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.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
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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