On Holiday: 6 months in the UK.

[Please scroll down to the entry below first for #100-50, cheers]

A realization I made while sitting on my childhood bed back in California awkwardly and horrifically sunburned but nostalgic and content: Upon arriving in England I was an unfinished quilt. The many people I met are the missing patches; the ones who I will never forget are the strongest stitches.

49. Not knowing that ‘pants’ were a very different article of clothing in the UK…and that wearing just a “top and pants” out in town would be just a bit provocative.

48. Wandering around Paris with my best friend, eating too much fromage, sipping on pink champagne and even indulging our taste buds in a restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower. 

Tim Bowers: a philosopher (“ice is just water”) and a handsome panda bear who takes insults with grace.

47. Running in what seemed like slow motion to the cash point with Sarah, deciding to send the Jew-talian mafia on the bouncer if he didn’t let us back in while being chased by a creepy guy going: “I’m going to catch you!”.

46. The UEA bunnies that belong on the field and not in any form of soup.

45. Learning that my poor desk is not an innocent working space for my blog due to the activities of Mr. Basedon Butt first semester.

44. RIP Basey, and livestrong wilting Bismark.

43. The few but decent conversations shared between one particular Atheist and one particular Jew. “Take the seat belt off and breathe”.

Alex Dray: Just add Carlsburg and he may put a carton of apple juice on a hot hob.

42. Losing my balance in more ways than one on Mexican night.

Butty: The man whose literary verse alone could prevent the Titanic from sinking.

41. First arriving in London and taking the underground with a suitcase the size and weight of a sumo wrestler and the Fat Bastards illegitimate love child. Call them lifts, call them elevators, but on that night they were called nonexistent.

40. Toasties and films in D3.

39. The time Joe disappeared in London over the week-end and returned all dressed up in an aviator jacket.

 

38. Hoes before bros: the C02 girls, my home away from home.

37. Excitable boys: the C02 lads, who never made it easy but always made it memorable.

Katherine Holder: The anecdote to any broken heart, writers block or moment of homesickness. 

36. Visiting Pinewood Studios, passing the set of Pirates of the Caribbean 4, hearing about the days Daniel Radcliffe filmed there, hanging out with two very funny people as they edited some awful low budget film and breathing the same air as Martin Scorsese.

35. Reading the newspaper and fighting over the crossword puzzles and sudoku with Tom.

Rob Gow: Dedication is due to him, for if it weren’t for his persistence, this blog would not have survived.

Robert Sesemenn: He wouldn’t be such a ‘good’ friend if he didn’t use my parents names inappropriately, moon me unnecessarily or push chocolate cake through his teeth constantly.

Graham Hollingsworth: Not actually Jewish but capable of quoting the American version of The Office so all is forgiven.

32. Coining hour, where all the boys manage professional basketball moves by getting a penny into a cup on the other side of the kitchen or even magic tricks. The coin in the lid of a closed lambrini= bound for a messy night.

31. The first night out at Optic when I pulled a complete American-twenty year old-not yet able to drink legally in my own country move and left my ID at suffolk terrace and Katherine, bless her, took the taxi back with me. A friendship was born.

30. The nightly screenings of The Boat that Rocked. (The Count: “You know, a few months ago, I made a terrible mistake. I realized something, and instead of crushing the thought the moment it came I… I let it hang on, and now I know it to be true. And I’m afraid it’s stuck in my head forever. These are the best days of our lives. It’s a terrible thing to know, but I know it.”)

29. My trip to Coventry with Katherine. (Wait…how did we get in Leicester?)

28. So maybe I can’t cook properly but I sure as hell can make one convincing salad.

 

Katy Daly: Who you should go to if in need of a delicious vegan meal or a good conversation regarding beards.

27. When we made rainbow vodka by filling Svarus with skittles…the only time that alcohol didn’t make you want to vom.

26. Elizabeth and I winning at American beer pong on her birthday…Joe and Coleman didn’t see it coming.

Sarah Troisi: stunning beauty and the ability to talk to animals = truly a good catch.

25. Falling in love with The Bronx.

24. When Tim and Coleman discussed their dinner plans over a bottle of vodka each and made us perceive them as a married couple.  

23. Chavs vs. Emos…where pulling someone in the LCR was not recommended but required as a part of the fancy dress.

 

Emma Clark: eases your troubles with a Linda McCartney lasagna and a box set of Friends.

22. Water fights that lead to electrocution and icing sugar massacres that lead to unfair blame on the token Jew (just because the sugary footprints lead to room #8, does not mean Joe, Tom and Iain didn’t put time and effort into forwarding the blame).

21. Celebrating Holi, the only opportunity to cover complete strangers in coloured chalk and then cover them in water so that the field is streaked by rainbows.

Millie Pearce: My leopard friend and partner in crime when it comes to surviving the banter of the drunken boys in the CO2 kitchen.

Nishita Raghvani: Our photographer for all those messy nights and our beautiful social butterfly.

20. St. Patricks day when Joe was off his face by 3pm and we all manned up and drank a pint of Guinness.  

19. Valentines Day: When you don’t need a lover just Joe dancing with a bottle of Cava and trying to convince Nish to go on a ‘mate date’.

18. Competing over whose concussion is more legit. Maybe one person jumped into the door frame and ended up in hospital, but the other confronted a concrete block and recovered over a beer and Star Wars.

17. Mushroom, ride the bus, ring of fire, and the CO2 original matching game…anything but the Hitler-themed card event that only leads to awkwardness. 

Elliot Short: socialism, Star Wars and sarcasm = sassy sophistication.

16. The beautiful album made for me, one of the only things I brought in my carry on bag. The airport could lose all the rest of my luggage, but that I will keep close and cherish forever.

15. Drinking a few strongbows and developing a cockney accent.

Patrick Sutton: the connoisseur of Cava, hoisson crispy duck and the star-spangled banner.

14. Guy and Russ, the two gentlemen who could fix just about anything and remind us to sometimes forget the troubles of growing up and sleep under the stars.

13. Lock it or lose it: An open door in CO2 will lead to vandalism on someone whose passed out, writing on the window, wee on the carpet, spontaneous Bollywood parties or an hour long unsuccessful attempt to hack into a computer. 

12. Taking full advantage of being twenty in a country that allows you to legally drink at eighteen. So here’s to: sambuca shots, vodka and redbull (although not so much), cider, a pint or two of Carlsburg, too much tequila and rose (especially the exceptional quality of the one Millie and I discovered)…but notice how I left out lambrini.

 

 

Joe Birss: If you are not off your fucking rocker, he will get you “involved”. 

