in transit: london to norwich part one

It seemed a fortuitous time to write of the adventures I’ve already had in Norwich, sitting at a small coffee shop in the railway station about to depart since arriving. As I hope to keep up better with this blog hereto-forward, my excursion back to London to visit Kelsey, Megan and Angela this weekend should be fairly well-represented on this page in time; so I won’t tell you about it now. If not for any other reason than that I haven’t yet been or done anything there to possibly write about.

Right.

My last morning in London for EAP orientation went more smoothly than other times, probably because I’m a creature capable of adaptation and I had--well--sort of adapted. I’d packed my things back up the night before and made a point to get up a little later for breakfast so I’d meet others there that I knew and avoid rush hour, which I’d encountered the morning before. 

By this time I’d figured out how to operate my hair dryer by sheer luck and a small amount of credit is due to my memory, and here is why: when I couldn’t get it to work initially, I assumed that I’d broken it somehow, but then I saw there was a small dial to turn at the base of the handle to change the voltage, which was still set on American input. Then, I couldn’t figure out how to turn it because it’s like a screw that you’ve got to turn with a screwdriver and I didn’t have anything that would fit in the slot to turn it. But when I went back, determined, with plans to press and hold the test button for five seconds and press it ten times in rapid succession if the first plan failed--so on and so forth--I realized that I could use the prongs on the plug itself, as American plugs have thin enough prongs to work for this purpose. 

Point of this story: I remembered vaguely from other electronic devices that you had to press/hold the test button and I figured out that one can use American socket plugs as a screwdriver, if hard-pressed. 

Moral of the story: Never throw away the instructions for something you don’t know how to use and/or not bring them with you on a trip if you’re going to fly to another country. Specifically if you’re flying across the continental U.S. and the Atlantic ocean.

~end flashback~

My hair didn’t look like a wet cat, basically, and I’d mastered the shower, I’d stolen teabags from the suite’s small kitchen, I had packed, and I was going down to have another chocolate croissant. More importantly, I’d gotten along well with the others yesterday--day two of orientation--and wasn’t feeling so desolate. 

I’d been right in thinking that waiting until later would be a good idea for breakfast--while it was still busy I was able to fit in at a table with Matt and Marina and we talked about going to buy chocolate before our taxis came, as we’d seen a Cadbury shop nearby. However, it was about 9.30 at this point and our taxis were coming at 10.15, so we didn’t end up going. Brittany joined us towards the end of breakfast and then I went back up to bring my things down to the lobby and check out. I was very much looking forward to getting to Norwich but not excited about what was between here and there--that is, navigating, by ourselves, the taxis and trains, and getting to UEA generally unharmed. 

Monika had put me in charge of the money for the taxis, and a three-person taxi was booked under my name. When all of us had come down to the lobby and checked out, it was only a matter of minutes before someone came to the door and we had to let him in because he didn’t have a key. He turned out to be my taxi driver, so Brittany, Julian and I grabbed our luggage and followed the driver out to his taxi, leaving Matt and Marina behind.

Things went pretty smoothly from there. The taxi driver helped us with our luggage and it was very spacious inside the mini-van taxi. Julian talked to the taxi driver about crime rates and whether or not the UK supported capital punishment, and we talked about how different London was to the areas our schools are in--Irvine, Santa Barbara, and Santa Cruz--and I’m sure the taxi driver was either quite annoyed by Julian’s completely, unquestionably southern-Californian-bro accent and tone--his manner is completely dorky and he’ll say anything he thinks, but he’s also entertaining for much the same reason. 

About half-way to Liverpool Street Station, our taxi gets a call--by now it’s around 10.35 and our train departs at 11.00--and it’s the other taxi driver, wondering where Matt and Marina are. Apparently, the other driver wasn’t told to go into the hostel to collect M&M, so he waited outside on the street and by now M&M were twenty minutes late for the booking. He asked us to give him their number and while Brittany and Julian got it for him, I was texting Marina telling her their taxi was outside the hostel--I get a text back asking me where it is exactly--and of course, I don’t know, but I’m trying to be nice and by now the other taxi driver’s hung up with us, and I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I do remember a text that asked us to let them know exactly what to do when they got to the station so they could get to the train quicker and to see if we could ask the train to wait.

