Ah! There is good blood in that old city...

I let a day pass by about a week ago that would have marked the one-year anniversary of my having moved into dorm at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, UK, where I studied for three months before returning to California and UCI. Others of my friends who went abroad with me posted Facebook statuses that caused me pause, and wonder if so few words and such simple sentiments could really package up and present any kind of respect to or memory of their trips abroad. I like to write...obviously..., and it seemed a good occasion to try to write of some of the experiences I had whilst abroad, but I second-guessed myself and ended up forgetting about it until I was awake at 1:45 AM and realized that it was the next morning, and the day had slipped by unnoticeably. I felt a sort of relief, a release from the pressure of performing to an expected, regular, standard ritual. A year ago today I moved into a place and that was the first day of like ninety days that I spent away from home and I met some good people and had some good times....etc.

I thought to myself later--well, it’s good you didn’t write about it on that day. It meant something to me in a way that pulled at me insistently when I realized that it was 19 September that day. And as is an annoying habit of writers, I began to retreat into the lucid imaginings that are located, for me, abroad....walking through autumn air so cold that I ceased to be able to locate my nose on my face without reaching up and wrapping gloved fingers around it and having that be a nice thing, the crowded streets of Paris near Christmas scented like hot wine and chestnuts. I thought to myself, well, it’s a good thing you didn’t go all the way in. It’s good to distance yourself. This is your life now. This hot, dry, Southern California, hot and dry well into autumn. You live here. You live here.

I’ve written before that I’m not sure I do live here, but acceptance of that idea has, frankly, gotten me into a lot of trouble. So I’ve been working on it--getting better at living here. Going out with friends, wearing shorts more, not putting sunscreen on my face every day. I haven’t been to the beach in ages, though. I’m sure my re-immersion into my Southern California won’t be complete until I’ve put my feet in the sand of the coast where I spent so many of my childhood summers. I’m trying to get better at remembering that these memories--of watching the rip tide float half-way into the horizon, of finding sand in my underpants and hair for days after a beach visit, of jogging to the coast for P.E. a few days a week in junior high, of invading tide pools and catching sand crabs and bodyboarding ferociously--these are real. And they count for a lot. My mom’s old mini-van, in which we took trips to the ocean frequently, should be as real to me and as important to me in memory as the double-decker busses that I took six of seven times a week for three months while I was in Norwich--it should be more important. Or--I don’t know. 

A big trouble about living so much inside my head is that I forget that what’s not in my head is important. Some people tell me that what’s not inside my head is actually more important. I’m poison to myself; I’ve known that for a long time, now. But people like me who are poison to ourselves are also poison to ourselves because we’re okay with that. Me--I’m so afraid to lose any of the things that I feel like I have sometimes, and I use this occasionally to justify my frequent trips into non-reality. Except it’s real for me. So there probably needs to be another term for that. My dad always taught us and still insists that there’s only one actual reality. This makes perfect sense to me, but still, there’s something I’m living in a lot, whether or not this is harmful to myself and difficult for others, that’s on some sort of parallel plane, and I’d like a name for it. Maybe I’ll work on that. I don’t much like “delusions” or “la la land,” etc. Let’s think of something that notes at its devastation and doesn’t sound like an errant sound escaping from a three-year-old’s mouth. 

I meant to write a really different blog. I’ve just had the first two days of classes of my last year at UCI. Right now, I’m just going through the motions--gathering school supplies, battling lines at the bookstore--you would not BELIEVE how long they are, it’s astounding--sitting in class, struggling to raise my voice to speak from the back of crowded lecture halls. 

One thing I will say before working on another post to describe some things about classes in detail, is that, with the beginning of each new school year or quarter or whatever, I incur a fresh, acute fear of being run over by a bicyclist. I have been walking around looking over my shoulder so often that people are probably going to think that I’ve developed a compulsion. But, it’s like, bicyclists have some sort of record to set on the first few days of classes or something and have to hit a certain number of students before their crazy-bicyclist-on-the-way-to-class reputation is thoroughly installed. 

I’ve actually only seen two people toppled before, but that’s two more than I should have seen. I used to find it just crazy, but let’s think about it--who needs to ride a bike to class? What kind of person is that? When 90% of us can make it there on time fine on our own two feet, why are bicyclists in such a hurry that they need to run people over? After careful consideration, I’ve found that I think they’re probably people with a different set of priorities. Actually--that’s obvious, right? Most people probably have “not running people over on my bike” pretty high up on their unspoken list of things that are important to them. 

*title taken from George Borrow's Lavengro, in reference to Norwich

a vegetarian in the UK

Besides saving me from the horror of slicing into a piece of my food and seeing a blood vessel or chunk of gristle in an inappropriate place (such as: piece of edible food), being a vegetarian has also caused me a fair share of stress, particularly when I was first applying to study abroad. I didn’t know what it would be like for me in the UK, food-wise, and I worried that not being able to find something to eat would hinder my social integration. Hint: what social integration???

I started trying to eat fish over the summer: each time I tried some I suffered from varying degrees of pain and strange symptoms like feeling very warm and light-headed in addition to the regular pains of not being able to digest something. I worried for a while that it’d hurt every time I ate it, but canned tuna didn’t bother me, so I kept eating that until I departed for London in mid-september.

It was surprisingly easy to find vegetarian food once I’d gotten here--easier than at home with regards to pre-packaged sandwiches, salads, and pastas. Everything here that contains no animal product is labeled with a “V” that is sometimes accompanied by the phrase “suitable for vegetarians.” It’s on everything: crisps, soups, candies. It was completely opposite to my expectations, but that’s probably because I was expecting traditional British food to be the predominant locatable food.

That’s not always the case. Restaurants are good, here, about having and labeling vegetarian options on all of their menus. I thought I’d take a moment to describe some good meals that I had, mostly for fun, but the side-benefit of it is that if you’re a veg thinking of coming to the UK, you’ll know a few places around the country that’ll have good food (;

(Before you look at the prices and make some understandable judgements: people don’t tip in the UK for meals like they do in America because the tip (VAT) is already included in the price of the meal when you order it eat-in. If you order takeaway this price doesn’t apply to your meal and it’s cheaper.)

Herby Mushrooms on Toast (£6.30), Number 33 Café, Norwich

This is a thick piece of home-made rosemary and sea-salt bread, covered with mushrooms in what must be rosemary and other spices, a thick layer of wilted “rocket” (arugula to Americans), and topped with a poached egg. It’s served with two plum-sized roasted tomatoes, but I didn’t eat those. This is probably the best breakfast that I’ve had in the UK, and I’m pretty sure it’s a traditional British breakfast.