 11. When my nonfiction professor, Laila Lailami, from UC Riverside visited UEA on her book tour. 

10. Taking the train and underground with Elliot at 1am and being thankful that I wasn’t alone when passing a bunch of drunk rowdy boys, a woman vomiting and a girl on the bus talking about her friends countless divorces.  

 9. When Iain and Joe had a very serious debate over which boy was right for me while doing dishes…and then Joe not remembering the conversation the next morning. 

8. The time I really didn’t mean to but definitely slapped Tom on the face just for not moving out of my chair. I underestimated how close my hand was; I underestimated my own abilities as ‘angry Meg’. 

 7. The time Butty deemed me his ‘hebrew fox’. 

6. Learning of the enigma Big Tall Paul.  

 5. I didn’t do all of the writing though. Here are a few memorable quotes: 

-  ”Get involved!” - Birss 

- “Ladabyor…BTP-byor” - Elliot when BTP touched his shoulder 

- “Who even lives in A block?” - Tom 

  “There’s an A block?” - Me 

- “No, I’m Sarah from the kebab shop!” -Sarah  

4. When Iain showed his secret skills at always winning Monopoly, leaving the rest of us defeated and broke.

3. Sitting in Katherine’s room and talking, solving our life problems, gossiping instead of paying attention to Star Wars and trying to resolve the complex moments of UEA-living.

2. When Iain fell asleep in the same room as his…except it belonged in D2, not C02. This was made only more hilarious by the fact that we know no one from that flat. Made even more hilarious by the fact that after Tom put him in his right bed and then checked on him, he was on the floor.

1. The day I received my acceptance letter to UEA.

 

I am quite rubbish at goodbyes, but I guess that should not be a terrible concern in this matter seeing as I will forever be England-bound. As of Saturday evening when I finally reached my home in San Diego, I put my first American dollar aside to save up for my return to the sprawling grassy fields of UEA.

Until then,

xxx

34. My going away breakfast that involved creative lyrics, tea and burnt toast. (Watch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6ll2nn65hs)

33. Getting an 80% on my twenty minute script which I wrote at the CO2 kitchen table, where Iain counted how many curse words I used and Elliot wrote in “I love cock” for one of the lines…which I omitted.

My farewell tribute to England, UEA, and the people who made these the most memorable six months of my life.

Here’s to the top 100 people, places and moments that made me laugh, possibly cry and ultimatly start saving up for my next visit across the pond.

[Recommended background music: Californiacation - RHCP, Knifeman - The Bronx, Wheels - John Mayor, Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve, I Can See for Miles - The Who, All Day and All of the Night - The Kinks, Bedroom Eyes - Natty, Piano Man - Billy Joel, Wonderwall - Oasis, Mardy Bum - Arctic Monkeys, Starman - David Bowie and Walk You Home - Passenger]

100. Driving continuesly around the round about on the way to Gaynor’s birthday dinner and nearly dying when we almost crashed into the back of the car we were meant to be following.

99. The debit card/ credit card crisis (notice how many ‘c’s that required…and keep in mind I managed to slightly break the ‘c’ on my laptop when frantically typing to both my parents.

98. The reasons behind why I know that ‘Labas, mano vadras…’ translates as ‘hello my name is…’ in Lithuanian. Just ask Vlad.

97. My inability to zip up my sleeping bag while camping near the beach in Cornwall, when the chattering of my own teeth kept me awake.

96. Learning that they call trapezoids, trapeziums here…and yet I was the one who got a look of disaproval and astonishment.

95. Mass kitchen clean ups at ungodly hours on Wednesday and Sunday nights with The Boat That Rocked playing in the background.

94. [Me standing in all black in the dark kitchen at night] JOE. [entering and screaming] “Wha-What! Who does that! Who stands in all black int he kitchen with all the lights off!” ROB. “Jewish ninja”.

Chris Jones: After drinking absinthe he will do everything in his power to not walk to the toilets…even if it is for world peace, even if he is bound to tactifully chunder.

93. Angry Rob Sesemenn, dropkicking people in the face for stealing his car keys.

92. 4am. I am on one side of the table. Elliot, Joe and Tom are on the other side. “Is it true in America…”. For an entire hour.

91. Vandalism: Shoe in the toilet, broken ironing board, dirty mop in the bed, wee on the chair, wee in the sink.

90. The final day of my playwriting workshop where everyone showed up hungover and my teacher provided cake.

89. Sitting in front of Tom’s door to partake in a morning chat, while he grumbled, annoyed from his bed.

88. Barbeques near the lake or in a clearing in the woods (where Iain consumes a lot of food and veggie burgers are a good shout).

87. Returning home to California with a haircut, five ear piercings, a tattoo, but no prospective husband. (But yes mom…a tattoo).

86. Trying to find my alarm clock because the night before Joe hid it in one of my suitcases under my desk and then retrieving my fan from Elliot’s room where it was hand delivered in a box.

85. The epic failure of making pink pancakes which was remedied when I successfully made a batch with the help of Kris, Nish, Sarah and Emma. (Kris even convinced me to try one with a slice of cheese on top! Before you go “ewwww”, try it).

84. Learning about horticulture during a walk around the lake with Golvin. Unfortunatly he is a dad. And married.

83. The night Emma slept on my floor and I woke up still dressed as a leopard.

82. Chat roulette invasions in room 8.

81. Mikey Skilton: a man who should never be asked to put his top back on.

80. The night WKD led Katherine to speak with her Birmingham accent.

79. Cooking almost all of the remaining freezer food and feisting on smiley faces, scampi, burgers and chips. (But not following Sarah’s masochistic ways of eating gone off tuna with garlic mayo and washing it down with spoiled pineapple juice).

78. The success of my political theatre presentation on xenophobia that I put together the morning it was due.

77. Visiting Great Yarmouth the day the entire borough decided on a power outage, but no matter, Emma and I still managed a nice picnic near the sea and saw a man poorly dressed as an unattractive woman.

76. The radioactive and unidentified vomit left in the CO2 toilets the morning after DayGlo. (You’re not meant to eat the glowing face paint).

75. Falling in love with the show QI and Stephen Fry. (I must love unrequited love…I tend to lust after boys emotionally unavailable…seeing as they don’t like women).

72. The friend I made who gave me the Ed Sheeran CD, which I play whenever I take the train.

 

Iain Goulding: hebrew lyricist, garlic salt wielding, football playing, potato eating legend.

71. Breaking my toe in an angry Meg moment when I tried fighting the closet door and lost.

70. Seeing Wicked, Billy Elliot, Dirty Dancing, Les Miserables and King Lear on the London stage.

69. The simple fact that Elliot knows all the lyrics to any Rihanna song. And will not hesitate to sing them.

68. A flat where the kitchen is smokey, the corridor smells poopy and there is a good chance you will find a fake severed hand in your cupboard.

