If this was a Halloween special on a hokey American sitcom I would title it "Scary Olde England"

Dear Button and Cam /Step-granddad-and-Step-great-granddad-both-of-whom-may-actually-be-the-same-age-or-slightly-younger-than-me-I’ll-facebook-stalk-you-later-and-check-since-you’ve-already-done-me-the-honor-of-a-good-facebook-and-blog-stalking-apparently,

Another well-good week of shenanigans has past, and I have only proper joyous bits and bobs to report about our fair country, mother England, God save the Queen.

(Dear America, with your purple mountains majesty and amber waves of grain, the crumpet munchers have infiltrated my blog. Luckily, the inferior English education system does not teach its youth to read parentheses, so we are safe down here… for now. Pay no mind to the nonsense on the surface. God bless America).

I’ve spent the last 48 hours sitting by my computer twittering/tweeting/twitting/there is no verb form of twitter that does not sound foolish. I have not stopped to eat, sleep, or go to the bathroom (this last part is actually true because the cleaning ladies have stopped restocking the toilet paper. I’ve been rationing. But don’t worry, America, it’s just another part of my shoe trench warfare) because my sole interest has been the twitter status of the Aye Aye frisbee team so they might achieve some quality glory for mother England, God save the Queen. And with what delight did I shout huzzah through my otherwise stiff upper lip and much did I bev my celebratory tea and Weetobix when I discovered that they had won second place (America would have gotten first, nay zeroeth place).

Last weekend went as fantastically… well-goodly?... as I imagined it would. My American professor wanted us to present on different historical places in England, which as I mentioned before is extremely cool, but statistically less cool at 9AM on a Saturday. Fun fact about the Forum: the website proudly boasts 800 spinklers and 600 fire detection devices (seriously, England is obsessed with fire. Check my other posts. Every single one has a fire prevention fact. One of the cleaning ladies banged on my door very early Wednesday morning, came in, and announced that I need to take my decorations down because they are a fire hazard to which I eloquently responded BLEHHHHRG and rolled over). So after 4 hours of informative fun in the pouring rain, I went home and packed for my trip to Nottingham with the women’s Frisbee team. On the 3 hour train ride up we had a picnic (not the outdoor Yogi Bear type on a checkered napkin that ultimately ends in heart break when your PB&J gets invaded by ants, dear America. Apparently picnic just means loads of junk food), and we mostly talked about how much we admire Button and Cam, ranging from our school girl crushes on them to our aspirations to one day follow in their footsteps. Musical selections were also written and sung very loudly by certain individuals for the strangers on the train. I forgot to bring shoes and I woke everyone up fairly early in the morning when I fell on my face (English floors are harder to navigate than American floors), but the games were as always incredibly fun. My American contribution for the week was the dino indication (dino point. I’m not allowed to say the word point. I don’t know why), in which one team pretends to be velociraptors and the other pterodatyls. It went well. I have also aquired no games and valuable skills such as the ability to use my face muscles to transport a biscuit (cookie) from my forehead to my mouth. Thank you, England.

Why?

One of my flat mates and I share a birthday so we had a fantastic joint flat party before which I received a jar of Nutella, a glorious candy spread disguised as some peanut butter like nut spread, (England’s greatest achievement since their accidental invention of the United States. Fun fact: the post-it note, too, was a serendipitous accident), and then went out. The DJ claimed that he would play literally any song request (except the American National Anthem apparently, since I asked him and he just laughed at me). Anyway, all in all a good night except I forgot to take my contact lenses out before I went to bed so when I woke up the next morning and assumed that God had cured my vision, I was again sorely disappointed.

Not too many exciting tales from Norwich City center this week sadly. I can write a great deal about 11^th century papal reform and the liminal position of white women within an androcentric hegemonic structure (sidenote: I am writing another paper about feminism which means if you are white and male you should probably not talk to me for a few days, or I might yell at you for your personal responsibility for the oppression of millions of people that died before you were born). I found a sandwich shop that makes sandwiches containing all the main dishes in a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, which is really bizarre because England doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. In fact I actually had a heated debate about the merits of Thanksgiving vs. Boxing Day with a stranger on the street about a month ago (just as the mildly insane strangers of Carlisle love to tell me their life stories, people on the street in England also really enjoy telling me very random things. Life is good.).