Courgette + Pepper Quiche (£6.45), Jarrold’s Café Benjamin, Norwich

In Britain, zucchini masquerades under its French name. Then Café Benjamin puts it into little individual quiches and adds red peppers to it and serves it with a side-salad and seasoned chips. The chips are half of there reason that I order this meal, besides the fact that Café Benjamin is located in an up-scale department store and the environment is very pleasant.

Spinach and Potato Curry with basmati steamed rice and roti (£5), Indian food stall at The Stables in Camden Town by “We Love Pizza” and Bubble tea stalls, London

This was possibly the best meal I have had the whole time I’ve been here with the exception of the Herby Mushrooms for breakfast. I love Indian food, and this is comparatively cheap for other Indian food I’ve had here, and I absolutely 100% think that roti are on my top 5 list of breads in the whole world and I am a bread person. I ordered a regular-size order which included a small aluminum tray of steamed basmati rice and a lot of spinach and potatoes and cost £4, and bought the roti for £1. This meal’s leftovers became my dinner that night. If you’re ever in The Stables and like Indian food, you need to eat here! I’m sorry I can’t remember what it’s called, but you’ll see the pizza place next to it. 

Spicy Veggie Sandwich Meal (£4.45), MacDonald’s

You can find MacDonald’s (Macker’s) pretty much anywhere in the UK, especially in malls. There are two within five-minutes walking distance in the Norwich city centre, but I’ve only been to the one in the mall before. Anyway, the concept of MacDonald’s having a sandwich for me to eat was completely foreign (SEE WHAT I DID THERE) to me because we don't’ have any main vegetarian dishes at really any fast food restaurants where I live in California, and where I live in California is full of veggies like me. The Spicy Veggie Sandwich is basically a long bread-roll filled with puck-like veggie patties (that to me tasted like greek-style falafel and were delicious), cucumber slices, iceberg lettuce, and a sweet chili sauce. It’s very good, and was especially so the first time I had it after walking toward the Golden Arches expecting to have fries and a coke for lunch.

Tofu Panini (£6) and Sweet Potato Chips with chili mayonnaise (£2.20) at Pulse Café & Bar, Norwich

You can order this sandwich as a wrap or as a bruschetta, but I prefer the panini style, which is different than what an American would expect when ordering a panini: in the UK panini refers to a heated open-faced sandwich (and the term “toastie” refers to a pressed, hot sandwich that we’d call a panini in America). This one is full of smoked tofu, tomato slices, iceberg lettuce, cheddar cheese and barbecue sauce and is very difficult to eat knife-and-fork as is the British way, so I picked it up and ate it with my hands, American-style. I ordered it with my favorite snack/side-order to be found in the city (by...me, anyway), thick-cut sweet potato chips (re: fries, if you’re American) that they serve with a chili or garlic mayo dip. Chili is my favorite, and I don’t like spicy things, so anyone could handle this level of heat. This mayo isn’t like the stuff you scoop out of plastic jugs with a spoon and get all over your finger-tips when it’s time to get a new batch, either; it’s denser somehow and stands up to being a dip for these chips. I love sweet-potato fries, but these ones were baked and crispy rather than fried, so that I could eat more of them they were healthier. Remember to ask for salt for them, though! 

P.S. everything at Pulse Cafe & Bar is vegetarian, but there are also vegan and gluten-free options on the menu. They serve a range of gluten-free cakes and treats.

American-Style Pancakes (£6.40), Number 33 Café, Norwich

These aren’t really American-style; they’re not those fluffy, inch-thick clouds that you associate with square, yellow pats of butter and Aunt Jemima’s. They’re more like a hybrid crepe-pancake and are a bit chewy, but they’re wonderful anyway and they come with a small pot of syrup and a cup of fresh fruit, including raspberries, which are a favorite of mine.

Traditional Greek Salad (£3.49), Number 33 Café, Norwich

I ordered this as a take-away meal recently--it’d be a bit more expensive to eat in-house--and it’s a mix of calamata and green olives, feta cheese, cherry tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, red onions, rocket and other greens. It has a sweetish vinaigrette on it and there’s a good ratio of cheese to the rest of the salad, which, in my experience, is not always the case.

Veggie Burger Meal (£5.45), Burger King

You can find Burger King not as easily as “Macker’s” but it’s in most of the malls and in some big railway stations in London. This is also a chick-pea-base but there’s more beans and corn and carrots in there than I could tell in the MacDonald’s equivalent. The bun often fell apart on me while eating these, but there are worse things (like ordering a side-salad and fries). 

Mushy Pea Soup (£4.95), Giraffe, Norwich

There are Giraffe’s everywhere. Apparently, they’re lower-class chain restaurants, but I had a very nice starter-course soup for dinner there my first night in Norwich. They serve it with a couple pieces of garlicky bread. 

Look out for a future post in which I enlighten some of you on the terms I learned for food here and how they differ to American equivalents.

06 December 2012

It’s 11:01 P.M. on December 6th and rain is pounding occasionally on the window. It sounds like fingertips over a hard surface in rapid tattoo. 

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to blog. I feel like I’ve been floating through my life lately, overcome in certain corners of the city or the UEA campus by love for the surrounding, for the country, for the idea that I’ve intercepted a dream with my body. I think this is why it’s been difficult to write. I’ve been in the mood to curl up and watch the snow fall, or the rain, wrapped in a blanket, and think without self-mediating. It’s not easy not to self-mediate when you’re writing out your thoughts and you can see what you’re thinking or who you are in certain glimmers.

A week from today I will have been in London for about twelve hours and I will have left Norwich behind. Perhaps for good. My heart really hurts at that possibility. Amidst all the throws of homesickness I think I found comfort in the trees and large lawns and the churches and the small-town mentality of the busses, which run on whatever schedule they please. This country has been, contrary to logic, in my heart for so much of my life and part of me wants to go back and start over, have another chance in another life where I’m smarter, more graceful, better-equipped to encounter all that the country has to offer, the people and the traditions and the weird food and the strange mentality that every British person seems to share that there is intense comfort and delight to be found in small things: a good cup of tea, a sunny day, a hot meal. 

And I look back, too, wondering, or almost wondering, about how it would have been like for me here if I were any different than who I was when I got here and I’m overcome with an overwhelming fear that this experience could be taken from me. At the base of it, underneath all my self-doubt and the boredom and the strangeness and uncomfortableness of being beyond familiar turf, I have had an amazing time here and I’m loathe to leave. I’ve packed the bulk of my things but I’ve left out litter--bus tickets, makeup, perfume, tea cups, everything--I think because it makes me sad to consider leaving. These little things are signals that I still belong in this place. My journal in the left-hand corner of this desk is definitely mine, and belongs on this surface, at least for a little while longer.

