsmouth and the island are any indication, every family in England takes their two children here during the summer months, where they frolic in the waves and build sandcastles all day.

Unfortunately for the poor Isle of Wight, I have been to the real Hawaii, and it doesn’t quite measure up. Yes, it has beaches, and yes, it might be a whole degree (Celsius) warmer than the mainland, but that doesn’t make it a tropical paradise. Still, the island is not without its charms. While the palms trees struck me as cliché and cheesy, there is a definite resort feel to the place, especially in the towns on the seafront. The beaches are nice, not rocky like Brighton’s beach, and it gets points because it doesn’t smell like dead fish. Most of the island is green, and there are plenty of woods to explore. One of the first things our group did after exploring one of the beaches was to hike in the southern part of the island. Yes, you read that right, I went hiking. Please stop rolling on the floor laughing. It was a fine and uneventful hike, and the most interesting thing I saw was a broken printer. In the middle of the woods. I don’t get it either.

After lunch at a cute tea shop in a cottage, we drove to the other side of the island and went on a two-hour walk on top of some breathtaking cliffs. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and after some close calls on the steep hills, the group made it to a village, which didn’t seem to consist of more than a beach and a mini amusement park. I walked down to another beachfront and saw more cool cliffs, which happened to be multicolored. Then I rode a chairlift that looked like it had seen better days back to the top of the cliff. I’d show you pictures, but I was too busy clutching the safety bar for dear life to get out my camera.

And that was it. It was not the most exciting of trips, but I figure the Isle of Wight is somewhere I never would have gone by myself, so I’m glad I can say I’ve been there, done that, and I’ll probably never go back.

I’ve more or less settled back into a school routine, which isn’t as difficult as it sounds since most of my courses are wrapping up. For instance, next week, I’ll be in class a grand total of one hour, although to be fair, that’s partly because my lecturers are going on strike. Again. You’d think I’d use the time to write the huge essays I have to turn in and study for the huge exams I have to take, but no, it’s much more fun to write blog posts and put pictures on Facebook.

When I returned to Sussex from my adventures on the continent, I was almost convinced I had gotten lost again and arrived at the wrong campus. Instead of the overcast, chilly, empty ghost town I had left behind, I was greeted with sun, warmth, chirping birds, and a multitude of students who must have been recently evicted from their apartments napping in the green grass. Unfortunately, this new and improved Sussex also includes some more unwelcome signs of spring.

I came back from the gym early yesterday afternoon, and as my room was stuffy, I cracked open the (screen-less) window for a few minutes. I was just about to go clean myself up when I heard an awful buzzing noise. With a gasp of horror, I leapt to close the window, but I was too late, and there was a giant bee hovering entirely too close to my head. Seriously, have they never heard of personal space? Naturally, I ran out of my room screaming. I dashed down three flights of stairs to see if the porter could help me and ran into (almost literally) possibly the cutest guy I have seen yet in England. In my stinky gym clothes. Without a stitch of makeup on. FML?

Of course, the porter chose that precise time to be on his lunch break, which to be honest I didn’t mind so much since it gave me time to chat with (read: stare at) Mr. Perfect, who was also waiting for the porter. After twenty or so minutes, we decided that he should go turn in his paperwork and I should go face down the monster, er, bee. I would never have seen him again, had I not chickened out and ran back downstairs. If this had been a romantic comedy, he would have offered to dispose of the bee for me, I would have suddenly looked like I had spent two hours doing my hair and makeup, and we would have lived happily ever after. But as this story is sadly not a movie, I waved goodbye to my now long-lost love and went to the building manager’s office instead. I don’t mess around when it comes to bees...Her assistance ended up being unnecessary, as a flatmate took pity on me and killed it, so I was able to return to life as usual.

Well folks, this has been a delightful diversion, but perhaps I should now turn my attention to the 6,500 words I have to write before I can consider myself done with this academic year!

An Odyssey So Epic It Should Be in Greek

2010-04-22T19:43:00.000+01:00

***FOR YOUR OWN SANITY, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO READ IN ONE SITTING***

My trip started off just like any other, that is to say, with a delayed flight. As a result of an extra two hours in Gatwick airport (not so bad in the scheme of things, as it turns out), I am now a certified expert on its restaurant and shopping facilities, and I would definitely recommend the McDonalds on the second floor. After a nutritious meal, my plane took off, and with little further difficulty, I landed in Berlin.

I had no trouble meeting up with Tina, who was kindly waiting for me, despite my very late arrival. The only problem was, we still had to get to her parents’ house. European public transportation, as fantastic as it is, tends to become less reliable later in the evenings, and as it was nearly 11 o’clock by that time, trains were few and far between. I’ll spare you the play-by-play, but after a while, I stopped measuring time by the hour and instead went by the number of transfers. The final count: three trains, one bus and one taxi. On the bright side, how many tourists get to take Berlin trains in the middle of the night? An experience, for sure. We arrived at around 1 o’clock, where we found her mother still awake, waiting up for us. Aw! Despite everything, I felt very welcome, and I honestly thought that was it. It would be smooth sailing after this, I smugly thought as I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, after nearly catching up on sleep, we took a 30-minute train into central Berlin. Yep, the city is just that big and spread out. Now, here’s a quick trivia question: What do a Star Wars Storm Trooper, a Native American chief, a giant bear and a toy soldier have in common? No, the answer is not the punch line of a corny joke, but rather they’re all characters/actors/crazy people you can find wandering around the Brandenburg Gate posing for pictures with tourists. Now that’s something you won’t find in any guidebook.

We walked through the gate and continued onto the Reichstag (the German parliament building), where the Bundestag (the German parliament) now meets, since the capital was moved back to Berlin in 1999. It was originally built in the 1890s, but then destroyed and remodeled multiple times in the twentieth century. Seriously, let’s take a moment to feel some sympathy for this poor structure; first it was set on fire in 1933, then it was bombed in 1945, and then it was abandoned in the 1950s. It’s been through a lot. Its happy ending finally arrived in the 1990s after reunification, when it was rebuilt, and today it’s an interesting mix of traditional columns and modern glass walls. There’s an emphasis on openness in the German government these days, and for that reason, much of the building is transparent. There’s also an awesome glass dome on top that Tina and I waited in line to see. The security to get in was tighter than that in any airport I’ve been passed through recently, but finally we made it to the top and had a great view of Berlin. It goes on as far as the eye can see.

On our way to Tina’s flat, we walked through Museum Island, where all of Berlin’s significant museums are located. Say what you will about Germans, but they’re very organized. We had a leisurely lunch discussing European politics and then set out to explore East Berlin.

Everything you’ve heard about GDR architecture is true, and we saw some buildings (no, let’s not even call them buildings, let’s call them concrete blocks with holes) that made me want to cry because they were so depressing and boring. No wonder people risked their lives to get away from them! But at the same time, it was such a surreal feeling to be able to explore this part of the city, which would have been impossible for most Westerners only 20 years ago. And there are signs of change everywhere. Now, East Berlin is the hip place to live, and I can see why. Tina took me to Alexanderplatz, a bustling and historic square, and we saw the Fernsehturm, the television tower, which looks like a very, very tall needle with a golf ball on it. It’s impressive, and for good reason, it has become a symbol of the city. We also stopped by Potsdamer Platz, another East Berlin square which is home to new and large buildings that I would expect to see in American cities, not European ones.

The next day, we took two trains out of Berlin and into Potsdam, which contrary to most American history classes, existed before President Truman attended a conference there. In fact, one of its main tourist attractions comes straight out of the Enlightenment. Not to be outdone by France’s King Louis XIV, Prussian King Frederick the Great wanted his own summer palace and so he built Sanssouci outside of Berlin. Not to give poor Freddy an inferiority complex, but it’s no Versailles. That said, it was probably one of my favorite parts of the trip. Despite gray and drizzly weather, we managed to have a picnic in the gardens and had plenty of time to explore the grounds before we were allowed to enter. I had to pay an extra 3€ to take pictures inside, and considering how much I paid for an entrance ticket, it only seems fair that I get my money’s worth. So, I encourage all of you to humor me by taking a look at those pictures and making me feel like an actual freedom fighter for putting them on Facebook.

Still, whatever I paid was well worth it. Put me in a palace, especially a Baroque one, filled with pretty things, and I’m happy. I very much enjoyed pretending to be a Prussian princess for a few hours, and those of you who saw my pictures from France and Spain four years ago will not be surprised to read that I was thrilled when I saw all of the chandeliers. No European vacation is complete without at least one elegant chandelier.

That afternoon, we stopped by the Gedächtniskirche (try saying that three times fast. I can’t even say it once.), or as I prefer to refer to it, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. We didn’t go inside, but it’s most important feature was right in front of us. Despite that, I didn’t notice it until Tina pointed it out. The steeples are all missing. The church was bombed during WWII and never fully rebuilt to serve as a reminder of the war.

Next up was Checkpoint Charlie. There was an exhibit about the Cold War right by it, and I’m always interested to see how other countries teach the Cold War. Interestingly enough, this version was more pro-American than I think I’ve heard in most American classrooms. Then, we had tea in a coffee shop frequented by real Berliners (a treat for any tourist) and then made dinner at her boyfriend’s flat. And when I say we made dinner, I actually mean Tina prepared delicious meatballs with cheese and sauce, while I discovered Agatha Christie novels. Typical. Her boyfriend joined us for dinner, and afterwards, we set off for a drink.

We passed by a beautiful synagogue, as well as a number of prostitutes. We were in a very safe, happening neighborhood, and yet, there they were. I don’t think you would see that in comparable American neighborhoods (at least it wouldn’t be so obvious), but maybe I just need to get out more…We ended up wandering through a park filled with art made out of junk and then came to a huge concrete building (yes, we were in East Berlin). There was a punk band playing in the doorway (this description is meant to give you some of the city’s flavor), but we walked past them and up seven or so flights of stairs. And they were a cool seven flights. Every surface of every wall was entirely covered in colorful graffiti. It was a huge work of art. We finally huffed and puffed our way to the top floor, which was a rooftop terrace. It was a squatter bar, a peculiar Berlin institution, which meant that no one could throw us out when we didn’t order any drinks, and instead just sat on a beat up couch and took in a great view of the city. It was a great way to end my trip, or so I thought.

The next day, Tina and I were on the train to drop me off at the airport, and her dad called her cell phone. I didn’t know it at the time, but this in and of itself should have been cause for concern, since he never, ever calls her cell phone. He said something about a volcano in Iceland disrupting flights to the UK, but he promised to call us back after he talked to easyJet, the airline I was flying. A few very long moments later, Tina’s phone rang again, and her dad gave us the happy news that easyJet flights were “operating normally.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief and chuckled. Yeah, a VOLCANO was going to disrupt my flight back to England. That’s about as likely as me navigating my way to the airport on the S-Bahn without Tina. (A few stops later, I assured her I could get myself the rest of the way to the airport without her, and she hopped off the train. Twenty minutes later, I found myself at the correct airport.)

Assuming none of you live under a rock, you know what happened. The story begins hundreds of thousands of years ago, when someone decided it would be a good idea to put a volcano in Iceland. Why Iceland? I don’t know, but I’m guessing because there was nothing else there. Fast forward a few millennia, and the people in Iceland thought, gee, it’s time to pay back those nasty Europeans for the financial crisis that ruined our economy. What can we do to really upset them? Hm, well, we have these nice volcanoes here, and they’ve just been sitting around for a hundred-some-odd years. Let’s press this big red button and see what it does! In fact, it alerts the major news media outlets that their ratings are about to skyrocket.

I walked into the terminal and searched for my flight on the departure boards in vain. The airport information desk confirmed that my flight was canceled, and with a sinking stomach, I dashed to the easyJet desk and spent the next forty minutes desperately wishing I had a brown bag to breathe into. I don’t cope well with sudden change. I truly don’t. If something doesn’t go according to my plan, I panic, I cry, I go through the five stages of grief, and then, if I’m lucky, by the time I’m done with all that, circumstances have worked themselves out, and I can pretend I was totally cool everything all along.

Unfortunately for me, 40 minutes (or hours, as it turned out) was not quite enough time for me to process a change of this magnitude. I’m a fairly experienced traveler, and if you know nothing about me other than what you’ve read on this blog, you know that I’ve had my share of travel disasters. But something about a canceled flight makes my blood run cold. The easyJet employee rebooked me on a flight for the next night, but I was not reassured. I got in touch with Tina who figured out a convenient time and place for us to meet, and then I was left to wander the airport for a few hours.

I was desperate to get in touch with my family, but my phone was dying, so I overcame my distaste of public phones and their outrageous rates and attempted to call them. Two minutes later, I was 5€ poorer and despite calling multiple numbers multiple times, I couldn’t reach anyone, so I consoled myself by buying out the airport’s supply of chocolate and chocolate-flavored things. It helped a little.

I took the train back into Berlin and met up with Tina, who escorted me the rest of the way back to her house, where we had a relaxing evening. This seems like an appropriate moment to gush about Tina and her family’s hospitality. Unlike the girls from Dublin behind me in the easyJet line who were wondering where they would sleep that night, I am so lucky that I could stay with Tina. I’m even luckier that she knew exactly how to cheer me up (chocolate and a movie do the trick, people).

At about midnight, we were about to go to sleep, when I received the first of many panicky e-mails from my parents. (In total, they sent 24 e-mails over the next three days in regards to the whole me-being-stranded-in-Europe situation.) Even if I was in a self-imposed news blackout, they were not, and they were concerned that the situation was not going to improve by the next evening. So, Tina and her mother spent the better part of an hour with me researching trains. I would have had no idea where to even begin without them (I probably would have set out for England by foot), and an hour later, they had worked out a route that would have me back in Brighton by bedtime the next day.

Yeah, right. As we planned, Tina and I arrived at Berlin’s central station bright and early, just in time to join the mob of people surrounding the ticket office. Still, the line moved quickly and before long we were at the desk. It won’t surprise any of you to learn that there was not a single seat on any train bound for London anytime before Monday. If I hadn’t grasped the magnitude of the situation before, I certainly did in that moment. It cost just about every last penny (er, pence) in my bank account, but of course I took the earliest train I could get, and because I had been advised to move as far west as I could (good advice, as it turned out), I also bought another one-way ticket. It looked like I was going to see Amsterdam this spring break after all!

I bid a fond farewell to Tina and pulled out my phone. I texted my parents to let them know what my plans were, and despite it being the middle of the night in Chicago, after a few more texts, we were talking on the phone.

Here, I need to go off on a brief tangent, but stay with me, this will all make sense in the end. In an extremely quirky and fortunate twist of fate years in the making, my grandparents had become friends with a Dutch couple named Tom and Ria while on vacation in France more than 15 years ago. They stayed in touch over the years, had business dealings with each other and occasionally visited each other. Tom had even met my dad before, and it seemed to my parents that he would be a good person to contact should I end up in the Netherlands.

My dad called Tom for me and briefed him on my situation. (Thanks Dad!) Before long, I was on the phone with Tom, who despite never having laid eyes on me before, offered to pick me up at the train station and host me for the weekend. Family friends are wonderful people.

At this point in my journey, I was in good spirits. Although I’d never imagined it would be like this, I’ve always wanted to take a train through Europe. I’d finally accepted the change in plans, I had a safe place to stay, and I was enjoying seeing something of the German and Dutch countryside. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and I could almost forget that a volcano was spewing tons and tons of canceled flights and despair into the atmosphere.

There was initially some confusion about which station I would be arriving at in Amsterdam, so it took a few calls to a woman who works for Tom to straighten that out, and then another employee called to inform me that: 1. It was Tom’s 70th birthday on Saturday. 2. His family had planned a huge (and I mean insane) series of surprises for him. 3. I was going to be included in everything. She told me what to expect, and after hanging up the phone I couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity of the situation. You’ll see what I mean.

Six and a half hours later, I was sweating bullets over getting off at the right station since there are no announcements on these international trains, but when I was approached on the platform by friendly looking man and his grandson, I figured I had come to the right place!

I met Tom’s wife back at his home in Heiloo, and all four of us went for dinner at a good Chinese place. Everyone was very friendly at dinner, although discussion was a little difficult since Tom was the only one who spoke fluent English, but we managed. I slept like a rock that night and woke up to all sorts of birthday surprises.

The festivities began Saturday afternoon. Friends and family began arriving at the house, and a glass of champagne was had by all. (I challenge you to try to keep track of how much alcohol was consumed that day. I eventually gave up.) I’ll admit, this was more than a little bit awkward for me. There was no one in the room I had known for more than 20 hours, and in addition to a language barrier, there was a significant age difference as well. (After all, do you think Tom makes a habit of hanging around with twenty year olds? I don’t think so.)

Fortunately, we were on a schedule. At 2:30 on the dot, a humongous tour bus showed up. It probably wasn’t actually bigger than any other tour bus I’ve seen, but in comparison to the tiny street it was parked on, it looked almost as out of place as I did. No one else seemed perplexed that our small party (20ish people) filled less than a third of the seats, so without further delay, we were off to Amsterdam for the night, and I was treated to a pleasant drive through the Dutch countryside.

Our hotel’s street was too tiny for the tour bus (I told you it was too big), so a smaller car met us two blocks away from the hotel to transport the luggage. This should be another hint at just what kind of a weekend I was in for. We stayed at the Dylan Hotel, of which I have nothing but nice things to say. After some time to get settled in our rooms, everyone met in the lounge for another drink before leaving for a boat tour of Amsterdam’s canals.