When we got to the street station, of course we didn’t know who to ask to make the train wait, and we got there with only about seven or ten minutes to spare ourselves--so after Brittany and I made Julian put our luggage in the luggage racks for us, because we couldn’t lift them, and after we got situated in our seats, the train pulled out, and M&M still weren’t at the station. 

I got a text from Marina a bit later, telling us they’d gotten their ticket times changed for free and were going to be able to catch the next bus. For a while I sat at my window seat being extremely relieved. And then I began to take pictures shamelessly because going out of London had been something I’d been waiting for since--well, since I’d alighted from the airport days before.

We loped by the Greenwich arena where many of the Olympic events took place, and the Aquatic center, and whatever that weird tall building with the red bars twisting all around it is. After this we crossed into patchy grass fields punctuated by communities of very tall apartment complexes--houses are generally tall and thin, here, and I suppose that’s how most cities are--and car parks. The cars in England are one of the things that makes it feel the most different to me; they’re all thin and tall, too, perhaps to accommodate driving on the small, thin, twisting, uneven roads. I do see Fiats--and every time I saw one for the first few days, I’d lean after them and say I want a Fiat...I want one. Because I do.

Brittany and I talked a lot on the train. It was nice to, for a moment, feel as though there weren’t any people around judging us for our accents--lack thereof, I’d assert--because not all of London is tourist friendly. And it was true, what we’d heard--that London is almost a satellite city, that it’s not like the rest of England. This became apparent soon after we departed London--I was glad for a window seat, from whence I observed rolling green hills lined with trees, and sprinklings of sheep. 

Julian made friends with the man sitting across from him at the table seat in front of us; the man was Scottish and very friendly and told us a lot about Norwich, such as that it’s not as expensive to live there as London. The train ride was almost two hours long, and Julian and this man talked the entire time. Mostly Julian was talking and asking questions, and when Brittany and I fell silent in patches, we’d listen to their conversation. They’d both been to Taiwan and talked about it; Julian asked about the distinction between Celtic and Gaelic; Julian complained and asked more questions. 

Something I’ve noticed since I’ve been here is how much I do rely on Californian “slang,” though I prefer to think of this as colloquial speech. Because I’m not overtly social, when I appreciate something someone says, or some bit of information, I usually say “that’s cool!” And I haven’t heard any locals say “cool” once. Or I’ll pad my sentences with “like,” which is obviously not uncommon if you’ve ever been to California or other American places, which I assume those of you reading probably have. If you haven’t, if you’ve been in contact with me at all, you still understand what it’s like, and just know that it’s not just me! On the train, I wasn’t particularly aware of this quirk, but once we got into Norwich, where there aren’t as many Americans around, I noticed it right away. 

I bring this up because even though I use colloquialisms often, I’m not half as bad as Julian. 

It’s also been a bit hard not to mirror certain British pronunciations. We talked about James Joyce in my seminar for Modernism today, and they pronounce “Ulysses” as “YOU-lis-ees,” instead of how I’d say it: “you-LISS-ees.” There are a million things like this: today I said “yeah” to someone with a British accent and felt immediately stupid. Many of my thoughts have taken up an accent, too. 

But what’s more strange is that in some classes when I speak I now sound crystal clear and actually enjoy the sound of my own voice. Which isn’t something I’ve said before in any seriousness.

I understand everything I say!

* * *

Julian’s friend got off the train at Norwich station, too. When I noticed that we were pulling into the station and a sign said “Norwich,” I stood up and said “is this our stop? Is this our stop?” because neither Julian nor Brittany seemed too concerned, and finally, Julian’s friend nodded at me and I tried not to look too apologetic. 

Stepping off the train onto the platform required Julian to do more work because Brittany and I, again, couldn’t lift our suitcases. I’m sure I could have, I just couldn’t since Julian was there to do it for me. He asked us for “man points,” and I don’t really know what that is but we gave him a few, about five each, which didn’t seem to please him much.

My first impression was that it was overcast and sprinkling. It was different to London, more English, and the station is small and almost quaint. We took a while to figure out how to navigate our suitcases through the gates that let you off the platform and then walked out into the cold, cold British air, where there were other people with suitcases queue’d up for taxis. A girl came to greet us with a UEA sign and helped us get into a taxi; it wasn’t a black cab and it was quite small, so we got in with our luggage and had to hold it all the way to school so we wouldn’t be squashed. 

