Tonight I've been thinking a lot about animal hybrids. Mind you, I did spend all day at my ole alma mater, Seguin High School. I'm also gearing up for tomorrow night's premiere of the Syfy Channel Original Movie Sharktopus.
Just how does that happen?
I will use this opportunity to explain the birds and the bees to my four-year-old cousin: when a shark and an octopus love each other very much they have a mutant baby- "...that's why you have blond hair and your mom has brown."
Three cups of coffee and a re-run of 'Haven' later, all I've come up with is 'beird'- a bird and a bee hybrid. It could peck you and sting you at the same time.
I've recruited my roommate, to which her first response was, "'show,' as in a sheep and a cow." Take that Syfy channel.
My roommate told me that she can just imagine the type of guys who come up with ideas like Sharktopus. She is officially one of those guys, sans Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts and baseball cap, which is what I imagine "those guys" look like- sitting on plastic chairs in a circle in some trendy office space, drinking forties in Koozies. I've given this a lot of thought. Doesn't it sound amazing?
I think I will give up being a journalist and join the creative forces at Syfy.
There has to be some sort of animal hybrid generator. Yes, yes, there is! You can play God and create your own animal, they even make noise! This is what I do on a Friday night. It'll pay off... one day Syfy will call me up and ask me for movie ideas that involve mutant hybrid animals created by the military and I will tell them all about the sqrrk- a part squirrel, part bird, part shark that terrorizes Canadians.
Mutants, by their very nature, are supposed to be bloodthirsty. It doesn't matter if it's piranhas (regardless if they're in 3D), humans, sharks, birds, etc. However, mutants make us appreciate who we are and the things we have; the little things in life- they are a staple to American cinema and to society as a whole. Thank you, mutants, for helping me realize that I need to get out of the dorm more often.
Join in on the fun. Send me your animal hybrid ideas.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Three Months Too Long
I have been in the U.S. for three-months, after a six-month study abroad in England, and I feel like I have come semicircle: I left the States with one runny nostril, sounding like Stevie Nicks, and now, once again, I'm in desperate need of those hankies I rambled on about in a previous blog post.
I say semicircle because I feel as though I've returned not fully whole- there's pieces of me scattered on park benches, playgrounds, trains, and other forms of public transportation that are a lot easier to navigate and more reliable than the VIA in San Antonio. Then again, I feel like I've grown (totally disregarding the five-ten lbs I gained by living off goat cheese ciabattas and frappes), matured- if you call learning how to smoke a cigarette properly- "It's like you're sucking a straw"- maturation (thanks, Vanessa), and made more whole by the people I met and the experiences I had.
Some people are told they get six months to live. I felt like I wasn't living and told myself that I needed six months to live, away from the predictable, away from Texas, away from the U.S. I proved myself, my family, and my friends, wrong by "surviving" in a "strange foreign" country.
To My Family, Friends, Etc.:
1. Shockingly, the majority of people in England speak English.
2. I spent a month studying abroad in Canterbury July '09.
3. Surprisingly, there are dentists in Canterbury.
4. ASDA is a chain of grocery stores now owned by Wal-Mart. The American influence is growing. Cue evil laugh.
I went back to Canterbury knowing a handful of English people (whether I wanted to or not). That's it. I didn't know any of the Americans who were also studying abroad in Canterbury. There were no other Texans (that I knew of), no one from my university. I knew all this ahead of time. I chose this. Some may call me "adventurous" (why, thank you), others may call me "irrational" (or stupid, once done reading this blog entry).
When I was eight, I told my mom that I wanted to go to summer camp for a week, just like two of my older cousins had year-after-year. I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn't the six-year-old who cried because she "missed her mommy." The first night at camp, well, I was homesick and cried myself to sleep. By Tuesday, I was calling my mom on the phone in the camp director's office in hysterics, saying, well, that I "wanted my mommy." My mom(my) did eventually come to get me the day before camp ended.
Around the holiday season, my aunt likes to regale the family with memories of my attempts to spend the night at her house, which usually ended up with me in her bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, crying. Two other aunts tell similar stories with different mirrors.
To my family, that's Jordan: the only child of a single parent, totally and utterly dependent on her mother, something of a 21st century Norman Baits without the cross-dressing and, oh, schizophrenia. That's not to say my family isn't partially correct. A part of me does enjoy seeing 'Mom' flash on my phone four-ten times a day, or seeing her name in bold line my inbox. I even enjoyed the time when she called me around 2 a.m. (England/ Western European Time) while I was in the older English boy's flat- with his friends- (for .15 cents a minute) to make sure that I was OK because I hadn't called her that day. I didn't want to tell her where I was because I didn't want the (cute) older English boy and his friends to know that my mom(my), who was over 3,000 miles away, was checking up on me. Somehow she knew where I was and I had to call her two hours later and leave a message when I got back to my dorm so she could stop worrying.
This six-month study abroad was a test for our present and future mother/daughter relationship. I'm pleased to report she's still calling me at every inopportune moment, making me feel, eh, about six-years-old. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
I say semicircle because I feel as though I've returned not fully whole- there's pieces of me scattered on park benches, playgrounds, trains, and other forms of public transportation that are a lot easier to navigate and more reliable than the VIA in San Antonio. Then again, I feel like I've grown (totally disregarding the five-ten lbs I gained by living off goat cheese ciabattas and frappes), matured- if you call learning how to smoke a cigarette properly- "It's like you're sucking a straw"- maturation (thanks, Vanessa), and made more whole by the people I met and the experiences I had.