I am really looking forward to being home but I feel, while walking around Norwich for the last few days I’m here in conceivably forever, a strange nostalgia and a desperation to spend the last few days well. It’s a grasping at the current moment inside of the current moment and it really hurts. I can’t tell what parts of it are regret--wishes that I’d spent a bit more time having coffee at the riverside--and what parts of it are regular sadness at departing from a wonderful portion of life. The feeling reminds me a little of the way I felt walking across the football field at high school graduation, except I may have loved this place more intensely in individual moments than I loved high school. 

I think most people would end this kind of post with a list of things they’re thankful for about the trip and it might look like this: the friends I made, the memories I made, etc. Many exclamation points and saccharine reminiscences.

My list is not that list. This is the first real thing I’ve ever actually accomplished outside of the realm of scholarship and I feel, for the first time in my life, like I’m not staring into the abyss of real life without some tools to defend myself with. Sometimes when I consider the reality of what I’ve done--how far I actually am from home physically--I almost don’t believe it. How did I manage to get myself over here? How did I fly to a country in which I’d never set foot in and live here for three months on my own? How did I feed myself, how did I manage to tuck in the tags that stuck up in the back of my shirts or jumpers, how did I take a train to a different country, how did I fly to Dublin and back, how did I learn how to stand on the tube, how am I still alive, here, so far away, on my own? How is it possible that I’ve detached from home and lived a life apart from it? I’ve never done that. I go to a college thirty minutes up the freeway from my childhood home and I live there in the school year. The cat I’ve had since I was five is still my best friend. I’m closer to my parents than any people my age. And I’ve left all of that behind and I’ve done something that I just really can’t wrap my head around when I think about the probability of me being able to do it. 

I know I’ll come home in a couple weeks and, apart from being happy for dry climates and the familiar scents of San Juan Capistrano and Irvine in the sunshine, in the heat, and the brief spastic showers that we call rain; I know I will still be a house of insecurities all kind of shaking around inside of me and I’ll still be the same girl in the same skin with the same worries. But I will also have these three months of fending for myself and having to really interrogate my beliefs and habits and lifestyle. I’m an introvert--I like spending time alone. I enjoy that privacy. But to spend the greater part of three months with myself and my brain and my illogical heart with its intense bursts of love for unnamable things in the air or across the lakes or the countryside visible from the train windows or the small patches of little white flowers in the Scottish hills--has been exhausting. I am accountable only to myself. 

But I think I’ve learned a lot--in things I can’t quite say. I know now some concrete things: like, you’re able to understand public transportation. You’re able to ride a train by yourself to Edinburgh and you’re able to get yourself safe when stranded in Northumberland at midnight. You can buy your own groceries and not die of malnutrition. You can buy your own medicine and nurse yourself out of a mid-term cold. And you can accept who you’ve become in the quiet and the still moments of your life. You can be at peace with that inner turbulence and longing and you can make sense of some things that happen and you can really, if you want to, be an optimist. 

And I think--I don’t know, I think I’ve learned how to be grateful. I seem to feel things in flashes, and I feel grateful in flashes, really deep, right in the chest. It’s incredible--I really can’t comprehend the opportunity I’ve been given and I hope that, even if I don’t know until I’m home and I’m remembering, I’ve taken advantage of it. I hope I can use this experience to somehow bless other people. I feel I’ve learned things I can’t yet understand. There’s this idea that sometimes we encounter knowledge or art that we’re not ready for yet, that someday we’ll perfect. I think this has been one of those things; every day has been full of those things. 

I was lying in bed earlier tonight looking around me at the suitcases and the scant bookshelves and the circular sticker on the top right corner of my mirror that says “THE GRASSHOPPER - AMSTERDAM” that was here when I got here and I remembered walking through a part of town called “the Royal Arcade” and encountering a lone man singing in a clear, beautiful voice, a song in Latin. I don’t know what it was, but it touched me deeply, and I looked up at the grey, stone edifice of Norwich Castle opposite me, up on a hill, and thought--how bizarre! That I’m here! And I stood for a moment in front of the outdoor stage in a small ampitheatre near the castle, read some plaques, walked to the castle mall foodcourt and ordered a vegetarian sandwich. I sat and watched three teenagers dissect a baked potato (jacket potato) at a neighboring table against the backdrop of white skies and the rooftops of city buildings, and another far-off mall. It was a beautiful, perfect day. I remember it in sea-glass greens and gradient gray, the undersides of clouds and the white sky lit behind by the sun.

I look forward to a lot of things about home; seeing my family, having Christmas together, going back to school and work...but I think I also look forward to seeing how this self re-encounters my past self’s life. I’m not saying I’m a different person in a large enough way that I’ll be living in a stranger’s routine until it becomes mine again. I just wonder--when I look at the lights on the Christmas tree, are they going to remind me of the lights flat 20 hung in the kitchen next door that I can see from far away when I walk home from class in the dark?--a soft, yellowing light, in a string of speckles across the dark glass above a hand-written sign: HAPPY CHRISTMAS

party in the uk

I hate election time. I’m not at all original in this sentiment, but I feel it strongly: the elections, especially because we’re so rooted in the two-party system, bring out the absolute worst in otherwise lovely people. 

I’m always sort of horrified--which is a brand of amazement--at the transformation. I was a sophomore in high school when the last candidates started campaigning, and in my junior year the elections fractured the student body. Some things should be said for my environment: San Clemente is in south Orange County, which generally--in the majority--leans to the politically conservative, except for, apparently, the AP/IB students there. I didn’t have strong opinions on who should or shouldn’t be president because I didn’t know anything about the candidates, and was repeatedly questioned by my classmates as to how I could be so apathetic. 

Admittedly, I reacted strongly--I said incredibly stupid things and decided what to believe based upon what other people did and how I felt about it. I was one of four editors for the high school newspaper and the other three were extremely liberal, to the point that fanatics often reach--bullying, forming clubs exclusive to people who feel the same, trying to rename the paper “an island of blue in a sea of red”. I felt--and feel--there is probably something very exciting in that, forming a group with a larger, overarching identity and sticking to it. Trying to make other people believe it. 

My main problems were that: one, I didn’t know anything so I couldn’t make an educated decision to “back” either candidate, and, two, I felt the presence of the “young liberals” much more strongly than any other voice. The high school is large, but my group of peers was small--I partook in a small, academic program which became sort of like a class within a class--a group of 47 students within a class of 750ish. And, not to mention, we were sixteen--an age at which I think even the most well-meaning students at the school didn’t really know what they were talking about. 