67. My relentless optimism that led to many days recovering from yet another broken heart.

66. Worried about leeches? Well I’m pretty sure the human centipede lives at the bottom of the lake.

 

Jackson Ariaudo: the only person who will answer the question, “Are you on your way to do laundry” with “No, I am giving up this life and trying my hand at time in the South”. He’s a writer, it makes sense.

65. Seeing Sarah for the first time in months at the arrival gate of Heathrow airport.

64. Pub crawl #1: Messy. Pub crawl #2: Messier.

63. When Rob and Tom finally let me into my room where I sat at my computer for five minutes before Elliot starting singing ‘alouette’ from the floor of the corridor. How was I supposed to know the boys let him in throw the window before unlocking my door. Cheeky.

62. Losing my flip flops in the LCR during the Baywatch beach party because they were stuck to the ground and I just walked right out of them. Later when someone pointed out in astonishment that I was barefoot I shrugged and replied: “That’s how I do in California”.

Tom Coleman: I look forward to the day he puts all the boys in the zoo.

61. The day Sesemenn found out the name of both my parents and immediatly abused that privilege.

60. Walking in the snow linked to Sarah’s arm and some guy on his bike passing us and saying in the creepiest way: “I’m the abominal snow man!”.

59. Learning that Thurgood Marshall passed away (the fish, not the man).

58. Vegi Volcano and The Mighty Meaty, the ever accomodating delivery of Dominoes.

57. Just getting to sleep when the fire alarm goes off, wolfmother vibrates through from the kitchen or Joe and Elliot knock on the door with “any rubbish?”.

56. Realizing my two brothers are my best friends and how they seriously helped prepare me for the shenannigans and schemes of the CO2 boys.

55. My first week here when I lived off crackers and steam fresh vegetables (but at least I didn’t try to drink straight up squash!).

54. The CO2 boys skyping with my parents and my mom thinking Sesemenn is handsome and my dad instantly commenting on the Stella in Gow’s hand.

 

Tom Livesy: saving the environment one toke at a time.

51. The minute long UEA blackout where Joe ran around shrieking, “Women and children first!” and “papers please!”.

50. 28/5/10. Rest in Peace Grandma, you taught me optimism, honesty and most importantly strength.

[Scroll up for the proceeding entry, #49-1, which will be completed when this California girl reclaims her place in the San Diego sun]

xxx

[Be sure to read the entry below, also posted today, thanks xx]

I made a mistake any Californian would make when trying to pack for England (a place said to be rainy/gray/cold) when stocking up on tights and scarves and leaving summer dresses and bathing suits behind. Therefore in this glorious sunshine-y weather that blesses shoulders with sunburns and makes Pimm’s lemonade a hot ticket item, I am looking sadly at my bank account and wondering if the dollar to pound conversion can sacrifice a few new summer clothes.

What is it about a good BBQ that makes boys all hot and bothered?

My veggie chicken burger (or Ficken - fake chicken) christened this legitimate, new and shiny, just purchased BBQ which we set up in this clearing thick in the woods. Thankfully Katherine and I had camping in Exeter under our belts and did not fear using the toilets. This proved to be more frightening in the dark when we had to beware of the rustling in the trees which turned out to be Tim lumbering an entire tree down the hill to add to the seating arrangement around the fire.

This night, amongst many others, have produced the conclusion that men have a strange pull towards the barbeque. Even if their hands do not possess any bbq-tools or any fleshy hunks of meat, they find it completely necessary to stand around and ‘hmmm’ and ‘haaa’ about how the meat is cooking, how the fire is rising, how doing it this way would be far more effective that way. They may think girls going to the bathroom together is weird, but the way their eyes dance when staring into a charcoal pit…weird?

Iain ate an obscene amount of sausages and burgers, Joe got attacked by stinging nettle, Adam and Guy slightly failed at hiding and then jumping out at us in the midst of darkness and we all left reeking of bonfire and the outdoors.

When ‘The Hangover’ became our life

For Tom and Iain’s birthday they planned an eighteen hole pub golf extravaganza. Each flat chose a colour and competed against other flats to see who could score the least points. I managed the first half with grace and watched as Tom downed an entire bottle of Bulmer’s cider in literally three seconds. Let’s just say he was one of the first to take a taxi back to suffolk.

The event started at our flat with a glass of lambrini and a bottle of beer. Naturally we stopped at the Blue Bar for a snakebite and a shot of sambuca. We moved on to the street of clubs where some participated in some slightly talented, slightly more hilarious karaoke. We got wrist bands that invited us to Shoosh, a place of mattresses and white beaded curtains. I walked in to the boys toilets at Pulse simply because I didn’t want to wait in the queue to dry my hands. Two confused lads walked in and were like “Wait…did we go in the wrong one”…which resulted in me fleeing the scene.

The next morning we woke up to learn that Iain’s friend from home awoke and got the train back without saying so much as a word, leaving us all a bit panicked. Ok, we actually just walked to Zest for breakfast, but deep down we were quite concerned. Ultimatly I believe CO2, clad in their blue and purple tops won simply because the birthday boys were on our side.

Why going home is going to break my heart

Seeing as this past Wednesday marked the last day CO2 would all be together, my lovely flatmates put together and presented to me a wonderful scrapbook. I spent the entire day wondering why people were avoiding me like the plague (I thought we got past the fact that I was American and therefore frowned upon??), leaving whenever I arrived and in the case of Tom making strange loud noises whenever I approached Katerine’s room. Each page is occupied by words and photographs from each of them as well as really nice, really funny, really sincere messages from other friends. The heart that went behind the making of this book is why, although I miss my family and the California weather, leaving England on June 13th is such a bittersweet future.

I chose to wait until the next morning to read all of the scrapbook in its entirety, so I could cry embarrasingly without being seen. And cry, I did.

 A Morning without hangovers, just lots and lots of smoke

As if the night before didn’t prove just how wonderful living in CO2 is, I woke up to a going away breakfast of scones and cakes and of course lots of tea.

“High tea at High noon” even included entertainment. They took the song “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and altered it to fit the present situation and all joined in on the singing. One may argue that the toast catching fire in the toaster and fumigating the entire kitchen was apart of the show…but that assumption was quickly corrected in the break out of hysteria. The song being interrupted by a flood of smoke so appropriatly capsulated what is possible in the CO2 kitchen.

