Where I Want to Be, Via Bill Bryson

With so many work projects occupying my time, I haven't been able to indulge in pleasure reading as much as I would wish. Luckily, Bill Bryson has proved to be the perfect read for one who doesn't have, say, an entire afternoon to devote to the perusal of a book. Notes from a Small Island features little vignettes of the author's experiences in Britain, and I still feel like I'm able to fully grasp the essence of the text even if I only read a few pages while eating lunch or a short chapter before turning out the lights for bed.

{Tangential aside: has anybody noticed how difficult this is to achieve with a long novel? For me at least, it's impossible to truly immerse myself in a book like David Copperfield if I can only read small bits here and there. Detailed narratives demand a reader's attention, and if that's not something I'm able to give, I'm doomed to failure -- by which I mean, I set the book aside until a time with fewer distractions presents itself. Thoughts?}

Anyway, Bill Bryson immediately charmed with his description of first arriving in England. He fully captured the excitement, the air of possiblity permeating the atmosphere of one who finally sets foot on a long-desired travel destination. I found myself nodding in agreement as he shares his experience on pg. 15:

Everything that lay before me was new and mysterious and exciting in a way you can't imagine. England was full of words I'd never heard before -- streaky bacon, short back and sides, Belisha beacon, serviettes, high tea, ice cream cornet. I didn't know how to pronounce scone or pasty or Towcester or Slough, I had never heard of Tesco's, Perthshire or Denbighshire, council houses, Morecambe and Wise, railway cuttings, Christmas crackers, bank holidays, seaside rock, milk floats, trunk calls, Scotch eggs, Morris Minors, or Poppy Day. For all I knew, when a car had an L-plate on the back of it, it indicated that it was being driven by a leper. I was positively radiant with ignorance. The simplest transactions were a mystery to me. I saw a man in a newsagent's ask for "twenty Number Six" and receive cigarettes, and presumed for a long time afterward that everything was ordered by number in a newsagent's, like in a Chinese takeaway. I sat for half an hour in a pub before I realized that you had to fetch your own order, then tried the same thing in a tearoom and was told to sit down. 

The tearoom lady called me love. All the shop ladies called me love and most of the men called me mate. I hadn't been here twelve hours and already they loved me. And everyone ate the way I did. This was truly exciting. For years I'd been the despair of my mother because as a left-hander I politely but resolutely declined to eat the American way -- grasping the fork in your left hand to steady the food while cutting, then transferring it to your right hand to lift the food to your mouth. It seemed ridiculously cumbersome, and here suddenly was a whole country that ate the way I did. And people drove on the left! This was paradise. Before the day was half over, I knew that this was where I wanted to be.

Isn't that lovely? It perfectly encapsulates the appeal of the novel and that simultaneous warm feeling of familiarity when you find that, though you've come from far away and know so little, you've found something of yourself as well.

I remember flying into Heathrow all by myself, a scary venture as it was the first time I had traveled anywhere alone. I apprehensively collected my luggage, bought my first Tube ticket and boarded the train. To an American who had never traveled outside the country before, I'm not sure anything was more perplexing than hearing a voice inform me, 'This train is for Cockfosters.'

What the hell was a Cockfoster?! And why was the Underground catering to their transportation needs?

Despite the confused nature of my thoughts, I walked from the Tube station to my new flat utterly content. Everything was new, and yet I felt perfectly at home, like I was coming back to a place I had always known but somehow forgotten. 

Have any of your travels have produced similar sentiments? Have any of you read Bill Bryson's travel memoirs? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Missing Leeds

I've been missing my Leeds this week.  I'm missing walking around the beautiful buildings on campus (example above), cups of tea at the student cafe, long conversations with friends at the pub, munching on Cadbury's crunchie rocks, etc., etc., etc.  I even miss the wuthering!  (Kind of.)  I originally had plans to return to Leeds for the graduation ceremony next month, but now that those have fallen through I am feeling that longing to go back more keenly than usual.  For now, I shall look forward to visits in the future and take a walk down memory lane with a few photos. 

Victorian Tea Party

Back in September Ana and I went to the Leeds Art Gallery for an afternoon visit.  It's fairly small, but it's easy to navigate.  I spent a long while drooling over the Pre-Raphaelite section, particularly John William Waterhouse's The Lady of Shallott Looking at Lancelot:

Isn't it gorgeous?!