Could I possibly have gotten a better introduction to the city? I don’t think so. The tour was conducted mostly in Dutch, but Tom’s daughter kindly arranged for some of it to be translated for me. I had no idea how much history was in Amsterdam, and it added another dimension to my usual “ooh, pretty building” reaction.

The boat didn’t drop us off back at the Dylan but instead took us to the Amstel Hotel, is supposedly the nicest hotel in the country. I couldn’t say for sure, but judging by the banquet room where we later had dinner, you get no argument from me. (It had three chandeliers. I approve.)

As the boat pulled up to the dock, I saw 80 or so people on the hotel terrace cheering and waving. Talk about a surprise party…Maybe there was some mistake? Maybe they thought there was a celebrity on our boat? Maybe we were at the wrong hotel? No, no mistake, and if I hadn’t caught sight of more champagne waiting for us, I would seriously have considered jumping overboard.

The first half of the party was among the most intimidating and awkward experiences of my life, right up there with the first day of high school. Except instead of football players and cheerleaders, think of elite businessmen and their wives. My jeans were more than a little conspicuous among all the suits and fancy dresses. I don’t know how I could have forgotten when I was packing for Berlin that I had a swanky birthday party to attend in Amsterdam.

I was occasionally introduced to someone, but there’s only so much a twenty-year old American exchange student and a 70-year-old Dutch [insert occupation here] can converse about. Thank goodness for the waiters who always showed up at the right moment with more champagne. I spent a lot of time walking purposefully, pretending I was looking for someone before finally finding a nice woman I had met in Heiloo, who took me under her wing and made sure I had people to talk to or at least sit with so I didn’t look as pathetic as I felt. Everything improved after that.

Dinner was fantastic. I was seated at a table with the “young” people (probably between 35 and 50 years of age), all of whom were friendly and more importantly, spoke English. I not-so-coincidentally sat next to a man from Wales, who was good about translating the presentations about Tom’s life that interspersed every course. The presentations led up to one of Tom’s biggest gifts, a biography that his family commissioned someone to write about him. Dad, take note, the competition is on and you have some serious work to do when planning Grandpa’s next birthday.

As much as I like hearing Dutch spoken, I was more interested in the food. There was pate course, fish and then chicken, each served with a different type of wine. And my favorite part of the meal was obviously the chocolate mousse at the end. I should get stranded in Amsterdam more often…

There was a singer who performed throughout dinner, and she had a great repertoire, although I’ll never understand why she felt she needed to change outfits every time the guests started on a new course. The night ended with disco dancing. The only thing more ridiculous than older Dutch people disco dancing is that I joined them.

At midnight, the lights went on, and no one seemed very concerned about their carriages turning into pumpkins. Guests slowly made their way to the coat check and wished Tom a happy birthday, and we didn’t actually leave until after 12:30.

We took a water taxi back to the hotel (I’ve always wanted to take one of those!), and the only thing more exciting than seeing Amsterdam lit up at night was the thought of the comfy bed waiting for me in my room. But Tom and his friends know how to party, and instead of making a left to go to the rooms, we made a right and went back to the hotel lounge for another drink. I ended up chatting with Tom’s sister-in-law whose daughter received her MBA from Wash. U. Small world! Her husband, who I also spoke to over the course of the evening, later asked for my American phone number so his daughter could call me next fall. I guess I made a good impression?

The next day, we had breakfast (I was reunited with my long-lost love, chocolate croissants) and then it was time for Tom and company to head back to Heiloo. After saying goodbye to my new friends and profusely thanking everyone for everything, I went to the Anne Frank House and met up with Gwen, who was a sight for sore eyes!

The line for the Anne Frank House was long, but we were kept entertained by a series of pamphlets, including some information on the museum and dire warnings to watch our purses. The museum itself is well organized. The exhibits are in both English and Dutch, which I appreciate, and the rooms flow together smoothly. The walls have quotes from her diary, and it was more touching than I thought it would be to walk through the rooms where she lived.

Gwen and I went to lunch at a cute café and then met up with her friends for an exhibit about Oman in the Nieuwe Kerk (New Church) in Dam Square. It was an odd venue for such an exhibit, but the occasional medieval tomb and Bible-inspired carvings made a nice contrast to Omani artifacts. After an afternoon drink with the group, Gwen and I headed to Rotterdam, where her parents live. The Greek lasagna was ready and waiting for us, and we had a lovely dinner with her parents and brother. It was a very relaxing sort of evening, which is exactly what I needed considering the day before and the day after.

I woke up the next morning (if you can even call it that) before dawn and got myself ready for a very long day of travel. If you’ve read even a little bit of this blog before, you know that I have a tendency to get lost, no matter how simple the directions or how close by my destination is. You can therefore understand my skepticism in thinking I could get myself from a suburb of Rotterdam all the way to London without something going horribly wrong. And unlike in the past, there was no margin for error here. Every train to London was sold out for the rest of the week, so if I missed my connection at any point…it didn’t bear thinking about. Does anyone else hear the Mission: Impossible music? I certainly did.

Gwen and her dad woke up to have breakfast with me, which went above and beyond the call of duty, but it was nice to see some reassuring faces before I set off for the local train station. I made it just in time to catch a train to Rotterdam Centraal (train #1), where I paced up and down another platform, asking everyone I saw if this was the train to Brussels, despite the very clear sign stating that it was. An agonizing 20 minutes later, it finally arrived (train #2), and after a few laps up and down the platform, I found my carriage and my assigned seat.

It was a relatively short trip, a little bit more than an hour to Brussels, and I managed to get off at the right station despite the lack of announcements. I found the Eurostar terminal and made it through security and passport control with plenty of time to sit in the waiting room and be bored. Train travel isn’t as different from airplane travel as I thought.

By this time, the Mission: Impossible music had died down, and without further incident, I was on my way to London (train #3). Unfortunately, I didn’t have a window seat, but I was still able to see some of the countryside as we sped through it. We left Belgium and journeyed into France, a change I only noticed because my cell phone company texts me every time I cross a border to remind me that I can still give them money even while abroad. And in the blink of an eye, everything went dark and we were in the Atlantic Ocean inside the Chunnel.

It’s a very strange, disconcerting and exhilarating feeling to be on the continent one moment and to emerge on a completely different land mass the next, but I could tell I was back in England in an instant. Less than two hours after leaving Brussels, I was in London, with boggles my mind. I won’t bore you with all the details of my trip back to campus (after making it this far, you’ve suffered enough), but we do need to finish the train tally: train #4 was the Tube to Victoria Station, which you will all be happy to hear I now navigate like a pro, train #5 took me to Brighton and train #6 took me to campus.

Now, I’m trying to settle back into “normal” life, where my movements aren’t dictated by a volcanic ash cloud and where my daily challenge isn’t navigating the European rail system. I won’t miss the anxiety involved in constantly being on the move, but writing papers is a far cry from the excitement of seeing so much more of the world than I ever expected to!

I am proud of how I handled myself over the past week and how I managed to get myself back to Brighton under difficult circumstances, but the quote “no man is an island” has been consistently on my mind. I could never, in a million years, have done any of this alone. If it hadn’t been for my parents and their constant advice, all of the friends and families who hosted me over the past week, all the people who stayed up late researching trains with me, and all the random connections I have, some of which have been years in the making, I would probably be sleeping on an airport floor right now. It’s a humbling feeling; one of the reasons I came to Europe was to become more independent, and now I find myself more dependent on others than before. But maybe the point isn’t that I learn to do everything by myself, but rather I understand that wherever I end up in the world, I have resources (in the form of people and knowledge) all around me to help me fix whatever has gone wrong, even if it happens to be an Icelandic volcano with a name too difficult to even attempt to spell.

Warning: A Really, Really Long Update

2010-04-11T23:12:00.000+01:00

I have no complaints about four weeks worth of traveling, but one of the few downsides I can think of is that I have no time for proper blog updates, and instead we end up with these massive posts that take forever to read (and write!). My apologies.

Where were we? Oh yes, Italia, the land of delicious food, beautiful canals, and (in my experience anyway) American movies. I arrived on Wednesday afternoon without any travel disasters, and Francesca, kind friend that she is, met me at the airport and drove me back to her family’s home in Padua. I was more than content to stare out window at some very impressive mountains in the distance and the colorful houses that lined the highway. These pastel home exteriors (orange, yellow pink, it screamed “vacation” to me) were not unique to the drive home and popped up everywhere, which is a trend I think America should jump on right away.

Her family’s home was really nice and spacious, and after living in a tiny (dirty, moldy, icky…but I promised we wouldn’t get into that again) dorm room, it seemed like a mansion. I met her parents, her brothers and her sister, Elisabetta. I can’t say enough wonderful things about them; they made me feel like part of the family over the next few days, which is an experience few tourists have.

That afternoon, we were treated to tea and biscuits. (I mean cookies. British English has started overwhelming my vocabulary, and I’m currently very linguistically confused.) A little while later, we had a delicious dinner prepared by Fra’s mother. I tried a ham and cheese quiche-like dish (except without the eggs) and a spinach and cheese pastry, with fruit salad and whipped cream for dessert. At the beginning, it was a little difficult to converse with her family at dinner because although everyone knew at least a little English, it seemed as though no one was very confident trying it out on me. However, 45 minutes later, they were more comfortable, and I’m pleased to report that everyone’s English was far better than they led me to believe. Even Fra’s 13-year-old brother’s grasp of the language was better than my own knowledge of Spanish (and let’s not count how many years I’ve spent studying that!).

After dinner, Fra, Elisabetta and I watched Twilight (American movie #1) and then ventured out into town, because Wednesday night is student night in Padua. The streets in the center of the city were thronged with students. Blocks upon blocks of them were standing, socializing and drinking in the streets (bars have to close at midnight so the people living around there can sleep), and we couldn’t walk more than three feet without running into someone that one of the sisters knew. I very quickly became an expert at the double- kiss-and-greet style of introductions. We floated from one group to another, and I chatted with a good number of Fra’s friends and their friends. Like her family, many of them were hesitant at first to speak English, but when they did, they were always good. And when they spoke in Italian, well, it’s a good thing Fra and Elisabetta are good translators. Not only did I get a great introduction to Padua, but I experienced Italian student social life as well, which is something Rick Steves definitely can’t tell you about.

In the course of the evening, I was surprised to discover just how common it is for Italian young people to live at home until they’re in their late twenties or married, and Elisabetta was equally shocked when she learned that I spend most of the year in St. Louis, away from Chicago and my family. It’s a very different kind of life, and no wonder medieval streets are the preferred meeting places!

On our way back to the car park (parking lot… British words…), I almost did get hit by a car, as I’ve long predicted I would, but it was not my fault! An obviously drunk driver came out of nowhere, shouted something and swerved to hit us, and then at the very last moment turned away. The car stopped half a block from us, so we turned around and called her boyfriend and his friend. Our knights in shining armor (okay, a silver car, close enough) arrived five minutes later, drove us approximately half a block to our car and made sure we got on our way safely. Talk about the perks of having a boyfriend…We made it through the rest of the night with no more near-death experiences.

The next day was bound to be a good one, considering we started off the morning by eating fette biscottate (a cross between bread and crackers) and cookies (NOT biscuits, take that British vocabulary) for breakfast. My mother will not be happy to hear this, but it’s a fine way to start off a morning. We took a thirty minute train ride into Venice and walked around the entire day.

Venice is a charming, beautiful city, and I can’t compare it to any place I’ve ever been before. I wouldn’t want to live there (especially not in fifty years, when it’s supposed to be underwater), but with its picturesque canals, its bright buildings and its twisting streets, it’s a perfect spot to explore for a few days. It’s not actually all that large, but you wouldn’t know it given the sense of history the place exudes. Almost all the buildings we passed were at least a few hundred years old, and they’re not fenced off and put under glass, the way they would be back home. People actually live and work in these places, which is mind boggling. Also, boats literally replace cars in Venice. You’re not allowed to drive anywhere near the city center (and how could you, the streets are so narrow), but you have bus-boats, taxi-boats, private car-boats, and even airport shuttle-boats, not to mention the gondolas. Like I said, there’s nowhere else like it on Earth. And have I mentioned those canals? They were quite possibly my favorite part of the city.

We hit all of the main tourist sites, including:
- Il Ponte di Rialto, the largest and most important bridge in the city, which crosses the largest canal. But given the volume of stores that sits on top of it, it’s actually a posh shopping center disguised as a bridge; it’s the Superman of all bridges.
-Piazza San Marco (Saint Mark’s Square). It looked just like it does in all the pictures, but it didn't disappoint in person.

-The Bell Tower, which was originally built in the 16th century but fell down and managed not to kill anyone in 1902. It was rebuilt shortly after that, and it’s got to be one of the newest buildings in the city center.

-The Palazzo Ducale di Venezia (the Doge’s Palace). We didn’t go inside, so I can’t really say too much else about it, but it looked cool.
-And of course, Saint Mark’s Basilica. Since Fra had never been inside it either, we stood in an admittedly fast-moving line, and it was well worth the wait. Inside, almost every surface I saw was a mosaic, and there was a hall full of building fragments dating from 800, 900, 1000, something like that, A.D. We were able to step out onto the balcony, which had a great view of Venice. The Basilica is magnificent, but I’ve come to expect that in European churches. I think there are a limited number of adjectives I can use to describe them, and I’ve used them all up by now (on St. Paul’s, Westminster, etc.) so you’ll just have to trust that it was super impressive, and next time you’re in Venice, definitely check it out.

-Il Ponte dei Sospiri (the Bridge of Sighs). Is it really that surprising that there are so many notable bridges in this city? This one in particular has long been considered a good place for couples to arrange to meet each other, although Bulgari has sort of ruined the mood by putting a big advertisement over it.

-Il Caffè Internazionale. This isn’t actually a must-see tourist sight, but we had lunch here, so someday when we’re rich and famous, people will want to know that we stopped here and I ate a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch.
-Fra’s university
-Gelato. I tried a flavor called stracciatella (which may or may not be vanilla and chocolate chip) with something that tasted like froyo on top (frozen yogurt, for those of you who did not go to Bear Mart with me at Wash. U. every night freshman and sophomore year).
-The newest bridge in Venice, whose name I can’t recall, but it lights up at night, so it’s pretty cool.

It was a great (and tiring) day, but it only got better when we returned home and snacked on more biscuits (you know what I mean) and a special Easter cake, translated “Dove cake,” probably because it’s shaped like a dove. For dinner, Fra and I went to a restaurant and met up with some of her university friends, who arrived on Italian time (i.e. a bit late). We chatted in English for a little while, and they were curious to know if I had a boyfriend. Seriously, that is one of the first questions that almost all of Fra’s friends asked me. Peculiar. The conversation gradually drifted into Italian, and for a while Fra continued to practice her translation skills. I ordered a great salad with a special type of thinly cut ham that apparently you can only find in Italy, so even though I don’t remember what it’s called, I’m glad I had it!

When we got back, we watched Aladdin (don’t laugh, it’s a quality movie, and for the record, American movie #2). And that was enough for one day!

The next day, we slept in late (and by “we,” I mean “I”) and began the day with our usual and oh-so-nutritious breakfast. We took the train back to Venice that afternoon, but this time, we walked to a harbor and hopped on a boat for a tour of three tiny islands around Venice. Our first stop was Murano, which is known for its exquisite glass. We watched a very cool demonstration of two men creating a glass dolphin, which was beautiful, at least until one of them dropped it. Still, considering it takes eight to twelve years to learn the craft, I’m impressed.

The next stop was Torcello, a quiet and idyllic island with not one but two ancient churches dating from the first few centuries A.D. There’s a river running through the island, and it’s the perfect place for a Sunday afternoon picnic.

The last island was Burano, which may have been my favorite. It’s known for its lace and a special type of S-shaped biscuit/cookie, but I’ll remember it for its particularly colorful houses. Unlike the pastel colors that dominate mainland houses, there were bright blues and reds and purples, in addition to pastels. Looking at the town is like looking at a rainbow.

I ate authentic Italian pizza for dinner, as well as “real” mozzarella, which you may remember me describing a few weeks ago as “some sort of a cross between eggs, bread and jello,” at least when it comes to the texture. The description stands.

The next day was Padua day. We took a modern tram into the city center and started off at the Basilica of Saint Anthony, which is, as is to be expected, an old, huge, remarkable church. It dates back to the 15th century or so, just like every other significant building here, and it took a good 25 minutes to walk through the entire building, which contains no less than three courtyards. You know what else is in it? A souvenir store and a market. Hm, maybe I’m getting my Bible stories mixed up, but didn’t Jesus cast out the vendors in the temple? Just throwing that out there…We walked by the tomb of Saint Anthony, where for a limited time only, you can queue (wait in line…whatever, I give up…) to see his skeleton. It was tempting, but we decided to skip the dead guy and make our way to a market with living people instead.

The market in the center of the city was filled with all sorts of cheap clothing and accessories, but I resisted the temptation to buy a new wardrobe. We met up with another one of Fra’s friends, who was lovely, and walked around some more. In both Venice and Padua, I saw a lot of African immigrants standing on street corners and bridges, hiding from the police and at the same time trying to sell designer bags (or at least imitation designer bags) to anyone who walks by. In Padua, right outside of the Gucci store, we passed one of these men hawking Gucci bags. Really??? In other news, I completed an entire transaction in Italian all by myself. Granted, my side of the conversation consisted entirely of “ciao” and “grazie,” but I left with postcards, and it still counts.