Here is the chorus of the song they created <3:

And I said, what about, ‘Breakfast at CO2’/ She said, I think I’ll remember the flat/ And as I recall, I think, we all fricking love you/ These last six months we’ll never forget!

Girl’s Night!

For Millie’s birthday the girls dressed up and left the men behind for a night at Mercy. Although we continuesly got seperated it proved to be another successful night and naturally we had to re-enact our memorable stint as leopards.

At one point Sarah and I decided to venture to the cashpoint. We reached the door and asked if we could return without having to pay and where one person said ‘sure’ the mean bouncer man at the front grunted ‘no’. His negativity eased a bit and he said with a pointed finger that we had five minutes to run to the cashpoint near the subway miles away…well it felt like miles seeing as we were in heels. We seemed to run more vertically, like jogging in place but it gave us time to conduct a plan that if the bouncer did not let us in for free we would send the Jewish/Italian or Jewtalian mafia on them. At this point we met up with the Creepy Man who ran on the other side of the street saying “I’m going to catch you”. Now either he got hit by a car (well deserved for being so creepy) or just lost interest cause we returned to Mercy where they let us in without even blinking.

Sarah, Gaynor and I got the meanest taxi driver on the way home. Naturally we stopped into the kebab shop and picked up something greasy and guilt-ridden to eat. As I sat and picked at my veggie burger it wasn’t until Gaynor took a single ‘cheeky’ bite of her meal that he flipped on the anger switch and let the swear words go. We probably should have been more hurt by his demeanor but instead we sat like reprimanded giggling children.

In other news…

1. Iain, Tom and Joe are the real culprits to the icing sugar masacre that took place in the CO2 kitchen. Although the fact that my hair and clothes were covered appears suspect I was an innocent bystander. My innocence and their guilt is even more apparant in the fact that they made powder footsteps from the kitchen to my room, but these footprints end at my door. (I got Iain back though by claiming that in California we don’t like potatos, mwahaha).

2. Butty gives the best birthday speeches. Who else, while sipping wine, can stand and say something witty or nice about every single, yes every single, person in the kitchen.

3. Goodbyes are as unpleasant as the CO2 toilet when someone’s flushed down a shoe and poopy water has spilled over into the corridor. (I already miss Katherine and Joe so much!)

Until next time, thanks for reading

xxx

Due to my severe procrastination and occupation with all things frivilous but wonderful (sunshine, going away parties, pub crawls and breakfasts) this entry is a compilation of countless weeks.

Revise all day, play all night

How do UEA (University of Educated Alcoholics) revise?

1. They plan trips to Pinewood studios where they will hopefully make great impressions on important people so that they won’t actually become a starving artist plagued by insomnia, alcoholism and homelessness but will instead get to make movies and not be underappreciated in the screenwriting business.

2. They crowd into a small room to watch Hostel and scream when two boys (i.e. Paddy and Joe) find it hilarious to throw a fake severed hand just after a scene of unnecessary amounts of blood and torture. (I kept my eyes closed for 75% of the film but thankfully blazed Elliot saw it fit to narrate all that was taking place…while giggling).

3. They inhabit the voyeuristic-uncensored-surprisingly graphic-tantalizing world of Chat Roulette. (Owning a webcam subjected my room and my poor eyes to an array of people, spanning from racists to teenage girls drinking lambrini, entire families to Rob’s new best friend, an old German man with impeccable taste in cigars and music.)

4. They skype with my parents. My mom made the grave mistake of saying, to Rob of all people, that she is ‘glad they are showing her daughter a good time while in England’, which followed with all the boys jumping on that bait like piranhas and yelling “Way!!!”.

20 page script finished [check], 3000 word essay done [check], suiting up and drinking down? [CHECK]

England bidded farewell to the Legendary Jew, who returned to America in style with a Shel Silverstein tattoo.

My flat crashed Josh’s going away party where the boys contrasted the refinement of their suits with the insanity of dancing on the kitchen table. The night started with a new game known as mushroom that invokes serious anxiety and promises eventual “tactful chundering”

The rules of the game are simple: A dirty pint at the center of the table is surrounded by cards. When taking your turn, you guess whether the card is going to be red or black. If you’re right: nominate, if you’re wrong: drink. Regardless you just stack it on top of the ever-growing pint, leaving two edges off to create a mushroom. If your move causes a collapse, buckle up, throw some dirt on it, because you’re about to become the life of the party.

The ones Noah’s Arc left behind

When the opportunity to dress like an animal while acting like one presents itself, UEA students do not hesitate to grab the cheetah prints and face paint.

Leopards, bats, pandas and polar bears congregated in CO2 and participated in anything but biblical activities. I spent most of the evening creating the spots and eye patches and causing havoc with a black eye pencil that apparantly doesn’t wash out of eyebrows very easily.

Once we reached the LCR, Iain and Tom disappeared in the scene as bats, Elliot and Rob kept their cool as polar bears and -supposedly- were hit on by various girls. Millie, Sarah and I, as leopards danced and one of us may have politely shoved another girl out of her way. I spent endless minutes in the girls toilets chatting to a girl who was supposed to look like a penguin about how we both believe the receptionist at the piercing parlor in town is quite lush.

The night ended with Emma sleeping on my floor, the next morning started with me still completely in costume (minus the cat ears) and my leopard make up still perfectly in place. Most people wandered into the kitchen looking like hungover bears after a restless hibernation. As for Elliot, with smeared eyeliner and grayish-white hair…he looked more like a grandpa hoping to reclaim his rock and roll years.

Noah drinking a budweiser. (I know what you’re thinking this lad must be Jewish, but those ‘hebrew goodlooks’ are decieving).

Tripping over Mexico (a night that began with sombreros and ended with injuries)

Living an hour from the Mexican border I failed at bringing any linguistical assistance to the party but I did provide quesodillas, an unheard of phenomenon in this country. The amount of food to tuck into was enough to make any fake moustache curl in delirious contentment.

The panchos, sombreros and drawn on moustaches would not be complete without bottles of corona and san miguel and tequila shots, mucho tequila shots.

As ‘gringo/as’ we might have handled the tequila poorly. But we all manned up and bit down on that lemon for the sake of culture. The night resulted in people spontaneously going to town and returning to watch star wars as the sun filtered the dark sky into a light blue. All I am going to say for myself is tequila makes me angry, hence that night earned me the nickname ‘Angry Meg’.