You should see my journal from that period of time. I can’t even quote from it because the angst is too overwhelming. I developed the idea that for a group of people who “preached tolerance,” they were quite antagonistic towards dissenters. I think that’s always sort of part of an emerging party, though, if that’s what you can call whatever Obama’s followers were doing at the time.

Since then, I’ve changed immensely. My foundational beliefs haven’t changed in fact, but I think my attitude toward the world and other people and politics and my belief in the actual function of the president have. I didn’t register to vote before I left home, so I didn’t get to vote in this election, so I found myself strangely addicted to watching the votes come in--so much so that I stayed up until 5 AM here in England to see the results. I was actually elated to see what they were. 

I don’t know anything about the candidates, but what I do know is, that despite the struggles and shortcomings of the last four years--all the plans gone wrong and the financial difficulties incurred by plans that were meant to be good for the country--I have had a wonderful, beautiful life. I have felt safe, I have felt faith in a president who is well-meaning, who is a good person, and who is a person who really cares about the individual American. I think that for a lot of people in my area at home, President Obama’s reelection is worrisome--particularly in regards to how his administration allocates federal money--but I would challenge people who are adamantly against this reelection to consider the past four years, and how they really think their lives would have changed--realistically, on an actual, real-life level--if Mr Romney had won. I don’t know much about him or his game besides his ideas of women’s rights--another aspect in which my personal views have shifted drastically since the last election. But I have spent some time contemplating his slogan--Believe in America.

My initial reaction--of course I believe in America, it’s on nearly every world map! But I know what it’s getting at--believe in America, the country, its ideals, its body of good and free people. Believe in the American ideal. But something I’ve learned at college, if anything, is that America’s ideals are always changing, and are much more than a single political party can express. I read somewhere that within the next few hundred years everyone in America could have brown eyes and hair because these are the dominant genes of immigrant ethnicities--and universities are generally a very diverse place. I admit--I don’t know what the real world is like. But I’d feel safer believing in and supporting a presidential campaign that believed in and supported every person, regardless of ethnicity, class, sexuality, or, um, gender. I admit--I don’t know the particulars of the Republican candidate’s campaign, nor his beliefs as a human being as opposed to as a politician. But if I have to vote, and if I have to “err,” as it were, on a certain level in voting for either candidate, I would much rather err on the side that puts the human being at the center--a person’s rights to freedom, choice, and a voice--than that which questions the validity of the rights of someone based on gender or sexuality. 

Let the people of America, I say, believe in America, and uphold their own beliefs in their private lives. I think--well, I actually think that the state governments should have much more of a hand than the federal government in running their territories, but, alas!--I think that the federal government should protect our rights and keep us safe when we need to be kept safe. We’re not always at war--we’re not always going to be a capitalist society--but we’re always humans. 

I realize that this has left out almost all of the financial aspects of these two people’s campaigns, but I really don’t know anything about that, nor would I understand the numbers even if I had them. I think this is how voting works--people choose what they think is important out of what they understand--because nobody understands everything, regardless of how much they believe that they do--and then they vote based on that small amount of information. Sometimes--maybe even a lot of the time--people vote based on the party of their candidate no matter what the person says or believes in. This really irks me--as it does many people--that such an important decision is reduced to, in the lives of so many people, not letting the “other side” win. 

I began this post-rant with the idea of the two-party system. I’ve basically just explained, in a nut-shell, the big problem I see with it, but, just for fun, here’s another--a woman ran for president this year! Actually ran for the position of the President of the United States, arguably one of the most important positions in the entire world. Hilary Clinton, yes, was a leading candidate for Democratic nomination, which was, at least politically, a huge leap for womankind--but this year, Jill Stein was on the ballot, along with two other women. I haven’t been in America whilst the heat of the campaign frenzy was occurring, but did any of you really hear about them at all? How much were they spotlighted in media coverage, how much did anyone hear about them from non-party-funded advertisement? I’d bet that it wasn’t a lot. In England, I didn’t hear a single word about them at all. And, I don’t know, it seems to me that the only reason this is is because they weren’t Democratic nor Republican candidates. (And perhaps because they didn’t say anything dumb about rape.) But, think of it! President Obama made history by becoming the first African-American president--and whilst I think even if he’d run for a different party, perhaps even one of the smaller ones, we would have heard of him because of that possibility--and continues to do so, but women have been on the Presidential ballot for years--since the 1870’s--and nobody really hears of them en masse. I won’t say that it’s because they’re women--I won’t bring up the fact that women only received the right to vote less than a hundred years ago--but I will say that I believe it’s largely because of the two-party system. 

My math teacher, Mr Spears, sophomore year of high school was diagnosed with non-smoking lung cancer half-way through the year and passed away in October of junior year. I remember crying about it on the golf course, and my coach, who was best friends with Mr Spears, comforting me. He was an amazing person, an amazing teacher--he made math exciting to me, and before his class, I had never considered that as a distant possibility. He had a good heart and believed in the goodness of people. He believed the world could change. One day, he told the class, clasping a hand around a bunch of his necklaces, that he wrote an essay in high school about how the best thing America could ever do for itself was to abolish political parties and to vote based on ideas. It seemed like, he said, that way, we’d really get the right guy. And, he thought, usually, the right guy would be someone who didn’t want the job at all, because he realized the immense responsibility and challenges on a deeper level than people campaigning behind the guise of a party would. The position of president would mean something to each of the candidates personally. I still agree with him today, and think of him often when political talk inevitably arises. 

Enough ranting, I think, now that I’ve offended enough people.

This morning, when I finally climbed into bed to sleep, I listened to the British kids who were learning the news, slowly, and then in big groups, that President Obama had been reelected. It sounded like a party outside. People screamed and cried and shouted “Obama won! Obama won!” into open windows. It sounded like someone was banging on a pot or pan with a stick as he made rounds. There were birds singing and I felt truly glad. I do believe that God has something good in store for America in the next four years--even if that thing is not immediately apparent as “good” to everyone--and that he can use the President to do it. 

I’m also--if I’m completely honest--glad that I know what country I’ll be coming home to in a month; that it will still be home.

1 November

I remember waking up on the day that I’d been in England for a proper month feeling extremely homesick. I rolled halfway out of bed and had one foot on the floor, the other half of me tangled in my blankets, and felt, as a literature student is wont to do, a metaphor in the moment. I remember realizing later that day that it was the month mark--that I’d been here on this “green and kindly island” for a full cycle of the moon, and all the other things a month is.