Some people are told they get six months to live. I felt like I wasn't living and told myself that I needed six months to live, away from the predictable, away from Texas, away from the U.S. I proved myself, my family, and my friends, wrong by "surviving" in a "strange foreign" country.
To My Family, Friends, Etc.:
1. Shockingly, the majority of people in England speak English.
2. I spent a month studying abroad in Canterbury July '09.
3. Surprisingly, there are dentists in Canterbury.
4. ASDA is a chain of grocery stores now owned by Wal-Mart. The American influence is growing. Cue evil laugh.
I went back to Canterbury knowing a handful of English people (whether I wanted to or not). That's it. I didn't know any of the Americans who were also studying abroad in Canterbury. There were no other Texans (that I knew of), no one from my university. I knew all this ahead of time. I chose this. Some may call me "adventurous" (why, thank you), others may call me "irrational" (or stupid, once done reading this blog entry).
When I was eight, I told my mom that I wanted to go to summer camp for a week, just like two of my older cousins had year-after-year. I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn't the six-year-old who cried because she "missed her mommy." The first night at camp, well, I was homesick and cried myself to sleep. By Tuesday, I was calling my mom on the phone in the camp director's office in hysterics, saying, well, that I "wanted my mommy." My mom(my) did eventually come to get me the day before camp ended.
Around the holiday season, my aunt likes to regale the family with memories of my attempts to spend the night at her house, which usually ended up with me in her bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, crying. Two other aunts tell similar stories with different mirrors.
To my family, that's Jordan: the only child of a single parent, totally and utterly dependent on her mother, something of a 21st century Norman Baits without the cross-dressing and, oh, schizophrenia. That's not to say my family isn't partially correct. A part of me does enjoy seeing 'Mom' flash on my phone four-ten times a day, or seeing her name in bold line my inbox. I even enjoyed the time when she called me around 2 a.m. (England/ Western European Time) while I was in the older English boy's flat- with his friends- (for .15 cents a minute) to make sure that I was OK because I hadn't called her that day. I didn't want to tell her where I was because I didn't want the (cute) older English boy and his friends to know that my mom(my), who was over 3,000 miles away, was checking up on me. Somehow she knew where I was and I had to call her two hours later and leave a message when I got back to my dorm so she could stop worrying.
This six-month study abroad was a test for our present and future mother/daughter relationship. I'm pleased to report she's still calling me at every inopportune moment, making me feel, eh, about six-years-old. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
January 8
Kristi's gone back home to Texas. It's definitely weird to think that right now I may be the only Texan in Canterbury, England. Yesterday, I met an English girl who's a student at CCCU (and girlfriend of one of my roommates)- the university that I'll be attending, starting Monday- who didn't know the location of the Great State of Texas. She asked me if it was in America. That was a first. I mean, I thought Americans were the ones who were supposed to be bad at geography. I think the English girl knows where Mexico is, at least. I was trying to explain the location of Texas in terms of North America with crazy hand gestures in lieu of a map.
I spent my first night in my dorm (I don't think they call them "dorms" here because I keep getting strange looks when I say dorm) last night. I didn't think the CCCU International Office was serious when they sent me an e-mail about a month ago outlining my expenses- I seriously have to pay 65 pounds for a "bed roll" and some dishes? I wasn't even given towels. The "bed roll" includes thin sheets that look like someone ate too many bananas and drank too much orange juice, danced a whole bunch and then proceeded to throw up on my bed. The patterns supposed to resemble peach "marble." The mattress is about as comfortable as the one in San Marcos Hall. I miss the hostel. I have to go back and give them Kristi's room keys. Maybe I'll steal a comforter, put it under my shirt: Hey, it's an immaculate conception.
It really does take about 30 minutes to walk to the North Holmes campus, where all my classes will be, from my dorm on Parham Road. It takes about 15 minutes to walk from my dorm into town. I should have legs of steel by the time I get back home in June.
My flatmates (roommates) are really nice, strangely enough. I was expecting the worst. Not only are they English, but they're male. It's still going to take some getting used to, living with people of the male persuasion. But their rooms and bathroom are on the first floor- I live on the second. There will be four people downstairs and four upstairs. I've only met two of my flatmates. There's supposed to be one other American living in the dorm, a girl. Some of the Americans are supposed to arrive tomorrow, the rest on Sunday. That's not long to get settled, seeing how Monday we have to be at some building on the North Holmes campus by 8:45 a.m. for "orientation" that lasts until 6 p.m. Geez, Louise.
I'm glad I get my own room, but the walls are really thin. That won't stop me from singing, by golly. I just hope none of my roommates like to sing or bring home their lady friends. I can hear everything downstairs, even with my door completely shut.
Wednesday evening, around 8:30, Kristi and I took the "coach" aka charter bus into London. It cost us 17 pounds each. Cheaper than a train ticket, but I have a BritRail Pass I've already paid $439 for, so I can ride the train for two months (I'm hoping I can somehow use it after it's expired).
