A First

This weekend I attended my first literary conference.  This means I awoke on a Saturday at seven in the morning of my own volition.  I’m thoroughly impressed with myself.  I say literary, but in actuality it was an interdisciplinary event on psychoanalysis and children’s fiction.  Apart from one moment where hunger and the warm temperature of the room threatened to sedate me, I was enthralled by the papers presented. Topics such as art therapies, manga, and the figure of the orphan in juvenile literature were among the highlights.  My favorite, however, was a student paper on Twilight and rape fantasies that was very persuasively argued.  In a word: fascinating.  

Ragini and Me

Liz and Ragini

Liz was one of the organizers.

I clearly struggled to get a decent group shot of

Brinda, Sarah and me.

A few of my fellow students were also in attendance (a friend of mine was one of the organizers), so it was nice to be able to chat and discuss the presented papers during lunch and coffee breaks.  The grub offered for the former was surprisingly delicious, and I may have consumed three pieces of cake throughout the day.  Maybe.  I hope I have the chance to be part of more academic conferences in the future – even if they begin at ungodly hours.

I had to capture the rainbow that emerged 

as I was walking home.

Flatmate No. 1: Gaurav

 Gaurav is a 29-year-old Phd student who is researching hydrogen fuels.  He hails from India – just outside of Mumbai, to be precise.  


Gaurav likes: sci-fi television, cooking, sharing what he makes (luckily for me), and sending cryptic text messages.


Gaurav dislikes: turning on the heating, wasting food, inauthentic Indian cuisine, and meat.  

Creating a delicious and delightfully spicy biryani.

Gaurav and I have bonded over food.  It really does bring people together: he likes cooking, and I like eating.  It's such a symbiotic relationship!  In all seriousness, I think Gaurav appreciates that I appreciate his cuisine.  Our other two flatmates don't have much of a tolerance for spicy food, so I am sometimes the only one in the house who is able to try what he makes and, with complete honesty, compliment the outcome. Also, Gaurav has been a vegetarian all his life, and since I am trying to go veg (it's much more difficult than I was anticipating), he has opened my eyes to all sorts of meat-free combinations I have never before seen.  However, we widely differ in our media preferences.  What follows is a brief conversation that took place shortly after I moved into the house, in which Gaurav rebukes my taste in television.

Gaurav: Do you watch Star Trek: Voyger?

Me:  No.

Gaurav: Do you watch Star Trek: Deep Space Nine?

Me. No.  In general, I'm not into sci-fi.

Gaurav: [Makes exclamation of derision.] Do you watch Stargate?

Me. No.

Gaurav: Do you watch Stargate: Atlantis?

Me. No.

Gaurav: Do you watch Babylon 5? 

Me. No.

Gaurav: [Shakes head in consternation and disbelief.]

END SCENE

Clearly, I need to reform my viewing habits.

Welcome to My Humble Abode*

I've had a few friends and family members ask questions about where I live, so I thought I would provide a little virtual tour.  I live in a terrace house (what we Americans would call a townhome) in the middle of a quiet street.  I'd guess it's just over 100-year mark.  Although it contains six bedrooms, there are currently four occupants, myself included.  

The entryway, the door on your right leads to the living room...

Back to the hallway, where you will find the kitchen door at back of the ground floor.

 No need to tell me you want my carpet.

I can feel your envy emanating through cyber space.

Excuse the bad lighting.

 Then up the stairs we go to the second floor landing where you will find...

 Bathroom No. 1. and...

 Bathroom No. 2.

We have since had spiffy new linoleum installed.

Also, take notice of the position of the toilet seat.

I felt it best not to interfere with nature for my photo shoot.

 Stairs to the third floor, taken from Bathroom No. 2.

Bathrooms, apparently, are so important 

they are granted capitalization.

If this frame continued to the left,

you would find my bedroom door.

Third floor landing.

Yes, it is raining.Welcome to England.

A view from the top.

