"anyone living anywhere else must somehow, in a sense, be kidding"

While abroad, there were few times I was homesick. I actually went out of my way to avoid things that might have induced homesickness. For some reason songs about home tended to be the worst, especially Bobby Darin’s “Autumn in New York” and Simon and Garfunkle’s “Homeward Bound”; that last song makes me homesick a block away from my house. For those few times when I was longing for home, or when I needed a good laugh, I would turn to Overheard in New York. It would instantly get the monkey off my back, overloading my senses with that unique flavor that is “New York”.
I know people say it all the time, but I being a New Yorker is such a specific identity. It should be its own ethnicity. I mean, we have our own magazine. Over the past week, I’ve had my share of New York moments. Here are just a few:
- As I was walking past City Hall I heard a small boy, I’d guess around nine years of age, said flippantly to a man I presume was his father, “It’s your money; what do I care?” I don’t know what the question that resulted in that answer, but that just proves that Manhattan kids are a breed all their own.
- I ate a pretzel in Central Park in honor of a friend from the U.K. who, upon learning that I was from New York asked, “Oh my gosh! Do you just run around central park eating pretzels all day?”
- My friend placed an order at a restaurant that went something like this: “This is going to be a complicated order. I’d like the Chicken Curry Sandwich, but without the bread. And, can I replace the fries with a green salad? Ok, and instead of the house vinaigrette, can I have Caesar? Oh! And a Diet Coke with as little ice as possible and a straw.”
- No day in New York City is complete without your standard crazy-person monologue. I encountered mine on the bus ride from the subway. He somehow connected demons, Afghanistan and horses. I wasn’t really taking notes.
It’s good to be home.

"Feudal Japan... ninjas and shit."

There is this AMAZING show my father and I stumbled across while channel surfing. It’s called Ninja Warrior. It’s a Japanese game show that is being aired in the U.S. on G4, one of the 1,001 shows on satellite cable. I’ve never gotten worked up about any sort of game show yet this show had me whooping and hollering at the television like my energy could actually help the underdog homeroom teacher clear the rope jump. I think I’ve just found a new favorite show. Take a look.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=R4NbSvBkxgQ

I get it from somewhere

Are my parents funny? Yes, they really amuse me. Case in point:My father regularly, almost religiously, falls asleep in front of the television. I, as the young and agile one, am summoned by my mother to go downstairs and wake him. Some time ago I was sitting with my mom upstairs when she told me to do this. Being the lazy genius that I am, I picked up my cell phone and called my dad to tell him to wake up. It truly was perfect as 1) it usually takes five minutes plus to actually wake him with just my voice, and 2) we can call each other for free. It made sense. My mother turned to me as I did this and gave me a look of confusion and disgust. “What?” I asked. She just shook her head in shame. “What kind of a mother have I been?” she rhetorically asked.
Cut to three months later:
I’m sitting with my mother again when she says, “We should wake your dad up.” Whenever she says ‘We’ she usually means ‘you, daughter’, so I expected I would have to do my usual duty. Not a moment passed before she picked up her cell phone and dialed my father. I turned to her, my stoicism silently demanding an answer. When I received none, I pointed out how she’d called me lazy for doing the same thing a few months earlier. “When you’re right you’re right,” she told me. She and my dad agreed that it was easier to wake up to the ringing of his cell phone than anyone spending ten minutes coaxing him to consciousness and reasoning with him to just go to bed.
So, yes, my parents are hilarious.

Like running into a pole

While abroad I was extremely afraid of running into someone I knew from back home. No one specific, just someone. Don’t be confused; I’m no misanthrope. When I get the premonition that I’m going to run into someone, it’s never someone I would ever want to run into. It’s always someone around whom I’m extremely awkward or profusely detest. While in Dublin, I was particularly worried to run into this one fellow I went to high school with. He’s one of the most insincere people I’ve ever met. He’s an actor (literally) who is always acting but that’s another story. The point is, when this feeling rises up in my chest it’s accompanied by dread. Since my return, however, I’ve run into two extremely wonderful people.

