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.

Keep Calm and Carry On

What a whirlwind!

I’ve been in the United Kingdom now for four days.  After my entirely uneventful plane ride which involved a gin and tonic that cost me only about $6 (or 750 Iceland Kronas), I made my way to my hotel.  I met a lovely American girl who told me about the tubes and gave me a few pointers.  She even showed me to the taxi queue and warned me about the cold.  I did worry for a moment that she might be trying to take advantage- because of course they drive that into your brain when you’re preparing to go, but no, she was just a kind girl who remembered her first trip to England. 

The hotel was nice, nothing spectacular.  For £65 anyway it was fine.  Dodgy breakfast, but fine, whatever.  I did get to see Kensington on the first day, which was lovely.  I actually teared up a bit seeing Queen Victoria’s description of how Prince Albert died.  I slept early the first night and bought a hop-on-hop-off bus tour the next day which was nice, got to see everything pretty quickly, though I only went to Buckingham Palace, and The Globe Theatre. 

The Globe.  There are no words.  It was beautiful and everything I imagined it to be.  Our tour guide was a cheeky older woman who was very indignant about having her paving stones covered by a drinks caddy.  Apparently while building it, they sold paving stones for £300 each.  Once bought, the stones would receive an engraving of the buyers name.  She bought two, and they were covered by the caddy, and there really isn't much more to say about it.

Anyway, I managed to get a standing ticket to A Midsummer Nights Dream, and it was amazing.  I was actually doubled over laughing for most of it.  I can’t put into words why it was histerical, except to say that Puck was a bit like an awkward teenager, Oberon was a big tough faerie dude, and Titania was simultaneously beautiful and goofy.  Bottom was……. Bottom.  He had a very monotone voice but used these looks to convey everything and I was dying everytime he came on.  Every time he referenced Peter Quince he would say, “Peter Quince, Peter, is it Peter?  It’s Peter.  Peter Quince-” and then go on with his line.  Quince was this brilliant gay director; Snug was a typical country smithy, tall, stoic, with a pipe; the guy that played the moon was just ridiculous, and the guy that played the wall resembled closely the skinny annoying pirate in POTC, minus the wooden eye. 

I can’t say more than that, but it was amazing. 

Anyway, I'm here in Swansea now.  I’ve got five roommates, four of whom I’ve met and seem like cool people.  They apparently did think I was going to be a guy, though, which was interesting.  Four other guys and one girl.  They made me an English breakfast today, which was nice.  I tried blood pudding, but didn’t care for it.  They said it wasn’t as good as usual, so I’ll try it again.  Interestingly, while I am studying in Wales, all five of my roommates are English.  I have yet to really experience Wales.

I have to admit, everything feels like Christmas to me.  The weather, the way everyone’s swathed up, the fact that I’ve got a duvet on my bed which is labeled “13.5 Tog” which apparently means that its really warm.  The boiler doesn’t work right now either, it copped out sometime yesterday after the first tenant arrived and the man won’t be here until tomorrow to fix it.  Also no internet, so it should be today by the time this is actually posted. 

I think the best part of today is that… I'm sick.  I woke up with a sore throat yesterday and it’s developed into a cold.  Annoying that.  It doesn’t help that there’s no heat and its freezing outside.  Glad I bought the coat right about now, of course I was at Tesco yesterday buying linens and pillows and a duvet, and I saw coats for £50.  Of course.  Oh well, I love my coat.

Today was also the fresher’s party, something called “Fresh and Free.”  I wasn’t planning on going, but it was directly after the international welcome reception, so I figured I could stop buy.  It wasn’t awful, I met several people who were pretty cool and I'm excited for tomorrow’s orientation.  I may actually know some people. 

In all, I'm dubbing this a very good day.

Also pictures! (out of order)

 The fry up my roommates made for me my first morning here.

The globe!

Buckingham palace :)

Houston, we have liftoff

I'm here!  And by "here" I mean New York.  I arrived yesterday at about five pm, and though I thought about it, I didn't get to writing a post.  I meant to, I really did, but I hadn't slept all night, got a few hours on the plane, and in general needed to crash.  Even being three hours ahead, I fell asleep at about 8 while we were watching a movie and still slept through most of the night.  Then I woke up at 6 and am now bright eyed, bushy tailed, and ready to take on the day!

I think the most exciting bit for me is getting to see my cousin, Sarah, whom I rarely get to see.  Me being the dork that I am, I totally forgot she's living in New York until my dad reminded me on the way to the airport at four in the morning.  So I dropped her a message after arriving and we are going to meet up later.  Yay!

Anyway, let me backtrack.  My flight departed out of SFO at 7am in the morning, so we left Davis at 3am, drove to SF, and I was through security by 5:15.  Of course, there was some slight weather delay, so we got on half an hour later than expected.  We arrived two hours later than expected, and it took me twenty minutes longer than expected to meet my car, but in the end, all was well.

Probably the biggest problem I've encountered was luggage.  I was borrowing a small, check size bag from my sister, but after having it fully packed at thirty five pounds and knowing I had tons more, I realized I needed to get something bigger.  Luckily, I managed to get a six piece luggage set at JCPenny's for about thirty bucks (Score!), though its a bit rickety and not the greatest, I only intend to use the biggest size three or four times total, so I'm fine with it.  Of course, I packed that suitcase within an inch of its little cheap life, so it weighed a whole 50.5lbs.  I thought I could manage that buuuut maybe not.  I foresee a lot of taxies in my future.  Oh well, it'll all be worth it in the end.

