Allow the silky Appy experience to engulf you in the taste that's oh, so classic.

Fantastic news! The men here are terrifyingly creepy, never stop staring at white women (you think I'm joking but you have no idea), catcall, and apparently take benign smiles as an invitation. Yes, this may sound like it sucks, but it actually just means that I get to focus on trying to be as ugly as humanly possible (which has always been a favorite secret hobby of mine that up until now was social unacceptable). I am so pumped. Frumpy, mismatched clothes. No make-up. I think I'm going to stop shaving my legs, maybe start drawing a beard on myself. There are so many possibilities...

CIEE took 3000 rupees out of the budget for each person in our group to buy Indian clothes at this store called Fab India so we can blend in and have enough modest clothing. I was, as usual, was very overly excited about this and got a bunch of insane pattern clothes that are impossible to match with anything (so there is no chance that I will be "blending in"), and a pair of those crazy Alladin pants I always wanted as a little kid (they're very common here). Everyone else was a little overexcited about them, too, so yesterday everyone (except me and maybe 3 other people) in our very large group of 95% white, obviously foreign kids wore their new Indian clothes out to town (one of the Indian women even gave some of the girls bindis). But we have no sense of the subtleties of Indian fashion, which things are formal, etc... and we're still a group of 30 mostly white kids. So we must have looked absolutely hilarious.

I had my first experience with a randomer wanting to take my picture (we can't attribute this to my silly attempts to look Indian because I was wearing Western clothes. I'm going to assume its because I'm a celebrity). This woman at the palace we visited stuck a camera in my face and shouted "PICTURE PICTURE!" then banged the camera with her hand like 6 times (I'm not sure if she actually knew how to use the camera) and then posed in several more pictures with me as I laughed hysterically. People told me this would happen but I assumed they meant two or three times in the entire semester. It happened like six more times just yesterday. We visited Golgotha fort later and a group of Indian school boys actually swarmed one of the boys in our group and started chanting excitedly and taking hundreds of pictures (it was a funny swarm involving highfives and excited questions, rather than a terrifying swarm.) Although I'm still really bothered by it, I prefer this attention to the lurid stares from strange men and the terrifying groveling of beggars who have trained their children to swarm white people who have no idea how to respond to it. It's a pretty legitimate strategy. I've seen tons of beggars in the US and Europe but its never been anything like this. People here will be simultaneously aggressive and pathetic and they do not let up no matter what. They send their kids crying and hanging onto you, they wave severred limbs in your face, they scream. It's extremely disturbing because I know its a strategy to make me feel guilty and that I'll get attacked by tons of other people if I give anyone anything, but I also know that it's an entirely necessary strategy in most cases because the overcrowding and poverty are just so bad. I'm starting to understand how the caste system perpepetuates. I'm supposed to ignore people. You bascially can't acknowledge every person as a human being if you want to function, physically and emotionally -- at least not when you're standing next to them.

A large group of us went to a craft fair in town two nights ago, which was really exciting. The taxi driver played a CD of popular indie music (Shins, Iron and Wine, etc.), which I found extremely funny because India seems like a pseudo-enlightened hipster Mecca, and I'm sure some white kid in the past gave the man this "awesome, chill mix CD," and he assumed that the giant group of Western dumbasses would love it, which we did. (I'm pretty sure that everyone is just laughing at me constantly in this country, which I do not mind in the least. I deserve it. I have no idea what I'm doing.)

There were stalls of gorgeous... everythings everywhere (I'll go back and take pictures. It was chaotic -- like traffic and directions and walking in the street and trying to get a direct answer and everything else). I got to haggle! (which like our fumbling attempts to wear Indian clothing, probably made us look like idiots.) Again, going in, I had the knowledge that I shouldn't make eye contact with anyone, or even walk too slowly unless I want to buy something, but did I listen? So I ended up stopping and greeting basically every person in the entire fair. I didn't buy anything I didn't want though, so I guess that's alright. Stall owners shout to you like you're bff, and they'll say bascially anything to make you stop at their cart. Then, once you stop there, they stick things in your face and speak in the future tense, like you've already bought the item. I've never haggled, I have no idea what a normal price for anything is, and I'm already charged roughly double for everything because I'm white, so my feeble attempts to "assertively" haggle actually ellicted a lot of good natured laughter from some of the stall owners -- particularly from magic-elephant-box-this-box-is-worth-ton-of-money-is-magical-I-give-you-special-deal man, who stuck about 12 different things in my face when I stopped to look at a keychain. (I bought the elephant box. I liked it, and this guy was too hilarious not to.) There were also dancers and a group of men walking around playing instruments dressed as various Hindu gods. Everything was beautiful, people were extremely friendly and we had a fantastic time. Then we went into the parking lot and three little girls started chasing one of the boys in our group and giggling. I thought they were playing until I realized they were beggars. They intermittenly did the giggle and play around thing and  the disturbing touch feet (feet are the most degrading body part), touch mouth, and sob thing. Then they started hanging on people, reached their arms into the taxi as we got in and banged on it as we drove away.

Yesterday we went to see these gorgeous tombs that kings from the Qutub dynasty were buried in. They literally looked like palaces, and the architect that was showing us around told us that they used to be completely covered completely in turquoise. we also visited the mosque in town. We weren't allowed to go inside (which was okay with me because only the men would have been allowed in the part we were visiting anyway), we walked through the middle class shops in town (unfortunately I couldn't take pictures beccasue my camera would have gotten grabbed so I had to be really creepy and take photos from the bus... yes I know, but I don't feel that bad because everyone was photographing me, too. Actually I stopped walking to get out of the way of one man taking a picture but he put his camera back down again. So I walked past him and then he tried to sneakily snapped a picture of me). We also went to Golgotha Fort which was another prettiest-thing-in-the-entire-universe. Besides the constantly being asked to pose for photographs with strangers, the chanting school of excited little kids some notable points:

1. We went to this light show at the end that told this epic fable style history of the fort and it was narrated in a booming voice talking about the "noble glories and opulence of the days of yor," with interjections in the narration from a fake audience. "But guru, what are all these flashes?" "HaHA, they are just silly tourists." The history involved a love story.. "But how did you find me in un this dark story weather?" "The flame of your love led me to you." It was bascially the best thing ever, akin to a bad 80s horror film, but also really interesting (unfortunately we were all dead tired by this point and had trouble paying attention for the whole thing).

2. I got a snack. Appy Juice. That is not a typo. Here is the Appy Juice description written on the box: "Appy is a still apple drink at its simplest best. Made from apples picked from the choicest orchards, this tasty indulgence is brimming with good taste. Allow the silky Appy experience to engulf you in the taste that's oh, so classic."

3. We all had to pee. So we all politely queued for the bathroom, as is custom for us. And about ten Indian women just pushed past us and no one said anything... because we're stupid Westerners and how would we know that you don't queue in India. I, having just spent four months perfecting the art of queuing in England, said "hey there's a line," but they completely ignored us. They also ignored Madhuri, whose actually Indian, so I don't feel that bad. I know imperialism was really terrible for India, but I just have this hysterical image of Englishmen politely trying to use the bathroom in India, waiting in queue for hours in quiet indignance, and then peeing their pants.

On the First Day of India my True Love Gave to Me….Rabies Puppies

I did not have a honeymoon period for India the way I did for England. England is beautiful and amazing and it has its quiet problems that you need to be there a while to see. India’s problems are blatant. But I can already tell I’m going to have an absolutely amazing experience. The last 48 hours alone have been pretty much earth shattering, and I’m so excited to be here, but I definitely didn’t get that same first great impression. But as usual, I’m going to start with a few delightful tales of stupid stuff I did before getting into the depressing, abject poverty, I-am-never-going-to-complain-about-anything-ever-again part of the post.

