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?
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