There were no trains going from Canterbury to London Victoria because of the weather, so I had to take the train into Faversham and switch to Canterbury East. Then, once I arrived in Canterbury, I had to walk about 15 minutes to my dorm. I was pretty exhausted, since Kristi and I spent over eight hours sitting against a pillar at her terminal in the London Heathrow Airport. We maybe had 20 minutes of sleep. My bag did not make a comfortable pillow. I had Kristi's pink Snuggie over me (those things really aren't that warm) to block out the light. In the morning, as I was waiting for Kristi to check-in her carry-on bag, there were these two guys, one with an American passport, the other with a UK passport- who kept reminding the American passport holder that he owed him "30 kilos" upon his return. Both men appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent, but the one with the UK passport had a Middle-Eastern accent. I tried to hide the front of my sweatshirt, which read: Shalom From New York. You can never be too cautious.
Kristi said she saw some cops with a drug dog roaming through the airport as she was waiting in line to check in her bag. Instead of German Shepherds, they use English Cocker Spaniels as drug dogs. I'd be mighty terrified if a freakin' Cocker Spaniel was on my ass lookin' for drugs. Wouldn't you?
I spent my first night in my dorm (I don't think they call them "dorms" here because I keep getting strange looks when I say dorm) last night. I didn't think the CCCU International Office was serious when they sent me an e-mail about a month ago outlining my expenses- I seriously have to pay 65 pounds for a "bed roll" and some dishes? I wasn't even given towels. The "bed roll" includes thin sheets that look like someone ate too many bananas and drank too much orange juice, danced a whole bunch and then proceeded to throw up on my bed. The patterns supposed to resemble peach "marble." The mattress is about as comfortable as the one in San Marcos Hall. I miss the hostel. I have to go back and give them Kristi's room keys. Maybe I'll steal a comforter, put it under my shirt: Hey, it's an immaculate conception.
It really does take about 30 minutes to walk to the North Holmes campus, where all my classes will be, from my dorm on Parham Road. It takes about 15 minutes to walk from my dorm into town. I should have legs of steel by the time I get back home in June.
My flatmates (roommates) are really nice, strangely enough. I was expecting the worst. Not only are they English, but they're male. It's still going to take some getting used to, living with people of the male persuasion. But their rooms and bathroom are on the first floor- I live on the second. There will be four people downstairs and four upstairs. I've only met two of my flatmates. There's supposed to be one other American living in the dorm, a girl. Some of the Americans are supposed to arrive tomorrow, the rest on Sunday. That's not long to get settled, seeing how Monday we have to be at some building on the North Holmes campus by 8:45 a.m. for "orientation" that lasts until 6 p.m. Geez, Louise.
I'm glad I get my own room, but the walls are really thin. That won't stop me from singing, by golly. I just hope none of my roommates like to sing or bring home their lady friends. I can hear everything downstairs, even with my door completely shut.
Wednesday evening, around 8:30, Kristi and I took the "coach" aka charter bus into London. It cost us 17 pounds each. Cheaper than a train ticket, but I have a BritRail Pass I've already paid $439 for, so I can ride the train for two months (I'm hoping I can somehow use it after it's expired).
There were no trains going from Canterbury to London Victoria because of the weather, so I had to take the train into Faversham and switch to Canterbury East. Then, once I arrived in Canterbury, I had to walk about 15 minutes to my dorm. I was pretty exhausted, since Kristi and I spent over eight hours sitting against a pillar at her terminal in the London Heathrow Airport. We maybe had 20 minutes of sleep. My bag did not make a comfortable pillow. I had Kristi's pink Snuggie over me (those things really aren't that warm) to block out the light. In the morning, as I was waiting for Kristi to check-in her carry-on bag, there were these two guys, one with an American passport, the other with a UK passport- who kept reminding the American passport holder that he owed him "30 kilos" upon his return. Both men appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent, but the one with the UK passport had a Middle-Eastern accent. I tried to hide the front of my sweatshirt, which read: Shalom From New York. You can never be too cautious.
Kristi said she saw some cops with a drug dog roaming through the airport as she was waiting in line to check in her bag. Instead of German Shepherds, they use English Cocker Spaniels as drug dogs. I'd be mighty terrified if a freakin' Cocker Spaniel was on my ass lookin' for drugs. Wouldn't you?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
January 4
I don't know if I trust British toothpaste. Maybe it's their toothbrushes. Maybe it's all the crappy American/Canadian music that's been rotting their teeth out. I had no idea that Nickelback was this popular in England. At least, in Canterbury they have a devoted following (I wonder if Nickelback knows? They should totally milk that). The All-American Rejects and Kings of Leon, too.
It snowed again last night. I knew that at some point today I'd slip and fall. I had what some would call a premonition. Low and behold, as I was stepping out of the train onto the Dover Priory platform I slipped and landed smack on my ass. It's quite hilarious in hindsight. They need to throw some salt on that damn platform. I should start carrying some with me. I'll be like the Morton Salt girl.