A few contextual details leading up to the moment at 4 AM yesterday when I was pounding on the inside of my room door in delirious sleep deprived terror, convinced that I had been padlocked in (also let me preface with the knowledge that I have now, in day 2, that I am actually much safer than I felt/seemed to be during day. I had no context for anything during day 1 because the CIEE people didn't meet with us):

1.      I did not sleep before I got on my plane, thinking this would help me sleep on the plane. It did not. Thus, two nights ago I found myself semi delirious on a 3 AM shuttle in the Mumbai airport passing miles of barbed wire fencing, shanty towns with tents composed mostly of garbage bags and plywood, and airport guards armed with what I believe were machine guns. This directly after reading MAUS, a book about the Holocaust and let me just reiterate: really really sleep deprived.

2.      Now let’s jump forward. Upon arriving to the homestay on campus at 10 AM, I was given no instructions except “meet at breakfast tomorrow.” The “no instructions” part is the focus here. And I was hellbent on staying up until dark so I could adjust to the time change (ironic that I have been complaining about the sun setting at 4PM in England every day, and today I had to wait until 8PM), so after a trip to town via taxi (we’ll get to traffic in India soon), I decided to explore campus with a few other people. Campus is huge… miles long, and we walked the wrong direction so we passed another colony of garbage bag / plywood tents because apparently there are shanty towns on campus, too.

3.      Several creatures followed us in our explorations. One was a large stray dog with a giant gash in the middle of its head. There are stray dogs all over campus. (They leave you alone if you ignore them).

4.      Several men also followed us for a short stint before I shot them my stank face. And I just read several books that talked about “misogynistic Indian culture.” I’m not ready to make any conclusions or judgments about gender here yet, but I will not be walking anywhere alone. Ever. Or after dark. Ever.

5.      Let’s add this to the fact that I have not slept for more than 2 hours at a time in 72 hours now, I have just jumped time zones, that I have still received no guidance from anyone to put all of these things into perspective, and that travelers often experience digestive troubles from the intense change in food, water, climate, etc.

Anyway, after feeling really unsafe and mildly delirious the entire day, I awakened at 4 AM in an unfamiliar room, with a confused biological clock and a very urgent need to use the bathroom. Having no idea where the lights or the lock were yet, I was convinced that someone had padlocked the door from the outside (our doors have padlocks on the outside) and that the entire CIEE program was actually a front for an evil organization that does not let you pee at night. Then I woke up all the way and found the lock. Hooray!

A litter of stray puppies lives outside the homestay and greets us excitedly every time we enter or exit the building, which actually presents a huge dilemma. College Jesse says “OH MY GOD, the adorable dorm puppies that I always wanted and never had!” Hypochondriac, fresh-out-of-travel-clinic-that-makes-you-paranoid-about-every-imaginable-disease Jesse says “Rabies.” We have started naming them, so they can’t possibly give us rabies now. The universe wouldn’t be that mean.

I felt a huge improvement and learning curve between day 1 and day 2. The CIEE people actually met with us, and started orienting us, so I don’t feel like my personal safety is in jeopardy anymore. They showed us the actual campus (yesterday I thought the entire campus was going to be as rough as the part that I saw with the tents). Campus is absolutely beautiful, but pretty far away. There’s a shuttle but it’s really unreliable, so I’ll probably be biking t oclass every day. All the buildings have open courtyards with gardens in the middle. When we walked past, literally all of the construction works at one of the buildings dropped everything and stared at us until we were out of sight. It’s something to get used to. I’ve been pretty privileged being white in predominantly white schools for most of my life (don’t get me started on private school racial inequality), so having my race be a major issue is going to be an interesting dynamic this semester. I’m hoping to turn it into something positive, like a stronger consideration for racial stigma.

The amount of poverty is really difficult to handle. There are tent communities set up everywhere, and it’s so crowded that they’re often set up right alongside western stores and shops aimed toward the upper middle class. We pass beggars missing limbs and the program director warned us that the children that beg are usually professional. If we give money to anyone it means we’ll be swarmed. I’m doing alright at the moment, but like the race thing and the gender thing, I think it’s going to require a lot of intellectual work for to handle without getting depressed. We have some really amazing volunteer work opportunities, so at least I’ll make me feel like I have some agency. It’s just very difficult to ignore people without feeling spoiled and ignorant.

Funny story. The next word in this post is "gender" but every time I try to write the word gender, I get a message that say "an error has occurred." Blogspot does not want me to write about it. So I've had to rewrite the entire thing in a disjointed summary.

There is no sense of time, structure, or definite answers to anything (or laws as far as I can tell). This is irritating for things like getting my visa, trying to figure out my course schedule, and flights, but it's actually pretty sweet because I never have to be punctual anymore. Our coordinator could not give us a definite answer as to whether or not the snakes on campus are poisonous. That's pretty yes or no. We received a map, but apparently the map is wrong. Finals might be May 1 but we also might have to leave the country by May 1 and no one in charge seems to see a problem or be the least bit concerned about it. When we finally get to sign up for classes (there is no definite course list) teachers will not answer emails, may be absent without notice, may change the dates for tests without informing us, there are no traffic laws, there are people everywhere. But a more intense version of everywhere that I have never experienced.

(I have no idea why this has gone to double space. India hates my computer). Our coordinator gave us the following advice for interacting on the street: “Do not make eye contact with any men. And do not under any circumstances smile. I will know what you mean with the smiling but an Indian man will see you and he will go ‘Ooooooh. She is so gracious. She is loving me! Can you please give me your phone number and email address so I can torture you later?!” No, eye contact. No smiling. I’m screwed (although most of the people I spoke to at the market have been understanding because I'm white and obviously unfamiliar with the customs). Apparently if you're assertive local women will be really supportive and men will get super embarrassed (hooray for the sisterhood.) But I can't go anywhere alone safely. Like, I know I'm "not supposed to walk alone after dark" on Dickinson campus but honestly its not a big deal. I just came from a place where after dark is 4PM and its normal to travel alone. It's legitimately dangerous for me to leave the home stay by myself after dark. It's freaking me out a little. But it's a lot more complicated than the books I've read put it. Not everything is necessarily sexist. Just homosocial.

A few notes on driving: My first image of India was a group of women in saris and full burkas speeding down the highway on motorcycles (yesss). There are literally no traffic laws, which I thougth would be terrifying but is actaully awesome (and just like the lack of time, scheduling and direct answers to questions). There are crazy informal rules, and everyone knows where everyone else is on the road at all times (like bat sonar). There are no traffic lights, people merge 10 at a time and I think most people measure their driving skills based on how often they use their horn. So people basically lean on it with great pride in their strong driving skills. The horn on our bus sounds suspiciously like La Cucaracha. Also, people climb under the railroad crossing with their motorcycles and cross right in front of the train. And when we stop the taxi/bus/rickshaw/whatever you're in, insane things happen. Beggars bang on your windows. People try to sell you things. A man on a pickup truck yesterday was walking around in bare feet on glass bottles. A giant yak sidled up to me in the parking lot so I took a picture of it, and then it tried to pee on me.