After lunch, we walked through a beautiful park with your run of the mill historic church, as well as stone remnants of an ancient Roman arena, just standing around begging to be sat on, which we did. We walked to the bus stop after that, and right next to it was a monument dedicated to 9/11 and a piece of the World Trade Center. Very random.

That afternoon, we watched the Sex and the City movie (American movie #3) and ate cookies. For dinner later in the evening, we went to Fra’s boyfriend’s house, where he cooked a yummy pasta dinner for us, Elisabetta and some friends. A huge group of friends arrived after dinner, and we stood around talking in a combination of English and Italian for quite a while.

The next day was Easter Sunday, and it was nothing like I expected it would be. First, I put on a dress in the morning, and those of you who know me well will recognize that this is the most dressed up I’ve been in months. Fortunately, my fashion adviser was on hand to tell me to wear jeans instead. In some ways, it feels like Easter is not as important here as it is in the States, despite its proximity to Vatican City. I went to church with Fra and her siblings, but her parents had gone to an earlier Mass by themselves, and no one other than those over 60 dressed up. Not that I’m complaining, mind you! I'll take jeans over dresses any day of the week.

My Spanish proved remotely useful (finally!) when the similar vocabulary (and some significant translations courtesy of Elisabetta) allowed me to follow along with the readings, which were printed on cards in the pews. Surprise, surprise, the rest of the Mass was pretty similar to what I’m used to, although people kneel and stand at different times, and when it comes to communion, it’s every man for himself in a mad rush to the front.

After church, we came back to the house and discovered that there had been a minor time warp, and it was now Thanksgiving. In America. Or at least that’s what I thought when I saw all the food that her parents had prepared for lunch. Course #1 was a homemade pasta dish, which it took every shred of self-restraint not to finish since there was so much more food to come. Course #2 consisted of three (yes, you read that right, THREE) meat dishes: chicken, lamb and guinea fowl, which to be honest, I hadn’t even heard of before, which explains why her dad had such difficulty translating the name...All three were good, and I was moderately impressed with my self-control that I had not devoured everything in sight and still had room for dessert.

And dessert…well, I was a goner when they brought that out. I feel like I should break this down into sub-courses because there was so much. #3a: Layered Easter cake. There was a chocolate layer, a fruit layer, a hazelnut layer...a layer for just about every flavor known to man. #3b: Strawberry tiramisu. I’m not really sure what was in this, other than pure awesomeness. Strawberries, some sort of spongy cake, liquid cheesecake...Check out the pictures below. #3c: Giant chocolate eggs. It’s apparently tradition in Italy to give people huge, hollow chocolate eggs with surprises inside, and I guess the Easter Bunny must have found me in Italy (with perhaps some help from Fra’s mother) because I received one too! After dessert courses #3a-b, we opened our eggs and munched on some chocolate (the leftovers of which lasted me until today. That's how big it was.)

Even six people couldn’t eat all of this food by ourselves, so we called in Fra’s grandparents for backup. (They might have actually arrived before the food hit the table, but it sounds cooler this way, don’t you think?) Neither of them spoke a word of English, but I discovered that if we stuck to the social script (you know the one, “hello, how are you, good thank you, how are you?”), I could have basic conversations with the grandfather, because of all the Italian phrases Fra had taught me over the past few days. She's an excellent teacher and translator! I now understand how total immersion teaches people languages.

After lunch, we watched Prime (American movie #4) with the grandparents, which would have been awkward, but we put the subtitles in English, so it was all good. When I felt like I could stand up without falling back down, we drove to a resort area near Padua and walked around for a little while, and it was great to see one last part of the city.

Her father’s relatives visited when we came back, and I smiled and nodded and pretended I understood Italian for a few hours, before we had a “light” dinner, by Italian standards. Since when is pizza, hard-boiled eggs, fruit salad and all the other food that I didn’t eat on the table considered light? And that, in a nutshell, is my trip to Italy! (I’m looking at the word count right now and aware of the irony in that statement, trust me.) It was a fantastic trip, and thanks to Fra and her family, there’s nowhere (other than perhaps Chicago) that I would rather have spent Easter!

***TAKE A BREAK NOW. IT’S TAKEN ME TWO DAYS TO WRITE THIS, I CAN ONLY IMAGINE HOW LONG IT’S TAKEN YOU TO READ IT.***

I flew back to England on Monday afternoon, returned to my dorm room, dumped out my suitcase, threw in new clothing, went back to the Brighton train station, and caught a train into London to stay with Riki and her family for a few days. For the next few days, I worked at Hat Trick Productions, a television production company, for a mini-internship, called a “work experience.” It would take more patience than both you and I have to detail exactly what I did every day, so let’s just look at the highlights:

-A five minute commute to work. Riki’s flat is extremely close to work, a fact of which all of the other employees were jealous.
-Speaking of colleagues, everyone I met was extremely friendly, helpful and happy to talk to me, no matter if their job was high up or low down on the office food chain. And I think they might have liked me a little bit too, since at the end of the week, one person told me he wished I was his niece because I was so sweet. Aw!
-Gold stars in particular to Tom, a theater student at the University of Leeds who was starting his work experience at the same time. He was really cool, and it makes it so much easier to go into a new situation if there’s someone in the same boat.
-Learning British slang. Tom and some of the younger employees had great fun trying to teach me unofficial British vocabulary. So, what did I learn? Only that “buff,” “bear,” “heads” and “jokes” don’t mean what you think they do. But that said, I’m apparently “jokes,” so that better be a good thing.
-Wearing jeans and t-shirts to work. I admit, I felt some cognitive dissonance (my psychology degree hard at work) when I lugged a suitcase full of nice pants and blouses to London specifically for the office, but who am I to say no to jeans?
-I worked on a handful of different shows, doing everything from burning DVDs, to organizing papers, to archiving tapes, to finding men in Manchester to be contestants on a dating show, to researching the Pony Express and the Mediterranean for upcoming documentaries.
-Watching tv shows was part of my work day. That was cool.
-Sitting in the studio audience for “Have I Got News For You,” a Daily Show-like program. I even understood about 75% of the British humour!
-Mr. Potato, the best jacket potato place in Camden. (Translation: the best place to get backed potatoes in that London neighborhood.) Tom and I went out for lunch every day, and all of our coworkers raved about these jacket potatoes, so we checked it out on Friday. This tiny little stand in the middle of Camden Market serves the largest potatoes I’ve ever seen with a huge variety of toppings. I ordered one with “just” cheese, but it was enough for my lunch and dinner.
-Free drinks on Friday afternoon. Hat Trick has this nice tradition of providing its employees with free beer, wine, cheese, crackers, chocolate and leftover birthday cake one Friday a month, and I happened to pick the right week to intern. It was the strangest feeling, walking around an office with a glass of wine in my hand and socializing with the other employees in that situation. But it was good to see just how friendly and informal a work environment can be.
-It goes without saying that I enjoyed spending time with Riki and Nick, despite some early wake-up calls courtesy of Iris, who gets more adorable every time I see her!

And so ends stages two and three of my spring break! Kudos to any of you who reach this point in the blog, and stay tuned for the fourth and final phase of the holiday, coming soon (just as soon as I experience it)!

Friends, Fire Alarms and Yorkie Bars: Bob and Elyse’s Continued Adventures in London

2010-03-28T22:35:00.001+01:00

…Or at least, I hoped I was going to sleep. It turns out that wherever I go, fire alarms are bound to follow. A little after 1 a.m., the entire hotel was woken up by blaring sirens. After some confusion, we joined the other guests in the lobby for a good fifteen minutes, while a fire truck arrived and the hotel staff scurried about and panicked. Finally, they figured out how to turn the alarms off, and everyone returned to their rooms, at least until the fire alarm hiccupped ten minutes later. I wish I could say that was the last time this happened, but that wouldn’t be true. Oh well. As my dad remarked, it was a great way to meet other hotel guests…

After sleeping not quite enough to make up for the disturbance, we had a complimentary continental breakfast at the hotel and set off for Westminster, where Parliament meets. We were not able to get inside since we hadn’t thought to stop by the American Embassy and request forms that would give us the ambassador’s permission to take a tour, but it was a nice try. We walked to the National Portrait Gallery after that and spent a few hours browsing portraits of famous people of all eras from the Tudors to the Beatles. (But we stopped before we got to the Twiggy exhibit.) I found the famous portrait of Jane Austen, although it was much smaller than I anticipated. The museum was a great British history refresher, and I could easily have spent another hour or two wandering around. There are just that many famous portraits there.

We returned to the hotel for the afternoon and watched Friends while eating Yorkie bars, two activities that were to be repeated so often that they characterize the entire trip for me. It was incredibly rare to find an hour where the sitcom Friends was not playing on one channel or another, and after two and a half months of barely laying eyes on a tv, I enjoyed every cheesy moment. And as for the Yorkie bars…well, they’re so good, we couldn’t justify NOT eating them. (For you poor souls who have never tasted the goodness that is a Yorkie bar, it’s a massive chocolate bar made of European chocolate, which obviously makes it superior to anything made in the States.)

We found a cute little Italian restaurant for dinner with a surprisingly friendly waiter. (I’m generalizing, but I’ve found Londoners are not quite as warm and helpful as Brightoners…or is it Brightonites?) Our last stop of the evening was quite possibly the best: the musical Billy Elliot at the Victoria Palace Theatre. “Wow” is the only word in the English language to describe the show, and it doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s a heartwarming story to begin with, and the entire show was very well-produced. The acting was wonderful, especially from young Billy, who carried the show despite how demanding the role is (he was in almost every scene). Yes, the accents were difficult to understand, I didn’t get some of the British pop culture references, and I didn’t leave the theater humming any of the songs. BUT, the dancing was incredible, and every number was well-choreographed. I don’t like ballet, but even I appreciated the beautiful dance featuring both young and old Elliot. I heartily recommend it. After another Yorkie and more Friends, we called it a night, and fortunately we were not disturbed by any more fire alarms.

We started off Saturday with a great breakfast at a nice French place (we were actually in England, not another European country, despite our culinary decisions) with Riki and Iris, who, I should add, was very well-behaved and succeeded in charming not only my dad but also the woman at the table next to us. Afterward, my dad and I managed to navigate our way to Paddington Station and took a train to Oxford, where we hopped on a double-decker bus to Blenheim Palace, next to the tiny village of Woodstock.

Blenheim Palace (pronounced BLEN-em, not Blen-HEIM) is perhaps not as grand as Windsor, but if I can’t reach a satisfactory agreement with the Queen, I will certainly ask the 11th Duke of Marlborough if I can move in, as it has been his family’s home since the early 18th century, when his ancestor, John Churchill, was rewarded for winning the Battle of Blenheim. A title, an estate and money to build a house, all for one military victory? Where do I sign up?

We took an interesting tour of the first floor, led by a woman who seemed to forget that she wasn’t in a classroom (“And one more time, when did the battle of Blenheim occur? August 13th 1704!”) Still, she knew interesting facts, although she refused to comment on what “wicked” things the 5th and 6th Dukes did. It is now my mission in life to discover why their papers had to be burned after they died… The rooms were ornate and beautifully decorated, as I’ve come to expect palaces to be. Before we got to the upper floors, we passed by two replicas of the palace, one built entirely of matchsticks and the other was a cake (from the 1950s). Someone had too much time on their hands.

Finances must be tight, because our tour guide for the second floor was not a person but an animated ghost. Literally, she was a screen on the wall, but she talked and walked (admittedly two dimensionally) just like a real person. Coincidentally, the doors to the next room always opened just after she finished speaking. She told more little tidbits and stories about previous residents that made the place come alive, so I forgave her for not existing. We took a brief break for tea and a scone, as well as a Diet Coke for my dad, obviously. He discovered that like chocolate, Diet Pepsi in England tastes different from Diet Pepsi back home. Unfortunately, unlike chocolate, he deemed English Pepsi inferior to American Pepsi, so he had to stick to Diet Coke. Life is tough when you visit your daughter in England…

Like I wrote last week, my dad must be among the luckiest people on the face of the Earth, because the day we visited Blenheim, the Duke and Duchess were out, so we were able to tour their “private” apartments. I put private in quotation marks because they’re not REALLY private. They were as polished, ornate, impersonal and cold as the rest of the house. I (kind of) joke about wanting to live in a palace, but in all honestly, I don’t know how anyone could feel comfortable living there. It’s like a museum, and the rooms don’t feel lived in at all. Besides, it must be awfully hard to feel like you have any privacy when your ancestors’ portraits are staring at you no matter what room you’re in.

We poked around the grounds a little bit after our final tour, but it was cold and raining, so I’ll just have to come back someday to see the gardens, which my dad remembers as being beautiful from when he visited 34 years ago. We walked around Oxford for a little bit, and then hopped a train back to London.

After a long and futile search for a Chinese restaurant, we settled for dinner at Henry’s Restaurant and Bar. Real creative name, but at least it’s English. Since my dad makes friends everywhere he goes (because he’s desperately seeking attention, but that’s another story…) we became quite close with our waiter after he recommended the vanilla cheesecake. In case anyone is interested, he is thinking of going to university to study either theology or geology. He is actually only considering one of those options, but we weren’t sure which one, since we each heard a different word. Oh British accents…

Sunday surprised us by being kind of warm and sunny, so we walked to the British Museum, home of the most stolen ancient artifacts in the world. Not that I’m complaining. The collections were very impressive, and we particularly enjoyed the section about clocks. Who knew time could be so interesting? We meandered back to the hotel in the afternoon, spent some quality time with Friends and Yorkie bars, and then rode the London Eye. Chicago has London beat in terms of a picturesque skyline, but as much as it makes me feel like a traitor, I have to admit that the London Eye is cooler than the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. The capsules we rode in vaguely reminded me of a spaceship. :) That night, we finally found Chinatown and ate at a delicious Chinese food buffet before calling it a night.

On Monday, we had a leisurely morning and started out the afternoon with a long walk to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the second largest cathedral in the world, right behind St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. The huge architecture and the tiny artistic details are incredibly impressive, right from the Crypt in the basement to the top of the dome, which we got to see more of when we climbed up 257 steps to a higher level. We had a lot of fun exploring the Cathedral, but we wanted to try to get into Parliament, so we took a taxi back to Westminster, only to discover that there was a two-and-a-half hour wait. Oh well, it was another nice try and clearly not meant to be.

We stopped for more caffeine in the form of tea and Diet Coke (guess who drank what), and after some Friends, er, rest, at the hotel, we set off for Leicester Square and ate tropical pizza and the best burger I’ve had in ages at Garfunkel’s, which was recommended to us by another one of my dad’s new London friends. We then walked across the street to the Gielgud Theatre to see the musical Avenue Q. It can’t quite rival Billy Elliot, but I really enjoyed Avenue Q as well. It was very funny, and although I was skeptical about the puppets, the actors used them very effectively. I’m so glad I had the chance to see some of the best of West End Theatre, and maybe I’ll be lucky and manage to see another show or two before go home.

Tuesday, my dad and I said goodbye, and I returned to Brighton, which after a weekend in London with my dad, was a rather rude awakening. The observant readers among you might remember that I was supposed to leave for the Netherlands on Wednesday and return on Sunday. However, a British Airways cabin crew strike, combined with a really sick Elyse, resulted in a canceled trip. I was able to get a full refund because of the strike, so I’ll hopefully reschedule my trip for sometime in May.

Despite how empty the campus feels, I’ve been keeping myself busy. I had dinner and lunch with my friend Tina and some of her friends, I’ve been working on my two huge essays, the due dates for which are a lot sooner than I realized, and I’ve been hanging out with my neighbor, his girlfriend and his friends, watching movies and singing karaoke. (I’m still terrible at it, but it’s more fun than I gave it credit for, especially singing the cheesy ‘90s songs I remember and love from my childhood.)

Last night, I had another one of those precious American abroad moments. I was once again hanging out with my neighbor and company, and one of his friends was an international student. She instantly knew where I was from, but when I asked her where she was from, she just said Europe, insisting that I’d never heard of her tiny country. After a little prodding, she told me she was from Lithuania. Of course I’ve heard of Lithuania! Who hasn’t heard of Lithuania??? Granted, it’s not the most famous country in the world, but still, I’ve heard of it, give me some credit! However, after some of our later conversations, I see where her skepticism comes from.

I met a guy from Essex who shed more light on the British educational system. He said that every program at every department in the country costs exactly the same thing, three thousand-some odd pounds. All of us American, college-attending students should be very jealous.

A few hours later, I was chatting with the two Lithuanian girls, and one asked, in a matter-of-fact manner and completely without malice, “Is it true that Americans are fat and dumb?” Um…How exactly is one supposed to answer that question? There wasn’t too much I could say about the being fat part, but I tried to explain that stupid people exist everywhere, and this is one department that America (I hope) does not have a monopoly on. The other girl chimed in at that point and asked if high school cliques were as mean as they were on tv (interestingly enough, I had this same conversation with an English guy a few weeks ago). After I tried to expound upon the differences between fiction and reality, she specifically wanted to know if people got their heads flushed in toilets. A discussion about bullying, Columbine and gun violence ensued. It’s not exactly a newsflash, but the U.S. seriously needs to hire an image consultant (or two, or three, or a thousand). That, or produce less trashy television that ends up all over the world. Just an idea…

...And she's off (on spring holiday)!