Still to come: photos of the exterior, surrounding area, my bedroom, and the basement of which I am sorely afraid.

*The title of this post is provided by Mr. Collins of Pride and Prejudice fame. 

The Bad Bus Day

I love utilizing public transport in England.  It’s much better than that of any other place I’ve had the opportunity to visit.  Plus, I don’t have to deal with the hassle of vehicular maintenance, rising gasoline prices, and (confession alert!) I still have no clue how to change a flat tire. 

Instead, I walk a short distance to the bus station, a mere two miles from campus.  I have friends who walk this twice daily, but the American in me maintains I am entirely justified in making use of the quintessential double decker.  Buses run frequently, so I never have to wait long; and once on board I sit back and watch the scenery or immerse myself in a book.  The only instance in which I truly lament the loss of a car is when I wish I could pop over to Del Taco at three in the morning for a quesadilla.

Sadly, a few days ago, my trust in Britain’s transport was shaken to the core.  Nothing seemed amiss as I claimed a seat towards the back of the bus on my way into town…until I noticed the smell harassing my nostrils from several different directions.  It was a delightful combination of body odor and unwashed hair.  I began to wonder if all the horrible jokes about Europeans and their lack of regular bathing were rooted in truth. 

And then, just behind me, the congested snorting.  I can be slightly obsessive compulsive, so visions of virus-laden air danced through my head.  To make matters worse, a man at the front of the bus then began an incessant hack that only added fuel to the proverbial fire.  Needless to say, I was quite happy to make my escape.  Perhaps I will start wearing ‘bus pants’ like Sheldon Cooper in an effort to avoid contamination.  

I have only seen red buses in London.

I wonder why that is. Hmm...

Meet Percy

Most of you know that I dote on my dog Percy to the point of ridiculousness and, if my conversation is any indication, doggy anecdotes will no doubt litter this blog before I can say, 'Sit!'  I thought a short introduction would be the order of the day, but Percy had other ideas and insisted on introducing himself.  So, I will leave him to it....

Dearest Friends,

It has come to my attention that the evidently insane lady who relentlessly insists upon referring to me as her ‘baby boy’ (such an impertinence) has resolved to incorporate narratives concerning me into her little writings.  As such, I feel it only right I should be first be presented to you by own paw.  What can I say of myself?  I consider myself to be an active fellow.  Vigorous exercise in the form of long romps and games of cuz, the details of this extraordinary invention shall be related at a future date, are wholly invigorating and enjoyable.  I wish I could say that such practices occupy much of my day, but this would be a falsehood.  For I often find that following these corporeal efforts, I am much fatigued.  The only practice I have thus far discovered as a means of establishing restoration is the undertaking of multiple slumbers, they need only be brief, throughout the day.  

I consider it my sworn duty to protect the property and livelihood of my family.  Much of my time is dedicated to this endeavour.  I must confess I often quickly retract from interrogating interlopers upon their entering the estate, but I assure you that this action is entirely due to my quickly comprehending that these persons impose no threat.  Nor is it a sign of cowardice, as many have supposed, that I quickly scamper under the furniture at these entrances.  Rather, I feel it necessary to have an improvised weapon at my disposal in the event that I should abruptly be called upon to defend my residence.  As I am not a sporting lad, I own no traditional weaponry and would of necessity be compelled to make use of such items as chairs should an unfortunate incident occur.  Yes, quite.

My lone grievance is that my family often show to me the same deference given to the canine in our household: Scavenger, a rotund and indolent beagle.  As a well-bred gentleman of considerable rank descending from a fine lineage of toy fox terrier blood, I find this treatment appalling.  While I have repeatedly expressed my displeasure at the inedible kibble served to us twice daily, I have yet to witness any enduring alterations in the menu.  Perhaps it is time to engage new servants.  My sleeping quarters are equally disagreeable.  At times I succeed in acquiring the comfort of the best beds in the manor, more often than not I am left to repose in the kitchen with the animals.  It is a hardship not easily borne.  