The sunrise would not be complete without returning to my room only to discover that I made the serious mistake of leaving my door unlocked therefore inviting the devious Mr. Birss and Mr. Gow to cause havoc. Sombrero over his face, faking a siesta, Rob was exhausted from an hour of trying to hack into my computer. Joe even went as far as trying to find an online program to allow him to bypass my password. With the hint as ‘Daniel Radcliffe’ there numerous combinations failed. I thought I won this battle until noon the next day when I had to fight through a tequila-morning-after cloud to find my beeping alarm clock. Joe set it the night before and hid it in my suitcase under my desk. What he didn’t know is it was set to California time and didn’t send me into panic at some obscene hour. So maybe I did win afterall.

[This entry will continue by the end of this date: 25/5/10, if I do not follow up to this promise I will take the blame for the icing sugar incident of last week]

Exeter Extravaganza

I brush my teeth at least three times a day. I shower often. I think 60 degrees F is freezing. But I went camping. I slept on cardboard in a tent and ate bread toasted over a man-made flame. I used the toilets behind the bushes near the beach. The toilets that did not exist.

How do you rate homesickness? Well you know it is somewhat serious when you can’t stop gushing over a homemade meal (thanks to the lovely Hilda Holder, Katherine’s mom) and let out an embarrasing sigh when entering Elliot’s house and finding his mom ironing and his dad making a sarcastic, borderline inappropriate joke (i.e. my parents). Then California dreams became Cornwall realities, and I tucked my toes once more into the sand and inhaled the ocean.

The Best of David Bowie as the road trip soundtrack, Elliot took Katherine and I from a Hippie Commun, to the cliffside of ‘Hell’s Mouth’, onto the bustling sea-side of St. Ives, back to Exeter and ending with a walk along Exmouth. In sharp contrast to my busy days spent in Paris and London, I really enjoyed the unpredictable flow of camping. Minus the minor stress I encountered when I couldn’t figure out my sleeping bag and woke up due to my teeth chattering violently. My grandparents would be ashamed of the amount of swearing that took place in the dark as I tried to figure out the mess of cloth that refused to zip up. There is also nothing quite like waking up very disoriented, wondering why you are sleeping outside and then “using the toilets” while the sun rises.

We spent most of the day outside. Breakfast on the beach, lunch on the roadside and then a cornish pasty beside the sea in Cornwall. The boys braved a bit of swimming in the water, while the girls managed to get sunburned even though we complained of goosebumps.

What I Learned From This Trip:

1. Katherine is expert at setting up complicated tents. I won’t even try to deny the fact that I primarily stood around simply looking like I knew what I was doing.

2. Elliot knows an interesting amount about the television program America’s Next Top Model and maintains the ability to devour an entire chicken.

3. The saying ‘C’est la vie’ (this is life) is very fitting when reeking of sand and campfire and tucking into a plate of chips on the beach. Such a brilliant way to welcome the spring and anticipate the summer.

“Another day in paradise” - Rob Gow

Saturday in the sun, the epitome of a perfect way to settle back into Norwich. The field sprinkled with groups of UEA students not freezing in their shorts and dresses, salivating from the fumes of barbeques. Nothing else is needed besides a few cans of cider, music and the smell of henna.

I understand the conundrum of blissfully beautiful weather organized at the same time as revolting revision. But appreciating the outdoors, sweating sunscreen and finding point in something deemed pointless like sleeping in the grass beside friends, well, that is education.

How to: Expect the unexpected

As the conclusion of term threatens to divide students for the summer, now is the time to favor impulses over inhibitions. However, if you are someone who likes to plan to be spontaneous, here are a few tips:

1. Jump in the lake. Go on, it might be freezing, there may or may not be leeches but the initial shock is worth an eternal high. (Granted I opted to take the pictures…I am not too keen on leeches or dark bodies of water)

2. Apply the game Cluedo to real life when trying to decipher who thought it wise to dump in an already clogged, unflushable toilet. CO2 will never quite be the same and I managed to make my mom gag via skype when describing the eye watering experience. (Granted we didn’t need to spend so much time congregating in the corridor…which definitly smelled ‘poopy’)

3. Tired of pasta? A bit of Korma not covering those hunger pains? Well why not go to the UFO, purchase a bit of Cava and a duck. When Joe ambled onto the field and informed us that him and Paddy planned to prepare Hoisin crispy duck I thought…well, yeah, that’s about right.

Forget TGIF: Thank Goodness It’s Wednesday

Start: Walking into my 10am Shakespeare seminar was a bit like attending a funeral. My professor’s Hugh Grant likeness did nothing to deter the impending death that is my exam in a few weeks. I now understand why Shakespeare’s tragedies are so popular. Students can sympathize with the demises of Hamlet and King Lear when they sit down to a list of essay questions.

Middle: Laundry and a show? Escaping the swampy odour of the Laundrette, I doned sunglasses and joined friends in the grassy amphitheatre where music students serenaded sun soaked students with saxophones (side note: I am not meaning this overusage of alliteration. It’s probably due to the fact that as a kid I thought going through the alphabet and writing sentences of alliteration was fun. And…yet…I still had friends?)

Dinnertime: I can’t cook, but I can prepare a masterpiece-esque salad. (Just to put in perspective my true anxiety in regards to the supposed domestic gene found in every woman: I struggled with hard boiling two eggs. My eventual husband, well, he better know his way around a kitchen). Lately the boys spend most of their time and their pocket change on a bit of pub trivia. I usually linger in the background and then wander off and discuss with Butty how the Ken doll is not appropriatly equipped below the belt and can be anatomically misleading to children. That’s what you get from university students in a pub.

Finish: Iain, Tom, Joe and I challenged the CO2 kitchen to the most severe washing up it has yet to face. And we won. Fingers marred by soap and hot water we literally washed every single dish. Every single one. We chipped plastic and ketchup off the defeated hubs, scrubbed pasta sauce and alcohol off the table and rediscovered the once fallen cutlery. But we didn’t lose a single man on the battlefield. Well except maybe a bit of Joe swaying in the corner to The Boat That Rocked Soundtrack.  

“Get involved” - Joe Birss

I remember monthes ago, in the summer, a letter of congratulations from UEA made its way into my inbox. I remember how I counted down the days to blow a kiss to California and find balance on English soil. I arrived poorly dressed and unarmed (I don’t come from Texas). Well now I am counting down once more. It’s strange, but I am more scared this time around.

Good luck with revisions, but if MGMT is coming from the speakers and the sun is begging for some attention, take a break and as Baz Luhrman instructed “Wear sunscreen” (and also listen to it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdQbb3FXSEI)

Until next time

xxx

Norwich welcomed me back with California weather. After three weeks of travelling, resting my head on a familiar pillow and waking up to sunshine and an already messy kitchen, I felt ‘home’.