The cab driver didn’t know we wanted to talk to him, so he didn’t have his speaker system on at first, or whatever they use or turn on to hear us when we speak from the back. I noticed a small red light turn on when he noticed we were trying to catch his attention. We asked him where to eat and what were cheap places to do shopping, if there was good Indian food--to which he laughed at us tourists and said “it’s England, mate!”--and then he told us the first thing to do in Norwich was to never use his taxi service, as it was too expensive for students. I only had ten pounds with me to pay him with because that’s all Monika gave us to use, and it ended up costing ten pound sixty, so I pulled out some change and then felt really horrible that I didn’t have a tip for him. But he seemed nice enough on the outside and at least refrained from being grumpy while we could see him. 

When we got to school, it was partially sunny, but still quite cold. I was wearing a thin jumper over a dress and I could feel the wind as though I weren’t wearing any sleeves at all. If by nothing else, I’m sure people could tell I was not from around by the rate at which I shivered. Others--locals--were in short-sleeves and jeans and were completely comfortable. (Over a week later, I still haven’t acclimated to the cold or wind, but I do have clothes more suitable for it.) 

After leaving our luggage in a “luggage drop” we went through many booths and had our passports scanned, registered with our schools, got our keys and accommodation agreements. On the far corner of the room we were in, called the “LCR” as an acronym for the “Lower Common Room,” there were tables set up with information about the union. At this point I was feeling rather shaky, not quite ever knowing if I was doing the right thing in the right order; one slip up, I felt, and I could be here illegally! I could garner a criminal record! That could ruin plans for graduate school! And future employment! But mostly graduate school!

After I gathered things from the Union of Students, I asked one of the people standing around, whom I actually recognized from his picture on the Union of Students Blog, if there was anything “over here” I needed to do to finish registration. He said no, that this was just “fun stuff” and then I nearly turned away in relief, but remembered to say, “oh, cool,” and smile like I meant it. I felt bad for it afterwards, wondered what I looked like: the American girl completely uninterested in “fun stuff.” 

When I’d finished with what I needed, I went to ask someone how to get to Constable Terrace, which is where I live, because I didn’t have any idea. The lady at the desk I’d stopped at told me there were shuttles that could take us to the accommodation and that she thought she might be able to squeeze me into the “terrace” shuttle. (There’s also Norfolk Terrace and Suffolk Terrace on campus.) The girl she asked to help me looked very displeased and I felt bad for allowing her to lug around my luggage, but I didn’t have the energy or other resources to pull it myself, and besides, she’d volunteered so she should have counted on having to help a couple lame, weak people with their things. To be fair, my luggage isn’t even that heavy in comparison to a lot of the others’ around.

I squeezed into the shuttle awkwardly with my large backpack--there was very little space. By this time I’d lost Brittany in the LCR, but Julian was in this shuttle; going to Suffolk Terrace. We were mostly silent; he was probably tired from carrying my luggage around and I was just tired because I was tired.

We stopped at Constable Terrace first because there was someone there from Italy, I think, judging by the outside of his passport, who had a TV, microwave, and probably also a dishwasher with him. His boxes took up almost half the space in the shuttle. They helped him out with his things while I squeezed out the back door with my “rucksack” and then the Italian boy and an Australian girl lowered my trunk out of the car and I thanked them more times than is probably polite. One of the boys who was volunteering hopped out of the shuttle and offered to take my luggage. I nearly refused because now I could roll it--but he seemed happy to help and I realized quickly that I shouldn’t ever say no to someone who offered that kind of thing. He took it and zoomed off in the direction of my flat, talking to me the whole time in an accent markedly different to London’s but which I couldn’t place anyway--you know, being American and everything.

He asked me what I was studying while we walked, and I told him “literature and creative writing,” and he said, “so...English” and then I told him about the lady who sassed me at customs and how I assumed that that meant I couldn’t call it “English” here. It was probably a less-than-enlightening conversation on his end, but I blame being tired for whatever came out of my mouth. 

When we got to the flat he had to show me how to open the door--I am notoriously challenged when it comes to opening doors with keys, but apparently these are strange anyway, because you have to hold the key in place while you open the door itself. I won’t go into more detail because I don’t know who’s reading this.