When we returned to the home stay for dinner the other night, we were eating dinner and all the sudden the boy next to me started throwing up (a lot of us have been various degrees of nauseous from the sudden change in food and bacteria), so I tried to be helpful and ran to grab him a bucket, but all I could find was a soup bowl. He was fine when I came back so I made a joke about that part in Wayne’s World when Garth whips out a little Dixie cup and says “If you’re gonna spew, spew into this,” and then the girl sitting across from me laughed and said that Dana Carvey is her uncle. My childhood hero, Garth. Oh hallowed ground.

Sorry, these last few blogs have been completely disjointed and probably not that entertaining. I'm litearlly just writing whatever comes into my head. I have never tried to process so many changes at one time. I'm really worried that I'm portraying things unethically because I'm telling these whimsical stories in between talking about horrible abject poverty and how I have to ignore starving children who hang on your arm because they are professional beggars and they'll swarm you if you give them money. Plus I'm still horribly jet lagged so I can't process information properly. So hopefully in a few days I will sound less insane and be able to explain things in a coherent manner. For now I'm just trying to get down as much as I can so I don't forget stuff. I know some of this sounds like a long complaint, but I'm actually loving India. It's just that my head is exploding.

On the Second Day of London Christmas my True Love Gave to Me 2 fighting grandma robots and a flaming Christmas pudding…

This was supposed to be Christmas plus India but it was too long so I divided it in two.

As I mentioned in the last post, at the moment my entire sense of the universe is doing cartwheels, like without gravity because basic constructs like the laws of physics and time are currently on hiatus. Between UEA and this moment, I spent Christmas in London with my flatmate, Becca, traveled for a full 24 hours (actually I’m not really sure because of the time zones and the weird time vacuum that exists on airplanes), and spent two days in India. I have a whole mess of stories.

The trip to Becca’s house went surprisingly smoothly, no train delays and pretty cheap. Best of all, the gentleman sitting next to me on the coach was snapping his fingers and tapping to what based on the rhythm I assumed was blue music the entire way to London. Upon further examination I discovered that he was actually listening to the Macarena over and over again on his Ipod.

I don’t want to brag about my awesome Irish-English Christmas or anything but IT WAS THE COOLEST EVER. Becca’s giant family is as awesome as she is. Upon my arrival, I met her parents, granny, and many siblings. We enjoyed what I imagine is a traditional English Christmas Eve dinner (many boiled things) as the family amusedly regaled me with tales of a recent wedding including delightful characters such as alcoholic uncle, parole breaking crack dealer, VPL girl, and an invented fiancé named Wilburt who granny promptly rejected etc., and asked me about my people, the Amish (British people love asking Pennsylvanians about the Amish). Then we went to Catholic mass, where they sang completely unfamiliar Christmas songs (until the very end when we sang a few I knew at a funeral march pace and 3 octaves too high for a normal human range so that the lady in front of us turned around and stared at me because I my voice kept cracking and I was laughing hysterically) and we all enjoyed a hilariously off key rendition of Oh Holy Night. Christmas Day included more storytelling, holiday cheer, several rousing rounds of Granny Battles – a game involving two remote controlled grandma action figures which granny insisted were being “naughty and should be put to bed.” I discovered why Christmas poppers are not allowed to be mailed. I thought they only included little frog action figures, but the fancier ones have things like screw driver sets inside them. In addition to poppers (awesome), I also got to try Christmas pudding (English fruitcake, but beloved rather than mailed to disliked relatives)… not just any Christmas pudding though, flaming brandy Christmas pudding. As in with fire. Awesome. (and pretty ironic considering England’s stance on fire safety. Just saying.) More storytelling, and then a marathon of English TV to keep me awake for my 5 AM taxi (The IT Crowd is a fantastic television show).

Part 2 (India stuff) is the next post up.

Farewell England

Dear England and America,

This is a feelings-y post. I’m just warning you. I just left school, spent Christmas in London, flew to India, and spent two days exploring a violently unfamiliar world. My brain is reeling with sleep deprivation, culture shock, homesickness, England-homesickness, travel sickness, excitement, general awe, and a whole mess of other things. And I really need to make peace with leaving England.

I have an insane amount to go through. My last week in England was a lot of reflecting and emotional goodbye-ing intermingled with frantic preparations for India and more immediately frantic attempts to finish final papers sans internet. I know that this semester deserves a long heartfelt farewell, and I’ve actually put an embarrassing amount of thought into what I should say, but I realized that there is just no way to sum it up.

I finally managed to accept that I was leaving as I watched to sun rise over the surprisingly lovely (and even more surprisingly actually operating) Heathrow airport. However, I brilliantly decided to stay up all night before my flight to India so I would be able to sleep on the plane and beat jet lag... or the second, unforeseen option, which was to fail to sleep on the plane resulting in a 72 consecutive hours of being pretty not asleep – meaning I actually wrote a crazy incoherent jumble of sleep deprived half thoughts.

So rather than attempting to write something really eloquent and heartfelt, I’m going to admit defeat and say that I can’t sufficiently condense my feelings about last semester into a post. I loved England. Last semester was best semester I’ve ever had, by far (there have been a lot of best-in-the-entire-universes, but this is one of those cosmic, capital letter Best Evers). I saw lots of impossibly old, impossibly historical, impossibly beautiful things. I had life changing experiences basically daily (maybe every other day during the Great Visa War). I got to be a pretend grown up. I accidently appropriated hilarious slang words which are making my speech patterns endlessly amusing to the Americans that I’ve been meeting in India. I met amazing people. I made great friends, some of whom I’ll even get to see again next year at Dickinson. I gained new appreciation for my family and friends at home after being away from them. There’s lots of other stuff.

I’ve made peace with leaving Norwich itself, but it was hardest to say goodbye to the people. My flat was amazing, my entire apartment block actually, and the Frisbee team was unbelievably welcoming and fun. There are so many people that I feel like I was just starting to get to know and really like, and that’s a whole different kind of difficult because I know that realistically, I’ll probably only be able to stay in contact with a few people. I’m happy I travelled, but I wished I had more time to spend with people. I know they’re everywhere, but I really liked these particular ones. It took me a full two years at Dickinson to feel as at home as I felt in UEA after just one semester (and I love Dickinson).

I can’t really say much else without writing a novel. I have this impulse to drop thank yous like the English drop sorries on a crowded street. I couldn’t have been more lucky with the people I met in England. I couldn’t have been more lucky with the people I traveled with. Dickinson has been amazingly helpful. And my mom and dad are just really really awesome. I probably haven’t gushed about this enough because I was too busy freaking out about the visa, but they let me come, they suffered through visa process… twice, they’re helping me pay for a ton of this, and they’re sending my brother to backpack with me in May, which is pretty much the pinnacle of best things ever. I should probably buy them a house or something when I’m rich from my useful American Studies degree… oh wait… (At least I sent them Marmite for Christmas. That’s something, right?)

Anyway, I’m not ready to move on, but I have to. And I’m unbelievably excited about India. (I cannot believe this is my charmed life. I have four different currencies in my wallet right now, not including the Chuck E Cheese tokens. I have officially become that super lucky world traveler jerk that I’ve always been secretly jealous of). But I woke up yesterday morning in a crazy jet lag and psychotic malaria pill side effects induced stupor and was extremely homesick for England.

So, England, even though your queues are silly, and you lack peanut butter and proper sycophantic reverence for the glory of the American flag, my love for you shines more brightly than the sun in your country does not after 4PM. Goodbye, thank you, I miss you already, see you in May.