Despite all this, I possess an implacable fondness for my family. My mother especially is, indeed, rather too effusive in her affections, but I tolerate them the best I can.  She is, nevertheless, devoted and benevolent.  During this prolonged absence, I miss her greatly.  I remain

Yours, etc.

Sir Perceval P. Pup

It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

 Defending the drawing room, 

in this case, from the wily schemes of the cat.

 En garde!

A Problem

These are the books I have accumulated from just one semester of graduate studies:

Not included are the texts I have (or will have) purchased for the spring term and my dissertation.  The problem, of course, is finding an inexpensive means to get all of this home.  I am in big trouble. Big. Trouble.

Happy Birthweek Anna!

Anna doesn’t celebrate her birthday for just one day.  It is an event that takes place over an entire week.  Thus: birthweek!  

The birthweek girl!

On Saturday, a bunch of us gathered to honor Anna and all her fabulousness.  The festivities began at her flat where party hats were compulsory.

The International Students Squad!

From left to right:

The Norwegian, the Swede, the American & the Canadian

While devouring Anna’s homemade focaccia bread (amazing!) and assorted snacks, we played a drinking game. I am ashamed to say that this really emphasized how slow I can be.  The rules had to be explained to me multiple times, and even then I still managed to do things incorrectly.  I have absolutely no excuse either, because I was downing sparkling fruit juice during all of this.  I guess I am one of those people who is book smart – or, let’s say, has an uncanny ability to quote entire scenes from numerous films – but is wholly lacking in common sense.  Go, Me!

Sporting 'The Clearance Dress'

Eventually, we made our way to The Faversham for some dancing.  I am clearly getting old, because by two am I was knackered and had to call it a night.  Coming from someone whose ‘natural’ bedtime is when the birds start chirping, that’s saying something.  All in all, it was a great night.  Happy Birthday Anna!

Amanda, Alexandra & Me

 Drinking with pinkies up was one of the 'rules' for our little game.

The Group:

Amanda, Alex, Kate, Lucy, Anna & Elin.

 Anna & Me

The Nation; Or, A Portrait of Procrastination

Red is, in my humble opinion, a fantastic color – it features strongly in my décor and wardrobe choices. For years I’ve wanted to wear a bright red lipstick, but I’ve never had the courage to actually go through with it.  This week I finally took the plunge.  Here are the results:

 Here's hoping can carry this look off!

My new cosmetic purchase made itself useful as I prepared for a day on the town.  Amanda and I had lunch at one of my favorite places in the city centre, A Nation of Shopkeepers.  It has a great atmosphere and great burgers.  I’ve been in love with the mushroom burger since it and my taste buds were first acquainted.  It’s nothing much – just flat mushrooms, grilled halloumi cheese and red onion – but its simplicity doesn’t detract from its deliciousness.  This, combined with amazing chips, made for a great lunch.  We then followed up our meal with some afternoon shopping.

 Tasty, but messy. I finally resorted to consuming it with a knife and fork.

 Amanda with her chicken burger.

She said she prefers the beef.

 Funky Background

I believe I have already mentioned my Achilles’ heel: procrastination.  What follows is a perfect instance of that horrible habit in action.  For this transatlantic flight I decided to bring along the majority of my bedding.  It turned out to be a brilliant idea.  My sheets, comforter and duvet cover were miniaturized with the aid of vacuum bags.  After nearly thirty hours of traveling, I finally arrived at my new house exhausted from all the layovers, waiting in airport terminals and dragging of suitcases.  But in five minutes – voila! An instant bed.  My pillow, however, added too much weight and remained at home.

I vowed to buy a pillow or two as soon as possible.  In the meantime, a cushion from the living room would suffice.  Yet with the hassle of settling in to a new home in a new city, I just didn’t seem to find the time.  Next week, I said.  But then I commenced university  seminars and the chaos of graduate study distracted me from my task.  Next week, I said…and so on. Today I finally succeeded in acquiring two plush pillows.  This means I spent approximately fifteen weeks postponing such a simple errand.  I think that merits some sort of procrastination award.  Now I just need to hang up the Pre-Raphaelite prints I bought in London for my bedroom to be complete.  Maybe I’ll do that tonight…or next week.