The first, I stumbled across while waiting in line at Customs upon reentering the country. She, too, is someone I went to high school with though with whom there was a mutual respect and admiration. I saw her and immediately thought “Naa,” because, seriously, what were the odds? Later, I caught a glimpse of her boots and knew it was her; they were her signature Doc Martin’s that she’d sported all through high school. She had also spent the semester abroad in London and we had never seen each other, yet she happened to be on the same flight home.
It happened again yesterday. I was walking with some friends when I ran into another friend. This was someone I hadn’t seen in about a year. Every time we see each other we’re able to pick up right where we left off, not in a nostalgic way but in a way that incorporates our own personal growth.
I wonder who I’ll run into next?

I didn’t know this was an eye exam

You may not be aware of what I’m about to tell you. If you’ve ever posted a comment on this blog or others like it, you know, but if you haven’t you best listen up.
In order for one to post a comment in response to a blog post, one must type a sequence of letters in the correct order. I haven no idea why this is. Presumably if I was able to type a coherent comment I should be able to correctly copy these random letters, no? Wrong. The squiggly font and my slight case of dyslexia actually make this a difficult task. More than once I’ve entered what I thought were the correct letters in the correct order only to be told that the sequence I entered was incorrect. I’m then given the chance to re-submit my comment with a different, “easier” sequence of letters.
Here’s what I don’t get: If I can be given a simple sequence of letters, why isn’t the simple sequence given to me from the beginning? I didn’t realize mental distress and retinal strain was necessary to tell someone I agree that Yael Naim's "New Soul" should be the song of this summer.

Leavin' on a jet plane

Over the past few days it’s been difficult to post as I’ve been trying to settle in at home. On my way from Bristol I spent a total of thirteen hours in transit. This includes sitting around and waiting in several different places. Normally waiting in an airport while waiting for your gate to be announced is one of the most draining experiences of travel. Fortunately I found a new sitting area that had just been built and tucked away in a corner, so no one actually knew it was there, people just sort of stumbled across it with a look of wonder and surprise. I actually had a fairly pleasant and calm journey at every turn. I kept waiting for something to go wrong but my expectations were always exceeded. Then came the crowning gem of my entire trip: the Air India flight safety video.
Let me begin by saying that Air India is an amazing airline. There were tons of in-flight movie and t.v. options, the food was amazing, the flight was fairly empty, my bags weren’t lost, and the ticket was extremely affordable. There was even a fun comedy animation made special by Air India. They tried to pass it off as a flight safety video, but I knew better. It began with a strange 3D animation of a what I’m going to presume was a human male, walking down the isle of what could have been an air plane. What followed was a thrilling tale of face masks and life jackets in which we meet his similarly deformed 3D wife and child. As luck would have it, it was a double feature! A second video, shot in the same style, showed the inner workings of the plane’s toilet. We learned where to flush, how to distinguish ‘occupied’ from ‘unoccupied’, ‘hot’ from ‘cold’ and a somewhat graphic representation of which items were inappropriate to flush down the toilet.
This video went on for about seven minutes, all the while narrated in sign-language in the upper right-hand corner. I was so mesmerized by this cinematic masterpiece that I didn’t realize it was being narrated in Hindi. Imagine my glee when the entire double feature was replayed in English. I had to sit through the whole shebang all over again while trying not to laugh as loud as the video deserved.
I can’t wait to fly Air India again.

Making a list and checking it twice

Tomorrow morning I return to the United States. I'm at that stage right now where there's nothing left to pack, I've even taken down my walls. There's nothing left to do but wait. As I tend to do when I'm bored, I've occupied my time with making lists. Lists of things to pack when I wake up, lists of things to do once I get home, lists of ideas for blog posts, lists of lists. I suppose it's psychologically related to why I like containers and packing; it makes things ordered in a sense. Plus, there are so many different ways to classify things! I made a list of all the things I'm going to miss about Bristol aside from the people. The fact that I'll miss the friends I've made here goes without saying. So, without further adieu:

heated floor- When I read the description of where I'd be staying, it said the floors were heated. I thought to myself, “Well, I should hope so.” What I didn't understand was that the literal floor was what was warmed. It circulates heat perfectly and gives you a toast surface to step onto in the cold, winter morning.