Love,

Jesse

A Cranksgivmas Miracle

So I’m currently squatting in my friend’s flat at an empty UEA campus because my lease expired almost everyone leaves campus on Dec 18. Luckily, a few Americans are still here to keep me company (the ones who are not stranded at Heathrow airport because of the centimeter of snow that shut the entire country down. I predicted that. One point for me.) Unluckily, they all seem to be working on papers and/or sick. I don’t mind because, I love Norwich and could explore it forever. Unfortunately, Norwich closes around 4PM leaving me about 12 hours in solitary and darkness for the next few days. This would be troubling if not for my unparalleled abilities to entertain myself – thus far I have designed an elaborate treasure map involving obscure American presidential pet trivia, mastered a Beyonce song on the ukulele (she is so damn classy), read up on every other possible disease I will be contracting in India, taught myself to french braid via youtube video, and applied for a day time soap opera writing internship with the credentials that my American Studies history will gives me expertise in the areas of drag queens, which they could use in their plot, and that I can help them not be racist (I worded it slightly differently). Anyway, it’s a comfort to know that if I ever return to my life of crime, I won’t have to worry solitary confinement driving me insane.

Since I’m still in England, I’m just going to continue to be in denial about the fact that I won’t be seeing UEA or any of its fine people again until May, delay the sappy farewell post, and talk about Cranksgivmas, the greatest holiday in the entire universe, instead.

Cranksgivmas is the holiday that my flat decided to invent because Holly and I really really wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving, but we were so busy with work that by the time we could schedule it, it was closer to Christmas. I was originally supposed to help with said preparations, but the Technology Apocalypse had me a little swamped last week, so I actually just wrote a paper and fell asleep in my half folded laundry. Buddy Holly, being the fantastic person that she is, organized a glorious collegey feast for our flat with the help of our flat mate, Joe. I say collegey feast because we have no oven (fire hazard) so we had turkey lunch meat, but all the other essentials were there, including candied yams and my other favorite Thanksgiving foods, delightful Christmas carols, the one Thanksgiving carol in existence by Adam Sandler, Lady Gaga (our flat’s musical staple), Laura’s weird Aussie Christmas music with kangaroos and stuff, and those awesome English popper things that have the paper crown and awful joke inside (side note: English poppers are illegal to mail to the United States if they are not in their original packaging. The Royal Post pamphlet made this very clear. They don't want to share the joy with other nations).

Look at it. It's beautiful

Anyway, imagine my delight when I woke up in a pile of half folded socks to the joyous sound of English people trying to make sense of a weird American holiday. Here is the origins story of Cranksgivmas that our dear English flatmate Joe wrote:

And God looked over the calendar and he saw a blank spot at around the 16^th of December about a week before Saturnalia. And God spoke and he said Let there be Cranksgivmas. And it was so. And God saw Cranksgivmas and it was good.

Many years later and Santa Claus was sailing over the sea with some puritan chaps in the year of 1700 of thereabouts. Santa was sad as a few days earlier they had run out of food. Dasher and Donner and Blitzen kebabs had only lasted the first few weeks of the voyage and the Rudolph pie had also been consumed quicktime. Fortunately George Washington was a good  fisherman (and strong seamen) and was able to catch the occasionally Atlantic Trout-fish for the starving crew. Eventually Santa was so saddened by the loss of his reindeer friends that he tried to take his own life. He walked to the bow of the ship and prepared to jump off. Santa then jumped into the swirling fish infested water. Fortunately for millions of future children and coca cola marketing execs Santa’s suicide bid was spotted by Benjamin Franklin (inventor of electricity and bifocals). Franklin alerted Washington who lept into the water at great danger to his own life. When asked about this later old Georgie would always say (in a thick west country accent), “I cannot tell a lie. I did that thing.” In fact whilst in the water Washington had his teeth knocked out by a flying fish and for the rest of his life was forced to wear a false set consisting of chicken beaks and cheese rind.

Many years later Santa would honour the day that he was saved by Washington by having a piss up and food and the like. The puritanical pilgrims promptly forgot about the incident.

I just wanted to share that. I think it’s hysterical. Anyway, it ended up being a great farewell dinner because we all got to go around the table and talk about what we were thankful for. And then Alessio danced to Lady Gaga. I can't actually remember what the Cranksgivmas miracle was.

Next few days (after the remaining days of creepy UEA solitude. Call me Thoreau... except with internet instead of a cabin, so the opposite of Thoreau), should be really exciting. I'm going to my friend Becca's house for a real English Christmas, which will undoubtedly have more English poppers with silly crowns and jokes, and then I'm catching my plane to India (which I will properly express my enthusiasm for the second my brain actually recognizes the fact that I am going to India and rather than having a crazy cough syrup dream in which I travel the world).

So I might be posting about ten more times tonight (I was lying about the solitary confinement thing. I'm definitely going a little nuts. That's okay though. I can french braid now.) Until then some exciting India fun facts:

Things that antiquated travel books have assured me are acceptable:

No eating, passing things, (or doing any of the things that require the fine motor skills of a left handed person like myself) with my left hand.
If a man harrasses me on the street it is social acceptable to punch him in the face with no reprecussions.
Rather than saying please such as "please can I have a packet of sugar," I should shout "SUGAR, SUGAR"
In Indian English if I request "brown sugar" I have requested narcotic drugs.
Also apparently the phrase "pass out at college" means to graduate (slightly different meaning in America).

Someone is trying to trick me.

The Great Technology Apocalypse of 2010 / The Most English Day Ever: A Tale of Bureaucratic Nonsense, Ineffectual Polite Apologies for Causing Huge Inconvenience, and Fire Safety

Dear Louise (darling Frisbee Mum / sorry-I-wrote-your-actual-name-my-biological-mother-will-otherwise-think-I-am-addressing-her-and-be-confused / vigilante justice warrior against muggers – true story) and Allison (twin / beloved countryman / maker of miracle microwave cookies / only person who will probably cry more than me tomorrow when we leave),

As the time draws nearer and nearer to the dreaded moment when I have to drop the ridiculous patriotic façade I affect for these adventures stories, write an embarrassingly sentimental goodbye post, and admit that I love England (I am still not singing the national anthem), I find solace in the fact that England’s complete inability to function in a centimeter or more of snow will probably cause the buses and trains to come to a panic ridden snow apocalypse stand still, causing me to miss my plane so I’ll be stranded here for a while longer (pretty likely actually), appreciatively waiting in the queues and bureaucratic quagmire that so charmingly characterize this great nation. But, like the paper I am currently supposed to be writing, I will procrastinate that moment, and instead recount a traditional tale of Olde (last week). Like the golden statue of Louise beating the crap out of a mugger and compelling he and his mugger crony to apologize for ruining her birthday which I will be erecting upon my return to the Homeland so people from all over the world will worship her like the golden goddess that she is (seriously, this is a true story. My Mum is a glorious champion) and the bards songs about Allison's various Wednesday evening triumphs which will undoubtedly be written and passed along for generations not only by me but also probably every other Aye Aye member, this traditional tale will be the stuff of legends (which means I am going to add a bunch of random extra bits to make myself sound cool).