The gallery features a Victorian-era tea room in lieu of the standard cafe, so after our museum meandering Ana treated me to a little tea party complete with cake.  The Yorkshire cream tea was delicious, and the addition of cake made it that much better.  (Cake makes everything better.)

Ana

A steaming cuppa

 Moi

The gorgeous tea room

I love the Victorians -- did I say that already?

Check out the ceiling

Isn't it incredible? 

 Ana sips her tea

Ginger lime cake

Adding extra milk to my tea

People watching outside the window

And finally...

A tiny bearded man has invaded my teacup!

That was Ana's initial reaction when she saw this photo

It does sort of appear that way, doesn't it?

I had a wonderful time pretending I was a Victorian lady at tea.  If you are in the Leeds area, I would definitely recommend a visit to the Leeds Art Gallery and its delightful tearoom.  The threat of tiny men taking over your teacup is minimal.

My Dream Home

We passed this lovely white-washed home on our way out of Chawton, and I was immediately struck by its charm.  I love its use of white with touches of red brick on the gable and chimney; the stray plants crawling up the exterior; the stone wall enclosing the garden.  When can I move in?

An Architectural Quiz

This quiz has only one question, and it is geared towards my American friends.  Here we go...

What is the current utilization for this building?

Your first impulse was to declare it a church, am I right? (If it wasn't, I'd love to hear the alternatives).  I am sure you have guessed by now that this is a trick question.  So I'll go ahead with the correct answer...

Nightclub. 

Yes, this former house of worship is now a student nightclub called Halo.  Is the name appropriate, ironic, or a bizarre combination of the two?  I can't decide.  I never went to Halo, but I always wanted to get a glimpse of its interior.  Growing up in the Southwestern United States, the concept of a church building being employed for anything other than religious services is a strange one for me.  I suppose it shouldn't be, because the churches I grew up attending featured, in addition to the traditional chapel, gyms for the odd game of basketball or volleyball.  Go figure.  

One sleepless night I watched a documentary in which a couple were renovating a Victorian church located on its own tiny island in Bristol into a three-bedroom home.  By the show's conclusion I could see how they had transformed it into a cosy, habitable space.  Yet I still have a difficult time imagining cooking my lunch beneath stained-glass windows or having a cemetery for a yard/garden.  Could you ever see yourself living in a church?

Double Decker

I do occasionally have an unpleasant experience on public transport, but overall I have loved utilizing buses over the past year.  I will definitely regret not having the convenience of England's transport system at my fingertips.  Cars guzzle gas (or petrol in Britspeak) as well as money.  Besides, there's something about sitting at the top of a double decker and watching the life on the streets below you. 

A view from the top is the way to go. 

A Rainy Day on Campus

I love rain.  Strangely enough, it's one of my favourite things about living in England.  As long as you don't get caught in a downpour, it's quite pleasant.  I also love how green the area is as a result.  One day I emerged from the student union to find that it had rained.  For some reason, this made everything on campus seem more beautiful than it already was.  I think my university campus is simply charming.  I hope you think so too.

I am obviously not the best photographer, but these were taken with love.   

Flatmate No. 4: Lucius Malfoy (RIP)

Tonight will be the last I spend in this house.  It's been a surprisingly emotional event for me, one to which I didn't expect to react so strongly.  I have yet to get the packing ball rolling, because the thought of leaving (and, by extension, leaving England) is wholly unpleasant.  The thought of taking down all my pre-Raphaelite prints and the various postcards I've accumulated over the year moves me to tears.  Literally.  I woke up this morning thinking that would be a good place to start, began crying and haven't progressed from that point. 

Now would be a good time to remember that not all my experiences as an MA student have been peachy keen.  Also, I have yet to share my thoughts about flatmate no. four.  Two birds; one stone.  Lucius Malfoy, here I come.