Today, Kristi and I went on the hunt for the elusive Sun Bear, sometimes known as the Honey Bear (thanks Wikipedia). It's even harder to find than an attractive British guy. We heard they were endangered, but that there some just chillin' in Sandwich. No, not attractive British guys, Sun Bears. There's this nature conservatory about an hour away by train in Sandwich, England. Kristi and I have been going on and on about these damn Sun Bears for days. We were all excited to see them today, Kristi was even speed-walking to the station. So, we hop on a train to Dover Priory, then waited around for over an hour- I got some disgusting coffee that cost me 80 pence (I'm still a little bitter about that one), then we hopped back on the train headed to Sandwich.
Of course, we didn't know where the conservatory was once we arrived in Sandwich. Kristi did have the pamphlet. The train station was closed and deserted, so we couldn't ask someone. Kristi called the conservatory, no one answered, but there was a voice recording saying it's only open on Saturdays and Sundays during the winter. Jumpin' Jahosafish, are you kidding me? The conservatory Web site says nothing about it being open only on Saturdays and Sundays during the frickin' winter. It actually says their open daily from 10:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. So, not only were we waiting another 20 minutes in the freezing cold for the train back to Dover Priory, Kristi spent over six pounds on the damn train ticket- that no attendant checked. The things I do for endangered species. Like talk to the people from Greenpeace.
Tomorrow's our last night at the hostel. We were lucky, last night we had the eight bed mixed dorm all to ourselves, tonight it looks to be the same. Now I just jinxed it. Saturday night some dude kept snoring, loud. And this French couple checked in after 11 p.m. and came into the room like they owned it our something. Good thing everyone was outta there by the time we woke up. I've been feeling like going into hibernation, the bears have the right idea. With the sun setting at 3:54 p.m. everyday and the doggone radiator not heatin' up properly, the cold just makes you kind of tired... and hungry. I do have to give props to my super badass boots from the L.L. Bean web site, though. They are so warm. Don't have much traction, but they're warm.
It snowed again last night. I knew that at some point today I'd slip and fall. I had what some would call a premonition. Low and behold, as I was stepping out of the train onto the Dover Priory platform I slipped and landed smack on my ass. It's quite hilarious in hindsight. They need to throw some salt on that damn platform. I should start carrying some with me. I'll be like the Morton Salt girl.
Today, Kristi and I went on the hunt for the elusive Sun Bear, sometimes known as the Honey Bear (thanks Wikipedia). It's even harder to find than an attractive British guy. We heard they were endangered, but that there some just chillin' in Sandwich. No, not attractive British guys, Sun Bears. There's this nature conservatory about an hour away by train in Sandwich, England. Kristi and I have been going on and on about these damn Sun Bears for days. We were all excited to see them today, Kristi was even speed-walking to the station. So, we hop on a train to Dover Priory, then waited around for over an hour- I got some disgusting coffee that cost me 80 pence (I'm still a little bitter about that one), then we hopped back on the train headed to Sandwich.
Of course, we didn't know where the conservatory was once we arrived in Sandwich. Kristi did have the pamphlet. The train station was closed and deserted, so we couldn't ask someone. Kristi called the conservatory, no one answered, but there was a voice recording saying it's only open on Saturdays and Sundays during the winter. Jumpin' Jahosafish, are you kidding me? The conservatory Web site says nothing about it being open only on Saturdays and Sundays during the frickin' winter. It actually says their open daily from 10:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. So, not only were we waiting another 20 minutes in the freezing cold for the train back to Dover Priory, Kristi spent over six pounds on the damn train ticket- that no attendant checked. The things I do for endangered species. Like talk to the people from Greenpeace.
Tomorrow's our last night at the hostel. We were lucky, last night we had the eight bed mixed dorm all to ourselves, tonight it looks to be the same. Now I just jinxed it. Saturday night some dude kept snoring, loud. And this French couple checked in after 11 p.m. and came into the room like they owned it our something. Good thing everyone was outta there by the time we woke up. I've been feeling like going into hibernation, the bears have the right idea. With the sun setting at 3:54 p.m. everyday and the doggone radiator not heatin' up properly, the cold just makes you kind of tired... and hungry. I do have to give props to my super badass boots from the L.L. Bean web site, though. They are so warm. Don't have much traction, but they're warm.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
December 31
My New Year resolution is to eat my weight in scones. With lots of clotted cream, jam and butter.
It's almost 12:30 p.m. here and Kristi is still asleep. We are going to bum around Canterbury today like we have been doing for the past two days. Yesterday, we popped into Dover and took pictures. It was uber exciting, as you can tell.
A really nice older Brazilian woman stayed in our hostel room last night. She talked in Portuguese in her sleep. She'll be here one more night. The French couple has left. Really, when will the Swedish guys come in? Kristi and I will probably have to stay three more nights- not because we're waiting for Swedish guys. I really, really hope that I can move into my dorm on the Jan. 6. If not, I'll have to wait until the rest of the Americans arrive on the 10th. I'm the only person from Texas this semester at Christ Church, I was told by the CCCU International Office. I bet the five other Americans will be from hard to spell places like Massachusetts and Oregon.
I enjoy walking miles in the freezing rain. I can't wait until it gets colder; I hope it snows. I know I'll just be flipping out if it snows.
The bunk bed Kristi and I are sleeping in is pushed up against a small fireplace. The hostel is a 120-year-old house. I can hear a goose outside and at nights I can usually hear an owl. Sometimes a rooster crows in the morning.