I also found a fabulous dress on clearance today.  That is irrelevant to this post; I just felt like sharing.

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November...

Gunpowder, treason and plot

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason

Should ever be forgot…

This past fifth of November marked my third celebration of Bonfire Night.  For those of you who may not be familiar with it, this is the day when Britain celebrates the foiling of a plot by Guy Fawkes and other conspirators to destroy the Houses of Parliament in 1605.  Guy Fawkes was later drawn and quartered.  Every year large fires are lighted and Guy dolls burned to symbolize the remembrance of treason.  The university’s international office was kind enough to circulate an email emphasizing that these effigies were dummies, not real people.  Thanks, I was worried.  Apart from the massive fire, Bonfire Night reminds me very much of Independence Day.  In fact, I have been known to refer to it as 'the Fourth of July in the cold.'  There are carnivals, cotton candy (called candy floss here), sparklers, and the evening concludes with firework displays.  Instead of snow cones, however, you find hot tea.  Tank tops and sandals are replaced with coats and scarves.

The crowd gathered around the fire.

 The fire is large, but I've been to bigger bonfires than this.

It puts me in the mood for s'mores.

 This year I attended the festivities at a local park with Amanda, Anna and Lindsey (who was visiting Amanda from the States).  After trudging our way through the mud, we finally made our way to the bonfire.  So sorry, new boots! It’s interesting to note how traveling has the ability to recreate excitement over habitual occurrences.  We have all seen too many firework shows to count, but witnessing one for Bonfire Night in England made it thrilling.  We oohed and ahhed and discussed which fireworks were our favourites.  We drew the attention of a nearby spectator who struck up a conversation with us.  I think he was particularly charmed by Amanda’s accent. 

 Anna, Lindsey, Amanda & Me

Ben seemed harmless enough; a bit strange maybe, but a nice sort of fellow.  His willingness to take the featured group shots was very convenient.   But before we knew it, he was inviting himself for drinks following the fireworks.  Awkward.  It was a feeling that grew as he uttered one inappropriate comment after another, and we all grew increasingly uncomfortable.  I doubt Ben realized this.  I think he thought he was pretty smooth as he showed us his moves. Literally all of us; his focus rapidly transferred from one girl to the next. A friend from our group thought he recognized Ben from his accommodation hall in first year and sent a text to a friend wondering if they remembered Ben as well.  The response: ‘Yeah, he’s a weirdo.’  And I was the poor soul sitting next to said weirdo at Strawbs.  I inched closer and closer to Amanda in a desperate attempt to evade him.  At long last, he excused himself; but not before inviting me to the chaplaincy for international student meetings.  He didn’t even accept my passive-aggressive refusal.  Luckily, the mood lifted at his departure, and I had a fantastic night pubbing in great company.

Sam immediately bonded with Lindsey over chats about One Tree Hill.

Lindsey's brother is the producer. Sam maintained this level of enthusiasm throuoghout the evening.

All in all, it was the best Bonfire Night yet.  Still, there are those of us for whom the words ‘Creepy Ben’ will forever conjure a myriad of uncomfortable and hilarious connotations.  By the following morning he was the theme of all our jokes – to his day he creeps his way into our conversations.  At the very least, he’s provided us with an interesting anecdote.  But there are also some great lessons to be derived from this experience.  ‘Creepy Ben’ (so called in order to distinguish him from the lovely Ben on our course) did everything wrong despite his efforts to be the suave ladies’ man.  Therefore, for the benefit of men on the prowl everywhere, I shall conclude this post with a short compilation of what guys should avoid when attempting to pick us up as inspired by ‘Creepy Ben.’