Obviously, his name isn't technically Lucius Malfoy.  Nor, unfortunately, does he resemble Jason Isaacs in any way.  Lucius is the moniker we bestowed upon him, because he's the proud owner of a replica of the cane Jason Isaacs carries in the Harry Potter films.  It has a removable wand and everything; you know, just in case a wizard duel arises unexpectedly.  Lucius is also an aspiring novelist.  Upon our first meeting he told me all about the novel he's writing about a cyborg who enforces justice and a distrustful dog who won't stop barking at the cyborg in question, or a dog robot, or something of this sort.  I can't be sure, because it all seemed a bit strange to me at the time.  Only now has it occurred to me to wonder what the title of a novel like this would be?  DogBorg?  The Terrier-nator?  Hmm...

I don't want this blog to become a dumping ground of negativity, but living with Lucius Malfoy was awful.  There's no way to sugarcoat it.   The man had an awful smell about him.  All the time.  As did his girlfriend.  If I used the loo after either of them had been there, I could still catch a whiff of lingering body odour.  It was that pungent.

One memorable evening, I had invited my friends Ana and Liz over for dinner.  Liz had never been to my place before.  When she rang the bell, I realized that I would have to forewarn her about Lucius who was in the kitchen, cooking without a shirt (thereby extending the reaching power of his aroma).  My welcome went something like this:

'Hi, Liz!  Come on in!  Oh, and by the way...my flatmate is cooking in the kitchen.  He doesn't have a shirt on.  And he smells.  Like, really bad.  Sorry.  But make yourself at home!'

Just when I thought I couldn't be more embarrassed on his behalf, he boob grazed her on his way out of the kitchen.  Yeah, he's that awesome.  Needless to say, we were all relieved when he vacated the house after a short tenancy (thus the RIP in this post's title).   

So, while I'm sad to be leaving a place that's been the site of some wonderful times, at least I'm furthering the distance between Lucius and myself.  I mean, I surely won't be able to smell him on the other side of the Atlantic. 

My Future Home

York is a charming town.  Walking through its lovely streets to the book fair, my friends and I were all struck by the adorable houses we passed.  I found quite a few in which I might be persuaded to live.  Here's an example of such a house:

Isn't it spiffy?  Georgian architecture, three storeys, large windows, painted door, ivy crawling up the brick, and an iron gate: I'll take it!  Now I just need several hundred thousand pounds.  (Oh, yes.  That.)

Anarchy in the UK

As a follow-up on my thoughts concerning tea fanaticism in England, I wanted to share this laugh-out-loud comic:

Comic by Dagsson

I also came across this brilliant blog post in which the self-proclaimed Amateur Gourment shares a letter he received from an Englishwoman living in New York City.  She abides by strict standards where tea is involved, to say the very least.  Drawing from my own experience I would say that such particularity is not the norm, but it's amusing nonetheless.  

If anybody is keen to try some authentic English tea, might I suggest Whittard of Chelsea?  They carry a variety of black, green, white and fruit teas that they will ship overseas.  I'm especially partial to their instant tea.  It's a powder similar to hot chocolate in packaging and consistency.  It's also very low in caffeine: less than one percent.  My favourite flavours are the cranberry and raspberry and dreamtime.  I often make sure to take some back to the States with me.  It is delish!

Well, dear friends and family, I wish you a wonderful weekend!

British Bites: Tea Time!

I can't get very far with my idea of commenting on English food without addressing the most persistent British stereotype: the preoccupation with tea.  While this isn't strictly a food, it is nevertheless a crucial element of English dietary practices.

As far as I have observed, this hackneyed cultural assumption is full of truth.  I often find that English people are obsessed with tea and manage consumption of it at any time of the day while engaging in any number of activities.  They drink it with breakfast, with biscuits, on its own.  Anytime can be tea time!

One of my university tutors from the past year is undoubtedly addicted to this caffeinated hot beverage.  'I have to have a cup of tea every hour or I start twitching.'  I heard these words from her on more than one occasion.  Imagine my delight when she took a break halfway through my first seminar to boil the kettle and offer a steaming mug of tea to each of the students.  She even had milk and sugar on hand in her office.  Every week followed the same pattern: chat about the specified text, break to put on the kettle, more chatting while we sipped on our tea.  It was wonderful!

 The tea-aholic

I've had other tutors offer tea in seminars but only occasionally.  To be honest it's never quite as good.  Nobody makes tea like the tea-aholic.  (I thought about labelling her a tea-ophile, but this sounds very much like pedophile which would be weird). 