The Great Technology Apocalypse of 2010 / The Most English Day Ever: A Tale of Bureaucratic Nonsense, Ineffectual Polite Apologies for Causing Huge Inconvenience, and Fire Safety

Once upon a time -- so long ago that every country in the world had not yet assimilated to the superior American culture, Land of McDonalds, Ke$ha, and freedom -- there was a magical Kingdom (of the United persuasion) called UEA. UEA was a happy kingdom, a kingdom filled with wonderful people and peculiar customs (beans and toast, wtf) and words (will someone please tell me what a “snood” really is? I don’t believe it’s a scarf. It sounds like something from Dr. Seuss). But one day, an ominous cloud settled over the Kingdom. This cloud was different than the benign rainclouds that constantly rested over the fair city; it was the Cloud of Finals. It was a dark time for the people of UEA. Their mirthful partying ceased. They holed themselves into the darkness of their hilariously little dorm pods for days at a time, away from the gentle light of the sun which shined behind the rain clouds and the Finals Cloud, as they wrote useless term papers and did revision (studied) for the trials that awaited them. They lived only on jars of Nutella and dreamed of a day when their visa would arrive from India (did I mention yet that I have a visa?). But the people of UEA had hope. They knew that the Finals Cloud would one day pass, just as it had every previous semester. Little did they know what lay in store for them.

It was 11 PM and Panicking-Finals-Mode-Jesse (I’m writing in third person. My 7^th grade math teacher used to talk about herself in third person, so, yes, I realize that I sound insane, but fairy tales just don’t work in first person) had just finished writing the first draft of paper about Norwich folklore, which she had put off because she was too busy battling the entire English and Indian government to get a visa, when it happened. Facebook did not work. But Jesse did not fret. She knew that there were cornucopias of other procrastination websites on the internet. Valiantly, she moved on to tetris. But it, too, did not work. The worst had happened. The UEA network was down. Jesse’s productivity immediately skyrocketed because there were no internet games to distract her. She assumed that UEA would actually bother to fix the computer system which its students rely on for research during finals week, so she thought nothing of the horrible calamity that lay ahead, and went to sleep. The next morning, there was still no internet. No email available to contact teachers, no online research databases, no printers working on the entire campus, no way to check out books at the library or even search books as UEA had long ago disposed of its card catalogue (probably a fire hazard). Freshers quaked in fear. Third years wept openly as they faced their giant dissertations. There was screaming in the streets. It was a disaster profound that not even Jesse's Mum, Louise, the most fearsome warrior of her time, could fix it. Nothing could be done, not until the administration went through the requisite thirty queues and eighty different unnecessary departments required to fix simple problems. The library erected a sign which read: “we apologize for the inconvenience.” They sent out emails which no one could read explaining important information like deadline extensions and when the printers might work again so students could actually turn in their work.

But Jesse did not fret. She knew of a secret library in town, a place that boasts 800 sprinklers to ensure fire safety, called the Forum, which provided access to the internet. So off she  bravely trekked to town hoping to do research or at least actually be able to read the prompt which was posted online for her next essay. On the way, she ran into Allison the Magnanimous, undoubtedly off to bake more magic cookies, tap dance with Anna, or distribute pairs of Christmas ornaments to the inconsolable masses. Bidding her fantastic twin farewell, Jesse caught the 25 bus into town. After waiting in the queue for the public computer for half an hour for the gentleman in front of her to play his game of Doom 2, signed onto the computer, only to discover that no research databases were available at the Forum. But at least she had her essay prompt. So she found an empty study desk plugged her laptop into one of the two outlets provided at every single desk in the entire building, and began to write sans internet. She was so naïve. How could she not have seen the warning signs – that conveniently placed outlets at every one of the equally convenient study desks could not be what they seemed?

Suddenly, a shadow hovered over her.

“Excuse me. You can’t have that plugged in.” Jesse looked up. A library work stood over her, eyeing the outlet disapprovingly.

“Uhhhh… okay. Can I ask why?”

“It’s a fire hazard.”

And so Jesse left the secret library which boasts “800 sprinklers with 160,000 litres of water stored on site and ready for use supplied by two pumps, each capable of pumping 2,700 litres per minute” and “over 600 fire detection devices” on the interesting facts section of its official website, and journeyed home. Times were dark indeed. But fear not, reader, UEA managed to fix its internet in just 2 days time. Students could again waste a bunch of time on Facebook.

The End

I have another story about the miracle of Cranksgivmas, but I’m going to wait for my flatmate, Joe, to send the origins story of Cranksgivmas before I tell this glorious tale.

Other than that, I’ve basically just been studying all day every day, and spending as much time as humanly possible with my glorious flatmates and glorious frisbee team every night. Since my visa came early (because the US Embassy is awesome), and most people are leaving campus tomorrow, I’m thinking about spending next week exploring parts of the UK I haven’t seen yet. (I haven’t planned anything yet because I’m busy with papers) Anyway, I’m about to enter the last leg of the finals and revise my very last paper, so I’m going to stop procrastinating.

P.S. Bowman is going to try to claim all the credit for discovering Allison, Frisbee Prodigy and most fun person in the entire universe, next semester at Dickinson. But I found her first. Just saying.

I Am Going to Get Typhoid

Dear Anna Trebble/O Captain my Captain/Ban-Anna whose namesake happens to be a song that I make the kids at my summer camp sing when they have too much energy or I just want to watch the older kids get really embarrassed when I insist that they jump up and down screaming “Go bananas, go, go bananas” (the Aye Aye banana song is the same one that we sing at Mensch Mill),

I am currently (not) writing a paper about Norwich folklore, which means I have spent the day researching black demon dogs and ghosts of people who were hanged and disemboweled at Norwich castle and repeatedly checking my desk drawer to make sure that the Indian Consulate didn't sneak into my room and take back my freshly printed visa. But I have decided to take a well deserved break (from the 80 rounds of tetris I just played) to write about all the fun things I did this week in between sticking pins into my voodoo dolls of all the employees of Indian visa application center.

(Side note, Land of the Free: same deal as last time. We’re humoring the natives for this post, so put on your condescending all-cultures-are-equal-but-America-is-equaller hat, and prepare to snicker at more silly English jargon. For those of you who don’t know Anna Trebble, she is an extremely famous popular music artist from England. Not really, but her name sounds like it should be).

Last week after another Frisbee practice in which Anna Trebble’s ability to tap dance showed in the athletic grace with which she catches the disc, I had enough time to meet with Jess (of Average Height) and Holly (the Noble and Lovely Giant) so we could watch a battle of the bands at the Blue Bar. I fully expected this to be a hilarious display of all-first-guitarist bands who only know three chords, grow their hair like Justin Beiber, and point at audience members melodramatically/try to crowd surf as this is what usually happens when I see local bands in America. But all of the bands were actually fanatastic, and probably have visas for countries that want to go to also. My favorite had an accordion player, violinist, and BANJO PLAYER, plus really tight vocal harmony. Music in general has been pretty fantastic this week. Every time I go into Norwich City Center, there are street carolers, brass bands, and folk singers lining the streets, playing Christmas songs (Have I mentioned that I love Christmas music and all things related to Christmas? Now when I hum Christmas songs to myself people don’t think its weird like they do in June).

Actually last time I was in Norwich City Center I was picking up my malaria medication to prepare to India (that place I am going because I have a visa, a visa that is not lost in some filling cabinet at the Consulate or lost in mailbox limbo but is currently attached to a chain around my neck like a Flava Flav necklace so that I never have to part from it again). I still plan to contract rabies and Japanese encephalitis, and now there is a new development! I will also be contracting typhoid, a disease passed by people touching poo, not washing their hands, and then touching my food. Even though no one has mentioned it to me before, the English clinician scoffed at American medical practicioners (because they do silly things like prescribe antibiotics to people with chest infections) who apparently take typhoid too lightly and highly recommended that I get a typhoid shot. (She did not recommend that I avoid poo food, which sounds like a better option to me). I’m still not quite sure what typhoid is. I know that most of the caravan died from it in the Oregon Trail computer game when I was 8, and I was devastated. Now I’m upset because it means one of my virtual caravan chefs was serving us virtual poo food. Because I am actually still about 8 years old, I might risk typhoid rather than getting the shot as I hate needles, (Also, English doctors probably don’t give out lollipops being an inferior nation. So there are literally no perks to this shot… Except avoiding a horrible disease, but that’s dumb.) The clinician also insisted that I bring my own needle kit so I don’t contract AIDS. I’m not sure how serious she was so I’m actually bringing one. (I’m actually bringing it to continue my streak of taking extremely stupid, harmless but suspicious things on planes such as my laptop with the then recently completed research paper on jihad).