2010-03-18T23:27:00.000Z

Spring break has arrived, but before I break out the champagne, a recap of the last few days is in order. I’ve adored my Politics of Australia and New Zealand class for some time now, especially the weeks we focus on New Zealand, although it’s hardly because of its fascinating political system (insert sarcasm here). The lecturer is so animated and engaging, and his frequent and entertaining tangents don’t hurt. He always compares the New Zealand system to the British system, and then he looks straight at me and makes a comparison to the American system or asks me a question about the political situation there, which I admit is helpful and makes me feel like an expert. I only wish I could be more confident that the information I give to the class is as accurate as the lecturer thinks it is...I’m so much more comfortable being an American over here now than I was a few weeks ago, so instead of feeling like I have a big American flag levitating above my head every class, I find these teaching moments helpful and considerate instead.

Anyway, long story short, I love this class, partly because the lecturer tries to keep it interesting with plenty of discussion and Youtube clips, and on Monday, he outdid himself. He found a long clip of the New Zealand prime minister giving one of Dave Letterman’s signature top ten lists on his show. In addition to being a welcome reminder of home, the clip was hilarious. It was a little less hilarious afterwards, when the lecturer asked me to estimate for the class how many people watch Letterman every night. The really funny part happened next: the lecturer asked the class whether it was a good or bad political move for the prime minister to appear on the show, and one British student answered that it was a bad idea because the content made fun of New Zealand and perpetuated stereotypes. And then: “…and Americans are ignorant so they’ll believe it.” Perhaps the class’ roaring laughter reminded him that there was, in fact, an American in the room, because he looked at me, and as his face turned red, said “no offense!” The Chinese student sitting next to me generously offered to loan me a pencil to throw at him, but I think the class’ ridicule was enough. Good times.

That evening was less funny, as it was Francesca’s Last Supper (in Brighton), since she is not returning for summer term. My friends wanted to surprise her and have a full meal ready, so she was given strict instructions to only purchase salad at the grocery store. But they should have known better. Francesca is generous to a fault, and not being aware of the other arrangements, she and Giulia G. went to Sainsbury’s, and despite Giulia’s best efforts, she was unable to dissuade Francesca from buying not one, not two, but three desserts, along with an excess of salad ingredients. But it gets better. At the very same time, at the very same store, Giulia D. and her friend Giulia M. (it’s obviously a popular name in Italy) were shopping for Francesca’s surprise dinner. Fortunately, Giulia D. spotted Francesca first, so she called Giulia G. and told her to keep Francesca distracted while she hid in the cleaning supplies aisle with her scarf over her head. They should seriously sell the rights to their lives to a television company and produce a sitcom.

The dinner itself was lovely. My friends made delicious risotto, and Tina baked Francesca a Hello Kitty lemon cake (it was also scrumptious, for the record). There were ten or so people there, so Francesca’s extra desserts didn’t go to waste. The goodbye itself at the end of the evening was sad and protracted, and ultimately a bit pointless, since we did it all over again after breakfast with Francesca the next morning. Shakespeare didn’t know what he was talking about; there’s nothing sweet about parting.

Fortunately, I was too busy this week to mope for too long. On Tuesday evening, I went to the PhotoSoc social at a pub in Brighton, which was a lot of fun. Everyone in the group is really nice, and I’m enjoying getting to know some new people. And then last night, when I should have been packing/studying/applying for internships/doing something to make me feel better about doing nothing tangibly productive for the next four weeks, my next door neighbor invited me to hang out with him and his friends, and I am proud to say that I tried karaoke for the first time. I was absolutely dreadful, but it was super fun nevertheless, and considering the loud speakers he has (a huge understatement), it was a good thing I was having fun on that side of our shared wall, and not trying to sleep.

And then, today finally arrived. As soon as I finished packing and running errands this morning, I hopped on the first train to London (thank you striking teachers) and met my dad at the hotel, which is in a lovely part of central London. If you’re reading this, chances are you know me, so I don’t need to describe how happy I was to see him again. To make the day even better, not only did I not get lost once on my way there (was that a flying pig I just saw?), but my dad didn’t either, despite walking thirty minutes from Paddington Station. If we don’t deserve a round of applause, I don’t know who does! (Round of applause)

We rested for a little bit and then decided we’d hike to the London Eye since it was uncharacteristically sunny. However, we stepped outside and realized that the weather had turned when we weren’t looking, so we walked around instead. Because my dad has the best luck of anyone I’ve ever met, we happened to stumble upon Westminster Abbey just as Evensong was starting. The only way to get into Westminster Abbey without paying is to go to a service, and since the stars were aligned, we decided to check it out. Yes, for those of you who have just now recovered from fainting, you didn’t misread that. My dad actually suggested that we go to church. And we did. (Was that another flying pig? They seem to be everywhere today.)

A series of ushers gave us chilly stares as they escorted us into the building, although whether it was because of our sloppy attire or our tardy entrance (only fifteen minutes late!), I couldn’t say. The last usher was the creepiest of them all. He was dressed in a long red robe, and his face was completely expressionless. When he saw us from across the room, he held up his hand, and gestured with one index finger for us to come closer. If he had done that anywhere else on the face of the Earth, I would have run in the opposite direction screaming. He escorted us to seats in the back and closed the gate behind us. We were literally trapped.

It was a nice service, and I’m so glad I was able to see the building, especially the chapel, which is normally closed to the public. It’s really beautiful, and I’m amazed that human beings, especially those living hundreds of years ago, could construct something so huge and magnificent. We poked around the main part afterwards, and it’s literally a who’s who of the deceased.

We walked around the neighborhood for a little while, and after a quick stop back at the hotel, we had Hawaiian pizza at a nearby restaurant. Some things never change, even on another continent…This evening, we watched American sitcoms on a real television, and I was stunned when the shows didn’t have to stop and buffer in the middle of the best part. Now, my dad is sound asleep and snoring, and it’s making me tired, so I’m off to sleep too. Stay tuned for the next episode of Bob and Elyse’s Adventures in London!

Photography, Cinemas and Pubs! Oh My!

2010-03-15T00:53:00.002Z

I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping in on Wednesdays since I don’t have class (it’s like a mini weekend in the middle of the week), but for a day in London, I suppose it was worth waking up early for! I met other members of the Photography Society (fondly known as PhotoSoc) at Brighton Station a bit after 10 a.m., and we set out on the train for a day choke-full of photography sightseeing. Although it wasn’t supposed to be our first stop, we started at the National Gallery, where we saw more pictures of Twiggy than I ever needed to see. Twiggy on magazine covers, Twiggy in a parade, Twiggy pretending to cook, Twiggy crouching in a corner…Still, it was an interesting little exhibit and kind of cool to see how Twiggy’s hair styles have changed over the decades. And I definitely need to get back to the museum at some point, because there is so much more to see there than supermodels.

Next on our list was the Getty Images Gallery, which we did eventually find, despite the handicap of my presence (although I didn’t go anywhere near the maps, I swear!). Their current exhibit featured portraits of 20th century Hollywood actors and actresses. It was all very glamorous, and I think I want to be a 1950s movie star when I grow up. Some of the portraits were really well done, and it was one of my favorite stops.

We had a quick and very familiar lunch at McDonalds before moving onto another gallery that we just happened to stumble upon. There were some really creepy photographs of people with grotesque make up, and a rather absurd one of a television in wheelbarrow, but the best exhibit was pictures of an artist’s scrapbook about The Troubles in Northern Ireland. He juxtaposed newspaper clipping about violence and depressing photographs of jails with pictures of birthday parties, advertisements and things that make you think of normality. Very interesting, minus the freshman year flashbacks. (Remember, I studied Irish literature and culture all year? And then I went to Ireland over spring break? Talk about history repeating itself...)

Everyone was pretty tired by that point, but we trudged on and a few Tube stops and a long walk later, we found ourselves at the National Geographic gallery. This was my other favorite spot. During the 19th century, a woman named Isabella Bird traveled all over the world and took some primitive photographs along the way. This exhibit traced her journey and supplemented her pictures with modern photographs of the places she went as well as excerpts from her books and maps. It was very well put together and made me even happier that my own travels are just around the corner.

After that, I returned to Brighton with a few others. It was a great afternoon, and I know I wouldn’t have gotten to these galleries if I hadn’t gone with PhotoSoc, so I’m so glad I had the chance. I came back to my dorm, had time for one deep breath and then went back into town with my friends to see Alice in Wonderland. I was really torn about whether or not I wanted to see this movie. On the one hand, the animated Disney version seriously creeped me out as a child. We’re talking repeated nightmares starring the Mad Hatter and a disappearing cat. It sounds more like a bad acid trip than a children’s movie, and Tim Burton is not exactly known for his conventional storytelling abilities. On the other hand, Johnny Depp. Need I say more? Naturally, Johnny Depp (and maybe the chance to spend time with friends and avoid studying) won out.

However, my adventures in the wonderland that is British cinema began even before the movie started. I cannot emphasize enough how different and (I feel like such a snob as I write this but I will anyway) inferior the movie-going experience is here compared to back home. Cinemas (movie theaters—thank you to Fran for kindly pointing that out to me!) are open far fewer hours and consequently each movie has fewer showings per day. There may be one during the afternoon, but the rest are in the evening. So, everyone queues (lines up) long before shows start (or, if they’re smart, they buy their tickets online, which is much more common here). This was my first clue that the British have an amazing talent for queuing at absolutely everything that could possibly require queuing, although I should note that I discovered this habit a few weeks ago after unsuccessfully trying to see Avatar. We arrived at the cinema more than an hour before the showing we wanted to go to, only to find out that it was already sold out. (Do keep in mind that it was a Wednesday night, and it was definitely not the movie’s premier.) We were lucky to get tickets to the showing an hour after that, which ended up working out just fine since it gave us more time to eat at a restaurant nearby.

We returned to the cinema about fifteen minutes before the movie at 9 p.m. If this was America, that would have been perfect timing. We’d have waltzed into the theater (theater, not theatre, and not cinema), found good seats, maybe bought popcorn with tons of butter, put our feet up and made fun of the stupid trivia questions on the screen before the movie started. But this is England, so instead, we waltzed into the lobby past the ticket counter and found an already long queue of people waiting to enter the cinema. Ten minutes later, the queue finally began to advance, but by the time we made it in, we couldn’t find seats together and had to split up (To be fair, there were twelve of us). And if you thought there were too many previews before American movies, I challenge you to see a movie here. There were fifteen minutes of commercials alone before the standard fifteen minutes of previews. It’s a good thing I don’t mind the previews.

Still, it was all worth it. Alice in Wonderland far surpassed my expectations, although admittedly that was not too difficult to do. The acting was superb, and most of the actors really fleshed out the familiar 2D children’s characters and turned them into compelling, deep and interesting people. At the beginning, Alice in particular struck me as an airhead who was unable to function in even an imagined reality, but by the end when she—oh, I probably shouldn’t say in case you haven’t seen it yet—anyway, she was almost competent! And of course Johnny Depp did great things with the Mad Hatter, and I didn’t have any more nightmares. Bravo. The story was far more interesting than the animated version, perhaps because despite the movie’s name, it’s really based on Lewis Carroll’s sequel, Through the Looking-Glass. Speaking of animation, perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to say that this version wasn’t animated. The blend between live action and computer animation was another unique feature. There were instances when I really couldn’t tell if something was animated or not. It made me uneasy and a little bit nostalgic for good old ‘90s Disney, but it was well done nonetheless.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, I probably attended my last Psychology of Self and Identity seminar on Thursday. (Yay!) At the end of class, the teacher announced that the lecturers’ union had voted to go on strike next Thursday in protest of the cuts, which I have written about before. He said that the university wouldn’t listen to them and refused to go to arbitration, which is the course of action he would prefer, but the union had voted, and he said he would support them. Do university professors in the U.S. even have unions?

On a similar note, there were riot police on campus last week when students decided to occupy another building in protest of the cuts (I can see why some students are more than a bit jaded by this point). Only this time, they may or may not have advertently or inadvertently prevented staff members from leaving the site, which the administration believed boiled down to a hostage situation. So, large numbers of police, clubs and dogs arrived and prevented anyone from getting in or out of the building until the middle of the night. Police surrounded the building with their dogs and their big riot shields, while singing, dancing and musical instrument-playing students surrounded them. It was a sight straight out of the ‘60s. And I thought an afternoon in Regency Bath was the only time travel I would be doing…In the end, six students were suspended indefinitely, and since then there have been demonstrations almost every day to “reinstate the Sussex Six.” Also, students have lost the ability (privilege? right? moral imperative?) to occupy buildings for the purpose of protesting. Not that this minor technicality has prevented them from occupying the building where I normally have class on Monday morning. You can read a rather biased account of the incident at the student newspaper: The Badger.

Anyway, back to the present. On Friday, we had a celebration for Francesca, who returns to Italy on Tuesday and will not be returning for summer term. Not that that’s a reason to celebrate, but in Brighton, you’d be hard pressed to find a situation that would not merit a night out. We started out wandering the seafront looking for a pub she liked back in October, but we discovered it was closed, so we found The Fish Bowl instead. More people showed up, and I met even more Italians. Seriously, I doubt there are any Italians in a 20-mile radius who I have not yet met this term! I also received my first “Al Capone” reaction when I told someone I was from Chicago. I was told to expect this response before I left, but no one had verbalized the connection until Friday. Another touching American abroad moment. After enjoying our long-sought after table for an appropriate amount of time (it turns out pubs are a wee bit crowded on Friday nights), we moved across the street to the Piano and the Pitcher (don’t you love English pub names? I do.) A few tequila shots later, the lights turned on and the pub closed, so we wandered around looking for apple pie, but there was no apple pie to be found at 2 a.m. Shocker. It was at this point in the evening that I decided to call it a night (morning?) and headed back to campus.

Walking back from the gym on Saturday (not that I’m bragging, but considering what time I got home on Friday night, er, Saturday morning, you would be impressed too!), I observed a seagull (which are as common here as squirrels are at Wash. U.) dive from the air, viciously attack a student, grab a sandwich out of his hand and fly away. I was warned about this risk during Orientation, but I didn’t believe it actually happened. Moral of the story: never carry food outside. Seagulls are far more vicious and assertive than squirrels.

I think it’s about time for a moment of reflection about Brighton, don’t you? I’m very slowly becoming more comfortable in the city. The panicky moments when I see the city flying by out of the bus window and have no idea where I’m going are slowly being replaced by the moments where I step off the bus, look around and instantly know where I am and what direction I have to go in. It’s not Chicago, and I would be (and am already a little) bored if I was here after June. I’ll never know the city like a local and I doubt it will ever be home, but at the very least, I’m on my way to being a well-informed, long-term visitor.

On another semi-related topic, I’m amazed at how safe I feel here in Brighton. The city has a low crime rate to begin with, and I’ve seen a lot of police around, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. I have yet to step foot in a neighborhood that makes me uncomfortable. At night when I’m on my way home, there are always people around; it might as well be the city that never sleeps. And even when the streets are deserted, well, there’s no one around, so why would I feel threatened? One big difference in the UK is that no one is allowed to own guns. You can argue about inalienable rights until you’re blue in the face, and I know that my experience with guns is different than others’, but I feel safer walking alone here in the middle of the night than I do at noon in Chicago or St. Louis, though not just because of the no guns thing. (But I’m always very careful, and aware, and cautious, and not taking any risks whatsoever, for the concerned relatives who I know are reading this!)

After a fun Friday night and close encounters with seagulls on Saturday, the rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful. I went to a student magazine benefit at a pub earlier this evening with PhotoSoc, and it was a lot of fun. There was an open mic, with some good music performances and poetry readings, as well as tempting baked goods. I was also advised to hug a chicken at the earliest available opportunity, because apparently it’s a worthwhile experience. The evening reinforced for me how big hipster culture is with young people here. In Brighton anyway, being edgy is mainstream, and there are certainly no sports jerseys or polo shirts to be seen! My perceptions may be slightly distorted because I’m at Sussex, so I will look forward to comparing notes with fellow UK study abroad participants. In the meantime, I should probably go think about doing some studying in preparation for spring holiday, which begins Tuesday or Thursday, depending on whether or not my lecturers decide to strike…

The Spring Lineup

2010-03-10T09:01:00.005Z

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? The results are in, and in this envelope (pretend I have an envelope), I have the winning locations for my Easter holiday. And the tickets go to:

-London and various day trips to other parts of England with Dad, March 12-23
-Padova and likely day trips to Venice and Milan with Francesca, March 31-April 5
-London with Riki, April 5-10
-Berlin with Tina, April 12-15

(Applause)

Perhaps I miss the Oscars just a little too much…In any case, it’s going to be an exciting and exhausting vacation. Everything has settled into a routine here, so I am looking forward to shaking things up. Some people try a new restaurant or go to the spa when they need something new, but not me, I apparently have to take four trips in four weeks. Thanks goodness for budget airlines. Let the countdown begin!

Quests

2010-03-05T20:12:00.000Z

I guess I must be settling into life here when I have nothing new to write for more than a week. Nothing very blog-worthy has happened, although I watched Mary Poppins for the first time in many years on Tuesday night with my friends. That’s exciting, right??? No? Fine, let’s move on.