“love”- I'm going to miss this as a casual term of endearment.

Long walks- Like where I grew up (though not at all like where I've been going to school) there is a huge walking culture. People walk everywhere. Men and women alike carry heavy-duty walking sticks. Normally, I 'm the kind of person who can just curl up and stay in-doors all day. I think I've done that once in the five months I've been here. I find myself eager to get out and walk around the city, sometimes without purpose, sometimes creating one as I go. I love it.

Well dressed men- In general, guys here tend to understand that if women are putting in the effort to look nice, so should they. Thank you, gentlemen.

The view- The English take their gardens seriously and it shows. My window overlooks a sprawling community garden that captures the perfect balance between patterns of unkept, wild growth and controlled weeding and pruning. It's courtyarded (is that a word?) by five-floor walk-ups, which are actually six floors as in the UK the bottom floor is known as the ground floor and what we North Americans call the “second” floor, here is called the “first”. Through my other window I can see a busy street and an old church that still has the top points of its towers

missing from the blitz. It's great to watch the daily dramas that take place along this road.

Sainsbury's- Three words: store brand ROCKS.

Cider- Bristol has some amazing local brews and everyone drinks it. It's not frowned upon or snickered at.

Tea- Rather, access to good tea. I guess I'll be fine with Twinings, but it's not the same as good ole' cheap Tetle's. Also, I'll miss the tea drinking culture; I like the way everyone just sort of chills out around four. It's not quite as intense as siesta, but it works really well.

Weather- This one surprised me, too. Granted, it rained about once each day but I enjoy the way it always kept you on your toes. I got good at reading the weather and listening to it and am was usually able to estimating when it would rain. The weather also goes well with tea, which was the previous item on this list.

Something tells me I'll be back at Bristol at some point, if not for the people then for all these things.

Log- Day 1

12:20 a.m.- Power just went out. Was on Skype with parents when it happened. Lost power and internet connection. Surrounding blocks without lights. Can see lights a few streets over.

12: 22 a.m.- Two large electrical trucks just came down street. How did they get here so fast? I bet they're responsible; that's the only explanation.

12:24 a.m - Left room to investigate. Hall lights dim from reserve power supply. Can hear the alarm of the Student Union across the street. My flatmate is in the hall on her cell phone. We both fear for the boredom that will inevitably set in

12:25 a.m - Went for glass of water in kitchen. Lucky there is a full moon and clear sky tonight; makes it easy to get through the mess that is our kitchen.

12:29 a.m - Brushed teeth for exceptionally longer than usual. Don't know why. Used travel book light to see in the toilet stall.

12:34 a.m - Only have 15 min left on lap top battery. Should turn it off to use in the morning. This may be my last entry...

12:35 a.m - Power returns. Still bored. Going to pack some more.

Don't forget your toothbrush

Packing always seems epic. I enjoy it, though. It sort of fits in with my love of containers. More than that, I enjoy the puzzle aspect of it, which is strange since I don't really enjoy many (if any) other kinds of puzzles. I always pack far ahead of time then re-pack about two more times before being satisfied with the way things are organized, which things I'm actually taking with me, sometimes the bag itself will be changed in the process.

With each year of college I've become a more efficient packer. I've brought fewer things with me each time, especially this past semester spent abroad. I came with one large duffel back, a gym-sized over-night bag and my back pack. Pretty respectable, if I do say so myself.

Re-packing everything at the end of each school year has also taken on a bit of an art form. There's a sort of ritualistic way I dismantle the space I live in. First, all excess paper goods are disposed of. Next, most clothes are put away. This usually means things that are either not warm enough or too warm to wear in a given season. The last thing to be packed, aside from toiletries needed on the day of departure, are wall decorations. I can't stand being in a room with bare walls. As I can attest to, it's very difficult to sleep in such rooms. It reminds me just how institutional those spaces are. The strangeness and unfamiliarity of a place are magnified when there are no distractions in it. With pictures and other embellishments I'm able to imbue the space with a meaning all my own, making it a home instead of an enclosed domicile. They also catch sound, making it harder to hear the creeks of building, the rattling of a window or even your own echoing breaths.