I have received word that my family has finally decided to throw away the kombucha which has been spawning in our kitchen since early summer. (I say spawning because kombucha is a giant, parasitic mushroom that you can grow in a jar to make tea, and the words parasitic and spawn just go together) According to Connor, the SCOBY mother – that is, the giant parasitic mama mushroom monster which gives birth to the baby mushroom monsters spawn – was taking up about three quarters of the jar and was planning to extend tentacles and enact mind control on small mammals around it before advancing to human mind control, like that one episode of Ninja Turtles where this giant brain creature enslaves an entire town with its tentacle induced mind control. Anyway, Connor has released in the woods and hopefully shot it with a silver bullet or else no one is safe.

And I will end with a short description of the American themed costume party the Frisbee team threw. In short, it was the most fun thing in the entire universe, 99% because of the people, but also because it gave me an excuse to cite American presidential speeches and obscure historical anecdotes that no one recognized for the entire night (I am serious about Teddy Roosevelt. Someone shot him in the chest during a speech and he just kept talking for an hour before he’d go to the hospital. This man is a champion. Take notes, England). Anna Trebble in her infinite glory, and many others from the Frisbee team made decorations, including Uncle Sam and High School Musical posters with team members’ faces superimposed on them, and there were three teams with different costume themes. I’m pretty sure every single costume theme somehow turned into lumberjack (except for me. I was dressed as George Washington.), and the Star Spangled Banner was actually on the playlist, so I didn’t even have to request it, like I usually do. I’m starting to get a little emotional about leaving because this party reminded me that I haven’t spent nearly as much time with the Frisbee team as I wanted to. Or my flat actually. There are so many truly amazing people here, and one semester is just not enough time. But I still have a week, so I’ll save it.

Back to staring lovingly at my visa and researching folkloristics, the only academic study in the history of the world that makes my American Studies major look useful.

My flatmate, Rob, and his beans and toast. Look how excited he looks.

P.S. I discovered the PB&J of England. It's beans and toast. My flatmates stared in horror as I spread peanut butter on a banana in an attempt to do missionary work and spread culture to this savage country, and they explained it to me..... Baked beans.... and toast. I don't get it.

Scratch that. I have a visa.

Came in the mail today. Yesssssss

The War is Over

Dear America,

Since my hysteria has ebbed enough that I can use words again, I tried to make the story of my visa funny, but it’s just not. So, the super abridged context: for the last few months, I’ve been killing myself sending out emails, making phone calls, traveling to London in the middle of the night, filling out insane amounts of paperwork only to have them deleted, repeatedly having to ask that organizations to send me required documents, sending out more emails, changing flights to accommodate my program, sending out more emails etc. just to get this India visa before orientation starts on Dec 27.

Super abridged last 48 hours:

The schoolwork battlefront: I cannot organize interviews for a paper I was supposed to be writing when I was busy focusing on my losing war with the visa, so I’ve restarted research and changed the paper topic.

The possible lateness to India front: I receive an email asking why I turned in my visa application so late and saying that I cannot participate in the India program if I don’t arrive on time, even though I have done literally everything I was supposed to, been in contact with all of these organizations and explained the situation countless times since October, and done insane amounts of extra, totally unnecessary work. I send out millions more emails, I explain the situation yet again and ask them to clarify “cannot go.” They don’t respond via email or pick up the phone. I contact Dickinson Global Ed and send them a super abridged version of all my email correspondence, plus legal documents, plus travel receipts which prove that I have done everything right and the visa lateness is not my fault (good thing I'm a pack rat. I still have all my third grade homework piled away in my bedroom closet just in case.)

 My study abroad correspondent, who is not in her office, finally responds to my emails by telling me that I shouldn’t have emailed these other people explaining my situations but does not clarify the phrase “cannot go.” After apologizing profusely for doing absolutely nothing wrong, I explain the situation again and ask her again to clarify “cannot go.”

Meanwhile on the visa rushing battle front: I contact the US Consulate (over skype via my dad’s speaker phone because I have recently maxed out my phone making international calls to fix the visa situation) and send them documents to try and rush the visa. I have emailed the following questions to the visa application center since the beginning of December: Can I pay extra for a rush visa? Four days later: “No.” Can I change the address you will send it to so I can pick it up closer to the airport and save time? Four days later: “No.” Can I pick it up in person? No response. I call the visa center. They charge me a pound per minute, cannot answer my question and tell me to call back later. I call back later. They cannot understand the question “Can I pick it up?” and charge me 20 pounds. I finally get a response via email: “No. But if you check the status of your visa every day and then come to the application center all the way in London before 3:30 on the same day it says “ready for dispatch” you might catch us before we mail it.” I check my visa status and it says “Sorry! No record shown.” I send a page long email to the visa application center outlining several more options and asking if they can do any of them (At this point I begin to have flashbacks to the college admissions process with my high school guidance counselor, and I throw up a little).

The "where will I live?" front: My lease at UEA is only paid for up to Dec 18. My flight is Dec 26. I originally planned to stay at my flatmate's and then go to her house for Christmas, but if the visa is coming to UEA I have to stay here, meaning I have to put 90 more pounds on lease. If it's going to London I need to find a hostel in London. Meanwhile, I also can't book train or bus tickets (whose prices increase daily) until I know when and where the visa is going.

As my hypothetical future of hopes and dreams in India tears away like a truck (which in the movie version of Jesse's Visa adventure would crash into the visa application center in a dramatic Hollywood car crash explosion scene) on a Doppler Effect diagram, I again turn to the schoolwork front: At this point, I have spent all my allotted research time for this new paper topic on the losing the Great Visa Battle, which is quickly turning into a massacre of my troops (my troops being my belief in anyone else’s competence, my soul, and my general faith in the human race). I explain the situation to my professor and ask for an extension noting that I am an excellent student, work extremely hard, and the only other time in my life I have asked for even an extra day, I had a sprained wrist and was incapable of writing or typing (actually a hilarious injury but the story would ruin the super serious tone I'm trying to affect for this visa war story). Answer from professor: No.

Returning to the possible lateness / “cannot go” clarification front: I still have not gotten a response email, my CIEE correspondent is temporarily out of her office again and apparently going on vacation next week. I call the CIEE emergency hotline and it is a US only number. I skype my dad who calls the hotline and I dictate to him the question “Can I go on this ****ing program (or have you wasted thousands of my dollars and hundreds of hours of my time, you useless ****ing ****s?)” which he translates into a polite question over the phone. Answer: yes. The war is won.

I can deal with the Indian Consulate, I can deal with flight changes, I can deal with having to be in a random hostel near the London visa application center over Christmas, and I can deal with this ridiculous paper. I still get to go to India. Sorry I had to tell a horrific tale of mundane bureaucracy to get us there (that’s just the super abridge version. I spared you about half), but this is basically the best news I’ve ever gotten, and I just want to spread the joy (by first spreading the horror. No one appreciates an antidote until they’ve first had an infectious disease). I’m pretty sure the universe has been doing mean things so it will be more awesome when I finally get there. In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy my last weeks in England (meaning lock myself in my room to write this ridiculous paper and hopefully finish early), and return to my regular action-packed adventures.

