On Munchies

A quick blog today, just for some photos and little descriptions of some of the food I've been experiencing here.  

So for starters: Hot chocolate and a mini mince pie.  I quite literally went into a little shop- Greggs- to get out of a sudden downpour during my frantic shopping trip a few weeks ago.  I decided I may as well wait it out with something hot to drink, so I got a hot chocolate (having finished a late only an hour or so before, and it being somewhere around half five, as stores were about to start closing).  There was a whole display case, and I asked the woman working what was good.  She suggested the mince pie, and since I wasn't allowed to ask what was in it as per the rule I made before leaving for the UK, I went for it.  It probably helped that it cost 40p.  Oh my gosh, so good.  I am in love.  

Then here is an English version of "chili," which is a bit like spicy bolognese, and is served over white rice.  It isn't bad, but... nothing at all like chili.  We had it with cheese and "soured cream topping."  The fajitas Rob made were better but, alas, I do not have a photo.

And here is an British staple: Apple crumble, served with custard.  This was my second serving.  No words needed, its damn good.

And here we have my milky way experiment.  I was told after freshers fayre that the milky way bars here are different than in the states.  I've avoided trying them for a few weeks, but curiosity got the best of me, so I went ahead and bought one.  Right next to it in the store, however, was something called a "Milky Way Crispy Roll."  In total they came to £1.09.  The bottom bar is the regular milky way, and the top is the crispy roll.  For size comparison, the crispy roll is about the same size as a regular candy bar in the states.  So you can see the thing I was immediately aware of: size.  

I tried the regular milky way first, so I would have a fresh mind.  Here's what it looked like:

Notice any difference? NO CARAMEL.  WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS.  On top of that, it turns out that without the caramel, milky way bars are seriously boring.  So I moved onto the crispy roll bar.

You can sort of see that it is a white sugary filling wrapped in crispy covering, sort of like a pirouette wafer stick, and covered in chocolate.  Let's just say, I may not have regular milky way bars here, but these crispy things are freakishly good.  I move to begin exporting these to the states immediately.  Mind you, while eating them, you can feel cavities forming, since they're basically straight sugar.

On Cellular Telecommunication Devices

Loo.  Biscuit.  Slip-road.  Bin.  Liner.  Lamp.  Trousers.  Full Stop.  Inverted Commas.  There's a whole slew of words that change between American English and British English.  I'm trying my hardest to learn the differences and cater to British English.  When someone holds a door open for me, I say "cheers" and when I hold a door open for someone else, and they say cheers, I say "ta."  I call "compost" "food scraps" and paper recycling "card."  Electrical outlets are "plug sockets" and after we have dinner, someone does the "washing up."

But the one thing I will not change, is that it is called a flipping cell phone.  Here, everyone else calls it a "mobile" or mostly just "phone."  I can deal with "phone."  "Phone" I can manage.  Slowly, with practice.  But whenever I forget my phone upstairs or at home, I inevitably say, "Oh shoot, my cell phone."  It's driving my roommate insane.  Every time I say it, Rob gets annoyed and corrects me.  I have informed him, to seemingly no avail, that I will make almost no effort to stop calling it a cell.

When I first arrived, I had a bit of a struggle with the phone situation, mostly because I was so sick upon arriving.  I didn't even really bother until the beginning of my second week, when I went to a shop called "Phones 4 U" and bought a fairly cheap, but supposedly still good Samsung Y.  The nice thing about this store is that they sell their phones unlocked, so you can put any sim card in.  Since I was planning on getting giffgaff, with which I can load a £12 plan giving me unlimited texts and data, and 250 UK minutes, this was the best option I had.  I spoke with the salesman for a bit, and settled on the samsung while my roommate ordered my sim.  It was going to be a few days, which was fine since you have to pay for a £10 top up (read: its a prepaid phone, you have to load it a bit when you buy it) when you buy an unlocked phone anyway.

Great.  I was happy.  I chatted a bit with the few friends I had already made, and burned through my £10 in the blink of an eye.

Then my GiffGaff sim arrived.  And thus began the drama.

In order to activate my sim, I needed a credit card with a UK postal code.  I tried changing my address on my credit card to my address here, but my credit card needs an address in the US.  I was still sick, so I sat on my hands and waited until Monday to open a bank account.

Monday rolled around, I opened the account, and the woman told me it would be about 3 business days until I would receive my debit card.  Great.  I tried topping up again with the first sim card, same problem.  I called them, to explain, figuring that if I got through to a sales clerk, they would be able to manually enter the information.  Except, in the UK, automated systems don't recognize "Moreno" as a surname.