“Taking the walls down”, as like to call it, is the closest I can get to removing myself from a place without actually leaving it. “Taking the walls down” means I'm returning it to whoever it truly belongs to. Until it's all down, it's still mine in some capacity. In general, that usually makes it easier to leave a place because it becomes a completely different space as the object in the room were, essentially, what the room was. In essence, I get packed while the room, well that's back to its natural state of roomness, behaving in that way that only empty rooms can behave or understand.

(This might all make more sense after reading yesterday's post.)

I can hardly contain myself

I love containers. Boxes, jars, drawers, cases, you name it; if it has a lid, I'm in love. As a child I loved to play in boxes, like any kid. I also had a fascination with tins, the kind that they sell popcorn in around Christmas time, as well as cups. When I was 10, I first discovered there was such a place as The Container Store; I have yet to work up the courage to go into that shop, as I'm certain I'll waste a good portion of my life inside it.

I love their immense variety, how they can be decorative or plain, large or small. They're smooth to the touch. I enjoy the way they hide things away making you guess their contents. It's so satisfying to tear off a lid or unzip a zipper and reveal what's inside. Yet, I also find translucent containers attractive as well; the fact that they have no mystery at all is part of their allure. They seem to point out that the box itself serves no purpose except as a vessel to other objects. Their decoration is the contents itself. I'm sure there's some philosophical principle at work there. For every item in your life there exists a container for it, unless that item is itself a container. Even then, there exist containers for containers, or ones which are sub-divided into smaller containers for optimal storage and organization. Most of these are actually quite pointless. It's just, there's something wonderful about being able to package things away or easily hold them in your hands.

Some of their appeal may have to do with the culturally emphasized desire to compartmentalize, to group things together. Containers give things bounds and constraints. They're easy to stack and store. It's possible they embody many of the things that are wonderful and terrible about the modern age; diversity and organization as well as restriction and over complication.

Done is Good

I took my last exam of the term today. I'd been waiting three weeks (since my penultimate exam) to take the damn thing. Normally once I finish an exam I'm filled with this gigantic, thrilling sensation of relief and joy. I didn't even have it in me to feel all that pleased. Over the past three weeks, the prospect of this exam has been slowly draining my life force out of me like a terminal illness. Then, some time near midnight it dawned on me: I was done. The relief was delayed but it finally came. I celebrated with two cups of Sainsbury's tiramisu and a marathon of Wonderfalls.

When something is done, when it ends, you never know how to feel about it. Sometimes you think you know how you should feel and sometimes you do feel that way but more often than not, we surprise ourselves. Presumably, when something ends, you're coming out of a liminal state. The word “liminal” comes from the Greek word for “threshold”, the space of an archway between two rooms. In a rite of passage, it's the transition from one part of your life to another. Coming out of that state of liminalty can be disorienting or even frightening. Yet, once this period comes to an end, something new is positioned to begin.

Somewhere between my second cup of tiramisu and the last episode of Wonderfalls, a small bit of the universe revealed itself to me. It may seem obvious, but I realized things are ending every single moment. That sentence, it just ended. There, it happened again! Spacetime itself is a series of points that propel those who exist in it forward along a line, ending our stay at one moment in time and moving us to the next. Even spacetime has an end (in theory) which (in theory) is directly followed by a new universe composed of a new spacetime formed from the mass of the one that preceded it.

All things come to an end; a life, a relationship, a school term. The end is not the end, though. To recognize that is pretty useful. Family is always family. Love never dies. Academia will always suck at your soul. Once something is over, however, you're able to understand it from the outside looking in, reflect on it, feel relief. Granted, you're probably about to be thrown into something just as big as whatever you just came out of but for a few moments, at least, the universe might open itself to you long enough to get some insight on whatever existence is about to throw at you.

That was heavy. Now you all know why I don't smoke pot; my mind would undoubtedly EXPLODE.

Just say NO to Nostalgia

Today I re-learned how to knit.