There is something odder, more significant, about the first day of a calendar month. This morning, sitting at my desk, peering over the top of my computer out the window, I watched the sun come up over the black spires of branches on a tree I’ve watched turn from green to waxy yellow with the weather. There are moments in my life in which I feel my boundaries wavering. What is skin to a person? It’s an old question. Everyone encounters it--the spirit and body, do they touch? It is equally pleasant and ectoplasmic to inhabit my skin and to extend beyond it. Sometimes I experience both in the same moment. 

Lying in bed the other night I noticed that my feet didn’t really feel like feet. I could identify my fingers as feeling like fingers, my elbows as feeling like elbows. It’s not an actual sensation--I suppose it’s identity. And I wonder about things. What life below the skin looks like, how it would be to be alive if I felt everything. When I understood a couple weeks ago that I had adopted certain British mannerisms--saying “hiya,” carrying an umbrella, shrugging into the wind, queueing well, becoming extremely excited at the idea of simple things: a hot meal, a cup of tea, a warm room--walking in light rain to check my pigeonhole for mail, I paused near the chaplaincy and stared at my reflection in the dark glass, wondering how I should feel. 

One particular hasn’t changed: I cry about everything. I saw a bird look both ways before crossing a street on foot while I was alone in town, and cried a little: I walked by a man standing at a street corner singing in Latin, and cried: I caught a glimpse of myself in my half-length mirror wearing a jumper and underwear, and I cried about it: I watched an elderly couple share dinner across a dining hall, and when he pulled out a newspaper and she sketched a landscape scene on her iPad and leaned over the table to show it to him, I cried into my napkin. It’s easy to let things matter when I spend so much time by myself.

I do enjoy spending time alone. But sometimes I despair at the awkwardness that results from not knowing certain social rules. This isn’t different than at home. I like to think that I understand the game from an outsider’s perspective, but when I try to take part, I can’t imagine where I fit in--besides on the outside, watching, with my few dear friends and family, with my books and poems and all the life in me, all the love and ache and simplicity and worry and questions and judgements and wistfulness.

Mostly, I have the same daily broods here as I’ve ever had. I wonder how many people look at me and see someone happy with her life, or if they see someone a little lost. I’ve always encountered difficulty understanding to what extent people are noticing or care. Sometimes I spend a day without saying much besides “hiya” and “thank you” when I buy a meal. I wonder how people must think of America. We watched Baz Luhrmann’s William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet in my Shakespeare module and when I expressed in seminar that it made me slightly homesick, people smiled at me with something I can only identify as indulgence. Understandably--feud, violence, foolishness, guns, gangs, drugs--are not things I miss besides that they embody something relatable to the culture I’ve grown up in. Sometimes I feel so, so distant from the culture here--the way till people at grocers here have seats and never know what page to turn to in a US passport for your ID, the way that the British refuse to accept the fact that their whole country is smaller than California and that it is easy to get from place to place if you have the will to go, the way that people live and breathe on land that their people have inhabited for thousands of years and that this is never fractionally as interesting to them as it is to me--and sometimes I feel almost spiritually aligned with the history and people of this strange place for no apparent reason except for that I’m sitting at my desk and the sun is coming up and I’m bearing witness to one of the only things that makes me believe I’m on the same planet as the place I left when I boarded the plane in Los Angeles.

But the sun is always rising. There’s a poem I’ve recently become obsessed with and which I sometimes chant to myself walking home from class in the rain, padding over wet leaves, looking at the moon through rolling clouds:

           In spite of the overwhelming reliability of things,

           the wind making rivulets on my sleeve same as window glass,

           the same rocks shaped by the same reasons on Mars,

           I am like a cricket singing to another sore voice. I hear it,

           but faithful to symmetry, I don’t move closer.

           It may not be singing to me. Movement may lead to dissolution.

          Stars could make up new animals. The dragonfly

          might chase the swallow as it did today in warning.

          I am living at the edge of light looking out

         over water that touches Mexico. The edge of the continent

         holds hands with inlets and I mention them over and over

         as if no one listened the last time. The common insists.

         Lynx and orchids for some. Underwinter life below the ice.

         From here I wave to you like polishing the air.

                                       -- “The Common Insists,” Allan Peterson

some things: late october

Contrary to what my last post--and the comments that certain family members made on it--might lead one to believe, I am not in the habit of calling people blockheads. 

Now that I have cleared that up, I would like to say some other things:

The last few days I’ve been severely stressed about the paper that I’m currently taking a break from writing. I’m in a class called SHAKESPEARE: ADAPTATIONS ON STAGE AND SCREEN which, unsurprisingly, studies Shakespeare and certain adaptations of some of his major works: Richard III, Henry V, The Tempest, Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, Macbeth, and King Lear. I’ve read all of these plays in other contexts: Richard III and Twelfth Night in seventh and eighth grade for optional book reports, Romeo and Juliet in ninth grade--I actually had a good portion of this memorized at a certain point and still find myself referencing parting is such sweet sorrow on occasion--Macbeth in tenth grade, King Lear twelfth, The Tempest first year at UCI for E28B, and Henry V after watching Laurence Olivier’s version of it in seventh grade and being highly disturbed by the “wooing of Catherine” in scene V.

Usually prior knowledge is somewhat comforting, but as I was twelve when I read three of these plays and most--if not all--of the nuance in plot and structure was lost on me then. Similarly, the class asks us to consider adaptation, which requires a sound understanding of the elements of the original and a careful consideration of the changes made and the effects these changes have on the original, as well as the contemporary audiences.

I’m writing on two adaptations of Henry V currently: Olivier’s famous 1944 version up against Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 adaptation. I’m finding this really interesting research, but I haven’t written on film before and it’s wildly different to writing about literature; it’s art and literature merged, in a way, as well as music and fashion. It’s immensely interesting, and I’ve always enjoyed analyzing anything, everything, but it’s also really intimidating not to know what I’m doing. In the UK, at least, at UEA, I’m finding the structure of the classes confusing: there’s a massive amount of reading and very little class time. For example, we go through a play a week in this class, as well as the adaptations, plus any extra research we choose to do on the side. We have about two hours of class to discuss both a play and a film.

I had the brilliant idea on Saturday after I’d rolled around on the floor in angst about this paper. I’d take the class for P/NP credit! It isn’t a part of my major, I won’t get any school requirement credit nor university credit for it, since I’ve already fulfilled all humanities requirements, and I’m allowed to take up to 1/3 of my classes for P/NP. I got the grade change done yesterday and was extremely relieved for about two hours, and then I remembered that I still have to write the paper and I still have to do reasonably well. Of course, I want to get a really excellent grade, but I’m afraid that even with all my research--I’ve been researching for a week, compiling sources and reading books on how to analyze film--the other students have the upper hand because most of them are drama students and have written on this media before.