Norwich fun fact: Norwich usually hanged their witches instead of burning them at the stake (they're progressive).

The Plot Thickens, My Hair Thins and Grays Prematurely

The Conflict

Response I got from my note to the Visa God

One Day This Will Be A Hilarious Tale

The Great Visa Expedition: Escape to India, Land of Rabies

America,

I'm really sick of the Crusades. I say this because they were a pretty nasty idea to begin with, but mostly because I really don't want to write this paper. (As I'm writing this, my lights are off and my curtain is drawn. I've forbidden myself from leaving the room or eating until I finish this paper. But I haven't denied myself access to internet yet.) Anyway, it's really imperative that I finish this thing.... so let's talk about the last few days instead, shall we?

The visa expedition was successful. Or pretend successful. I caught the 2:45 am coach into London, the most direct (by direct I mean unecessary 2 hour layover at Standsted airport) means of transportation that would get me there before my 8:45 am visa appointment because England doesn't like to give you scheduling options (side note: they also pronounce it sked- yull. I don't know who came up with that shed-yull nonsense). The bus was supposed to arrive at 8:05 am (which in English transportation time means 8:35 am) giving me a comfortable 10 minutes to sprint through the winding unmarked streets of the snowy city dawn (there is no sunlight in England). These were my calculations. However, England made history that night and got me to my destination an early. So I had an entire extra hour in the unheated Victoria coach station to people watch and gripe about my lack of sleep. The actual submission took about 10 minutes, and the clerk I spoke to explained to me in broken English that my visa will take a minimum of 15 (this means at least 30 in English speak) business days to process before it gets lost in the mail on the way back to me. There are 16 business days left before Christmas. It's a race against the clock, and the stakes are high, America (Seriously, Jesse Gets a Visa in England would be the most actionpacked blockbuster of the season if they made a full length movie. I had to leave them two addresses because if they take longer than they're supposed to I'll be at a different address. Also, if they don't send it in time I miss my flight, and subsequently my orientation, which translates in Panic Jesse to "I will not be able to go to India and I will have to defer a semester of school, wasting thousands of dollars, and causing me to graduate late, which will inevitably lead to a spiral of career failure." In Normal Jesse, it actually just means I change my flight for a bit more money, miss a few days of class, and have another visa adventure in England).

Anyway, with the visa safely transferred from the hands of Panic Jesse to the confidence inspiring hands of the Consulate in London (they won't lose it, right?) I decided to attend to less pressing matters, namely my frostbitten feet. The sneakers (trainers) I have been sporting in the stead of my alternative option (flip flops), have developed giant holes (much like my jeans in Belgium and Scotland, every item I have ever bought from Primark, and the British Library's account of English imperial history). Luckily, my can-do American know-how led me to a Sainsbury's (the heathens' version of Giant) where I could purchase socks and again insulate my feet with plastic shopping bags (seriously. Try it. It keeps your feet so warm). Then I had hours to kill before my train, as I had expected the visa process to require an entire day of unecessarily queues and forms, like all other English processes do. So I went back to Hyde Park to get more pictures of the fantastic Winter Festival they have. I also had time to visit the Tate, the Imperial War Museum, and drumroll... the Gardening Museum.

The next morning I headed to town early to replace my lost bus pass. I was smart on this one. I bought the bus pass insurance because I knew this was going to happen. So after waiting in several more queues, I headed over to the travel clinic where I discovered that I am definitely going to get rabies in India, and they will probably not carry the extremely expensive and painful vaccine in Hyderabad (a modern business mecca with dozens of hospitals and highly trained doctors) and if they do have the rabies shot, they will probably administer it with an AIDS needle. The travel clinician recommended I consider opting for the three intensely painful, very expensive precautionary rabies shots, so that when I get rabies, because I will definitely get rabies, I will only have to get the slightly less extremely painful rabies shot with AIDS needle. I will also be contracting dengue fever and Japanese encephelitis. (The clinican was actually really reasonable and helpful, and all of these are extremely rare in my area, so I don't need the shots. But try telling that to Panic Jesse).

 So after calling my travel agent to tell her that I might need to change flights because of my visa induced future spiral of career failure, making about eight other international phone calls to fix my visa and prevent the rabies which is probably already latent in my blood stream, and researching Indian diseases on the internet (I think I may have prostate cancer. I have some of the symptoms), I went to the secret Norwich library, the Forum, a building which boasts 600 sprinkler systems in case of fire (there will be a fire safety blog post soon). The Forum is actually not secret at all, but students always use the library on campus. This poses a problem because teachers at UEA love to assign the same list of essay prompts (because why would I be allowed to pick my own topic for a paper like I have been doing since tenth grade?) for papers due at the same time, resulting in a mass exodus of useful and available books about crusades. But let's not talk about the crusades. That's what I'm supposed to be doing, and what a waste of procrastination time that would be.

Buddy Holly (the Noble and Lovely Giant), Laura (who was once attacked by a kangaroo), Jess (a normal height Jess, not one of the usual tiny ones that I frequently spend time with), and I explored the Norwich Christmas fairs on Saturday. The one in Dragon Hall, the medieval trading hall in Norwich, was actually medieval themed, including full medieval costumes, a crazy lute looking thing (the lady let me play it! It's tuned like a three stringed violin), and the stalls themselves. I purchased a rhinocerous finger puppet. Jess (of Average Height) and I then headed off to what was advertised as an "Alternative Christmas Fair." "Alternative Christmas Fair" apparently means hardcore terrifying Goth carnival ranging from a book stall that carried only anarchy books, to scary spikey jewelry, to Tim Burtony zombie sock dolls designed to look like dead/evil things. I did not find any presents for my mom as I had originally hoped to on this particular outing.

Final Fun Facts:
1. England does not charge a luxury tax on biscuits (cookies) or cakes. However, it does charge a tax on chocolate covered biscuits. In 1991, HMCE took Jaffa Cakes (one of England's most popular snacks) to court arguing that they are a chocolate biscuit rather than a cake. The company claimed in its defense that by definition, cakes are "squiggy" and they harden when they go stale, while biscuits go soft. Jaffa cakes harden, making them a cake. This argument won.

2. Murtzuphlus, the leader of the rebellion against Alexius IV, which led to the sacking of Constantiople during the Fourth Crusade, sported the nickname Monobrow.

And now I return to the crusades.

A month of triumphs

Dear America,

I have been cranky the last few days because of the massive inconvenience that my visa, English transportation, English bureaucracy, and my inability to find hot apple cider have caused me. But I think I just need to step back and put everything into perspective, so this post will be a list of triumphs.

Triumph 1: I went to public school in America. This is a triumph because English students where uniforms, which means that pictures of other English students in uniforms only hearkens humiliating memories of adolescence. Every time I see other English students in uniforms I think of the only other image of English students in uniforms I have ever been presented with. These children attend Hogwarts School of Witchcrat and Wizardry (yes, I am still on my Harry Potter streak).