How to: Be a tourist

Hugh Grant’s character in Love Actually was spot on in saying that there is nothing quite like the arrival gate at the Heathrow airport. I felt the giddiness of a child awaiting the appearance of a celebrity as my eyes ran over suitcase burdened strangers to find Sarah. And then home walked up to me and my California history met my England present.

We occupied ourselves with the hysteria of Camden Market and I showed my stinginess by refusing to buy six pound sunglasses unless they were five pounds like all the rest. Sarah and I settled into a pub and I tried to unravel my monthes in another country. All I really did was further convince myself that going to grad school for creative writing at UEA is not an alternative but a must, regardless of the daunting factor that it is rated second best in the country.

Sarah and I are slight failures at the whole tourist thing. Sure we take obsessive amounts of photos of the Eiffel Tower and manage to get perplexed by the Circle Line on the underground but ultimatly we enjoy lazing around and ‘happening’ across the marvels of London and Paris.

We ‘ooed’ and ‘awed’ appropriatly at Big Ben, at the London Eye, at the tattooed and spikey haired youth, at the smart dress of London business people. We consumed strong coffee and complained in the American way about the exchange rate and the gray-ish skies. Thanks to the extreme generosity of Leigh, who planned and funded our visit, we tucked into many beautiful meals.

Would you like a gym membership with your main course?

Would you fancy dinner in the Eiffel Tower? How does high tea on Regent Street sound? Maybe a pint with your full English breakfast? Does a crepe soaked in rum and decorated with carmelized bananas appeal to your pallete?

I indulged in veggie sausage and gross amounts of chips (fries) and introduced my lovely visitors to ‘flapjacks’, creme eggs and the environment of Wetherspoons and spicyness of Nandos.

After weeks of microwaveable meals and my epic failure at making American pancakes (maybe it was because the valentines day themed batter was pink?) Leigh treated us to an exquisite meal with a full view of Paris. Did I mention this meal took place in the Eiffel tower? Alright, I am bragging.

Our stop in Camden Market brought about the privilage to buy the best smelling coffee from the best looking Italian bloke. I wandered in, intrigued obviously by the copious amounts of coffee beans and failed to initially take in a masterpiece of a face. He turned around and needless to say possessed the ability to render a writer speechless. He popped a coffee bean in his mouth, instructing me do so as well and kissed his fingertips in a gesture of beauty and turned me into a bumbling school girl whose just realized boys don’t have cooties, they have charm and chiseled jaw lines.

As I child I mercilessly munched on ants and the occasional rollie pollie (you may enquire: but now you are a vegetarian?) and as an adult I braved the consumption of escargot in Paris. I know that poor snail probably had a family, I know that matters are not made any better by the horrid green colour. But I had to. When in Rome…well France.

To the theatre darling

Leigh made a playwright’s dream come true with tickets to see Billy Elliot, Wicked, Dirty Dancing and Les Miserables.

Spectaculor is not a proper adjective to describe the appalling talent that was Billy Elliot. Seeing the film once before, I knew I would enjoy this play, I did not know, however, that it would become once of my favourites. The dancing, the singing, the story…no criticism is relevant.

My senior year in high school, the writing of my first complete play, the tragedy of my first real heartbreak, all was narrated by the Wicked soundtrack. One parts London, one parts phenomenal singing and a dash of living the dream.

After giggling through Dirty Dancing (the machoness and the cheesy acting only amplified by the putting on of American accents) I delved further into ‘the life’ and saw Les Miserables. I will admite to a shameless tear or two seeing as I forgot how powerful the story is, how much I missed my mom who loves the soundtrack and how I, like Eponine, am plagued with the reoccuring curse of falling inlove with someone already inlove with someone else. Unrequited love, you better be worth the writer’s paycheck.

Paris, je t’aime

You know those times when you force yourself to blink fiercly, sure that the architecture, the smells, the language, laid out before you is a mirage? Welcome to Paris, and bonus you are there with your best friend. Hoes before Bros, you don’t need a lover, you just need someone who refuses to shower and who has ‘seeing the hunchback of Notre Dame’ on their to do list.

Gentlemen, take it from Mona, size does not always matter. It is hard to write about or be at all snarky about a place that met all of my expectations. I had one of those moments, the Seine river at my feet, the Eiffel tower at my back, where I sympathized with the Count from The Boat That Rocked when feeling that I am living the best days of my life.

Dwight Schrute you are correct, there are too many people on is Earth

I didn’t realize the obscene amount of people with the burning desire to make fools of themselves in photos next to somewhat creepy wax versions of their favourite celebrities. But what can I really say, I am guilty.

Sarah and I, with intentions to find the toilets, landed ourselves on the strangest ride within Madame Tussauds wax museum. We should have purchased our picture at the end, the bewilderment and slight fear very telling on both our faces. Not too far from the greats like Martin Luther King Jr. was a wax Hitler. He’s short. And unattractive. And maybe I am prejudice but even the wax version is enough to make me contemplate taking up the barbaric tendency of spitting in someones face.

Concerned that this entry is bottomless, an abyss without a conclusion? Well, like goodbyes were in order as I departed with Sarah and adventured into Oxford before returning to Norwich, all good things are met with a fullstop. After the gray skies and heavy coats I was relieved by the beauty and quiet qualities of our B&B in Oxford.

I want to take the time to thank Leigh for this wondeful holiday! I now understand the appeal of being a leaf blown by the wind, how travelling isn’t just about a destination.

Until next time xxx

(Look out for my next entry: The Exeter Extravaganza)

Je vous pars pour Londres et Paris et retournera bientot!

 

Bisous xxx

I write this at a time when the CO2 corridor is plagued with a silence louder than the usual lyrics of the Red Hot Chili Peppers blaring from the kitchen stereo. With this eery emptiness, as most have departed for home or far away locations like Spain, is an unnaturally clean kitchen. The spotless floors (scrubbed furiously by Emma and I on Sunday) no longer force me to walk like a clumsy ostrich (which FYI Tom is the only way to walk when the layer of dirt prevents flip flops from flipping and flopping).

Happy Birthday!… by the way someone just thought a chair was the toilets

Seeing as I myself have been mercilessly bullied in the past, and know living something down is a feat greater than growing an extra arm, I will not name names. All I will say is that in the dizziness of Thursday night someone mistook Elliot’s chair for a toilet. This all happened while people poured in and out of our kitchen, creating an epic amount of noise and mess that oddly, but thankfully did not beckon any security interruption.