I wrote my research paper for Hum Core on the strategies used in Cold War propaganda to elicit sympathy for one side over the other to the strategies employed by Dial M for Murder to elicit sympathy for a known murderer. I scored reasonably well on it--very well, actually--but I’m unsure of how much of that comes down to luck and to the movie itself. I’ve been looking back at that paper for analysis I did and that’s made me feel slightly better. Anyway, it’s due at 3 PM tomorrow and I’ve only gotten about half of it written. I’m having trouble organizing all the things I want to say within 1500 words. Here we’re severely penalized for going over 10% over the word limit. I always go over limits. At home we use page limits instead of word counts, but here you have to provide a word count at the end of your paper. 

SHLFKAHLDKJFAHLSKJWAIEURIAUFKASDLKAJFHSDLKFIWYERIWE

In other news, it’s gotten really cold in Norwich. People talked to me about Norwich before I came here and told me 1) it’s hick-town, 2) it doesn’t get as cold here, and 3) it doesn’t rain here.

I can’t judge an English hick when I see one, and I’m unsure I’ve seen one. Here I’m having a hard time distinguishing what’s crude slang and what are actual terms for types of people, so I’ll refrain from describing the types of people I’ve encountered in British terms. 

I went to high school in San Clemente, CA, which is home of the “bro” and home of the athlete, and sometimes both in one. I think surfers fall into a different category altogether. Most people are blond. A lot are tall and somehow everyone is beautiful. I felt extremely out of place amongst my peerage there, but found a place with the “nerds.” There was a huge division between white students and the Hispanic population in SC, and I think everyone was aware of their standing and did little to move outside of it. A lot of that is just how high school operates. I was okay with IB and softball/golf in the same way other people were okay with being prom queen or whatever. I don’t really understand what that’s like.

There aren’t really cliques of social status at UCI--I think because it’s so ethnically diverse there people sometimes cluster with others similar to them in that respect, but mostly I think frats/sororities and academic subjects or other clubs formulate groups. It feels like people just being themselves all kind of get along, or don’t, with other people just being themselves. 

Here--I don’t know, I live with freshers and it feels like the school is divided into freshers v. the world. They run in packs, they’re loud and excited about everything, they like to take shots of gin and they party every Thursday night. The third-years and post-grads are the ones having a beer quietly and earnestly with others of their kind at the campus bar at 11:00 AM, their laptops open and abandoned on nearby tables. I don’t know what second-years do. I think they’re like freshers about to graduate into some realm of upper maturity. They know a lot in classes and question outsiders. In class I’ve often felt I’ve had to earn a place amongst their ranks by saying something smart or somewhat insightful. I think in two classes out of three, I may have succeeded. People look at me now more when I speak--though they’re probably trying to hear what I’m saying. In addition to having an “accent,” I also have an extremely difficult time raising my voice--it sometimes hurts my throat to speak loudly or I feel like I’m shouting, so there’s that going for me. I suppose what I’m saying is the second-years feel like they’re all part of a club that you want to join but aren’t sure how and are never sure you’re in once you’re in it, unless you’re one of them already.

Off campus, in the city--in the real world, I guess--the social divides are more apparent. Something that struck me immediately about the UK is that there are a lot of young parents. You’ll see someone who you think is probably around your age pushing a baby in a buggy (stroller) with a husband or a boyfriend in tow. I watch them struggle with their baby bags or do so gracefully. Either sight is completely boggling. 

People here are also really well-dressed on the whole. In southern California--where I’m from--it’s not unusual to see people in sweats or swim trunks or pullovers and sandals year-round, looking generally scruffy--but there’s little of that here. I think that might partly be in my conception of style: what people have to wear here (jackets, boots, trousers) because of the weather is something I associate with making an effort at home because the weather’s so mild there. I’d read some testimonies from other UCEAP study-abroad participants from UK programs who’d said that the British had a very “interesting” style. I suppose if you’re from California anyone who puts on more than a couple layers at a time looks automatically fancy; but I really identify with the way people present themselves here, besides the fact that women dress very--femininely, I guess. It’s mostly dresses, tights, flats and a jumper with a lot of jewelry. I really like it, but I’d expected a bit more androgyny, I guess. I think I think of most places outside of America as more androgynous. Maybe it’s mainland Europe, or maybe it’s just not Norwich.

I’m not sure where I was going with that. I think I mean mostly that I identify social groups by their type of dress. There’s the typical English student with a quilted jacket, ankle-boots, tights, hair pulled-back or down in waves, and jumper, always with a collared shirt layered underneath; and the boys tend to be well-dressed, too, but I think I’ve mostly noticed their haircuts. I’d describe them here but I feel that I sound a bit too enthusiastic about them. I just very much appreciate the way boys style their hair here.

There’s a group of kids really prevalent in town around the waterfront where all the clubs are who’re unique to England, as far as I can tell, who’re brash in manner, often wear designer or rip-off designer jeans, roll up their t-shirts to show off their biceps, and gel their hair back or shave it all off. There’s a term I’d rather not use for them that I’ve heard often here. I think--they may be the reason that Norwich is identified as a “hick-town.” Other than this and all the young couples, and the few women I’ve seen wearing only leggings and camisoles with ugg boots, it seems a normal place. 

The idea that it doesn’t get as cold in Norwich as in other places might be true enough, but I’ve been comparing the weather forecasts to that of London and some nearby places and it’s either colder here or the same temperatures. I don’t know about up north, but that shouldn’t count, because it’s obviously going to get colder the farther north you go. We are by the ocean in Norwich, but not close enough to benefit from the kind of climate I usually associate with a beach town like...San Clemente. 

And that it doesn’t rain as much? It’s rained at least once every week since I’ve been here and some weeks it’s rained or drizzled every day. I don’t mind the rain, usually, but it gets a bit annoying every day: it’s hard to know how many layers to put on and if there’s wind using your umbrella becomes a struggle. You really just have to pull up a hood and hunch into the cold. It’s worse in the classrooms, though, because outside is all grey and wet and you can’t really see any of it because the windows have fogged up and if you’re like me you’re sitting at your place staring very determinedly into the desk or the book in front of you so as not to gag at the thought of what’s doing that to the glass.