It's almost 12:30 p.m. here and Kristi is still asleep. We are going to bum around Canterbury today like we have been doing for the past two days. Yesterday, we popped into Dover and took pictures. It was uber exciting, as you can tell.
A really nice older Brazilian woman stayed in our hostel room last night. She talked in Portuguese in her sleep. She'll be here one more night. The French couple has left. Really, when will the Swedish guys come in? Kristi and I will probably have to stay three more nights- not because we're waiting for Swedish guys. I really, really hope that I can move into my dorm on the Jan. 6. If not, I'll have to wait until the rest of the Americans arrive on the 10th. I'm the only person from Texas this semester at Christ Church, I was told by the CCCU International Office. I bet the five other Americans will be from hard to spell places like Massachusetts and Oregon.
I enjoy walking miles in the freezing rain. I can't wait until it gets colder; I hope it snows. I know I'll just be flipping out if it snows.
The bunk bed Kristi and I are sleeping in is pushed up against a small fireplace. The hostel is a 120-year-old house. I can hear a goose outside and at nights I can usually hear an owl. Sometimes a rooster crows in the morning.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Quite A Lot Of Quites
Can I just start off by saying that hankies are disgusting. I thought that somehow I could save a tree in Somalia by paying seven bucks for a pack of hankies at JCPenney, or, at least, save me some money. Neither proved to be true, I still bought tissues (reluctantly, I might add). Hankies might be fine to use when your snot doesn't look, and have the texture, of green Silly Putty. If you are foolish enough to use a hankie whilst you are sick, for the love of Anthony Michael Hall, don't put the hankie back in your coat pocket without washing it first. Oh, and check your shirt for flyaways before you go out.
I only say all this nonsense about hankies because I, after spending a meager four nights at home in Seguin, got sick (the whole sore throat, runny nose, coughing deal). I think it might have been due to all the dairy I consumed: two glasses of 2% milk, three breakfast bars a day, pesto. I also ate french bread. No, I didn't contract "Swine Flu," even though one of my roommates at Texas State was forced to leave school grounds and had to get vaccinated for "Swine Flu." Now that I think of it, I didn't really get sick at all this semester. Just from that gluten-free hot sauce I put on a partially cooked baked potato (because I was too lazy and hungry to let it finish cooking). Then I went home.
Seguin is a permanent death trap.
This semester went by quite fast, like I figured it would. I worked more hours than usual, planned for my trip back to England, which proved to be more of a headache than expected. I still don't know what classes I'm taking at Canterbury Christ Church University on January 11. I have yet to inform my boss that I'm not coming back to school this spring, which means I'm not coming back to work. I should probably e-mail her. Then there's this thing with one of my guy friend's that I let go unresolved. I'm the type of person that is controlled by their emotions. I am unreasonable and illogical. When I feel something, or think something, I have to say it. And it usually comes out sounding something like klkhkjhgr. A modern 12-year-old could do a better job. I still like this aforementioned friend and now that I'm over 3,000 miles away there's really nothing I can do for over six months. By that time, he'll probably have shacked up with some Catholic chick and, after losing it to her, propose marriage. It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Best I say nothing about my feelings toward him and move on, get over it. I'm in England now, for Christ's sake, for five months and three weeks.
My last final was December 15. I had to stay at school until the 16th for work. My mom and I moved the rest of my things out of my dorm, with the help of my aforementioned guy friend, who got stuck taking the mini-fridge and Rubbermaid tubs filled with clothes down four flights of stairs. Cue evil laugh.
My mom found this trashbag near the dumpster behind San Marcos Hall that was filled with clothes and shoes- there were like, four pairs of almost-brand-new Converse, that just so happened to be my size. Cha-ching. Ironically enough, there were a few recycling propaganda T-shirts. To the Goodwill the clothes go. Better than the dumpster.
I pretty much bummed around Seguin, ran errands and picked up last minute items for my trip until the 26th. I got a snazzy alpaca hat that I'm quite proud of, even though my head is not shaped for hats- that's why I have yet to wear it. Sleep was at a minimum my last week in Seguin. I used the excuse of being sick to wait until the morning of my flight to pack. I paid for it in the end. Literally. My suitcase weighed 71 pounds. When they initially weighed it at the Houston airport it weighted almost 90 pounds. The woman behind the counter told me if I took out a bunch of blue jeans (which, I found out, weigh about 1.5 pounds each)that I wouldn't have to pay 100 bucks. When I opened my suitcase to take the jeans out I forgot that my bras and underwear were on top of my clothes. So I got to sit on the ground and sort through almost six months' worth of underwear. My duffel bag and "purse" were also cram packed with stuff. I brought three hardcover books from the Guadalupe Public Library, which probably wasn't the brightest idea. I just couldn't wait to find out if Sookie gets back together with Bill, OK? Even though I'm more of an Eric fan.
Christmas Day was spent blowing my nose, wondering if the man with a scowl on his face and a turban, pacing back and forth in front of security was a terrorist (Kristi says 'yes'), having hot flashes, and wishing I would have listened to my mom and only brought three pairs of blue jeans and one book.