I think I can now safely say that I have an apartment.  I got an email back saying that he had received my bank transfer, so I'm thinking that's real.  Something tells me if he was a scammer, he wouldn't bother emailing me that.

My mother cried when I left, of course, no one else.  It was sad saying goodbye to all my Davis friends, but mostly I think it hasn't quite sunk in yet.  Probably when I've been in Swansea for a few days and can't find cocoa puffs or peanut butter, that's when it'll hit.  But at least I'll be able to watch new Doctor Who episodes, Sherlock, and Downton Abbey WHEN THEY COME OUT.

And tonight, we'll be breaking out the champagne that has been waiting.  Pics of my adventures so far to follow!

T-28 Hours; On Packing

I hate packing.





That is all.

T-4 Days; FOUR DAYS

It’s nighttime.  Things are advancing.  I am leaving for another country in four days (three really, and really not for another week or so, since I have a stop off in New York for a few days first).  I'm literally bursting with excitement, which is mostly manifesting in tears and a bad stomach ache and a bit of a headache, which is a bit inconvenient.

I won’t go into details, but apparently accommodations has been emailing the wrong address, which means I'm not in dorms after all.  After  a bit of searching, I think I’ve found a place in the Brynmill area.  Don’t ask me how to pronounce it, I have no idea,  but I'm leaning towards “brimmel or “brin-mill,” so I'm just avoiding saying it aloud until I arrive and have someone explain it to me. 

Anyway, the room is a really good size in a good area, and the landlord seems very official, so I'm crossing my fingers it isn’t a scam.  Also crossing my fingers that any and all roommates I have are decent people, though my room is so big I can probably just hide in it.  I think the most frustrating thing is knowing that I bought those damn shower shoes and I have no reason to bring them now.  I also am going to have to do a bit more shopping than anticipated, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.  I think the saddest thing is knowing that I won’t be within walking distance of “The Wonky Sheep,” though I’ll get over that one quite quickly. 

There’s been a bit of family drama, which is to be expected in my family, but still is annoying to deal with right before I leave for another country for a year.  Anyway, bad news aside, I'm having ridiculous fun getting everything ready.

New jeans, one pair of non-jeans trousers (I must remember to call them “trousers” and not “pants”), a new top, and new shoes- so many new shoes!  A book light, power converters, all kinds of good things.  I love shopping.  I'm hoping I'm booked solid for the next few days with preparations and seeing people before I go, though I'm terrified things will fall through and I’ll be all alone. 

I had my going away party this weekend, which wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been.  We got waaaaaay too much food, but other than that, it was fine.  We had champagne in a park with little baby chocolate eclairs and good times were had by all.  Tomorrow I should be having lunch with a friend, then dinner and hangouts with another friend, and then tuesday begins official freakouts.

And I won’t lie, one of the things I'm looking forward to the most is getting to the end of my title countdown.  T-4 days, guys, are you ready?  I AM. 

T-16 Days; On Being Serious for half a second

I just read back through a few of my previous blog posts, mostly because I have given the URL of this blog to the first person who isn't related to me.  I'm terrified, because I've never had a blog before, and I don't know what people will think of it, but hey, write stuff.  Scribble a little every day, that's what Anne Lamott taught me, and I am, for once, following that advice.

These posts, I've begun to realize, have also helped me to document some of my life, which I am so good at NOT doing.  For being a writer, that's pretty much like a dog saying they don't much care for fetch.  There are those of us who struggle with daily journaling, just as there are dogs who struggle with fetch, and some dogs who just don't fancy it at all.  That's not entirely the case with me, I do like journaling, but without perspective I always have the trouble of coming back and finding what I've written to be trite and uninteresting.  Who cares about the simple everyday goings on of a twenty-something with no social life?

Sure, there are those twenty somethings who have entirely interesting social lives, who go out and do things and can tell you all about sex and the big city, style, intrigue, drama, gardening, painting, and whatever manner of hobbies that they happen to possess.  Even my revered Anne Lamott writes about writing.  She gets away with it, because she's a published writer and when she writes about writing its interesting and informative.  When I write about writing it sounds like a squirrel on crack with a pencil telling you to write a term paper on the merits of squirrel barking.  Or that weird double tap thing they do when they see you looking at them.

Please consider the last portion of that paragraph as an example of why I do not write about writing.

The thing is, I never know what to write about.  And here suddenly is a reason for me to write, every day, without end:  I am following my dream.

In reading through those past few blogs, I've remembered little moments I would otherwise have forgotten, remembered feelings I would have never thought about again.  Almost sixty days ago I was terrified that I had written such a low number in  my countdown, and now just look, sixteen days to go.  I have a visa, I have plans, I have money, I got through a whole month of working a boring day job, I am ready to plunge forward into the great beyond that is a Study Abroad Year.

So here I am, writing to you about the weirdness that I am and the wilds that are to come.  Hopefully I'll be able to tell you about all the good friends I am making, the slightly pompous locals who turn their noses up at foreigners, the kind locals who are willing to explain the me what a TV license is and how I can get one, the weird food and good beer, the sheep, the downs, the highlands, the moors, about everything English, and then everything German, French, Italian, Spanish, Czech, Swiss, and Dutch.  Hopefully I'll be able to take you along on this crazy, slightly by-the-seat-of-our-pants ride across the country to New York, from New York across the Atlantic Ocean, through London across the English Countryside, to a little city called Swansea.

The next year for me is fraught with exciting potential, terrifying possibilities, and maybe, occasionally, a good blog post.