On Wednesday, I went to Rottingdean, a tiny town about 15 minutes west of Brighton with the Photography Society. Or more precisely, the two members who showed up. There was supposed to be another person there as well, but he couldn’t make it since he was occupying a building on campus to protest budget cuts, and police wouldn’t let him leave. I’ll admit, that’s as good an excuse as any.

Apparently, the Netherlands isn’t the only place to find windmills on this continent because our mission for the day was to locate and photograph a famous and slightly confused historic windmill, a.k.a Smock Mill, a.k.a. New Mill, a.k.a. Beacon Mill. Make up your mind already, please! The sun was shining, and I couldn’t see my breath, so I think we picked a good day to go. The bus was late, but when it finally arrived, we sat on the top deck and had a lovely scenic drive through the countryside. We took the bus to the end of the line and then walked up a hill, right next to the oceanfront. Imagine my surprise, after huffing and puffing my way to the top of the hill, when I discovered this:

Yes loyal readers, that is indeed a golf course. This supposedly historical treasure, built in 1802, and painstakingly resorted some time after that, was surrounded by a golf course. At least I know my dad will visit me now…Still, I managed to have fun taking photographs, even while keeping an eye out for flying golf balls. The windmill was apparently not always as peaceful as it is today. Back when it was first built, builders found a skeleton at the site, and it was something of a local pastime to try to set the poor windmill on fire for a few decades, apparently. Still, it survived and was finally rewarded by being on the outskirts of a golf course. Isn’t that what every windmill aspires to?

We walked along the cliffs for a while after that and then went back into town. Rottingdean is a really cute village, and even though all the cute English villages I’ve visited are starting to blur together in my memory, I never get sick of them. Rudyard Kipling happened to live in this particular village for a while, so we walked around his gardens, which could benefit from some flowers. I know it’s a novel idea for a garden, but something to think about anyway.

After walking by a disproportionate number of banks, we naturally had tea. (Okay, I admit, I relapsed and drank hot chocolate. Old habits die hard.) This particular place claimed to date from 1589, but I’m a little skeptical…After that, we took the bus back into Brighton and called it a day. And what a day it was! Windmills, golf, hot chocolate and sunshine; what more could you ask for?

Something about the streak of sunshine we’ve had here brings out the tourist in me, so on Thursday afternoon, a friend from my WWI class and I explored Brighton in search of a legacy of the war. We’re supposed to take a picture of this elusive something or other and bring it to our next seminar. I’m not sure we found the perfect picture, but it was nice to walk around the pier, which I had not yet explored. Brighton really is a pretty town, and I hope I’ll appreciate it more as soon as the weather turns a little warmer.

That night, I went to my German friend Tina’s for dinner, and she made delicious scalloped potatoes for everyone. We all went out to The White Rabbit (don’t you love British pub names?) for a drink after, and it was a good end to the week!

A Trip through Time

2010-02-26T01:03:00.000Z

It worked! It turns out the secret to controlling weather is to ask blog readers to cross their fingers for a sunny day; I bet farmers wished they’d discovered that years ago, huh? Normally, I have a few choice words for English weather, but on Sunday, I couldn’t complain. Aside from some showers while I was on the bus, it was as bright a day as can be, and I didn’t even have to worry about frostbite.

The morning began early, with a 7:30 a.m. departure from Sussex, along with the rest of the exchange students. I had a window seat, an ipod and a book to read, so naturally I fell asleep straightaway. Three hours later, I noticed a big bunch of stones on my left cleverly deduced that we were at Stonehenge. I was issued an audio guide and free to wander around. Whoever runs the site didn’t trust me as much as they do archeologists or Wiccans, so I couldn’t get too close, but I was no more than a stone’s throw away. Haha, “stone’s throw away,” get it? (Crickets chirping.)

Moving right along, there are many things in life that photography cannot accurately portray, but Stonehenge is not one of them. It looks exactly like it does on millions of photographs and postcards, although it has more sheep. I acknowledge the great feat that its builders accomplished when they lugged the huge stones from Ireland to southern England thousands of years ago, but although I feel like a bad person as I write this, I’m going to say it anyway: The site and the stones were not as big as I thought they would be. Still, Stonehenge is one of those quintessential English tourist spots that I have to see before I leave, and I was duly impressed by the sense of prehistoric history, so I’m glad to check it off my list.

After that, I was back on the road for another hour. The beautiful English countryside made an interesting contrast to the Anchorman DVD playing inside the bus, but it was sort of nice to have a little cultural taste of home. (Is it really sad that I just called Anchorman a taste of American culture? Don’t answer that.)

Finally, we arrived in Bath, and I felt like I had just stepped (er, been driven) 200 years into the past. (That, or walked into a period piece movie. Either option is acceptable.) The Georgian (Neoclassical) style was everywhere, and it conjured up all those silly, romanticized images I have about the turn of the 19th century. I had Mr. Darcys and Scarlet Pimpernels running through my head all day. I was figuratively transported even further back in time when we toured the Roman baths. For people who didn’t have trucks and cranes and, you know, modern construction equipment, they are really impressive. Despite a quick stop in the gift shop, it took a full two hours to walk through the multiple levels, and I was impressed at how each room’s design took into account every little detail.

After a quick lunch at a little bakery stand, I struck out on my own to explore the town. I only had time for one tourist attraction before the bus left at 5, and is anyone really surprised to hear that I chose the Jane Austen Centre? As expected, I walked right past it on my first (and second) attempt to find it, but I didn’t mind. Instead, I wandered into a part of town I otherwise would not have had the chance to see. I strolled through a (dead) Georgian garden (although I’d bet it’s worth a visit in the spring) and saw the Royal Crescent and the Circus, the fashionable neighborhood for the rich and famous 200 years ago. I looked all over, but alas, there were no open ballrooms to pop into.

After a little bit of backtracking, I found the Jane Austen Centre, and I don’t know how I could have missed it the first time around. A gentleman in full Regency dress was stationed by the entrance, and as he opened the door and tipped his hat to me, he said in a charming British accent, “Good day, madam.” Let the swooning begin. He let me take his photo, and I only wish there had been someone else there with me so I could have taken a picture with him. But all is not lost since I’ve decided we’re getting married in June, and there will be plenty of time for pictures then. Just as soon as I learn his name…

After poking around the gift shop and seeing every Jane Austen-related book in existence (including Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which I suppose is now a sanctioned part of the Jane Austen canon), I bought my ticket and attended a fifteen-minute talk about Jane’s life in Bath. It was slightly depressing (turns out she wasn’t much of a city girl) but interesting nonetheless. I saw the main exhibit after that, which was primarily about life in Bath in the early 1800s, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. After tearfully bidding farewell to my future husband, I wandered back to the city centre for a cup of tea before getting back on the bus to 2010. It was a very full day, but I feel like I didn’t even scrape the surface of Bath, so I hope to go back there someday.

On Tuesday, I had another one of those fun and stereotypical American-abroad conversations. I ran into a classmate at a campus café, and we interrogated each other for an hour about British and American culture, politics, stereotypes, lifestyles, attitudes, and dental hygiene. (Not really. I’m just checking to see if you’re still reading!) He had some surprising things to say. For instance, I knew that Obama was popular all over the world during election season, but from his description of election night in 2008, he might as well have been in America. Lots of students here at Sussex had viewing parties and stayed up until the middle of the night to watch the results come in live. And I thought I went to bed late on election night…

On Wednesday, the painter came by to put the last coat of paint on my window and (hopefully) on my mold problem. As he left, he said “cheerio,” which is the first time I’ve heard a British person actually saw something stereotypically British. It made this entire experience worth it. Incidentally, the lecturer at the Jane Austen Centre claimed that the term originated in Bath in the 18th century when the rich would call for their sedan chairs (“chair ho!” or something like that). I’m not convinced…Anway, as if that wasn’t enough happiness for one day, after dinner, my friends and I watched Beauty and the Beast, and I just might have enjoyed it more this time around than I ever did years ago. I’m pleased to report that I could still sing along to every song. I clearly did not know what I was talking about when I received the VHS for Christmas a very long time ago and cried “but I didn’t want this!” (I’m still sorry, Aunt Patty! I promise I love it now!)

Finally, I had an essay proposal due for my WWI research paper today. Imagine my surprise when I discovered (a few weeks ago, not today. My study habits haven’t gotten THAT bad.) that I don’t turn my work into my tutor, the one who will be marking (grading) it, but to the history school office, which will do something with it and forward it to him in a week. And I have to fill out a cover sheet, and print two copies, and God help me if it’s even a sentence over 500 words…Everything academic here is very standardized, very centralized and very bureaucratic. It seems just a little ridiculous to me, and it’s no wonder British transcripts take so long to get back to American universities.

That’s all for now, folks! Good night!

Culture Shock

2010-02-20T23:57:00.001Z

It was my understanding that a semester in England would expose me to British culture and enlighten me as to the inner workings of British society; silly, silly me. Obviously, I should have known that actually, it’s Italian culture that one travels to England to experience. And what an experience it is. I have previously extolled the virtues of having lovely friends, who happen to be mostly (but not all) Italian and are willing to let me eat their delicious food. This week, I learned that Italian friends are great, but Italian friends’ families are even better.

Last weekend, Martina’s mother, sister and aunt visited, and I was told that when Martina opened a large suitcase they had brought, instead of clothing, toiletries, and all the other things people typically pack for international trips, it was full of fresh food for her (and by extension, us). That was my first clue that food is kind of important in Italian culture, particularly in the south. On Tuesday night, they came to the dorm where Francesca and I live, carrying bags of food and cooking utensils, and spent the next two hours cooking a wonderful meal for Martina and friends, a total of nine people. That is love, and parents, I hope you’re taking notes (but you don’t actually have to cook for me. Just send peanut butter, jelly, Chicago-style pizza, and apple pie. And maybe some ice cream while you’re at it. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find here.) We ate fresh pasta (I seriously did not know such a thing existed) with mushrooms and sausages, and then cheese, which apparently is a dinner course in and of itself. Her family brought homemade mozzarella and another type of cheese, which I can neither prnounce nor remember. I previously believed the only type of mozzarella cheese was the kind that was shredded and found next to the Velveeta in the grocery store. This mozzarella might as well have been from a different planet. The texture was some sort of a cross between eggs, bread and jello, and although it goes without saying that it was very good, it was among the oddest looking foods I’d ever seen.

In addition to studying the cheese, I was also really interested to see how everyone interacted at the dinner table. (And considering most of the conversation was in Italian since not all of Martina’s family spoke English, I had plenty of time to observe.) Although her family had just arrived a few days earlier and probably hadn’t spent more than a few hours getting to know her friends, you wouldn’t know that we all weren’t one big family. As far as I could tell, there were no awkward silences, no formalities, not even the “getting-to-know-you” questions that normally characterize dinners where my family and friends meet. There was just conversation, laughter, and most surprisingly of all, even a fair amount of light teasing. The Olive Garden commercials (“When you’re here, you’re family”) suddenly make so much more sense…At the end of the meal, I took my friends aside and learned my first Italian phrase (I’m as smart as an Italian toddler, yay!). At the right moment, I attempted to say “grazie, era delizioso” (thank you, it was delicious). I have no idea if I said it right, but I’m going to assume that I didn’t offend anyone, because everyone clapped and made a fuss over me. :)

Even though the largest slice of culture I’m absorbed into here is Italian, I at least have a front row seat to British culture, from the outside looking in. Back in November, I was put on the Student Union mailing list, and I started getting outraged messages about the university cutting staff and lecturers to save money. Many students were clearly upset, and it was an issue people were talking about. I understand students do, from time to time, latch onto an issue, write editorials for the newspaper, start Facebook groups and then, after a few days or weeks, they forget about it and move onto something else. At least, that’s the American pattern; British students, apparently, have better long-term memories. Last week, (mind you, a few months after this uproar began), some students organized a protest (not the first that I’ve seen since I’ve been here) and marched from the library to a campus building, where 70 of them literally occupied the building overnight, forcing security to evacuate and seal off the building. All of this over measures that students are barely batting an eyelash to in the U.S. A few years ago, there was a similar situation at Wash. U., but since I’ve been there, I haven’t seen anything like this. I admire their dedication, and I’m surprised they have the organization and passion to pull something like this off; I’m even more shocked that the university administration allows it.

It’s hard to say how many students on campus support the activists, because they are so vocal. One of my classmates and her friends seem to think that most of the activists are overly-privileged students with too much time on their hands, and if they really wanted to improve education at Sussex, they would stop taking over classrooms and forcing lecturers to cancel class. Incidentally, that’s one of the few occasions I’ve heard anyone in either country upset about class being canceled. If you’re interested, check out an account of recent events: The Badger.

As if Sussex students didn’t have enough campaigning to do, Student Union officer elections were held last week; the level of dedication these candidates have for the process is completely befuddling to this Wash. U. student. We had particularly cold and damp weather that week, but it didn’t deter the candidates and their supporters from standing around Library Square, handing out flyers and educating anyone who made eye contact about their platform. (Yes, they had supporters and platforms. It's like they actually care about the quality of student experience or something...) It was all so serious and professional! I doubt most Wash. U. students (myself included) even bother to vote in our student union elections. That, however, was hardly an option here since on the last day of elections, students stood at the entrance to campus and asked everyone who came or went if they had voted. Talk about peer pressure…However, it remains to be seen if this student government is any more effective and involved with the student body than Wash. U.’s. Stay tuned!

I should probably get to bed now, since I leave at 7:30 tomorrow morning for a day trip to Stonehenge and Bath. Keep your fingers crossed for me that the weather cooperates and that city maps of Bath are very, very clearly marked, since I’ll have a good three hours to get lost…er, independently explore the area!

My First International, International Trip

2010-02-16T19:51:00.001Z

It was a whirlwind weekend across a much smaller pond, but before I launch into that, I have a little unfinished business from last week to catch you all up on. I had two more presentations to give, and after the first one a few weeks ago (the one we don’t talk about), I was understandably nervous. The presentation for Transformation of Contemporary Europe could have been better, but no one really takes that seminar seriously, so I’m not going to stress about it.

I feel funny/arrogant/silly using this blog to brag, and I apologize in advance, but I don't feel bad enough to not do it all the same. While the other presentation was mediocre at best, my presentation for 1916: The Somme, my WWI class, went extremely well. There's a sentence I never thought I'd write. My task was to argue the extremist position that the war had no positive political consequences. I took my tutor at his word and came up with outrageous arguments linking the war to the collapse of the Liberal Party, the rise of Nazism, the Holocaust, WWII, the Cold War, death and destruction, and essentially the downfall of civilization as we know it. It was a much easier presentation to give than any of the others because in some sense, I was acting and playing a ridiculous character. Halfway through the presentation, the entire class (even the opposing side) was laughing, as they were meant to. I probably should not have cracked up myself in the middle of it, but besides that, it was a success. Afterwards, I was e-mailing with a classmate who is organizing a class trip, and they wrote back “well spoken today during your presentation. I was very impressed at your argument” and “you have set the bar high so we will do well to be as convincing.” :D

In general, this class is in contention for my favorite (still not "favourite") of the semester. The lectures are fine, but the seminar portion is one of the best I've taken at either school. It's not simply a repetition of lecture information, nor is it 100% discussion, which so often results in long, awkward silences. There are small-group activities, in addition to full-class discussions, and they're actually fun and interesting, which is a very difficult balance to obtain. Future teachers, take note.

This next piece of news is more depressing than exciting if you think about it, but I’m happy anyway. After five weeks of complaints, I finally found the right person to contact, and my building manager sent someone to deal with my roommate, the black mold. It’s unclear to me what exactly was done, but I can’t see it anymore, and they at least did a little something more than slap some paint over it. Problem (more or less) solved.

As much as we all enjoy reading about the intricacies of black mold, let’s move onto more fun topics. I left campus on Thursday afternoon, and my train from Brighton to Gatwick airport was almost delayed by thirty minutes. It ended up being only three minutes late, but there goes my faith in British transportation. Still, I arrived at the airport in plenty of time, enough in fact to take the earlier flight. It’s too bad easyJet doesn’t have standby lists…But I amused myself by reading and eating chocolate, so it was all good. easyJet is by far the most peculiar airline I’ve ever flown. They don’t announce what gate a flight is departing from until thirty to forty minutes before departure, and the gate technically closes exactly thirty minutes before takeoff. Consequently, as soon as the gate number appears on the board, there’s a huge rush of people streaming to the gate, all jostling for a good position in the queue since they have an open seating policy. It’s not exactly how I would run an airline.

By accident, I was hanging around the right area and ended up in the front of the line, so I had my choice of seats. The flight from Gatwick to Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport was very easy and almost identical to a Chicago-St. Louis flight. Customs was a joke, and Gwen, my old friend, fabulous hostess and knowledgeable tour guide, was waiting for me right past the sliding glass doors, although I ruined our touching reunion moment by exiting through the wrong doors.

We took a twenty-minute train ride to her house in Utrecht, a nearby Dutch city. I couldn’t see much of anything, but I was excited to discover double decker trains. Europeans really know how to get around. Before I knew it, we were there, and I felt very much at home in Gwen’s cozy and pink room.

It was a little late to start sightseeing, but it was the perfect time for culinary exploration, and I fell in love with stroopwafel (literally, syrup waffle), a yummy Dutch treat that needs to get on the first plane back to America. A generous amount of gooey, buttery, caramel goodness (the syrup part) is squished between two thin, cookie wafers (the waffle part), which results in pure bliss with every bite.