After driving three hours to Houston, waiting for about three more hours in the Houston airport, an hour-long plane ride to Dallas, an almost two-hour layover in Dallas, Kristi and I were finally on a non-stop flight to the London Heathrow Airport. Let me just say, American Airlines blows. It seemed like they tried to pack as many people as possible on the plane. The aisles were so thin I felt almost sorry for the bitchy flight attendant who had to push the snack cart around the plane.
At first, Kristi and I were seated on opposite ends of the plane. Thanks to a kind, I believe, South American gentleman, we were able to sit together. The people in front of us, I think they were from Spain, kept pushing their seat back. Like it wasn't cramped already. They were playing kissy-face and hugging all over their bags of trail mix, while watching such romantic in-flight movies as Taken. If that's what gets you in the mood. I thought (and still think) that it was a 20-something man and a boyish-looking girl in her early teens with short hair. I assumed they were a couple, an odd, illegal in most U.S. states, couple, but a couple nonetheless. In the morning, while we were waiting to get off the plane, the man and girl/boy got up to leave and Kristi said she thought they were brothers. I guess that's how they roll in whatever country they are from.
My ears didn't fully pop until Kristi and I arrived in Canterbury. Sinus pressure really is a bitch. Our trip to Canterbury was quite an adventure. If it wasn't for the kindness of strangers I really don't know how we would have gotten our suitcases up all those damn stairs at the tube station. What if we were handicapped? That's what elevators are for, sheesh. So from London Heathrow we took the Piccadilly Line to Victoria Station, where we found out that there would be no trains from Victoria Station to Canterbury that day. Who would have thunk it. I mean, I knew it was Boxing Day (there were a few people I would have liked to box, myself included), but come on, if a train was headed to Gillingham (which I found out today I mispronounce), then why not Canterbury? Canterbury has two stations. Gillingham was the closest we could get to Canterbury by train, and a train was the cheapest form of transportation at the time. I had always wanted to go to Gillingham (the 'h' is supposedly silent, but whatevs). So, off we went. It took about 30 minutes. I had my BritRail Pass so I didn't have to pay for a train ticket. Kristi had to pay though. I forgot how much. In Gillingham, which looked quite nice from the entrance to the train station, we hoped there would be a taxi that could take us to Canterbury. Luckily, there was. Cost 60 pounds. It was about an hour drive.
We arrived at the Cathedral Gate Hotel around four o' clock. Try maneuvering a 71 pound extremely wide suitcase over three 900-year-old staircases that seemed to shrink the further up we went. It was interesting to think that people probably carrying the Bubonic Plague had slept in the same room we were staying in.
It must have been a pain in the ass to install electrical wiring in this place and the upkeep must be hell. Our room, the "Cloud" room, was slanted vertically. Next door to our hotel is a Starbucks. It looks like it used to be a pub back in the day.
Kristi and I ate dinner at The Old Buttermarket. I knew Kristi was not going to try one of their pies (I had the mushroom pie this time, it was super fantastic. I could finally taste food again). She had some Cajun chicken thing. Way to try something new, Kristi. It was dark outside by the time we had dinner. The sun has been setting at 3:54 p.m. There are blue lights strung around the center of town. When we got done literally scarfing our food (airplane food really is disgusting and I found out you have to call American Airlines beforehand to place an order for the vegetarian option. How lame), we went back to the hotel and slept. It was, eh, around 5 o' clock.
We woke up the next morning around 8ish, ate the free breakfast (ya, and we were suppose to fill out this card the night prior to let them know what food and drink we wanted and turn it in at the front desk but we didn't). After breakfast, we packed up, moved our luggage downstairs, had 'em call us a taxi, and, oh, paid over 39 pounds. I was sure I paid for the room in full online when I booked it. The receipt says otherwise; I just paid for the deposit. So, now I owe Kristi 19 pounds because she paid the full 60 pounds for the cab ride from Gillingham to Canterbury. Bollocks.
This taxi took us to 40 Nunnery Fields, the address to Kipp's Independent Hostel. I hadn't been to this part of Canterbury before. The hostel is, quite surprisingly, really nice. The only room available for the full seven days was an eight bedroom mixed (male and female). The first night in the hostel there was a group of about three Asian girls who appeared to be backpacking; this is a "backpackers" hostel, after all. And here I come strolling in with my 71 pound suitcase. I'm not going to get over how heavy that damn suitcase is. I have about six bruises on my legs from it. I even watched, while waiting on the tarmac at the Houston airport, the guy struggle to lug my suitcase from one cart to another. That's why there's a sticker that says heavy, dude. Bend your knees.
Have you ever seen a fat French person? Ya, neither have I. But I must admit, I haven't been face-to-face with a French person, until last night. From what I got, it was a mom and her two daughters, but it's not like Kristi and I could understand everything they were saying. The mom was reasonably thin but the daughters were pretty hefty. And they say Americans are fat. One of the girls was huffing and puffing up the two flights of stairs. She had to sit on her bed for a few minutes to catch her breath before she got up to go to the restroom. This morning at breakfast they proceeded to take the butter, coffee creamer stuff, jam, orange juice, and milk and set it in the middle of the table in front of them, far away from reaching distance for the rest of the guests. That's just plain rude, I'm sorry. You may take each item, one at a time, and put it back where you found it after you use it. It's just common courtesy people. Johnny Depp would be very displeased.