To feasting, to the Fat Cat, to the randomness of this weekend

The weekend of goodbyes started with three lovely ladies from Norfolk terrace preparing a wonderful farewell easter feast. The table set beautifully with mashed potatos, a lush green salad, pasta and even an assortment of creme eggs, we felt a little silly when bringing over store bought cupcakes and a runny bowl of jelly. Nonetheless it proved to be an exceptionally pleasant dinner party. My favourite part being this little dialogue between Katherine and I: Me: Those cupcakes are really quite cute. Katherine: [after a pause and with seriousness] They are quite like you actually. And then just lots and lots of laughing.

Saturday a random assortment of CO2 people plus a few guests ventured to the Fat Cat, a quaint pub where I sampled a beer named Wild Cat and took the bartenders suggestion of an orange cider…one that actually tasted like medicine. The taxi ride over was interesting, sitting beside the driver I listened (over the banter between Joe and Elliot in the back…their crude jokes and farting noises) as he bragged about his young stepson, an up and coming drama student who wants to teach primary school.

The night followed a staggering and uncharted maze of a brand new cocktail fountain, broken in by an obscene amount of gin, unwarranted bacon making and consuming, dominoes, watching a history program at some late hour and of course the proper conclusion, the cherry on top of the night, a 3am viewing of The Boat That Rocked.

5 reasons why when someone asks if you want to study abroad you must exclaim “yes!”

1. Let’s get the heavy, sentimental, violin solo moment out of the way first. Saying my goodbyes for just a monthes time has greeted me with a startling, unavoidable and overwhelming realization. I miss my family, I miss my friends, I miss California but, quite simply, I don’t want to go back in June. It is a strange moment when the ‘home’ I speak about is no longer just the one with the blue frame and basketball hoop in the front. When I can manage a bus route and a walk into town without getting lost when I still can’t find my way by car in San Diego. When I realize, they were absolutly right in saying I will not return the same, and when they promised some of the greatest, most valuable relationships will form in those six monthes. I feel I have matured so many years and yet have fallen inlove the way I did when I was a child.

2. Only abroad will you watch Stephen Fry play Oscar Wilde, a brilliant collision of homosexual genuis and have horrific dreams of being with Kate Winslet and Leonardo Dicaprio on the sinking Titanic (mostly fueled by Butty’s relentless quoting in Joe’s ear).

3. I can watch Jungle Book, get a 70% on my creative writing: drama portfolio and be bawked at for having an english muffin, veggie sausage, a banana and HP sauce all on one plate (we don’t mix our food in America!)

4. Tell me when was the last time you sat in a dark kitchen, discarded Dominoes boxes and empty cans of cider in front of you and had to explain over and over again how your fish Thurgood Marshall may be dead, but the man Thurgood Marshall is definitly (unfortunatly) already dead for endless minutes only to realize the boys were trying to wind you up?

5. I wake up the next morning to my open notebook and see that I have written at one point in the night: “Forget the idea of doing or not doing something for the effects of the ‘long run’. Tomorrow is always tentative and by morning you may be but vapour. Love and feel. Hurt and steal. Repercussions are for dwellers of the future, and they are the ones numb to the truth. The ones unaware of the reason why the ‘present’ is the only thing worth working towards”.

Now I am off to making my packing list for the much anticipated two weeks in London and Paris!!

Enjoy your easter holidays, enjoy your passover, both great excuses to indulge in chocolate and wine and thank you again to every single reader.

xxx

My ability to write coherently is a bit exhausted after 2000 words of course work regarding Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. After seven pages of commenting on the plays comedic devices and theme of debauchery, I am relieved and eager to partake in some festivities of my own.

Speaking of which. Before I get on to the hysteria of my past few weeks (colour splashing, pub crawling and war declaring-yes Iain, America is still searching for a revenge against England) I want to wish Paddy, Joe and Katherine a very very Happy Birthday!!!

Although today doesn’t actually mark a single one of your births…the celebrations of tonight will be epic and send us all in to our easter holidays hungover but happy.

What does Holi and Hamlet have in common?

Although the annual Hindu festival of colour has nothing to do with the deception and bloodshed of Hamlet, they both occupied last Wednesday unexpectedly. After my morning Shakespeare seminar I really had no strong intentions of running around the lake in clothes not fit for the brutal temperatures, splattering powders of green, pink and yellow at friends and strangers even. Nonetheless I returned to my flat leaving behind a rainbow trail and now my sink is permanently marked with a purple tint.

The festival is meant to celebrate the coming of spring. Katherine and I couldn’t help but feeling a bit ‘cool’ when we had to excuse ourselve from our creative writing meeting in order to throw our inhibitions to the wind and act like complete children.

After a quick shower that left pools of blue and purple on our bathroom floors, we immersed ourselves further in culture by attending our school’s production of Hamlet. Although I entered the theatre already claiming this as not just my favourite Shakespearean tragedy, but my favourite of all his plays, I left with the giddiness of someone whose just been kissed on the mouth by Bill Nighy (for those who do not find him all that wonderful…well you are strange…and I mean to say I was in a great mood). The acting was phenomenal and I couldn’t control my literary smugness at knowing so many of the words by heart.

The night of sophistication took a messy turn when my pleasant kitchen conversation was interrupted by an impromptu water fight that was only made worse by Iain sprinkling me with garlic salt. Besides slight electricution and a shirt that still smells like an Italian dish, this was an appropriate way to end a night in CO2

Pub Crawl (which doesn’t actually involve crawling…unless of course you felt it necessary to partake in just one more jaggerbomb)

On Thursday we all dressed in our purchased t-shirts, the money in which goes to helping Haiti, and made our way through town from club to club. In America I used to wake up early and do community service by picking up trash or planting trees, never before did I aid in a world cause by consuming alcohol. Don’t knock until you try it.

Basically we started at the bar at our university and were given cards of instructions. At each place we were told to purchase a particular drink (like beer and cheap wine-which I didn’t do and tequila -which at the end of the night I surprisingly did). Adding to the challenge, and only promising more of a mess, we were meant to drink it all in a certain amount of tries in order to get the appropriate points. Shots, no problem, but inexpensive beer in two is just…well that’s just so bah.

Sometimes you have to be an American in England

Sunday night marked the first film screening for the Alternative Politics Forum, a society I joined. The intentions were to watch Fall of the Republic, and I braced myself to go in with an open mind, not be insulted as an American who participated in her first election by voting for Obama. Because of technical difficulties we ended up watching Zeitgeist, a pretty outlandish film about how religion and the happenings of 911 are riddled by conspiracy. The film managed to rustle a few feathers and start a very passionate discussion. This after all is the whole purpose of being a member of an “alternative” society. I left a bit shaken, seeing as I saw certain clips from 9/11 for the first time…ones that managed to haunt my dreams. I will always keep an open mind but I will draw the line when people, laughter instead of understanding caught in their throats, shrug away this horrific event of loss as a joke, a fluke from within my own country. A body count and a hollow place where two towers once stood is not actually funny at all.