For as much complaining as I’ve just done, I’ve learned to, lately, look at this experience as something new, different, and distinctly English. I didn’t come across the country and oceans that I did to be comfortable and familiar: I came to drink more tea than ever before, to bundle up in 4 degree cold, to walk in countryside, through forests, to ride a double-decker bus in London, to see the hills and castles of Scotland, to drink Irish beer, and to have the freedom to incorporate this experience into the person I am, will be, when I go back home. I came to take creative writing courses from one of the top-tier British creative writing programs. I came to learn about myself without the pressure of wanting answers. At every moment that I’m here I feel myself at the forefront of my life, forging new paths. Every future is available to me. I sometimes catch myself determined to remember a moment as mundane as pushing down the knob on my electric kettle to make my fourth cup of tea, walking through a quiet library and running away from a corner where a couple has comfortably installed themselves, shaking up a can of hairspray to plaster my bun into shape in front of a half-length mirror on the third floor of this building, across from an art museum where a Picasso sketch hangs simply on a grey wall.

freedom package

I've had a bum week. For the last two mornings the cleaning lady has opened my door to a half-sleeping, certainly drooling specter of a person swaddled in a duvet and more blankets than the weather calls for. Upon emptying my bin she's regarded with a professionally blank face a half-empty tub of Phish food, a clean, cylindrical McVities chocolate digestives wrapper torn savagely in two, several Cadbury wrappers, a disposable plate stuck all over with the vestiges of basmati rice and soy sauce. Even halfway across the globe, my friends and I are managing to PMS at the same time, but the possibilities of sweets and chocolates to soothe hormonal aches and mild fevers in England are largely expanded from the already sizable array at home. Here Cadbury bars boast the £1 sign proudly and in yellow, so that when you compare that price to your Egg Mayonnaise and Cress sandwich at £1.89, it only seems logical to pick up one--for today, and another--for tonight.

Here are instructions on being me on a bum week: 

1. wake up each day at noon or later
2. sit in bed listening to audio books for five hours
3. eat a lot of chocolate and cookies while you're doing it
4. repeat

I'm starting to write in the voice of the man who narrates Bryson's audio books, which has leant my writing nothing but the experience of listening to that voice, American, probably New England-ish, slightly raspy, full of alluring, comedic charm and precision of pronunciation. But I'm not just writing to tell you that I've been slave to hormonal flux for a week now, nor that the weather's been gloomy so I've felt justified in staying inside most days except for a brief jaunt across the lawn and back to see some sun and get some circulation. I'm not just telling you that I'm now narrating my own writing in the voice of Ron McClarty as heard in Notes from a Small Island, although I think that's rather an accomplishment and an interesting bit of information.

I'm really writing because today, waking up near to noon, I realized that something I'd been recently informed--nay, two things!--were simply contrary to reason. This week I have been daunted by the task of figuring out the least painful way in which to part with the large sum of cash that makes up my accommodation fees. Yesterday, I recorded a half-hour slot of time in my never-used, often-useful pocket calendar as time in which I was to go visit the accommodation office about which methods to use to transfer my American dollars to their British institution. Before setting out into the mild rain and mist, I'd done my research online and was only seeking to confirm this information, plus ask about fees for bank-to-bank transfers, in person. Well, I made it to the accommodation office, which was bustling with students, was well-lit, and uncomfortably warm. I peeled off my jacket and waited to be seen.

“My questions,” I said, once a small woman had called me over to her desk, “are few and easy. My burden is light and my yoke shall give rest to the weary--”

I didn't really say this. I did explain that I'd done research online and just wanted to ask a couple, hopefully simple questions. She nodded as though she understood and was going to give me correct information. I asked her: “is it true that I can just transfer money from my bank account to the school's bank account to pay for my accommodation?”

This was a trick question. The answer is yes and it says so clearly online. But I could tell by the way this woman was watching me that I wasn't going to receive the confirmation that I wanted, or it wasn't going to be easy.

“Is your bank account--international?” she asked, being polite, on the slim chance that I am actually Canadian. 

“Yes, it's American,” I told her.

“Well, as far as bank transfers, we can only transfer from UK banks to ours. This service doesn't charge fees. However...” And she trailed off, explaining something about international debit cards and how you can use those and they don't charge fees either. After the extreme disappointment upon learning that all the information online is actually not directed to international students at all, the debit card seemed a grand idea. 

“I have an international debit card,” I said, and showed it to her. I'm unsure of whether or not she thought I wanted congratulations. “I'll use that, but I'll have to transfer funds onto it...” and I trailed off, too, thanking her warmly and walking out into the slight rain and cold, back to my room, back to my pyjamas and digestives.

It wasn't until this morning when I woke up that it occurred to me that this information was probably incorrect. Why would they link me, an international student, to a page with defunct information? I needed to ask someone else. So I did some other research online and found that the accommodation office isn't even in charge of collecting accommodation fees. I really should have gone to the office of "Finance Enquiry" at the Registry. I felt very stupid and very pleased at the same time--stupid for not having found out this information sooner and pleased that a U.S. to UK bank transfer was more than likely to be a concrete possibility. (Which should not be confused with discrete probability.)

My main problem now was that today's weather on my weather forecast widget in Dashboard only shows up as a smoke-like smudge across the calendar--wind. At home, I rejoice for rain, enjoy that atmosphere, I am even glad for mild coastal breeze and sunshine with scattering of clouds--actually, those are the best days California has to offer--but I have always, unfailingly complained of wind. And here--I am enchanted though mildly annoyed by rain and drizzle, brief spats of pouring rain fail to faze me, and even arctic temperature plunges when the sun falls fail to elicit whinges to the degree that wind at home ever has. And the wind at home is warm. It makes your hair stick to your face and other crevices you scarcely knew were wedged into your neck or behind your ear. All hope for lipstick is lost, one's eyebrows and eyelashes become dangerous thickets, the body builds up unseemly muscle simply attempting to walk in the direction of one's own choosing. Trees fall over. Leaves spawn as though reproduction is going out of style. Car alarms ring in the early morning hours, and every other hour, especially when you're trying to watch TV or sleep or talk to someone. Dogs bark and howl, ducks quack, cows low, coyotes probably stay underground, or cower under copses on brown dusty hills, because I don't have memories of their howls on windy days.

Wind here is different. It isn't warm--instead it's cold and disregards the fact that you've got any layers on at all, cutting to skin and probably to bone. Car alarms don't go off because I don't hear them on university grounds. The reeds around the university broad go nearly horizontal. Lipstick and eyelashes are still unsafe. But most of all, the wind makes it hard to breathe. You develop a certain way of tilting your head so that the peak of your nose receives the worst of it and your nostrils are still able to draw a normal amount of air and your lungs are safe from overinflation. If you drop out of cadence or take an irregularly long or short draw, you're doomed until a reprieve from the icy gales and you can take in your momentary oxygen. If the wind's blowing from behind, make sure you're wearing a thick jacket or coat and don't let boys walk behind you, either. If it's blowing from the front or the sides, you should wear sunglasses so you can open your eyes, shield them from wind or hair. And you might as well give up on your fringe for the day, it's sticking up straight in the air.