The next day, we woke up early (for students anyway) and took a bus and train to the city centre of Rotterdam, nearby where Gwen grew up. (Everything is really close together in the Netherlands, at least by American standards.) Our first stop was the Kunsthal, a museum where Gwen used to work. It’s unusual in that it doesn’t have any permanent exhibits, but I suppose that’s why people keep coming back.

We saw the “Made in Holland” exhibit, featuring all sorts of Dutch inventions, including windmills, obviously, some type of videogame, indoor plumbing, and basically everything since sliced bread. There was a very enlightening display about Syrian lingerie, which is apparently the only way for a woman to keep her husband from finding a younger and prettier second (or third) wife. We looked at miniature cars after that, and then an awesome exhibit showcasing a huge number of paintings that are normally stored at another museum, whose warehouse is under construction. Rather than simply hanging the art, the Kunsthal created an exhibit about how art is stored, so parts of the collection were randomly placed with other paintings behind fence-like constructions, and there was no distinction between 15th century masterpieces and modern “art” (and we all know how I feel about modern art). A disturbing collection of “Skin and Hair” sculptures were next, and we ended our visit at the Kunsthal with a collection of photographs taken in Istanbul.

Our next stop was the Euromast, Rotterdam’s version of Seattle’s Space Needle. The very top floor was closed, but we took the lift to one of the upper floors and took as many pictures on the deck as we could before our fingers went numb. Then, we had lunch at the Euromast’s café, surrounded by the gorgeous view. Rotterdam is the most modern-looking city in the Netherlands because huge parts of it were rebuilt after it was bombed during WWII. It’s the only Dutch city with skyscrapers, and the tallest building in the country is located there.

At this point, I have an important announcement to make: I like tea! It took twenty years, five weeks in England and a weekend in the Netherlands, but I now appreciate flavored hot water and will consume it of my own free will. I had some sort of a spicy blend at lunch, and paired with an egg and cheese sandwich, it was one of the highlights of the trip. (Weak pun completely intended.)

We decided to have a leisurely afternoon and slowly meandered towards the city centre. It was very chilly but sunny, which I am told is almost as rare there as it is in England, so I guess the weather cooperated. I beg to disagree with all of those people who told me that Europe has no American-style shopping malls. What else am I supposed to call the huge collection of stores located within a one-block radius in the “shopping gutter?” I’m pleased to report that I bought my first fun purchase since I’ve been here, a new shirt from Zara, an affordable Spanish store somewhat similar to Gap.

We took a train into the suburbs of Rotterdam, where Gwen’s family lives. I met her parents and her brother, all of whom were so nice and welcoming. Her dad outdid himself and cooked five delicious Indonesian dishes; I haven’t been so stuffed in ages! In an attempt to make up for lost time, I drank more tea after dinner. I know some of you reading this will be very proud of me. The dinnertime conversation reminded me of meals with my family, and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

The next morning, we took a bus to the centre of Utrecht and walked around for a bit. It’s a really neat and old city, dating back to Roman times. Many of the buildings are either over a hundred years old or look it, and I couldn’t get enough of the lovely canals that seem to be everywhere. It’s a very dense, walkable city, and at the center is the Dom Tower, the oldest church tower in the country. It’s very tall and very Gothic. We didn’t go inside, but you can see the tower from almost any point in the city, and I heard the bells ring a handful of times throughout the day.

We walked to the Centraal Museum, and the first thing we saw was an old Viking (?) ship from 900 A.D. I was instantly grateful that warm, enclosed airplanes are the preferred means of travel these days, even if they’re a major hassle. The next exhibit was all about a particular fashion designer, and I don’t pretend to understand any of it, but it was fun to look at. For something a little different, we moved onto Dutch Italianists, 17th century artists who were inspired by Italian art. Next up was a huge and peculiar display linking art and social issues. It required too much thinking for a Saturday morning, and I happily moved into another room to look at ancient Roman artifacts found in Utrecht.

It was then time to go meet Chris, another friend I knew while he was an exchange student at Wash. U. during my freshman year. It was great for all of us to be reunited, and I drank more tea. I’m not sure which of those statements is the most important one…

After lunch, Gwen and I went to the University College Utrecht campus, where she was an undergrad. It’s unique since it’s the Netherland’s only college campus, and even though it’s significantly smaller, it reminded me of Wash. U. Little did I know just how much Wash. U. was in store for me that afternoon.

We walked through a beautiful park that Gwen assures me is an excellent place to picnic in the summer, and then we had a lovely afternoon tea (!) with Rachel, a friend from Wash. U., in a café (not a coffeehouse, for those of you that know the difference). And then, because we are Wash. U. students, Rachel and I took the obligatory picture with “The Bunny.” There’s a notorious statue of an anorexic bunny thinking deep thoughts on Wash. U.’s campus, and as I discovered, there are eight or so identical sculptures all over the world. One of them just happens to be in Utrecht, so I saw another familiar, if unexpected, face.

On our way home, Gwen and I stopped at the grocery store to pick up supplies for dinner, and I was surprised to learn that big, American supermarket chains are something of a foreign concept there. She explained that most people don’t drive to the store and aren’t accustomed to doing a month’s worth of shopping at once. Instead, they usually walk or bike with their bags home, so it’s just not practical to buy an XXL bag of chips or the value size package of toilet paper rolls that wouldn’t fit in the backseat of a car anyway. Neighborhood grocery stores are the norm, and although I would not be able to buy a year’s worth of peanut butter, I would be able to find smaller packages of chocolate spreads. You may remember that chocolate spreads are my new favorite food, and in the Netherlands there was white chocolate spread, dark chocolate spread, more nutella flavors, and combinations thereof. I was briefly in heaven, and next time I visit, I’m bringing a suitcase and filling it with chocolate spreads to bring back.

If I had any doubts, I knew I was in the right country that night when we made pancakes for dinner. I have been having pancakes for dinner my whole life, and while they’re good at breakfast, dinner is the way to go. I was delighted to discover that the Dutch are creative when it comes to pancake toppings and have options far beyond traditional syrup. We had apples, bananas, chocolate sprinkles, and just for emphasis, let me repeat, chocolate sprinkles. It was a very nutritious dinner. I had to be an American at one point and tried a peanut butter and jelly pancake, which was just as good as I thought it would be.

For a nice conclusion to my trip, we had cocktails with two of Gwen’s friends, both of whom were really cool. I was excited to see an “AppleFunk Martini” on the drink menu, and with visions of JD’s signature “appletini” drink floating in my head, I wanted to try it. (For those of you that have never seen the best sitcom in the world, that was a Scrubs reference). So I ordered it, and that is the last time I let a fictional television character pick my drink. Still, I pretended to be mature while sipping my martini, and it was a fun night.

The next day, Gwen was kind enough to take me to the airport, and after a predictably long day of travel full of misadventures, I was back in good ol’ England. It was a fantastic trip, and I’m so lucky I had Gwen to show me around. Wikipedia is not exactly an ideal travel guidebook, and a there’s no substitute for a local. (And I swear I’m not just writing this because I know she’s reading! SO much fun, and I can’t wait to go back!)

An Afternoon in the Life of Jane Austen/My One Month Anniversary

2010-02-07T13:46:00.005Z

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sunny day in England must not be wasted inside studying. (I know I’ve used this line before, but how else do you expect me to start a post like this???) In light of this truism, my friends and I, after a leisurely cup of tea, some needlework, and “taking turns” around a room, donned our bonnets and decided to take a stroll through the countryside. Or that’s what we would have done if we were characters in a Jane Austen novel, and after yesterday, I’m half convinced that we are.

In truth, Martina, Francesca, Heddy and I heard about a cute café in Stanmer, the tiny village next to the university. See Stanmer for more information. After I threw on jeans and a tee-shirt, a far cry from a dress and bonnet, we set off. Alas, we didn’t encounter any dashing heroes to save us when our carriage was stuck in mud, but aside from that, it was a picture perfect afternoon. We spent a good thirty minutes roaming up and down green hills, half-heartedly searching for the village, and when we found it, it didn’t disappoint. We were warned that there’s not much there, but the little that is there is charming.

We walked along an old road into town, and at the end of it was a seemingly ancient church surrounded by a beautiful and peaceful cemetery with moss-covered gravestones, some of which I like to think are centuries old. Beside it was an old manor house that I’m determined to infiltrate before the term is over. After snapping pictures (some of which I promise will make it onto Facebook one day!), we kept walking into what appeared to be the “busy” part of town, which consisted of stables full of cows, a handful of quintessential English cottages, and our long-sought-after café. We ordered hot beverages and pastries, and even though I drank hot chocolate instead of tea, it felt like a very English thing to do. It was warm enough to sit outside, and in addition to enjoying the nice weather, we amused ourselves by taking pictures with the stereotypical red telephone box next to our table.

When the warm beverages ceased to protect us against the chill (after all, it’s still winter, even if it was sunny), we walked through the rest of town, which was filled with small and muddy children crowding around the stables. English children are kind of adorable, just in case anyone had any doubts. I wondered if the families live in Stanmer, because someone has to occupy those cottages, but somehow, I doubt it.

We meandered back to uni (the university; I still speak like an American, but these British terms are slowly creeping into my vocabulary), and because I was present, we had to get a little bit turned around. Fortunately, it appears that all roads lead to Sussex, so despite nearly ruining my new black boots with mud, we made it back (I accidentally wrote “home” there…you can call it a Freudian slip, but I’m not consciously ready to call this place home yet). It sounds ridiculously sappy, but the walk and the afternoon in general took my breath away. The scenery is gorgeous, almost on par with Galena, and this is truly how I imagine some people, including Jane Austen, have occupied their time for centuries. It’s a silly thought, but there it is. It was a peaceful and delightful afternoon, and it was one of the rare moments where my long-ago created expectations matched up with reality.

That night, I ate mushroom risotto and aubergines (eggplants) with turkey and cheese, deliciously prepared by Francesca and Martina, and then we watched Sliding Doors. It was a great end to a great day.

In other news, it has been exactly a month since I dazedly stepped off the plane at Heathrow and began this little adventure across the pond. Despite many of your warnings against comparing my expectations to reality, this seems like an appropriate time to take a preliminary look at how the semester abroad in my head matches up to the semester abroad in the real world.

Because you know how much I love to complain, let’s start with the negatives:

-I did not expect to have so much trouble integrating with British students. I’ve been friends with exchange students at Wash. U. for two and a half years, and after observing them, I thought I knew what worked and what didn’t. I decided to live on campus, where British students live, and join lots of extracuriculars, where British students congregate. I assumed that with these efforts, things would fall into place. But the fact of the matter is, like in America, everyone already has their groups of friends, and so far, I haven’t found an opening.

-I didn’t expect to have to grow up quite so fast to deal with all the problems I’ve had with my dorm. From a black mold growth that my porter won’t get rid of even after four weeks, to problems with the internet service that take an eternity to get resolved, no matter how crappy my first apartment is, I don’t think any sort of repair will ever phase me again.

-I didn’t expect to have to work so hard in my classes. It's not that I'm lazy or not used to working hard (really, I promise, I'm going to grow up to be a workaholic!) but everyone told me that a semester in England was, academically at least, going to be the easiest semester of my life. Maybe it’s just my type A personality, but that is not what I have found at all. There is a ton of reading to do, and even though all of my exams are in May and June, I have massive papers to write, and I need to start at least planning them now. So much for a break from the Wash. U. workload…

-I didn’t expect to feel so cut off from my friends back home. For those of you reading this, please don’t take that as a criticism! It just means I miss you, a lot. Skype, e-mail, and Facebook are all great and make my life much, much better. However, the fact is, we’re all extremely busy, and there just aren’t enough hours in the day for any of us to keep in touch to the extent that we would like. It turns out there’s something really important about actually being on the same continent as friends; who knew?

But I like to end things on a positive note, so let’s take a look at all the pleasant surprises that have come my way:

-I didn’t expect strangers to be so helpful. I (and probably you) have lost track of the number of times I’ve gotten myself lost and have needed to ask for help, and each and every time, whoever I have talked to has turned out to be a kind Samaritan. This extends to most of the people here at the university, who have been happy to answer my many questions and literally or figuratively point me in the right direction.

-I didn’t expect to find such a welcoming group of friends so early. I met a lovely group of Erasmus (European) exchange students a few weeks ago, and despite the fact that most of them have been here since September and knew each other long before I arrived, they have included me in everything from outings into Brighton, to parties and nights out, to daily lunches and dinners. Hanging out with them has been so much fun so far, and I’m looking forward to even more good times!

-I didn’t expect to have the opportunity to visit so many places. Sure, I hoped I’d be able to do my share of country-hopping on the continent, but it looks like I’ll travel to Germany, Italy, the Netherlands and France before I leave. This completely justifies my choice of study abroad locations, if not the decision to study abroad itself.

-I didn’t expect the food to be so good. Stop laughing, I’m not joking! I haven’t eaten out too frequently, but everywhere I have eaten has been pretty good. True, I’ve mostly gone to Eastern-type restaurants, but even the little pub grub I’ve tried hasn’t been bad. And of course the chocolate here is far superior to American chocolate. My new favorite food is Cadbury’s milk chocolate spread. It’s like peanut butter, except it’s chocolate, quite similar to nutella, which is VERY popular in Europe (in fact, there’s a nutella commercial playing on the radio right now). You spread it on bread and eat it, although I’m happy to report that it’s also very good on cookies, cereal, Special-K bars and with peanut butter. In fact, I have yet to discover a food that isn’t improved with chocolate.

In summary, I didn’t expect the experience to be this difficult, and I didn’t expect to be able to actually handle it. But it is, and I am, and I’m learning a lot about myself and the world in a way that I know I couldn’t have back home. It remains to be seen whether I will happily count down the days until I come home or sadly mark off all the days that have already passed, but time is flying by, it will be June before I know it, so get exited, since I know you can’t wait for an even longer list of positive and negative experiences…

Windsor Castle, a.k.a. My New Home

2010-02-03T13:03:00.001Z

In case any of you missed my announcement on Facebook, I’ve decided to leave my wonderful room in York House and move into Windsor Castle. I admit, I don’t like it as much as Chenonceau, a French château I toured a few years ago, but I’m not spoiled, and somehow I’ll make due. It’s very spacious, so despite the tiny problem of the Queen already living there, I think we can coexist as roomies and make it work. She probably won’t even notice I’m there. And if she turns out to be a bathroom hog or throws loud parties when I’m trying to study or sleep, I’ll move into Queen Mary’s dollhouse. There’s plenty of room there too.

Despite a late night at a pub in Brighton (The Queen’s Head--nice atmosphere, but I still prefer Pav Tav), I woke up bright and early Saturday morning to go on the International Office’s trip to Windsor. It was just under two hours away by bus, and I would have enjoyed the scenic drive through the countryside, if the windows hadn’t kept fogging up in spite of my best efforts not to breathe.

We arrived in the car park (parking lot) and walked up a hill to the castle. After going through security (I already feel safe in my new home!), we ran into a warden in full uniform who was happy to show our large group around. The castle is humongous. From the outside it looks very much like a larger version of a stereotypical castle, with the stone, the towers and the moat, which was drained long ago. We must have been walking around outside for at least an hour, but I didn’t so much mind the cold both since the sun decided to make a rare appearance and because the warden’s information was so interesting. Not that I remember even a tenth of it now, but at the time, I really enjoyed the tour!

Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take pictures inside of the castle, but by the time we finished touring the outside, I was only too happy to put my camera away if it meant I could warm up inside. Our first stop was Queen Mary’s Dollhouse. The only word to describe it is: wow. I adore miniatures as much as the next person, but some people have too much time and money on their hands. The dollhouse is built on a 1/12 scale, and everything inside of it is “real.” The books in the library are actually printed in, the faucets in the mini bathrooms turn, and if it was hooked up to water, a doll could actually take a bath. The detail in every room was exquisite; I think even the maid’s room is a step up from my current accommodations. It was never meant to be played with, which is a shame, because I know that if I had gotten my hands on it when I was six, I could have come up with all sorts of stories…

My next stop was an exhibit celebrating the 500th anniversary of the coronation of my dear old friend Henry VIII. I picked a good year to study in England. It was really cool to see all sorts of books, paintings and jewels from the Tudor period, and I’ll admit, I enjoyed feeling a little bit smug since I already knew the information posted on the signs scattered throughout the room. It was only when I passed by the gift shop and saw the Henry VIII and wives ornaments, which I received for Christmas a few years ago, that I remembered what a nerd I am, and I quickly moved onto the next part of the castle.

For the rest of the visit, I wandered through the state rooms open to the public, some of which are only open during the winter. It was these rooms that made me fall in love with the castle. They’re all so beautifully decorated, and there’s so much history in each, subtly conveyed in part through the portraits of long-dead royals that are guaranteed to hang in every room. Those of you that knew me throughout my obsession with the Tudors and royalty can imagine my delight. Even the rooms that were damaged by a fire in 1992 have been restored so masterfully that you’d never know anything was modern. I couldn’t pick a favorite room if I tried, but I do know that I need to tour some more castles while I’m here.