Automated phone system: "Did you mean "Reynolds?"
Me; "No, I meant "Moreno"
Automated phone system: "We're sorry, we didn't catch that.  Just your surname, for example, 'Smith."
Me: "Moreno."
Automated phone system: "Did you mean 'Morris?"
Me: "No, I meant OPERATOR."

Which then led me to the problem that there were no minutes left on my phone, and I couldn't actually speak to an operator without minutes.

So I just waited, using the internet at my house and at cafes to check whatsapp and facebook until my Debit card arrived.  Finally, I loaded my sim card, figured everything out, and had an operating phone.  Sort of.

See, here's the thing that the salesman didn't tell me.  The Galaxy Y is a fine phone if you're texting and calling.  Not so great if you want multiple apps. Apparently, he didn't feel the need to tell me this, despite the fact that I had said specifically that I needed one I could run whatsapp on.  After a single day of using the phone with my new sim, it began having issues.  The memory card was full.  Facebook was seriously slowing it down.  Nothing was working.  I gave up, pulled the sim out, popped out the micro sim, and am now using my unlocked American Iphone.

Now to convince the phone people to refund or exchange my phone... this could be fun.

On School, Lectures, and Roommates

So this “term,” I'm taking three classes, which is a bit odd for several reasons.  Firstly, I have never taken fewer than four classes, at times even as many as six.  Secondly, all of my roommates are taking at least five, and those are classes that meet several times a week, giving them around eighteen hours of instruction per week.  I have eight hours of instruction per week.  Its nice, since the coursework will in general be a bit more difficult once exam time rolls around, but annoying because it means I have a lot of spare time and not a lot to do just yet.

Because of this, I have joined a two societies, the film society and the English society, though unfortunately they both seem to meet on Tuesdays at the same time, so we’ll see how long the film society manages to keep me. 

Anyway, I was talking about classes.  I'm enrolled, or “enroled” as they spell it here in Wales, in Arthurian Adaptations, Shakespeare and the Idea of Comedy, and Debating texts: Theory in Literature. 

Arthurian adaptations is the only class on that list that I requested, and it also happens to be the only class that I am not sure about.  The teacher is willing to cater to the classes requests as to what part of Arthur we look at, so it appears we will mostly be looking at origins which pertain to Welsh characteristics, the feminine, and supernatural aspects of Arthur legends.  The problem is, he doesn’t write lectures ahead of time, so he just sort of talks about what he knows, ad nauseum, while we frantically try to take notes that will later make sense to us. 

Shakespeare and the Idea of Comedy is supposedly about the origins of comedy and how they pertain to Shakespeare, but right now it seems to be mostly about several of Shakespeare’s plays. 

Debating texts is both the most difficult and possibly the most interesting.  We are reading three books for it, Hard Times by Charles Dickens, Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Wolfe, and (what I'm most excited for) Beloved by Toni Morrison.  Then, we have three sets of three lectures for each book.  Three lectures on Realism, three on Sociolinguistics (they say language, but its sociolinguistics, which is now the bane of my existence), and three on “Subjectivity” or the idea of selfhood and identity.  So far we have finished the linguistics lectures for Hard Times, and this week we will be looking at the Subjectivity in it.  Which basically means by the end of the week I need to have read all of Viriginia Wolfe.  Goody. 

In general, I'm happy with my lectures.  They’re between 50 minutes and two hours, depending on the class.  Mostly they are in the morning, which is great because it means I get up and actually use the day, although so far I’ve been pretty lazy.  This last week I finally dragged myself to the shops to buy things for my room, to make it seem a little more homey. 

But here’s the weirdest part about classes here: people dress up for them.  And I mean it- they really dress up.  They dress nicer for classes than I would for an evening out.  After attending Chico for a year, this is not boding well for my wallet.  I'm used to rolling out of bed, pulling on a tank top or a tshirt, a hoody sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans, but here, everyone goes all out.  Hair, makeup, skinny jeans, heels, sweater (or jumper), scarf, nice jacket.  The problem is, I own nothing but jeans and tank tops, and I don’t own any skinny jeans. 