I realized, sitting up in bed, that the sounds I had previously mistaken for thunder were actually wind ripping through the tall concrete buildings and, more importantly, through the crack I leave open on my window. And I wanted to get down to it--can I transfer from my U.S. bank account or can't I? But the specter of the wind and the howl of it through the campus were not, what one might call, alluring. 

There were other reasons to get up, though. First, I hadn't checked my pigeonhole for mail in a few days, and second, my dad had told me that my package had been delivered but I still hadn't received an email from the guy who said he emailed people when they got in packages. So I realized that I'd been, again, misinformed! He doesn't email you! What a liar! 

The thought of tea-cozy-crocheting material and a usb mouse in a package from home was enough to get me out of bed, into a shower and a semi-decent state. It would all be mussed by the wind, at any rate. So I pulled on my books caked with the dried mud and grass of the University of Sussex countryside, a shirt and a jumper, and carried a jacket with me over my arm, as the temperature wasn't to be too cold and the sun was out, unobscured by clouds or mist or trees. You can feel the wind! But you cannot see the wind...

I made my way hesitantly and with moderate difficulty to the registrar, where I queue'd for about three minutes and found out that I can transfer from a U.S. bank without a problem, plus, they'll convert it to pounds without me having to do it, in about one minute. I walked out of the Registry with a paper in hand with the bank's information and feeling triumphant. 

My next job would be slightly more confusing, because how was I supposed to convince someone I had a package in and hadn't had an email when he clearly believed very earnestly that he emailed people when their packages came? I walked with determination down to the ground floor and straight up to the “hole in the wall” where this Gary figure sat hunched over some writing in front of a computer monitor. I stood quietly and meekly. He looked up and said, “oh, hi!” when he realized I'd been waiting for a few moments and that his comportment was not up to the English standard of utmost politeness. Not that I cared. 

I began timorously--“I've talked to you before...and I know you said you send out emails when there's supposed to be a package in, but I know there's a package for me--”

“Did you get my email?” he asked, looking hopeful that this would, in fact, be easier than it was to be.

“Well--no, that's the thing, but my parents--well, the tracking on the package said it had arrived, but I didn't get an email from you...”

By now he is clearly processing what I've said very closely since it's entirely contrary to his world view. 

“Well,” he said, and then, his face clearing, “well, what's your name? I can check to see if something came in...”

I told him. “Lily ____.”

After a moment of muttering that there's nothing here for a Lily ____, his finger pauses in its scan of a chart upon a “David _____.” The abbreviation for my enrolled school--AMS--is in the column next to it. I nearly laugh out loud. 

“There's one for--” and he reads off the name. I hesitate--there could be another student enrolled in American Studies with my last name and my dad's first name, and I mention this falteringly, but I think Gary is stunned by the vague possibility that my name is David and I just wasn't telling.

“That's...my dad....” I say after a moment.

We stare at each other for a second, he in utter bewilderment and me with an idea of what's happened that I already thoroughly understand. My dad's name was on the package as the sender, and whoever took down the name of the recipient accidentally put down his name as mine, because we both have the same last name and it's a relatively easy mistake to make if you are a blockhead. 

“Would he have sent you something in his name?” he asks me after a moment of strenuous mental activity.

“Well--um--I don't think so, but it could be that his name was listed as the sender and--”

but he asks if I want him to check anyway since I know there should be a package for me, so I ask him to yes, please, check, and he pulls up one for Lily _____, saying that it “just came in, actually.” I look around on it for a part that says my dad's name and it's there, and I show it to Gary, who still asks if I want him to "pull up" the thing that came for David, convinced that they're two different packages.

“Sure,” I say, and then because he's looking so determinedly I'm almost fooled into thinking there's another package there--for my dad. 

“Well, there's nothing here, so...” and he noncommittally repeats something that sounds an awful lot like what I've already explained to him. “So, will you just sign here for him?” he asks, thrusting the chart gently in my direction, and I take it up, trying not to grin at the thought that he’s still talking as though the package actually did come for a “David” and that there wasn’t just some mistake. I thank him several times and exit as quickly as I can with my rightful boon.

Well, that explains the emails, I think, pattering down the stairs.

My friends Megan and Kelsey and Angela and I all went shopping during the summer on a certain occasion, and found ourselves in a store that stocked several things plastered with the American flag or picturesque eagles who stare out into the poetic middle distance, looking fierce and free. Megan and I tried on denim shorts on which one of the legs was covered with a screen print of the star-spangled banner. At some point in the conversation as to how pale I really was and “if they were just a different shade of blue...” we'd consider really buying them, Megan called them “freedom shorts,” and immediately, like some kind of forest fire, the term “freedom ____” for any item with anything loosely American about it caught on. We'd see a shirt with our flag on it--”freedom shirt!”--and once I saw a tie in the pattern of the flag and impulsively shouted “freedom tie!” whilst with my family at some modest venue. I even got my sister to start saying it, as when we'd go to the mall we'd point out “freedom socks,” “freedom backpack,” “freedom hats,” “freedom lipstick,” and everything else. 

So when I got my package today--liberated it, say, from a cruel and lonely fate, forever waiting for a David ____ who lives in California and was never the intended recipient to answer his non-existent email by calling on it--and after I'd carried it the quarter of a mile up and down stairs and over slippery surfaces, plopped it on the bed and shed my jumper as it is unusually hot on the upper floor of this house when the sun's shining on the drapes, and then rolled it onto the floor to open it up and saw the words “UNITED STATES POSTAL SERVICE” underneath the declarations of “royal mail” and other British things, the phrase floated up into my conscious mind without effort: “freedom package.”

And its contents have liberated me from many things: the dense, bored afternoons which shall now be filled with crocheting tea-cozies; the lack of good peanut butter with a can of good, American Jif; the consequential lack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups with two packages of these; the iron reign of Colman's mustard with a bottle of beautiful, mild, French's Yellow; the blandness of vegetarian dining options with a bottle of McCormick's fake “Bac'n Pieces”; and the terror of my errant trackpad with a hefty usb mouse, complete with the world's smallest scrolling device.

I am already planning to go down to the kitchen to stow away my precious American goods in the larder; I am sprawling regally as I sprint smoothly over the contents of this screen with my usb mouse; and I am looking forward to an afternoon of audiobooks and the double-vision I associate only with the joy of crocheting. Thanks, parents! And Molly, for your letter! Perhaps today I will redeem myself from the veggie-sausage-burning wretch that I became merely last night as I filled the kitchen with the noxious fumes of yellow smoke and scattered bits of carbonized soy proteins.