I ran into some other girls from Sussex, and we explored St. George’s Chapel together. Try as I might, I couldn’t find Henry VIII’s tomb, but a funny story about that: our guide said that after King Charles I was executed during the English Civil War, his supporters needed to bury him quickly and without fanfare. After sewing his head back on to his decapitated body, they decided to quietly toss him in the grave Henry VIII shared with his third wife, Jane Seymour (the one who was lucky enough to have a son and unlucky enough to die a few days later). Unfortunately, none of Henry’s children or descendents had gotten around to marking his grave in any way, shape or form, and consequently, he was just lying somewhere under the huge chapel. I can feel the family love, even all these centuries later…So, the supporters had to crawl on the floor in the middle of the night, tapping on the ground until they found a hollow area which they correctly assumed was Henry’s grave. They chucked Charles in there, and that is where the three of them rest today, although now there’s some sort of marker, to help the next person who has to hastily bury a deceased monarch.

We were all starving after such a full morning, so we walked through the town of Windsor in search of a café. It’s a charming place, and what I imagine the British equivalent of Galena would look like. All of the houses and stores look ancient and adorable, and I could definitely get used to walking on cobblestone streets. We eventually found a promising restaurant, and after deciding the prices were reasonable (our sense of reasonable only slightly distorted by hunger), we went in. Big mistake. We had hoped to eat quickly and get on our way, but the service was incredibly slow. None of us ordered anything complicated (really, even I could make a bacon and cheese sandwich in under thirty minutes), but we waited an hour for our food. We were on the brink of walking out but reluctantly decided the quickest way to get food was to stay put. It wasn’t a bad sandwich but definitely not worth the wait.

Our next stop was Eton College, about a fifteen minute walk from Windsor. Most of it was closed to the public, but I took a few pictures and can now say I visited Eton. Yay? We meandered back to Windsor, popped into a few shops and drank hot chocolate before returning to the bus. It was a busy day, and a really fun trip. I definitely need to plan to visit another castle soon.

The rest of the week has been pretty ordinary. Last night, after catching the first hour of a funny Bollywood movie, I went to a Turkish/Persian/Lebanese/generally Eastern restaurant for a dinner organized by the International Society. The restaurant is apparently well-known in Brighton, and I liked my chicken kebab with yoghurt sauce (it tastes better than it sounds). It was nice to chat with some new people. I have no plans thus far for the weekend, but after traveling to London and then Windsor, I’m honestly looking forward to a break from the tourism and a more relaxed weekend here in Brighton!

A Vacation from My Vacation

2010-01-29T13:59:00.003Z

*WARNING: EXTREMELY LONG BLOG POST FOLLOWS. READ AT YOUR OWN PERIL.*

For all those scientists who have been scratching their heads wondering why the Earth slowed down every day after January 7th when it was daytime in England, you no longer need to recheck your calculations because I can now report that time here passes as quickly as it does anywhere else. Although I’ve only been at Sussex for three weeks, it feels like so much longer, and I was excited for a weekend away in London.

On Friday afternoon at Brighton station, I met up with the other Wash. U. students studying at Sussex and our guide for the weekend, Sorrel, who is possibly the friendliest person I’ve met on either side of the Atlantic. A quick hour later, we arrived in the city and were soon at our bed & breakfast, a charming little place located in central London. The room was nice, and I especially appreciated the complementary hot chocolate and “biscuits.” I shared the room with the other Sussex/Wash. U. girls, but unfortunately, the hotel only had one key for our room. (Seriously, who puts four beds in a room and thinks only one key is necessary???) But we all decided to worry about this minor inconvenience later, and we set out for a yummy Turkish dinner, paid for by ACCENT, the company Wash. U. hires to ensure we survive the study abroad experience.

There, I was reunited with fellow Wash. U. students studying in London, and it was lovely to see Hannah again. And for those of you who are not yet convinced that I have outgrown my picky-eater ways, you should know that I tried every appetizer the table was served (yes, that includes more than bread), and I ate a spinach and potato dish entrée. It would have taken a better strategist than I to figure out how all of my roommates and I could go out to different places and not risk sleeping on the street, and considering that I was tired anyway, it was a low-key night.

The next day, I woke up for an early but delicious breakfast of porridge (as far as I can tell, it’s just another name for oatmeal) and toast. I walked to ACCENT’s office a few blocks away and marveled at how nice the neighborhood is. The architecture is beautiful, the streets are wide, and there’s something to see everywhere I look. I can’t wait to further explore the area next time.

The morning was consumed with entertaining yet useless seminars on British culture. Yes, they tried to teach us British culture in a classroom. I laughed too. For almost two hours, we brainstormed famous British people, and when we had exhausted that extensive list (us Americans aren’t as insular as the lecturer seemed to think we are), we thought up symbols of Britain. The only useful information I gleaned from this discussion was the distinction between Great Britain and the United Kingdom. It turns out that Great Britain refers to the island consisting of England, Scotland and Wales, while the term United Kingdom is the political union of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. If you use this information to win a round of Final Jeopardy someday, I expect a fifteen percent share. Just so you know.

Anyway, I suppose it was all worth it since ACCENT took us out to lunch at an Indian restaurant, where I enjoyed spicy chicken curry, which apparently has become a national specialty. The afternoon session was thankfully shorter and more useful than the morning. ACCENT managed to convince me that no matter how careful I am, at some point in the next six months, I will a) lose my passport, b) have my purse stolen, c) be detained by French police because I forgot my passport or d) all of the above. I can’t wait.

After literally twenty minutes of interrogating poor Sorrel about the intricacies of the #24 bus line, I left for what has become my favorite place in all of England, my friend Riki’s flat. I felt reasonably confidence that I had actually hopped off at the right stop, and feeling smug, I started looking for the street I was supposed to walk down. When I couldn’t locate it within sixty seconds, I knew it was hopeless. Fortunately, there was a police officer standing rather uselessly at a corner, and I asked him for directions. He asked where I was from, and I soon became engaged in one of those stereotypical conversation Americans always seem to have abroad. It turned out he had visited Chicago not too long ago, and we talked about his trip for a few minutes. Then, he asked me what the hell was wrong with voters in Massachusetts, and we had a lively discussion about the benefits of nationalized (or nationalised, as I’m sure he would say) healthcare. He had his facts a bit wrong, but I give him an A for effort. I’ve been living in this country for three weeks, and I still couldn’t tell you what the current hot topic of debate is.

Dinner at Riki’s was delightful and delicious, and I finally met her daughter. I have to say, Iris makes the short list of the most adorable children I’ve ever met, and unlike most little kids, she actually seemed to like me! She’s not quite walking on her own yet, but with just a little assistance, she was more than happy to give me the grand tour of the place.

After some intense research, Riki and I (read: Riki) plotted the least complicated route to the Apollo Victoria Theatre, where I saw the musical Wicked with the rest of the Wash. U. students. It was amazing, even the second time around (I originally saw the national touring company when they came to Chicago five or so years ago). The actress who played Elphaba was fantastic, although Glinda wasn’t overly impressive, which is probably because I’ve been listening to the soundtrack. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the casts’ British accents took me by surprise and were more distracting than I anticipated (but in a good way). I had another quiet evening, which is just as well since I had to get up early for ACCENT’s tour of the city.

On Sunday, we had a colorful character named Angie guide us around London, using the tube and bus system. It was daunting at first, but now I think I could theoretically (emphasis on theoretically) figure out how to get myself from one part of the city to another using the public transportation. We walked around Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and the House of Parliament, and we saw the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, which I vividly remember from ten years ago. This was the first time since I’ve been here that I’ve actually felt and acted liked a tourist, and I had forgotten how much fun it is. I was disappointed that the Queen had obviously not received my invitation for afternoon tea since she wasn’t home, but I’m sure we’ll get together next time I’m there.

After lunch at a Chinese restaurant (it was an Eastern themed weekend on the food front), I decided it was time to go back to Brighton. I left the group and walked back to my hotel to collect my bag. The porter spent a good ten minutes in front of a huge map with me, trying to explain how to get to Victoria Station, which you astute readers may remember is the infamous location that caused me so much stress on my last trip to London. Despite his clear instructions to go to a particular tube station to catch a bus, because I am me, I managed to walk right by the correct bus stop. Twice. In fact, I wandered all the way to the next tube stop and waited ten minutes while a very friendly employee printed instructions to get me back to the correct bus stop. After that, I only had to ask one more person for directions before I found the stop, almost an hour after I left the hotel. I am beyond asking what is wrong with my brain, and I only wish that just once, JUST ONCE, I could get somewhere without getting lost! It’s true that I now have great confidence in my ability to eventually reach a destination no matter how turned around I get, but it would really be a pleasant change not to have to allot an extra hour for any sort of travel…

This time around, I went to the right part of Victoria station and bought the right ticket on my first try. I’m impressed, and you should be too. I made it to the station with twelve minutes to spare before my train left, and as it pulled out of the station, I patted myself on the back and began to plan the rest of my afternoon, since I would obviously be back in Brighton in an hour, tops. But I should have known that when I travel in England, it always has to be an adventure. My earlier unexpected walking tour obviously wasn’t enough for the travel gods, and soon, the conductor’s voice came over the loudspeaker and announced that we would be detouring at seven extra stops. At first, I didn’t think anything of it and assumed that we would be making a few local stops in between the larger stations that the train usually stopped at. However, two hours later, it was pretty clear that we had been rerouted completely out of our way. I had no idea where I was or how long it would be until the train made it to Brighton, but on the bright side, I had a nice tour of the English countryside, at least until the sun set. I did eventually arrive in Brighton, only a total of two and half hours after I had intended to return.

And that was my weekend in London. The next notable event occurred on Wednesday, when I was awakened by loud pounding on my door at an ungodly hour (okay, it was 9:45 a.m., but I didn’t have class that day and was looking forward to sleeping in!). It was the housekeepers, who had arrived to clean the black mold that has been cohabitating with me since I moved in. Here, I could make some snarky comment about how the cleaners only showed up a mere two and a half weeks after I reported the problem, but I wouldn’t do that…In any case, I was very much looking forward to my room’s odor disappearing. They opened the curtains, where the mold lives, and the two of them quite literally gasped in horror. Apparently, it was a pretty bad case of mold. They were able to get rid of about half of it, but the rest has become embedded in the paint. They said they would send someone to paint over it, because obviously that eliminates the problem of mold growing in my room…The best advice they could give me about preventing it in the future is to keep my window open (which doesn’t have a screen, by the way). In the middle of winter. And that funky odor in my room? It turns out that’s from the carpet, which probably hasn’t been cleaned since I’ve been alive. Even the housekeeper admitted it was unhygienic. Wash. U. housing, where have you gone??? Whew, thanks for bearing with me as I get that out of my system...I promise not to complain again for at least a week!

Thursday, I had a major presentation in my psychology class, but the less we say about that, the better…Last night, I went back to my favorite pub in Brighton (shush, I am allowed to call it my favorite even if I’ve only been there once before!) with friends for live music. We didn’t stay too long, but it was a good time, and I stand by my pick for favorite pub.

Tomorrow, I’m looking forward to another chance to be a proper tourist when I go to Windsor with the International Office for the day. In the meantime, keep your fingers crossed that the London weather doesn’t decide to follow me on this next mini-vacation!

The One Where I Finally Go Clubbing

2010-01-22T14:23:00.001Z

But before we get to that, I should talk about academics. Supposedly, I’m in class fewer hours here than back home, but I don’t believe it because so far I haven’t noticed any extra free time!

Wednesday was uneventful, with the exception of adventures in the kitchen with my friends, where we encountered murderous hot oil while attempting to cook chicken. For the record, when I say “we attempted to cook chicken,” I really mean, “they succeeded in cooking chicken, while I was in charge of making sure the bread didn’t burn in the toaster.” I too succeeded.

On Thursday, I had two seminars, both of which went well, mostly because I managed not to fall asleep, no small feat, considering my sleeping schedule is becoming closer and closer to my dear former suitemate’s. (For those of you not privileged enough to know her, she stays up very, very late.) The first seminar was Psychology of Self and Identity. The class consisted of two student presentations on the week’s readings and then discussion. It is so strange for me to have “discussions” about psychology. At Wash. U., I’ve only had lectures, and I don’t yet have the hang of how to debate the subject. It’s a science, so what exactly is there to discuss? Still, I participated and held my own against another student who is in the running for The Most Annoying Person I’ve Ever Met award. Seriously, he would passionately challenge every idea anyone else raised, like they had just insulted his mother…

That afternoon, I returned to my Transformation of Contemporary Europe seminar, and just like I promised, I spoke in class! A few factors made it easier this week. First, we broke up into small groups before reconvening as a class, so I had plenty of time to gather my thoughts. Besides, smaller groups are always easier to participate in. Second, I discovered that of the nine people in the classroom (including the tutor), only two of them were British. There was a student from Germany, another from France, my tutor is from somewhere in south Asia…plenty of national embarrassment to go around, so I didn’t feel too different from everyone else. Third, the rest of the class is actually pretty quiet, so I had no competition and ended up sort of dominating the conversation, hopefully not in an annoying way. It was a good day.

That evening, I went to the new International Student Welcome Reception, which had been canceled twice before because of “bad” weather. They served us all sorts of tongue-burning, spicy curry and gave us vouchers for free drinks (Wash. U., I hope you’re paying attention!). It was nice to reconnect with some of the American exchange students I haven’t seen for a while and meet some new people, including another American and a French student.

It’s a little bit ridiculous how often I strive to make solid plans and then have them fall through; and then, by a random chance, I end up with something to do after all. I was counting on a quiet Thursday night to catch up on some reading, do some packing and generally relax from the week. It would have been nice to get those things done, but it was even nicer to discover that my dinner companions were going clubbing that night. Since that is what Brighton is famous for (not to mention the fact that I’ve been dying to go clubbing for about two years), I decided to go with them. It was a fun evening and it was great to hang out with that group, but I have to say, clubbing is not what it’s cracked up to be. Obviously one night is not enough to base an opinion on, so I will definitely have to try again at some different clubs, but to be honest, it felt like a slightly bigger and more expensive frat party. There were lights and disco balls and decent music, but the dance floor was not as cool as TKE’s and the drinks were pricier…But, for now, I will reserve judgment.

It was fantastic not to have class today, and now, I’m off to London for the weekend for Wash. U.’s orientation!

The Week in Review

2010-01-20T02:20:00.001Z

I think the Earth must slow down a little bit when it’s daytime in England, because I could swear time doesn’t move as quickly here (yet) as it does back home. And then, I check my blog and realize that it’s already been a week since I last wrote. Funny how that happens.

Thursday began with Psychology of the Self, a small seminar that I was on the wait list for. The material looks interesting, although like almost all of my seminars, it involves a 10-15 minute class presentation. This isn’t exactly what I signed up for, but I suppose it’s the trade off for not having so many hours in the classroom. As I’ve described, the professors here are an interesting cast of characters, and after Tuesday, I was half expecting a Gandalf-look alike. Instead, the lecturer/tutor/professor (I haven’t exactly figured out what I’m supposed to call them yet) looks like he stepped out of That ‘70s Show. Unfortunately, he wasn’t accompanied by any of my favorite characters, or even a laugh track. Somehow, I managed to overcome my disappointment and pay attention when he offhandedly mentioned how one’s nationality becomes more salient in a foreign country, as he pointedly stared at the corner the other exchange students and I were huddled in. I wouldn’t know anything about that, would I?

That afternoon, I had my Transformation of Contemporary Europe seminar (try saying that three times fast), where I signed up for yet another presentation. It looks like I’m going to be an experienced public speaker at the end of this term whether I like it or not. We talked about the Cold War for most of the hour, and if I thought it was awkward being an American on Wednesday, I clearly hadn’t read the syllabus for this class. All we discussed was America’s status as a superpower, American perceptions of the Cold War, American policy during the Cold War, American aims for the Cold War…I don’t think any of my classmates were actually staring at me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were. The students that did join in the discussion generally made more or less accurate statements (ex. “The American public felt this way during the Cold War…”) but I disagreed with them over tiny details (“No, I think at the time, we felt…”), and I couldn’t decide whether or not to raise my hand. To be fair, the students who participated had a good grasp of American politics and history, and far more knowledge than I do about the UK during the Cold War. But I wasn’t sure if my opinion was more “correct” than theirs, I didn’t want my word to be taken as fact just because of my background, I didn’t want to be annoying, and most of all, I didn’t want to be “wrong!” Soooo, I decided I’ll participate next week (this week). Really, I mean it, I will!

That night, I attended the first gathering of the “We Love 80s Hollywood” society. There wasn’t a very high turnout, but I chatted with the president and my subconscious got plenty of new material for future nightmares thanks to the movie Labyrinth. Goblins + never ending staircases + David Bowie in really tight pants = AUGH!

Friday, I went to a family psychology class, but as it turns out, I got into the other psychology class, so I didn’t need to drag myself there after all. It’s ok, it’s not like I enjoy sleeping in or anything like that…

I had lunch with a really nice girl on my floor and her friends. All of them are delightful and also exchange students, two from Italy, one from Germany. They’ve been here since September and have been so helpful in making me feel more comfortable here at Sussex. Broken Shoe and Mold in the Fridge (you know who you are!) will be happy to hear that I am continuing our tradition of party crashing, because I was invited to join them at their friend’s birthday party later that evening. A few hours later, we went into Brighton, shopped for a present, and after getting a little turned around (apparently my ability to get lost infects those around me), we made it to the party. Half a second was all it took for me to realize that I wasn’t at a Wash. U. party, because when I walked in, I saw a table full of food. Not just chips and Oreos, but a potato dish, an egg dish, Spanish ham, fancy cheese on toothpicks…I could have sworn I was at one of Village East/Greenway’s famous Friday night potlucks. There was definitely no need for a late night run to Bear’s Den. It was a fantastic evening, and a big improvement over last week, which you might remember found me computer-less, internet-less and chasing spiders. Good times.