So after a week of dealing with people giving my boot cut jeans dirty looks, I gave up and bought three pairs of skinny jeans, two cardigans, a few colored undershirts to wear beneath said cardigans, and a few nicer tops.  I also bought a pair of black ballet flats, a pair of heeled boots, a pair of grey platform heels, two necklaces, and two scarves.  The game is to now keep my eyes peeled for more tops, and I think I need one more jacket, something lighter than my coat, but heavier than my cardigans.  I think one more green or grey scarf and I will be happy.  Unfortunately, all this money spending means I have to skip my first excursion, so I don’t get to go see the wilds of Wales until next month. 

You're probably wondering how I'm doing everything while I'm over here.  Well, mostly I am on foot, which is why my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles.  That’s what happens when you're breaking in three pairs of heels at the same time.  My toes are probably going to fall off soon.  But I’ve also had a lot of help from my roommates.

So here’s a bit about my house.  It’s three floors, six bedrooms, two bathrooms, with a tiny little living room and a tiny little kitchen and a truly disgusting backyard.  We’re fifteen minutes from the school on foot, a bit more than that to the city centre, and three minutes from the beach.  We have a washing machine, but no dryer and no dishwasher.  We take turns making dinner, so you really only need to worry about what you're making once or twice a week.  There are six of us living here as of last Thursday: Rob, Sasha (read as “Sash-uh” rather than “Saw-sha”), Ross, Jeremy, and Osa (the only other girl in the house).  Aside from Jeremy, who is also an exchange student, from Canada instead of the US, everyone is English.  I find it both fascinating and hysterical that during my study abroad year in Wales, I am living entirely with people who are NOT Welsh. 

We’re all pretty supportive of each other.  We do shopping together, they all help each other with homework since they are all engineering students, and we all cater to each others culinary needs.  There’s not really a lot to say about them, other than the fact that they keep their jam in the cupboard rather than the fridge, which is slowly driving me to insanity.  I’ve bought my own jam and put it in the fridge and threatened the lives of anyone who tries to remove it.  I am also quite protective of my Hobnobs, which are crumbly biscuits (read: cookies) covered in chocolate, which one dips in tea and eats until they are sick.  They are delicious, I am addicted, it is a problem.  I may need help. 

Other than that, things are going quite well.  I’ll be posting periodically from now on, but for the most part, I'm going to be posting after exciting trips and adventures.  The day to day minutae may get a bit boring, but I’ll try to find interesting things to tell you about.  In the meantime, if you have questions or want to know about something specific, feel free to put it in the comments!  I’ll try to answer as in depth as possible.  Pictures of London to come soon!

On Oceans (Scroll down for photos)

For the entirety of my adult life, I have lived by the ocean.  It isn't something that I did intentionally, but rather, it just happened.  I chose a college in Santa Cruz, not for the beach or its proximity to it, the ocean wasn’t part of my planning at all.  I was going for the school, for the program, and because of friend of mine said she would go with me.  When that friend ended up going somewhere else, I had already begun making plans.  There was no backing out at that point.  Cabrillo wasn’t just my first choice, it was my only choice.  In all honesty, the reason I chose Cabrillo probably had to do with the fact that it was a junior college I knew about that was away from home.  Mostly, that it was away from home.

And then after Santa Cruz, it was San Francisco, not for any particular reason either, other than that I wanted to live in a big city.  In California, that means Sacramento (ick) or Los Angeles (double ick, especially when you consider the proximity to family.  There’s this urge that happens when you’re young to get as far away from any blood relation as physically possible.  Also, I hate LA).  That left San Francisco.  And at this point, yes, the ocean came into my thinking.  Id been living on the coast for three years, it was important to me to maintain that bond.  Because theres something that happened to me on the ocean. 

I had moved to Aptos, to a small apartment about a ten minute walk from the waves.  Over the past two years, I had formed a bond with the ocean.  Any time I wasn’t feeling particularly good about myself, anytime I was down or lonely or upset, or when I just needed some time in my head, I would go to the beach.  Usually Seabright, because of its proximity to where I was living.  I walked to New Brighton a few times while living in Soquel.  I biked to Capitola a few times, when I was actually biking.  It was just there, not something we did very often, just something that was open if I was bored I had an afternoon off, or I had that constricting feeling in my chest like I just needed to get to the ocean. 

But one day, after I had moved into my apartment in Aptos, I walked down to the beach.  There were two paths you could take, one which followed the cliff to Seacliff State Park, and another path which snuck down the side of the cliff, switchbacking across a cordaroy path of broken stairs and rocks beneath damp trees and greenery so fresh and beautiful, you might forget that there were roads not two minutes away from you.  I was afraid the first time I walked that path, not sure where it was leading or who else might be on it.  A few runners went past me. 