Initially, I learned to knit about ten years ago. My mother taught me at the time. She used to be an avid crocheter and dabbled enough in knitting to teach me what was what. Kitting quickly became an obsession that effectively distracted me from any and all other activities. The process of knitting, or even watching someone knit, is ridiculously mesmerizing. In fact, it became so distracting I had to give it up. Yes, like heroin. I had a brief stint with knitting again three years ago when the school play I was in needed a scarf for one of the costumes. Each member of the cast took terns knitting a few rows of the scarf. Inevitably when it was my turn I knitted around half of the scarf and became so distracted that the director had to reprimand me.

Taking up a set of needles for the first time in ten years was... strange. It came back to me fairly easily, sort of like riding I bike, I suppose. I wouldn't know; I never learned how to ride a bike. The of my hands motion was so familiar and comforting. Small tactile tasks always feel comforting, crafts in general. It must be the reason babies always want to grab things. I once knew someone would make typing hand motions all because she learned to type at a really young age. Whenever her hands were unoccupied she usually (and unconsciously) started typing her full name in spite of the fact that a key board was nowhere in site.

So many other things made today's knitting rediscovery comforting. I'd had soup earlier in the day, I was drinking tea whilst knitting, and I was in the company of good friends. Then I said, “A cat would make this moment perfect.” The words left my mouth before their true meaning dawned on me.

Oh God, I'm going to be a spinster. I refuse to be the crazy cat lady. Not to say that such a lifestyle choice is immoral or wrong, in fact, I know people who aspire to it and are quite suited for it. Not me. I say “No”. I'm drawing the line here. Once I return home, I'm refusing to ever pick up a set of knitting needles ever again. At least for the next five years.

"...Do not hasten to bid me adieu..."

First off, how do people feel about the new banner. Is it too difficult read? Or does that retina strain accurately capture the chaos that is my mental state?

Next, I don't why I was surprised by this, but I was reminded again this evening how saying goodbye never gets easier. As this term draws to a close, many of my friends studying abroad at the University of Bristol decided to get together for a final night out together. Over the next week and a half we will all be returning to home, wherever that might be for however long. More shocking than how hard it has been to say goodbye to so many people who have been such a huge part of my life for the past five months is the way in which the song “Red River Valley” has been stuck in my head for the past week.

This is where things get really sappy.

At my elementary school it was a tradition for the 6^th graders to sing “Red River Valley” to the rest of the school on the last day of classes as they would be moving up to middle school and (hopefully) on to better things. The song goes:

From this valley they say you are going
We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile
For they say you are taking the sunshine
That has brightened our pathways awhile

CHORUS:
Come and sit by my side, [and be friendly]*
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the [folks]** who loved you so true
* some claim this line is “ if you love me”
** has been known to be sung “ cowboy”

It's actually much longer, but this was the only part we sang at school. It's just enough to get the message across. I never thought this song would ever have any real significance in my life after the last day of 6^th grade. It seems I was wrong, as I am about so many things.

I also seemed to forget how freakin' long it takes people to say goodbye. It must have taken a good 45 minutes for us to all say goodbye to one another. This "Long Goodbye" actually turned into a miniature trek up Park Street, the steepest street in Bristol, finally ending in front of a bar where we then stood for another 25 minutes before anyone went home or inside the bar. It's always awkward breaking those things up or being the first to leave. You don't want to seem insensitive, but really I'm just looking for an out the whole time. I try to treat Goodbyes like tearing off a band-aid: you brace yourself for it then just do it in one quick motion.

But this story has a happy ending! There are several friends I've made here who live near to my home-town and where I go to school, so it's nearly certain I'll be seeing them in the fall. Also, some of us have been talking about having a mini reunion three years from now. I really shouldn't worry so much; I know I'll stay in contact with the people who have meant the most to me while others will still hold a special place in my heart and memory along with the city of Bristol.

Okay. I think I need to watch a double feature of Blood Sport and Boondock Saints to wash all this sap off of me.

It's the simple things in life

It's true that in comparison to many European nations, the United States is far behind in regards to social and economic reforms. Some things, however, we do really well.

This evening I made s'mores with friends. S'mores, I've learned, are only known to North Americans. While my American and Canadian friends were eager and excited by this event I had planned, my Australian, British and Asian friends were a bit perplexed.