I never, ever, in a million years thought I would write this, but here I go: on Saturday, I think I did too much shopping. I left for Brighton in the early afternoon, and by the time I got back, it was dark. I am completely befuddled by how much stuff I need to be set up here. Dishes, a hair dryer, food, baking supplies, a clock, nice black boots (don’t laugh, it might not actually be a necessity, but almost everyone here wears them every day, it’s practically a uniform)…It never ends, and it will still take me a few trips before I am 100% established. This is also the momentous day that I first made it to the fitness center on campus (and by on campus, I mean a great distance made perilous by the slushy, half-melted snow, muddy ground and construction projects). We’ll see how long I’m motivated to keep that up!

Sunday was fairly uneventful, and I passed most of the day obsessing over how much reading I have to do, while simultaneously NOT doing the reading. I’m just really talented like that.

Monday, the cycle started all over again. For those of you interested in the minute details of my life (and really, why wouldn’t you be?), I succeeded in doing laundry. The only problem with that was that most of the dryers were broken, so I had to bring all of the wet clothes back to my dorm and air dry them. Well, in my cell, er, room, there’s not even a hook for my towel, never mind anywhere to hang wet laundry. So, I decided to spread everything (and yes, I do mean everything) out on my bed and let it dry there. I proceeded to forget about it and, as is my habit in the evening, I propped open my door in an attempt socialize with my floor’s other inhabitants. A few hours later, I was chatting with my next-door neighbor, and I noticed he kept glancing towards my bed. I then remembered my drying laundry. I’m pretty sure the phrase “beet red” was coined specifically to describe my face at that moment. My floor now knows a lot more about me than they did before…

Tonight, yesterday, whatever you want to call it, it was my friend’s birthday, and we went with a big group into Brighton to celebrate. It was fun, although combined with an earlier trip into town to buy her present, I’ve spent far too much time on buses today, even cool double-decker ones. I’ve also spent far too much time awake today, so I’m off to remedy that. Good night, good afternoon, good “insert time of day here” to you all!

"Study" Abroad

2010-01-13T18:49:00.002Z

Believe it or not, the name of this entire experience is “study” abroad, which is another detail I neglected to consider in the weeks leading up to it.

But whether I was ready or not, Monday morning found me wandering around campus, desperately searching for my classroom, an activity that takes up more time than I actually spend in class, which I’ll admit is a nice feature of the British university system. I’m taking four courses this term, but I only have nine hours of class a week. Feel free to be jealous now.

I did eventually find my way to 1916: The Somme, my elective history class. (It’s considered as being in the Arts A building, but it is physically located inside a different building with a different name. How confusing is that??? ) It was more or less a typical lecture class, and the lecturer was really interesting, and not just because he had a British accent. However, when he began talking about the required reading and referencing the course handbook (syllabus), I’m surprised a giant question mark didn’t appear over my head. I knew that British students were required to read more outside of class and that they did not have to read every book on the list, but how do they know which books to read? And what parts of those books? And for what purpose since the class has no exams? So many questions.

I made my way to the front of the class to the lecturer, and feeling like a kindergartener in a first grade classroom, I stammered a halfway coherent explanation of my situation and told him I was confused. I must have seemed pretty pathetic, and he told me to drop by his office hours tomorrow (yesterday) and we could "have a chat." I do like the way people phrase things here.

In an attempt to make myself feel more competent at life, I spent the rest of the afternoon on Facebook until it was time to go to my second and last class of the day, five hours after the first ended. This is the part where you feel a little less jealous of my schedule.

The Politics and Governance of Australia and New Zealand looks like it will be more fun than anticipated. The material seems rather dry, but I like both of the people co-teaching the class, and it’s seminar-style, so maybe I have half a chance of getting to know some of my classmates. Perhaps more noteworthy than the class was the classroom; in one of the corners, there was a CCTV camera, recording every moment. I’m sure Wash. U. has security cameras scattered about, but I’ve never seen one in a classroom. Maybe I’m over thinking it, but that brings up all sorts of privacy issues, and maybe even some censorship ones too. Hm, food for thought.

The next morning, I was sitting in a different lecture hall for The Transformation of Contemporary Europe, when Bilbo Baggins walked in and began teaching. Ok, he wasn’t actually a hobbit, but he bore a striking resemblance to him, and that’s about all I could concentrate on the entire time.

After a library tour and some more errands (you’d think by now I’d have the path to the International Office memorized, but no, I assure you, I don’t), I found my 1916 lecturer’s office. I didn’t feel so bad getting lost this time, since I had spotted him trying to find his own office earlier. He was very friendly and easy to talk to, much more so than most of my professors back home, and we chatted about my studies, differences between British and American universities and the class. He answered all my questions (I don’t have to read nearly as much as I thought I did) and made me feel better about class participation.

His seminar was that afternoon (another five hours after my morning class ended, ugh), and it was really fun! The class will involve a lot of small-group work, which sounds like a good way to get to know people. It should be a good term, at least academically!

Even after only two days, I’ve already picked up on some differences between American and British attitudes towards class. Courses at Sussex are SO much more relaxed than at Wash. U. First of all, even full-time professors encourage their students to call them by their first name. That makes the atmosphere friendlier. Because students have a choice in what materials they read, the classes are a lot less structured than back home. Students, at least so far, don’t seem as nervous or stressed, although that could be a reflection on Wash. U., and not American universities in general…

Perhaps the biggest sign of the different attitudes is the fact that students go out on weeknights, rather than weekends. This is difficult for me to wrap my mind around. Bars and clubs often have student rates and specials during the week, and everything is more expensive on the weekend since that’s when non-students go out, so it makes sense, especially if you’re a first year (freshman). Here, their grades don’t count for ANYTHING since all they have to do is pass (which is a 40% here, by the way). It must be nice.

Last night, the International Office sponsored a guided pub crawl, and I got a taste of this phenomenon. I especially appreciated the timing, since I don’t have class on Wednesdays. It was useful to see so many different places, and I now have an official favorite, the Royal Pavilion Tavern - great atmosphere and excellent (read: cheap) drink specials.

Another valuable lesson from last night: taxi drivers are more valuable than travel guide books. Every cab ride I’ve taken here has been pleasant, mostly because the drivers are so gregarious, but when three other students and I shared a taxi back to campus, the cab driver talked about how Brighton is set up, which areas were nice, and a host of other useful tidbits. Forget Rick Steves, next time I need advice, I’ll just call a taxi company.

It doesn’t seem like many students have class on Wednesday, and so it makes sense for it to be devoted to “societies” (clubs). I went to the PhotoSoc (Photography Society)’s first meeting of the term, and I only wish I had known to wear (or bring) snow boots. After introductions, we split up into smaller groups and went out to take pictures in the snow. It was loads of fun (and a little chilly too), and I was glad to use my camera, since I haven’t taken any pictures since I’ve been here.

Cue generic musings on Brits: I am happy to report that almost without exception, everyone I’ve met here has been incredibly friendly and helpful, which was not necessarily something I was expecting. Not to say that I was anticipating studying in a land filled with cold-hearted snobs for six months, but the British students are just as warm as people back home, and if anything, they’re much less cliquish and more inclusive than I think Americans might be in the same situation.

Still, even if I were to forget for a moment just how far I am from home (which I never do), little cultural quirks would bring me back. I’ve come to accept that one of these days, I will be hit by a bus because I cannot remember to look the right (literally) way before crossing the street. But the tendency to drive on the left applies to walking on sidewalks too, and I am forever moving to the wrong direction when someone is trying to walk by me on the sidewalk. Oops.

And just like in class, I suppose there are different norms in shopping. While in Brighton one day, I noticed that unlike in American stores, where the salespeople practically assault you when you walk into a shop, the salespeople ignored me until I asked for help. I always used to think American salespeople were too pushy, but that day, I sort of missed them!

These past few days have been filled with all sorts of pleasant and unpleasant surprises, but one of the most shocking for me is how I view myself over here. Although I was born in the States, have lived there for my entire life and consider myself an American, it’s never been a critical feature of my identity, and I never expected it would be. But over here, it’s obviously something that distinguishes me from most of the other students (although you wouldn’t know it if you saw this term’s group of international students—it feels like 90% of us are American), and all I have to do is open my mouth to announce it to anyone within hearing distance. In some ways, I feel marked, and it makes me more hesitant to talk to people, whether I’m asking directions, speaking up in class or just saying hello. It’s a little bit paralyzing. It’s not that I’ve encountered any anti-American sentiment, but I don’t want to be thought of as “the American,” although ironically, that’s exactly how I think of myself here sometimes. Identity crises were definitely not listed in the description of the Sussex program!

Lastly, a big thank you to everyone who’s e-mailed me to say that they’re reading the blog and enjoying it! I really appreciate it, and it’s been a lot of fun to create too. I promise to keep writing as long as I have anything remotely interesting to say, although next time, I’ll try to keep it a bit shorter for those of you without superhuman attention spans!

The odyssey is only beginning

2010-01-09T11:06:00.001Z

Whenever I pictured my term at Sussex, I always skipped ahead to an undesignated point in the spring, when the campus was green and pretty, when I had friends and could hop on a bus with confidence, and when I would call my dorm “home.” I never imagined the first few weeks, and in retrospect, that’s probably a good thing.

My first and last night in London was delightful, complete with a trip to an authentic pub, good conversation and an episode of Mad Men. The next morning, I set off in a taxi to Victoria Station on my way to Brighton. My driver was very friendly and gave me a tour of the city as we drove by. Unfortunately, I was so absorbed in the conversation that I did not notice when he dropped me off at the coach station, rather than the train station. In fact, I did not realize the mistake until after I bought a bus ticket and had been sitting at the terminal for ten minutes...Yep, I am definitely qualified to live in a foreign country.

After a frantic call to the International & Study Abroad Office, I asked for directions to the train part of Victoria Station and crossed two streets to get there. I wandered through a building and saw an office marked “National Express,” the name of the train company, and foolishly figured I could buy a train ticket there. After waiting ten minutes in line, only to be told that I had to go to another building, I raced across one last street into the correct part of Victoria Station.

I’ve decided the British don’t believe in labels, because Victoria Station is buried in what appears to be a mall and there are few indicators of its precise location. I took escalators up and down before finally figuring out that the trains where on the lower level. None of this was made any easier by lugging around my two suitcases, which together weighed 81 pounds. If it wasn’t from the help of kind strangers who held my bags, I quite literally would have killed myself or someone else by tripping down escalators. Have they never heard of “lifts?!?”

At this point, I had ten minutes to go until my train left. I decided to try my luck with the ticket machines, rather than wait in a long line for a ticket agent. After two machines failed to accept my credit card, I was just about ready to cry and was only comforted by the thought that this would be a hilarious story once I finally made it to Brighton. So, I waited in line, bought my ticket and raced to the platform. Just as I arrived, the doors swished shut, and I really thought I was going to lose it. Luckily, before I completely broke down, someone opened the door. A big thank you to all the strangers who helped me survive yesterday!

The train ride was lovely, and I’d ride trains all day if I could. The countryside didn’t look quite as quintessentially English as I’d expected because of the snow, but it was one of the best parts of my day. I was actually disappointed when we arrived a bit less than an hour after leaving London.

With no more mishaps, I took a taxi to the university and checked into my room, which is on the third floor. After dragging my suitcases up three steep flights of stairs, I have resolved never, ever to pack so much. Next time I move to a foreign country, I’m winning the lottery first and buying everything I need when I get there, no matter what the exchange rate is.

After some fiddling with the lock, I opened the door and...sort of wondered what could possibly have compelled me to ever consider leaving Wash. U., where I have been spoiled with nearly-new, clean and shiny rooms for the past three years. The room is spacious enough, but I was greeted with a spider hanging in a corner (which got away when I tried to assassinate it), a dried contact lens stuck to the wall, and what I believe are toenail clippings under the desk. You can imagine just how happy I was at this moment in time. However, I do appreciate having a sink in my room. That’s got to be the best idea in dorm construction history, right after clean bathrooms, which this university hasn’t quite gotten the memo about...To all my friends who have or have ever had hall bathrooms, I now feel your pain.

The first thing I wanted to do was plug in my computer and set up my internet connection. I’m pretty sure I electrocuted myself in the process. When I plugged the surge protector into the adapter, there was a flash, and my arm felt sort of funny for the next few hours...I also managed to blow a fuse or something because after that, neither outlet worked until the office called an electrician for me. Naturally, even with my computer running on batter power, I could not get the internet to work and will have to wait until Monday for tech support to help me. I should have known.

I barely had time to drop my suitcases and get electrocuted before heading off to an academic meeting with my advisor, who is perhaps the nicest person I’ve met so far. She was incredibly patient, and after we figured out my schedule, and I raced off to another meeting. And by raced off to another meeting, I mean wandered around campus, completely lost because I’d forgotten my map. So far, even when I’ve found the right buildings, I can never find a door into the building. Plenty of locked doors, but no open ones...

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get all of these problems sorted out, with very little to show for it. Defeated, I schlepped through the snow (despite my earlier resolution to never bring anything to a foreign country ever again, I sort of wish I’d brought my snow boots) to the campus bar, where there was free food for Visiting & Exchange students. I ran into some girls I had met earlier as well as two others from Wash. U., and we had a really nice dinner.

We made a quick stop in one of the convenience stores on campus for dessert, and it was so surreal to see alcohol being sold right next to Kinder Eggs. (Yes, Kinder Eggs!!! So excited.)

I returned to my dorm and unpacked while visiting with my new neighbors (as I typed that last word, the spell check tried to correct it by adding a “u,” just in case you were wondering). Now that everything is in its place, my room is slowly growing on me, and hopefully I can find some posters, a blanket that actually covers my feet, or some other little things in Brighton today that will make it feel more like home.

In the meantime, I’m off to have breakfast (you see Mom, I am eating!) before heading into the city with some of the other students to go shopping. Tune in next time to see if I ever find that runaway spider...

Welcome to...London?

2010-01-07T15:27:00.001Z

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am incapable of flying overseas without encountering some disaster or another. Whether it's a two-day delayed arrival in Dublin or an airplane strike that necessitates a midnight bus ride to Barcelona, I should have learned by now that ''a smooth trip'' is never in the cards.

Yesterday (or earlier this morning, I'm not really sure anymore), approximately six hours before I was to fly into Heathrow, the university sent an e-mail to international students urging us to delay our travel plans because of severe weather. (For my fellow Chicagoans, severe weather here apparently means less than a foot of snow.) It was enough to shut down public transportation in Brighton and enough to convince me that it would be foolish to try to take a bus from Heathrow to Brighton, which had been my plan. So, after a panicked phone call and a kind offer from a friend in London, I decided to fly to London anyway (after all, I didn't stay up all night wrestling with my suitcases for nothing) and take an unexpected, one-day detour into downtown London. Good decision.

With that settled, my trip began. I had an aisle seat and a friendly neighbor who I chatted with, and at the end of the flight, he gave me his business card invited me to stay with him and his wife in Manchester. A little sketchy, perhaps, but it's the thought that counts. I also walked away with a new appreciation for airline food. Although, the main dish looked (and tasted) nothing like the chicken it was supposed to be, whatever I had for dessert (a white chocolate, caramel cake thing, I think?), was delicious. Unfortunately, the pleasant conversation and surprisingly tasty dessert were balanced out by not one, not two, but three crying babies and a small child who could find nothing better to do than kick the back of my already-uncomfortable seat, conditions which prevented me from getting more than two hours of sleep. Still, I got through customs without a problem, and the airline didn't even lose my suitcase, so I'm going to call the flight a success.

Unfortunately, I think that lack of sleep came back to bite me, because after collecting my suitcases and buying a train ticket to downtown London, I promptly got on the wrong train and ended up going the opposite direction. Who knew you actually had to pay attention to which train you got on? Fortunately, it was easily remedied, and I had no more misadventures before getting to my friend's charming flat.

As it turns out, this is may be the best possible way to begin my study abroad experience. It was such a relief to see a friendly face and have the chance to relax and catch up on some sleep before attempting to transition to life at Sussex. I've enjoyed visiting with my friend and walking around the neighborhood; there's so much to see. I think I'm going to have to spend more time in London than I originally planned!

Is this the obligatory part of any blog where I reflect on my first impressions of England? Yes, indeed it is. This entire process has been so surreal for me. I think I must have been in denial until the day before I left, because I was hardly nervous AT ALL (those of you who know me well will appreciate how strange this is), only excited. Saying goodbye to my family was as tough as expected, but all through the plane ride, part of me felt like I was just heading back to St. Louis for a few weeks. It wasn't until we landed and a British flight attendant spoke on the PA that it hit me; I was in England. Excitement ensured, and so far, I haven't been disappointed. I'm silly enough to still be charmed by the novel accents all around me, and everyone I've met has been friendly. Although I can't put my finger on exactly what it is, when I walk around outside, I can tell that I'm not anywhere near Kansas anymore. It's not a bad thing, and right now, it's a very exciting, good thing.

Next up on my schedule (in no particular order): sleeping, watching tv, reading, and maybe a little bit of squealing because, after so many months of anticipation, I'm finally here! Stay tuned for what is sure to be a harrowing trip (a little melodramatic? Ok, how about an adventure?) to Brighton sometime in the near future!