(Taken 12, September 2008, repairing what is left)

Onto things completely unrelated

1. I am so unbelievably happy that next year, when I will no doubtably be homesick for England, I will be moving in with four of my greatest friends! We have our very own Riverside home!!! And I get to be Kristen’s roommate, best. thing. ever.

2. Saturday night moved in strange directions but most of what is important is how Elliot told me a story about his ex-girlfriends car getting totalled due to hitting a badger. I couldn’t stop laughing…not because the cruelty of road kill is hilarious but because for some reason I was imagining a beaver instead of a badger. Oh, right, and at some obscene hour in the night, although I had access to my own room, I would only go outside with the CO2 boys if I could borrow Joe’s loafers.

3. I drank a pint of Guiness on St. Patricks Day. Not really the same thing as actually going to Ireland…but I am getting closer every year.

4. Blame it on impulses or the fact that my political theatre seminar was cancelled, but I went into town and lost about 5-6 inches of hair and surrendered what remained to a darker red.

5. 10 more days until my best friend and I are reunited in London!!!!

Until next time xxx

[FYI: the title is not meant to refer to President Ulysses S. Grants manhood but the novel by James Joyce that consists of about 265,000 words. Sorry if only my mind was in the gutter when writing that title]

Saying that these past two weeks have been incredibly eventful is an understatement. Explaining that I didn’t get into bed last night until 6am only after recovering from a water fight that also left me reeking of garlic should act as a clear indicater. But let’s rewind a bit.

UV Lights and takotsubo cardiomyopathy (known commonly as a broken heart)

All it takes to invoke a rave is some artistically executed neon dots on the face, one too many sips of vodka and absolute lunacy. Some woke up the next morning still dressed in tutus, some ended their night early with a concussion and others have six hour memory lapses.

The post-LCR mornings are far more entertaining then the event itself. Collected around a table heavy with empty beer cans, patterns of pink and green clashing with the light of day and someone finally braving the question “so what actually happened last night?”

And without meaning to pour water on the brightness of that Tuesday evening but when Wednesday arrived and I folded up my pink tutu, I didn’t feel highlighter yellow or lime green, I felt like an emptying black into gray.

There is always risk in deciding to like someone. And for anyone at home in the States, it is well known I am not one to serve up my heart so easily, so openly. I don’t want to blame it on the person, and it took me a week to stop blaming myself but I read too much into something, I cared too much, I fell too hard and hitting the ground hurt. It wasn’t intentional, but it was unkind. Thankfully I live in flat CO2, a place where people know just what kind of tape is necessary to repair a broken heart. Talking to Katherine and Nish, watching Friends with Emma and a little ‘The Boat That Rocked’ therapy with the boys and I was ready for Thursday.

Come for a summer-y day outside…but bring your coat and gloves

37 degrees farenheit and we ventured into the somewhat misleading sunshine for football and nutella sandwiches. When I came out still in coat and scarf, a boy clad in shorts gave me a hard time, saying that, that was no way to dress for a summer-y day outside. Although my coat did come off, I felt compelled to explain that where I live it never even gets this cold in the winter!

Nevertheless, we sat around and talked or mindlessly kicked the football around until hands and cheeks turned pink and threatened to give in to the biting cold. Although the weather will only get warmer I still think the suggestion to go skinny dipping in the lake is far out of the spectrum of reality.

When a writer’s workshop makes no sense and a trip to town turns into an epic journey

I felt a bit put off by my writer’s workshop for creative writing drama last Friday. Not that I want to turn my nose up on a different way of conducting a seminar but I came to class with a marked up script and two written critiques and was the one unprepared. The lack of organization made me nostalgic for the rigidity of my nonfiction workshop, that’s intensity left me in sweats of panic but at least made me feel a day wiser. At my American University the writer is supposed to take notes and internalize the verbal criticism, not be backed into a corner feeling obligated to defend a work that is not yet complete.

Saturday began with Tom’s desire to walk into town with one or more people to retrieve a rugby ball and some groceries and turned into a parade of weekend-dwellers with an appetite for Norwich culture and a pint. The walk, pleasantly cold, turned into Katherine and I falling far too behind one group and far too in front of another. In the end we reunited and found ourselves in a cozy pub known as The Birdcage. The darling interior design, a melody of antiques and somewhat retro decor would have been more enjoyable if not for the draft and the price of the drinks. Assuming Witherspoons for a burger and chips as the easiest alternative, we were met with a bit of a challenge. One pub lacking table space turned into half of the group searching for the other pub and the other half trying to follow but walking up, down and around the desitination. Forty-five minutes later and I tucked in to a veggie burger, chips, and about three packets of every sauce they graciously provided (horseradish! french mustard! brown sauce! ketchup! english mustard-with a potency that makes ones eyes shoot back and out their noses-!)

What would a normal Monday be without a trip into town, a fight and me talking to myself (again)?

Monday I wandered, alone, around the cobblestone streets of Norwich. Trying desperatly not to get lost, I meandered in and out of small shops picking up stationary and jewellry on my way. I stopped for breakfast in a small cafe and over my scambled eggs and coffee I realized there was a huge age gap between me and the other tables of 70 or so year olds. Nonetheless, reading my book and eating my toast I felt that overwhelming second of ‘I am living in England, I am far from home’. But unlike Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I am not quite ready to click my heels and return to California just yet.

Once returning home to CO2, I was outed by Tom for my habit of talking to myself. Granted I did talk to my cooked broccoli once and every so often, as I work out the equations of my scattered life in my head, I do make sudden outbursts of incoherent speech, but I am not crazy. I am not crazy.

The night ended strangely. Some uninvited blokes showed up just to provoke a fight and the boys of suffolk terrace seemed to drain out of the cracks in the concrete jungle to help in the effort, to redeem their territory. Unfortunatly a punch did connect with a face. Fortunatly, the UEA men managed to keep the women and children safe.

Recommendations:

Watch: The Last King of Scotland starring Forest Whitaker and James McAvoy. But you may have to follow up the last scene with some hot chocolate and the Hairspray soundtrack…it’s not for the weak at heart.

Read: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Although I am only partly through it, I find the flow of the language absolutly enchanting. One hundred percent creepy, but enchanting.

Listen to: Ed Sheeran. The CD was a gift and this singer writes lyrics that make beautiful sense.

Lastly it is alright if the picture below is one of the greatest truths I have come across these past two weeks:

Until next time (Holi, Hamlet and hours of conversation)

xxx