1.      Don’t be fickle: We know you like to keep your options open, but don’t hit on more than one girl at once.  It makes us feel like pieces of meat, and here you are, metaphorically comparing prices and squishing the packages trying to decipher which has the lowest fat content.  Bottom line: it’s not flattering.

2.      Don’t tell us our friend is really hot: Even if it’s true, we don’t want to hear it.  To expound on this principle, making sexual innuendos about our friends is even more inappropriate.

3.      Arrogance kills ardour faster than anything: Wondering aloud why your friend is with her significant other makes you sound like a total ass, particularly when you’re no looker yourself.  Never a turn on.

4.      Nix on the ex business: Case in point: ‘I got my ex a giant card for Valentine’s Day.  The sex afterwards was amazing.’

5.      Refrain from stalker-ish comments: You might not mean anything by it, but stating you’ll look up where we live on Google Maps is seriously scary.

6.      Don’t be a sexist swine: No modern girl wants to be that down-home woman who will bear and raise your children.  Ugh.

7.      Stick to your dating pool: Why is a man in his thirties (who, I might add, is no longer a student) trying to find women at university clubs?  I will not be meeting you at the chaplaincy for these meetings.  Tempting, but no.            

There and Back Again

Graduate school.  The thought first crossed my mind about six years ago, along with the vague idea that attending one across the pond would render prolonged education a much cooler endeavour.  I finally roused myself into the application process last spring.  For a time, however, it seemed like a dream that would never be achieved as recurring illnesses and numerous insecurities plagued my summer.  

If it weren’t for a few fantastic people who shall remain nameless, I have no doubt I would have officially entered my late twenties still working at Barnes and Noble.  Still living with my parents.  Still idly trying to get a real job.  Still wanting a change but feeling unsure as to how to make it happen.  Within a few frantic weeks, I made all the preparations for moving to another country: classes chosen, loans approved, accommodation deposit paid, visa processed, flight booked, luggage packed.  If it weren’t for the continued support of my spectacular parents, I would never have made it.  But as usual, they were for me, and I did.

I am notorious for my procrastination, an awful habit that has doggedly followed me into adulthood. Packing is no exception.  For my London study abroad program, it somehow seemed like a good idea to hastily shovel clothes into a suitcase a mere seven hours before my flight.  When returning home from Birmingham, I crammed two years of my life away the night before departure.   Every time I stress myself out to the point of sickness; and despite promising myself I will be better prepared next time, it always happens again.

Being the analytical person that I am, I’ve wondered if my subconscious does this on purpose.  When I’m fully occupied with the tasks that accompany such a transition, there’s little time to lament the forthcoming change.  For me, the days preceding leaving home are always the hardest; now matter how excited I am for a new adventure.  I realize that the wonderful family members (and friends) who have been there for me at a moment’s notice will be thousands of miles away.  I wonder how long it will be before we’re once again rushing to a movie in order to see the featured trailers or laughing over the antics of our beloved pooches.  And when will I get to eat proper Mexican food?

I was pondering these things and more as I flew from Salt Lake to Chicago and from there to Zurich.  It felt strange, foreign.  I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing.  But as my flight from Switzerland began its descent into Manchester, something changed.  I looked at the sea of green below me and suddenly felt at ease.  Everything was familiar, and I felt at home.  I had never been up North before.  But it was still England; and England and I get along just fine.  

As many of you know, I’m not the most consistent emailer; I often become engrossed in reading yet another nineteenth-century novel or socializing at the pub.  Nevertheless, I am commencing this blog in an attempt to keep loved ones better acquainted with the goings-on of my life in England.  Here’s hoping I’m better at this than email!

My farewell breakfast at IHOP

 With the coolest  baby sister ever.  She's also a fantastic book buddy.

 The Moms.

I just might miss this green-eyed devil the most.

 Train to Leeds. I was trying to capture the rain -- it didn't really work.

 As soon as I arrived at my new house, I devoured some microwavable Indian food.

I then made up my bed (sooo glad I decided to bring my bedding with me) and crashed.
I call this photo 'The First Supper.'