“What's a graham cracker?” several asked after reading the wikipedia article on s'mores.

Where does one begin?

After being linked to the wikipedia article on graham crackers we learned, “was developed in 1822 in Bound Brook, New Jersey, by Presbyterian minister Rev. Sylvester Graham.” While interesting, this bit of information was hardly helpful. Fortunately, the common Digestive biscuit that can be found in the U.K. is quite similar to a graham cracker in taste, though not in density or shape. With the lack of graham cracker, I came up with the idea of sandwiching the roasted marshmallow between one plain and one chocolate covered Digestive, thus eliminating the need to also buy bars of chocolate. I must say, it was one of the best ideas I've ever had, and that's saying a lot as I have at least three good ideas each day of my life. For a fire we purchased a single-use grill along with some skewers. Never before was something more perfectly planned. Maybe some assassination, but if that was really well planned it would have looked like an accident and we would have no way of knowing about it. But I digress.

Teaching people about something you love is one of the greatest feelings in the world. I never thought I'd feel proud of something as simple as a s'more. Even the process of explaining how to make one was something I thought I'd never experience until I was a parent or unfortunate enough to have to become a camp councilor. Almost everyone's expectations were exceeded.

“But it's so messy,” one of my British friends commented.

To which my North American comrades responded:

“That's the point!”

Yes, sometimes sinking your teeth into a gooey, sugary mess is all you need to be truly content. Especially if fire is involved.

In good Spirits

Apologies for spelling "Pensieve" wrong in the previous post. It won't happen again!

The other day a friend and I went on a ghost tour. We'd planned to go on the tour a while ago and decided to wait for warmer weather to do it. The evening was strange and fun, though not necessarily for the reasons we thought it would be.

The tour began on the College Green in front of the main entrance of the Bristol Cathedral. I can understand how the cathedral is a good place to begin a ghost tour, as it sets the mood really well, referencing aspects of history, religion and general creepiness. Strangely enough, the College Green, (specifically at the foot of the cathedral's buttressing), starting around half past seven, one can find most of the juvenile delinquents residing in the city of Bristol. We got the chance to witness some mangy hooligans breaking the two-hundred year-old stain glass windows with a soccer ball before our tour guide (let's call him Richard) called the cops on them. There was, of course, a cop car there but the two officers inside it said they were there for another reason, thus couldn't get involved. Whatever their reason may have been, I never actually saw them leave there car.

More so than learning which places in the city were allegedly haunted, the entertainment came from hearing Richard's commentary on his city. As we walked, he not only pointed out local haunts (pun intended) but also famous filming locations, buildings he thought were particularly ugly, and all the cops, door men and bouncers he knew. He even got free chips at the one chip shop. The whole thing was wonderfully casual and personal, especially because my friend and I were the only people on the our. Okay, that's not entirely true. One of Richard's friends, (we'll call him Tom), who had never been on the tour was with us. He, too, interjected with his own fun facts about Bristol and life in the city.

Also, Shirley Bassey is a major diva bitch! According to Richard she requested a private lift when she stayed at the Marriott Hotel and a jacuzzi in her dressing room for a one night performance. Not even the flippin' queen is that demanding! Her daughter used to be a student at the University of Bristol. She and her mother had a falling out and apparently one night she jumped off of the Cliffton suspension bridge and died. I guess she didn't see the good Samaritans hotline at the gate of the bridge.

Having lived here for the past five months, the tour was a great way to rediscover a lot of places I thought I knew. It's amazing how many streets and buildings I've passed by without a second glance. I'll definitely stop and reconsider many of the places when I pass them again. Oh, and Shirley Bassey is a bitch.

A change of heart

So, for a while I've been against the concept of starting a blog. The internet is over run by them, many of them pointless and poorly written. But recently two of my good friends started their own and I took a moment to reconsider this whole blog thing. It makes sense, as an exercise in writing and a way to waste time and trace my thoughts. My mind is a pretty busy place and it might help to have a place to empty out my thoughts, much like that gadget from Harry Potter. You know, a pensive. I think this digital pensive could prove useful and fun!