Triumph 2: My excursion to Burnham market, conveniently located just 1 hour from Norwich (or 3-9 hours from Norwich if the bus times are listed wrong, a seemingly delightful old lady named Ethel in Sheringham incorrectly informs you that the buses don’t run in the winter, and the bus home takes you to a different train station that is listed online forcing you to take an extra 3 hour stopover through Ely). In between my glorious visits to Belgium and Scotland, I had to visit an English town for a class project. So after frantically spending the morning quadruple checking the bus times and spending the requisite 3 hours to top up my phone, my friend, Mel, and I headed to Burnham Market, arriving just after sun down, 4PM. Despite the bus delays it was a fun-filled adventure resulting in a miraculous discovery:



The emblem for this popular brand is a aristocratic duck holding a cane and wearing a top hat.



Triumph 3: I finally got to see an artsy thing in town! Yes, I missed the bus getting there, and yes, my friend Becca and I got lost for half an hour, but we triumphantly arrived just before the first act came on. And do you know why that is? Because I have finally beaten the bus system. I leave 2 hours early and then the joke is on England, when the bus thinks it has inconvenienced me by arriving at the wrong time or being delayed. Another point for America, the Beautiful. Even more triumphantly, I thought it was going to be a comedian, but it was actually a poetry/rap/comedy show (I say comedy not just because English people rapping is hilarious, but also because there was intentional comedy). The main act was hysterical. She wrote this dramatic poem about going on holiday to the beach and crazily insisting on having tea on the beach despite the freezing cold and constant rain.

Triumph 4: I found American apple cider! In America, cider refers to a delicious mulled hot apple drink served in the fall to the delight of smiling children as they scamper through corn mazes (the greatest drink in the entire universe). In England, cider is the cheap alcoholic beverage that underaged teenagers drink in the parking lot after school (the Natty Ice of England, if you will). I traveled to the farthest reaches of England in search of this glorious elixir of appley of goodness. I have slain dragons, and moved mountains, and waited in nonsensical English queues in hopes of one day again finding my most beloved of seasonal beverages. And with what fretfulness did I quake as I reached the end of November, the apple cider season, and still its fruity mulled bounty did not reveal itself to me. Time was running out. I had nearly given up hope. English friends and shop owner offered to microwave boxes of apple juice to alleviate my grief. They just didn’t understand. But then, like the shining beacon of light that the torch of the Lady Liberty provides for the poor huddle masses of everyone who is not from America, mulled apple cider was for sale at that comedy thing I went to.

Triumph 5: I also found peanut butter. I recently discovered that England, a country of heathens with its exotic Godless temptations like Nutella, does not like peanut butter. There are no peanut butter and chocolate candies; college students do not line their cupboards with discount super value brand peanut butter jars, and most importantly PB&J is just not a thing here. This has led me to another fascinating gap in my England research: What do these people eat for lunch every single day in their Ninja Turtle lunch box for the first 12 years of their lives? To add to my confusion, they only know of this classic combination as a vague possibility called “peanut butter and jam.” Apparently the American word jelly translates to the English word jello. I wish I could say I had gotten one of my flatmates to try a peanut butter and jello sandwich before discovering this difference, but like George Washington (a far better George than King George III of England) once said in a made up story, I cannot tell a lie. (Can we pause for a moment and imagine how funny that would be, though?)

Triumph 6: I finally went to see the inside of Norwich castle and it is everything I hoped and dreamed. It was a regular king’s house castle, then a prison / place for public hangings for a while, then a fortress and now a museum. My favorite part is that they have maintained the main part of the inside of the castle, so it’s still old and castley and medieval, but they also decided that the main part of the inside of the castle would be the best place to put a day care center, smack in the middle of the exhibits. This is actually something I love about English museums. They always have really interactive, child friendly sections. Anyway, there are children with crayons and blocks running around shouting amidst the royal tapestries.

Triumph 7: After weeks, the cleaning ladies finally came to restock the toilet paper, so I secretly took like 5 rolls. The siege is over. I ration no more.

Triumph 8: Thanksgiving! We had a regular Thanksgiving meal with our professor and the other Americans on our program, and when all of the panic of finals dies down, Holly and I plan to have a traditional college Thanksgiving with the rest of our flat. College Thanksgiving means instant mashed potatoes, turkey lunch meat sandwiches, instant gravy, microwave green beans, etc. I’m going to buy decorative gourds and insist that everyone make crayon hand turkeys. My flatmates stared in wide-eyed wonder as we explained pumpkin pie. I’m excited.

Triumph 9: My triumphant return to London. This is perhaps my favorite triumph. I return to England and go to Frisbee practice. Disaster strikes! I pull my quad muscle, (this is actually the longest I have ever made it through a semester without a sports injury. Hooray!) and then I do what I always do, which is to adhere to the Ostrich Clause. That is, if I cannot see it, it does not exist. Thus, I proceed to play on it, injure it further and ruin my chances of going to sectionals this weekend. Major bummer. However, to use a cliché, when a door closes, a window opens. And America, land of the pilgrims' pride, do you know who is in the habit of exiting buildings via windows with his beloved pet owl? Harry Potter, the world premiere of which happened to be playing in London that selfsame weekend causing a large group of my currently diaspora-ed Dickinson friends who are otherwise sprinkled across Europe to congregate in London. Returning to London was almost like returning home for me. I love that city. Plus, I thought Norwich had fantastic Christmas decorations, but nothing can compare to London Christmas decorations. Every other street is covered in lights and trees. Half of Hyde Park contains a huge Christmas fair, complete with carnival and ice skating rink. (America, I proudly recite the first amendment of the Bill of Rights every morning in the mirror before I brush my teeth. I reflect upon my love for separation of church and state as the mirror reflects my patriotic face. But these Christmas decorations are just awesome.) So in addition to seeing some of my best friends, I also got see fantastic Christmas lights and navigate London since I actually sort of know where I’m going now (England does not like to label its streets. I think it’s a way to weed out foreigners.)

Going back made me appreciate my month in London even more, which I didn’t think was possible. I keep having these revelations where I suddenly remember that I am in England. I’ve been here for over three months now and it’s still too exciting to be real. Seeing so many Dickinson friends of course made me miss Dickinson and all my other friends at home, though (there was a lot of fond reminiscing of caf-sitting on this particular London excursion). I’m looking forward to getting back next year.

Mustachioed, beer drinking angel decorating one of the carousels. Notice the British flag in the background.

Triumph 10: Possibly better than triumph 9, and beginning in roughly the same manner… disaster strikes! England decides to throw me another curve ball in a series of curve balls that if graphed on a Cartesian plane would form an asymptote, the limit being the actual attainment of my visa. (Here is a graph to aid that metaphor).

The two lines never intersect

I must now stay in England rather than going back to America, even though I have already bought a ticket from England to America. America door closes. So as not to waste the ticket, I have to travel from India back through London to America sometime in May. The “Sometime” being two weeks after the end of my semester in India. The space between India and “Sometime” being a glorious backpacking adventure in Europe with my brother, Connor! Dynamic-brother-sister-adventure-duo window opens. This is only the best thing that could possibly happen in the entire universe. No big deal.

Some final notes: 1. I discovered that the part of India I am going to considers the use of the left hand is very offensive. I am left handed. India, prepare for some hilarity as I relearn to use a fork. 2. I am writing this to keep myself awake as I will be triumphantly taking a train to London at 3AM to triumphantly (finally) turn in my visa application because England does not like to let you pick your own application submission time. 3. In Ireland this weekend it was so cold that I layered plastic sandwich bags between my three layers of socks, and people couldn’t figure out why I made crinkling sounds when I walked (they’re very insulative and water proof). I used to think my mom was crazy because she made me do this when I was little in the snow. But now I think it’s pretty much the best idea ever (my mom is still crazy).