And then, he carried my luggage all the way up to the top floor without stopping for breath and without ceasing in his stream of orated information. I think it was probably a combination of odd circumstances, but I was decidedly in love with him once he left me to settle in.

* * *

Having my own bathroom and shower was immediately apparent as the best feature of Constable Terrace, despite everything else about it that’s nice.

* * *

I texted Brittany a bit later asking her if she wanted to go on the tour of Norwich at six that day. I was very tired but I wanted to see the city, and I realize now that I was probably still running on the vestiges of adrenaline that travelling alone and for so long had pumped into me. We met up at the LCR for the tour and had to figure out how to grapple with British change to pay for bus fare. Busses are a bit expensive here--it’s four quid for a return ticket, whereas in Brighton, according to Angela and Megan, it’s only two quid for a return. It could be that the Norwich city centre is farther away from campus than Brighton’s city centre is from theirs. Either way, I gladly parted with my money and boarded the bus, all the way to the upper level.

I realized later that in deciding to take the tour--though I’d come dangerously close to not going once I’d seen how nice it was to be in my room, alone, in the relative quiet--I’d done one of the best things for my budding social life that I could have possibly done. On the bus, Brittany and I met several other international students with whom we’d do things and hang out for the next few days almost all the time. I got a text from Matt around this time asking what we were doing for dinner and had to tell him we’d gone into the city. We ate--one Australian, five Americans, and one Belgian--at a restaurant called “Giraffe” which apparently local students dislike but which served really good mashed pea soup. 

While we were out, I got a blanket for the bed--I had preordered a bedding pack that UEA put into the room so it’d be there when I arrived, but the duvet cover/sheet/pillow case were a bit waxy and stiff, so I realized I’d need other softer things. I also got a pack of pillowcases and a few other things that weren’t worth bringing on the plane--towel, shower gel, and the very magical hair accessory called a “hair donut.” You can (and should!) look it up if you haven’t heard of it because it’s changed my entire opinion on putting my hair up. 

My memories of this first night fade and reduce to taking up defence against an American fourth-year student from Philadelphia on the way back to UEA. I recognised him immediately as someone who needed to feel included and did this by tempering our stories and conversation with versions of said stories/conversation, only substituting himself for the main characters. I said I was a vegetarian over dinner because I didn’t order the chicken barbecue quesadillas nor fish and chips, and this boy--I will call him “R”--proceeds to tell a story about how he was a vegetarian for four months--no, it must have been five, or five point two-seven-three months--and then one night had a tiny, tiny bit of chicken stock and was sick for hours in the bathroom hunched up and gross.

As a vegetarian who’s gotten sick from eating fish after years of not having it and as someone with this experience who did not spend hours throwing up and who is a weak-bodied, delicate-to-the-point-of-patheticness person, I began to suspect the truth of his stories. I understand--truth and stories aren’t often synonymous--but sometimes truth just happens. 

On the way back to UEA, on the bus, in the strange fluorescent beams, tired and bent, “R” asks if anyone else is doing creative writing or if it’s just him--and I raise my hand tentatively because I know this will mean talking to him, and he asks me what classes I’m taking and I tell him, and then he proceeds to tell a story about how he couldn’t get into any of the c.w. classes and he doesn’t know why, and I don’t either, and then he asks me what I write. I take a small amount of time to deliberate over my answer: I can’t say poetry, I can’t say poetry. What I say is “prose poetry,” which is the worst possible answer, and then I proceed with “and micro fiction----you know, mostly.”

Somebody asks what prose poetry is. I almost have a chance to answer before “R” is spewing rainbows out of his mouth and “It’s poems that are written without line breaks, and, it’s all about every. single. word. Like, man, every word counts.”

As if each word doesn’t in regular prose? As if each word doesn’t, ever? As if it’s easier to write novels or non-prose-poetry, as if we can sometimes string words together in a way so that each is not playing a part in a sentence or phrase? And; let’s not start on punctuation! But he does. And he says something I philosophically disagree with about poetry; that it’s lyrical and mostly beautiful. That in prose-poetry, punctuation is more vital than in other forms of writing. And I wonder what the others must think of us; how small words and phrases and periods must seem and how pointless our struggles to understand, our wants and needs to react, and how this must conflate with our own ideas of the importance of our “work,” that we are not only readers and writers but readers and writers of life, that we are the harbingers of renewal and creation, and upon us, nothing is lost.