Tonight we have a male/female couple from France. They seem a lot nicer than the others. Hopefully they won't take Kristi's new toothbrush and toothpaste, or use our towels (like the French family).
It's quite cold here in Canterbury and slightly drizzling, more rain than I've seen in Texas in a while. My cousin tells me that my mom can't seem to figure out the Yahoo e-mail account I set up for her, even though I wrote a full page of instructions and left it for her on the living room table before I left. Oh, mother. It's been two days since we've last spoken. Last night, Kristi and I went to the Christingle service at Canterbury Cathedral and there was a mom and her son sitting in front of us. The kid was adorable. He kept playing with a toy car, much to his mom's chagrin. It kind of got me all teary eyed. Especially when he kept yelling in her ear, "Mum, mummy, mummy, mum, mum."
Mother really is God to a child.
I only say all this nonsense about hankies because I, after spending a meager four nights at home in Seguin, got sick (the whole sore throat, runny nose, coughing deal). I think it might have been due to all the dairy I consumed: two glasses of 2% milk, three breakfast bars a day, pesto. I also ate french bread. No, I didn't contract "Swine Flu," even though one of my roommates at Texas State was forced to leave school grounds and had to get vaccinated for "Swine Flu." Now that I think of it, I didn't really get sick at all this semester. Just from that gluten-free hot sauce I put on a partially cooked baked potato (because I was too lazy and hungry to let it finish cooking). Then I went home.
Seguin is a permanent death trap.
This semester went by quite fast, like I figured it would. I worked more hours than usual, planned for my trip back to England, which proved to be more of a headache than expected. I still don't know what classes I'm taking at Canterbury Christ Church University on January 11. I have yet to inform my boss that I'm not coming back to school this spring, which means I'm not coming back to work. I should probably e-mail her. Then there's this thing with one of my guy friend's that I let go unresolved. I'm the type of person that is controlled by their emotions. I am unreasonable and illogical. When I feel something, or think something, I have to say it. And it usually comes out sounding something like klkhkjhgr. A modern 12-year-old could do a better job. I still like this aforementioned friend and now that I'm over 3,000 miles away there's really nothing I can do for over six months. By that time, he'll probably have shacked up with some Catholic chick and, after losing it to her, propose marriage. It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Best I say nothing about my feelings toward him and move on, get over it. I'm in England now, for Christ's sake, for five months and three weeks.
My last final was December 15. I had to stay at school until the 16th for work. My mom and I moved the rest of my things out of my dorm, with the help of my aforementioned guy friend, who got stuck taking the mini-fridge and Rubbermaid tubs filled with clothes down four flights of stairs. Cue evil laugh.
My mom found this trashbag near the dumpster behind San Marcos Hall that was filled with clothes and shoes- there were like, four pairs of almost-brand-new Converse, that just so happened to be my size. Cha-ching. Ironically enough, there were a few recycling propaganda T-shirts. To the Goodwill the clothes go. Better than the dumpster.
I pretty much bummed around Seguin, ran errands and picked up last minute items for my trip until the 26th. I got a snazzy alpaca hat that I'm quite proud of, even though my head is not shaped for hats- that's why I have yet to wear it. Sleep was at a minimum my last week in Seguin. I used the excuse of being sick to wait until the morning of my flight to pack. I paid for it in the end. Literally. My suitcase weighed 71 pounds. When they initially weighed it at the Houston airport it weighted almost 90 pounds. The woman behind the counter told me if I took out a bunch of blue jeans (which, I found out, weigh about 1.5 pounds each)that I wouldn't have to pay 100 bucks. When I opened my suitcase to take the jeans out I forgot that my bras and underwear were on top of my clothes. So I got to sit on the ground and sort through almost six months' worth of underwear. My duffel bag and "purse" were also cram packed with stuff. I brought three hardcover books from the Guadalupe Public Library, which probably wasn't the brightest idea. I just couldn't wait to find out if Sookie gets back together with Bill, OK? Even though I'm more of an Eric fan.
Christmas Day was spent blowing my nose, wondering if the man with a scowl on his face and a turban, pacing back and forth in front of security was a terrorist (Kristi says 'yes'), having hot flashes, and wishing I would have listened to my mom and only brought three pairs of blue jeans and one book.
After driving three hours to Houston, waiting for about three more hours in the Houston airport, an hour-long plane ride to Dallas, an almost two-hour layover in Dallas, Kristi and I were finally on a non-stop flight to the London Heathrow Airport. Let me just say, American Airlines blows. It seemed like they tried to pack as many people as possible on the plane. The aisles were so thin I felt almost sorry for the bitchy flight attendant who had to push the snack cart around the plane.
At first, Kristi and I were seated on opposite ends of the plane. Thanks to a kind, I believe, South American gentleman, we were able to sit together. The people in front of us, I think they were from Spain, kept pushing their seat back. Like it wasn't cramped already. They were playing kissy-face and hugging all over their bags of trail mix, while watching such romantic in-flight movies as Taken. If that's what gets you in the mood. I thought (and still think) that it was a 20-something man and a boyish-looking girl in her early teens with short hair. I assumed they were a couple, an odd, illegal in most U.S. states, couple, but a couple nonetheless. In the morning, while we were waiting to get off the plane, the man and girl/boy got up to leave and Kristi said she thought they were brothers. I guess that's how they roll in whatever country they are from.