But eventually (and by eventually I mean after about three minutes) it let out onto a bike path that in turn led to Seacliff beach.  It wasn’t a particularly sunny day.  There may have even been a bit of fog, though that may be the fog of a memory almost four years old.  I remember the sky was orange and pink, and that the tide was so far out and the beach so flat and smooth and glassy that you could see the reflection of the sky in it, so that the whole place was awash with red and gold.

I skipped rocks for awhile, my shoes and sweatshirt discarded some fifty feet away, forgotten.  I collected rocks, filling my hands until I couldn’t feel them for the cold, and I flung them into the ocean and watched as they skipped and jumped across the choppy water.  I learned to time my tosses so that they perfectly coincided with the flat of the wave, so that the rocks wouldn’t be swallowed by waves.

I rolled up my jeans and wandered into the water, letting it touch my toes, keeping it below my ankles.  And then up to my ankles, then the back of my calves, then my knees.  Up to my thighs.  I waded in until I was waist deep in the ocean, not caring that it was freezing, or that it was getting dark and therefore colder, or that I was fully dressed.  Not caring that I couldn’t swim, or that people were watching.  Because for some reason, each wave that crashed against my legs felt like a touch from some unknown… whatever.  Felt like arms welcoming me home.  Felt like love and comfort. 

That was the beginning of it.  From then on, I went as often as I could.  I don’t think there was ever a week that passed when I wasn’t down at the waters edge, skipping stones or just walking.  I tried running for a bit, but, less face it, that was a ship I was never meant to sail.  Harbor porpoises were my constant companion as well, their little fins peaking out like little waves from another world.  Sometimes even dolphins would show up, moving through the water.

I remember saying goodbye to the ocean, as well.  I went in shorts and a bathing suit, I threw myself into that water like a lab chasing a ball.  I felt the water around me like a blanket, holding me and wishing me well, sending me off. 

I went to the ocean in San Francisco after my first week.  I thought I would feel that kinship again.  I hoped I would, anyway.  I knew I would need it.  I had come to rely upon it, upon that constant companion of the faithful ocean, always there for me.  I went to bakers beach, took off my shoes and walked down the freezing beach to the waves.  I let it touch my toes. 

But it wasn’t the same.  It was just water.  There was not that familiar feeling of being greeted by an old friend.  Only the sound of the waves, the cold of them.  The water felt greasy, it smelled like oil, and it made foam that I didn’t even want to touch.  There was no soul. 

I didn’t go the ocean very often while I lived there, only occasionally if I was going for a walk and my feet carried me there.  I went to the bridge a few times to watch the dolphins.  My favorite game was to stand at the railing and wait for a tourist to approach.  Once they were close enough, I would beckon them over and point at the dolphins frisking down below.  Then, once I had heard their excited murmur, I would walk away and not look back. 

And then I moved to Chico.  Landlocked.  Yellow.  Soulless in a way, though nowhere near as bad as Baker beach had been.  I took every opportunity I could to visit the ocean, even Baker Beach, anything for a view of the sea.  Anything if I could just glimpse a view of that friend I had come to know so well, only to abandon. 

And now I am here.  In Swansea. 

I went to the beach for the first time a week or so ago.  I just walked down after class, wearing sneakers and long jeans and socks and a backpack.  I took my shoes off, even though it was freezing, and stuffed my socks into their toes.  I walked down to the water, which was at high tide.  I had noticed while walking past that when the tide goes out here, the beach grows almost a quarter of a mile.  It is massive, a wide expanse of sand and shoals as far as the eye can see. 

But on this day, the tide was in.  It was only a few moments before I was standing at the waters edge.  I wasn’t sure what was going on.  Everyone was wearing shoes.  Maybe it’s the Californian in me, but I couldn’t understand.  I wondered vaguely if there were some biting insects that might hurt me.  But I didn’t care enough, I just went on barefooted, feeling the shells under my feet, the soft shift of sand beneath me. 

I walked to the edge, right up to the very line where the water met the land, and then I stepped forward. 

The waves rushed towards me like open arms, wide and welcoming.  It didn’t matter that it was freezing.  It didn’t matter that I had never been to this beach before.  It only mattered that I was home, and this beach was welcoming me.

View from the road.

Halfway across the beach looking towards town.

Halfway looking towards the ocean.

Shoals

Some sort of weird kelp, it felt almost like fabric.

Clam diggers make these all over the beach.  If you look hard enough, you can see where he set the bucket down, lower left hand corner.

More shoals.