I must confess that this English fixation is contagious.  While I previously disliked tea -- and still maintain a firm distaste for coffee -- I have slowly come around to the idea during the years I've spent here.  Now I enjoy drinking a mug of tea on a cold night while reading a book or watching a movie at home.  As we get further into September those evenings are becoming more frequent.

If you stay in England for long you may find yourself leaving with a supply of Earl Grey.  Consider yourself warned. 

Curling up with a cuppa

P.S.  The image at the top of this post is a 1727 painting: 'A Family of Three at Tea' by Richard Collins (via the Victoria and Albert Museum).  More totally amazing stuff can be found on the museum's website.

Flatmate No. 3: Mohammed

This is Mohammed, also known as Mo:

 

Mo is from Saudi Arabia and is working towards a degree in ethical hacking.  Who knew there was such a thing?  And who knew you could study it at university?

Mohammed is a fan of takeaways, listening to world music, and smoking a lot of weed.  All of this takes place in his bedroom, and consequently we don't interact with him too often.  When he does emerge from his lair I always wish we saw more of him, because he is so nice.  And generous.  When he orders a takeaway he practically insists we have a bit -- if not more. 

He'll often order something like the following...

...and I certainly don't mind taking a chip or two.  Or three.   

Remember when I said England mysteriously causes me to pack on a few pounds?  I have an inkling times like these may have something to do with it.  Thanks, Mo!

A Room With a View

Having plunged into the depths of despair (e.g., the basement) I decided to shift my focus upwards.  My boudoir is at the top of the house.  At first glance there isn't much to see from my window:

There's nothing terribly exciting about the backs of houses converging on an alley.  If I look a bit to the left though, I see this:

Trees, trees and more trees; and beyond that the hills of Yorkshire.  I love that I can see for miles despite the impairment of weak eyesight.

This photo was taken last fall when there was still a tinge of colour to the leaves.  I am looking forward to autumn.  It's such a beautiful time of year, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! 

The Basement of Which I Am Sorely Afraid

Generally speaking, I have found that basements are referred to as cellars in Britain.  I think that's misleading.  When I think of a cellar, I think of wine.  There is no wine in the deep regions of my house, nor is there a beverage/edible to be found.  So I'm sticking with the term basement.

My basement, while short on food storage, is not lacking in an abundance of spiders.

I. Hate. Spiders.  With a venemous (no pun intended) passion.  There's a whole colony of them mere steps from my kitchen.  Some are alive, and some are dead.  I don't care to get close enough to determine into which category each individual belongs.

As the washer and dryer are located in this pit of despair, I am sporadically compelled to descend to the underworld against my will -- a chore I originally avoided for as long as possible.  It gives me the shivers every time.

Each laundry session begins as I hesitantly open the gateway to hell, peer around for any spiders lurking directly in my path and then scamper down as fast as my short little legs will carry me.

Some might find such viligance to be unnecessary.  Yet some are not desperately trying to forget the dreaded day in which an arachnid saw fit to crawl up a certain person's shoe.  (My shoe, in case you were confused.) That recollection haunts me still....

Spiders aside, I am not keen on this level of inferno.  In fact, it looks to me like the kind of place in which a serial killer might conceal the remnants of his victims.  Part of me (the Catherine Morland part) expected to find an oversize freezer that just wouldn't seem to open down there. 

Entering Satan's Abode

The antonym of cozy

The white circles indicate eight-legged trespassers

No, no and no thank you

I lied -- there is a freezer

Hand on heart, I had completely forgotten about the ominous presence of a chilling device.  Perhaps I need to check its contents for severed limbs after all.

Nights Out in Yorkshire

I didn't spend all my time this summer in the library (though it certainly sometimes feels as though I did).  Despite with the rigours of academia I managed to have a few great nights out with friends.


One evening, a small group of Victorian Fanatics ventured out to North Bar.

Amanda and Sarah

Ana and the Queen

This joke never gets old for me

These photos feature Ana and I gettin' on our groove on.  We just couldn't keep from jamming in our chairs in the middle of the bar.  Yeah, we're cool like that. 

I love Ana in this pic

She is rocking the the party