My ears didn't fully pop until Kristi and I arrived in Canterbury. Sinus pressure really is a bitch. Our trip to Canterbury was quite an adventure. If it wasn't for the kindness of strangers I really don't know how we would have gotten our suitcases up all those damn stairs at the tube station. What if we were handicapped? That's what elevators are for, sheesh. So from London Heathrow we took the Piccadilly Line to Victoria Station, where we found out that there would be no trains from Victoria Station to Canterbury that day. Who would have thunk it. I mean, I knew it was Boxing Day (there were a few people I would have liked to box, myself included), but come on, if a train was headed to Gillingham (which I found out today I mispronounce), then why not Canterbury? Canterbury has two stations. Gillingham was the closest we could get to Canterbury by train, and a train was the cheapest form of transportation at the time. I had always wanted to go to Gillingham (the 'h' is supposedly silent, but whatevs). So, off we went. It took about 30 minutes. I had my BritRail Pass so I didn't have to pay for a train ticket. Kristi had to pay though. I forgot how much. In Gillingham, which looked quite nice from the entrance to the train station, we hoped there would be a taxi that could take us to Canterbury. Luckily, there was. Cost 60 pounds. It was about an hour drive.
We arrived at the Cathedral Gate Hotel around four o' clock. Try maneuvering a 71 pound extremely wide suitcase over three 900-year-old staircases that seemed to shrink the further up we went. It was interesting to think that people probably carrying the Bubonic Plague had slept in the same room we were staying in.
It must have been a pain in the ass to install electrical wiring in this place and the upkeep must be hell. Our room, the "Cloud" room, was slanted vertically. Next door to our hotel is a Starbucks. It looks like it used to be a pub back in the day.
Kristi and I ate dinner at The Old Buttermarket. I knew Kristi was not going to try one of their pies (I had the mushroom pie this time, it was super fantastic. I could finally taste food again). She had some Cajun chicken thing. Way to try something new, Kristi. It was dark outside by the time we had dinner. The sun has been setting at 3:54 p.m. There are blue lights strung around the center of town. When we got done literally scarfing our food (airplane food really is disgusting and I found out you have to call American Airlines beforehand to place an order for the vegetarian option. How lame), we went back to the hotel and slept. It was, eh, around 5 o' clock.
We woke up the next morning around 8ish, ate the free breakfast (ya, and we were suppose to fill out this card the night prior to let them know what food and drink we wanted and turn it in at the front desk but we didn't). After breakfast, we packed up, moved our luggage downstairs, had 'em call us a taxi, and, oh, paid over 39 pounds. I was sure I paid for the room in full online when I booked it. The receipt says otherwise; I just paid for the deposit. So, now I owe Kristi 19 pounds because she paid the full 60 pounds for the cab ride from Gillingham to Canterbury. Bollocks.
This taxi took us to 40 Nunnery Fields, the address to Kipp's Independent Hostel. I hadn't been to this part of Canterbury before. The hostel is, quite surprisingly, really nice. The only room available for the full seven days was an eight bedroom mixed (male and female). The first night in the hostel there was a group of about three Asian girls who appeared to be backpacking; this is a "backpackers" hostel, after all. And here I come strolling in with my 71 pound suitcase. I'm not going to get over how heavy that damn suitcase is. I have about six bruises on my legs from it. I even watched, while waiting on the tarmac at the Houston airport, the guy struggle to lug my suitcase from one cart to another. That's why there's a sticker that says heavy, dude. Bend your knees.
Have you ever seen a fat French person? Ya, neither have I. But I must admit, I haven't been face-to-face with a French person, until last night. From what I got, it was a mom and her two daughters, but it's not like Kristi and I could understand everything they were saying. The mom was reasonably thin but the daughters were pretty hefty. And they say Americans are fat. One of the girls was huffing and puffing up the two flights of stairs. She had to sit on her bed for a few minutes to catch her breath before she got up to go to the restroom. This morning at breakfast they proceeded to take the butter, coffee creamer stuff, jam, orange juice, and milk and set it in the middle of the table in front of them, far away from reaching distance for the rest of the guests. That's just plain rude, I'm sorry. You may take each item, one at a time, and put it back where you found it after you use it. It's just common courtesy people. Johnny Depp would be very displeased.
Tonight we have a male/female couple from France. They seem a lot nicer than the others. Hopefully they won't take Kristi's new toothbrush and toothpaste, or use our towels (like the French family).
It's quite cold here in Canterbury and slightly drizzling, more rain than I've seen in Texas in a while. My cousin tells me that my mom can't seem to figure out the Yahoo e-mail account I set up for her, even though I wrote a full page of instructions and left it for her on the living room table before I left. Oh, mother. It's been two days since we've last spoken. Last night, Kristi and I went to the Christingle service at Canterbury Cathedral and there was a mom and her son sitting in front of us. The kid was adorable. He kept playing with a toy car, much to his mom's chagrin. It kind of got me all teary eyed. Especially when he kept yelling in her ear, "Mum, mummy, mummy, mum, mum."
Mother really is God to a child.
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