Anyway, Halloween has been my most recent area of study, as I continue to observe the natives in their natural habitat. Rather than silly (and somewhat slutty if you are a girl) Halloween costumes, the English like to go scary (and somewhat slutty if you are a girl… sorry, feminist Jesse going back in her box now). As a result I will be having Tim Burton-esque nightmares for the next several years. (Also slutty and funny work together way better than slutty and scary. How hilarious would a slutty Obama costume be? I ask you.)We decorated our flat with trash bags, fake comwebs, and wrote Redrum all over the windows in lipstick. Unfortunately, I left the giant box of costumery repertoire which I’ve been building for years at home because I thought I was only allowed to bring one suitcase, and I thought it more prudent to bring shirts, rather than say my velvet paisley waist coat and giraffe hat. Anyway, this left me an interesting dilemma as I tried to come up with a creative costume on student budget. On Thursday I managed to successfully dress as a bee owing to the fact that every other article of clothing I brought to England is yellow (because I am compensating for the fact that there is no sunshine in this far inferior to America country) because it fills my heart with so much joy that I must manifest it on my clothing. I don’t like cute costumes so I tried pinching strangers, yelling BUZZ! and then running away but apparently this most traditional of American pastimes is not a shared love in England. I was Harry Potter later in the week because I realized I would get to ride around on a broomstick all week and cry about my dead parents, but more disappointment – despite the fact that mother England, God save the Queen, has real Harry Potter magic, their brooms still do not fly. Maybe they just don’t work for foreigners (like the health care system).

Despite my desire to continue proclaiming the various merits of England specifically of it's other greatest achievements besides Nutella, Button and Cam, I’m going to end the post now so I can get back to writing about hegemony… yay… (by writing about hegemony I really mean procrastinating. Today’s best procrastinatory events 1. My dad skyped me at my grandmother’s birthday so I could talk to everyone and pose for a family picture as a computer monitor 2. I have now learned the ukulele chords to Harry Blues, a song from the comical Harry Potter musical performed by the theater department from the University of Michigan in which Ginny Weasley sings about her undying love for Harry Potter. It’s delightful 3. I watched Rocky Horror Picture Show with my flat and had to explain to them that not all Americans are like that.), but expect great things from next week, mother England, God save the Queen (America is better). I am going to Belgium (America is better) this Thursday!

Also, I found a sandwich cutter that will cut my sandwiches into the shape of two brontosaurus. Oh, frabjous day! (Lewis Caroll was English. That counts as an England reference).

More coverage of England's great achievments: Primark, inappropriate TV shows, and vacuum cleaner attachments

Well, America, for the second time in 3 months I am wading waist deep in visa paperwork, which is absorbing vast amounts of both my time and my faith in the human race. So since I have complicated, time sensitive material that no one in a position of authority can actually give me a definitive answer on, I think now is a good time to recount my week.

My battle with English shoes has officially reached the status of trench warfare. The winter months are upon us, and I still have only flip flops and a pair of trainers, which do not match with the leggings and skirts that I purchased at Primark (England’s much cheaper, much dodgier version of Walmart. Pronounced Proi-maaahk, or Pre-marrk if you’re from Northern Ireland) in order to assimilate with the natives (to offset my “allegedly” obnoxious habit of loudly singing patriotic American tunes on all occasions). So I bought a pair of boots (also purchased at Proi-maaahk) with a really low heel, thinking that perhaps I could practice wearing heels and become a real grown-up. Anyway, they broke the first time I wore them because everything from Primark breaks almost immediately, and I’m pretty sure I bruised the bone in my foot from trying to walk in them anyway because I cannot wear heels. Yes, I am a disgrace to short women everywhere. Or feminist propaganda from American Studies is so ground into my soul that my feet rebel against anything constraining. So I’ve moved on to fake Uggs. I am now the owner of several pairs of leggings, skinny jeans, and fake Uggs. It took moving across the ocean to turn me into a real Dickinson girl, but mourn not for me, dear America, I still haven’t bought a Northface jacket.

Primark is really a wonderland of poorly made cheap things. Located on St. Stephen’s Street, the main shopping road in Norwich City center, it has provided me with everything from ridiculous hair bands with giant flowers on them (which often break) to off brand high-waisted mom jeans (which often rip). Why, just yesterday I did some quick calculations with the mathematic skills that I have learned from the liberal arts education that America has provided me with in place of England’s specialized nonsense, and discovered that it would be more cost effective for me to buy hundreds of pairs of Primark underwear (which will probably often rip) rather than ever pay for my laundry again! However, in a decision that would prove fortuitous later I decided to forgo the bulk underwear purchase as the only pairs available in my size were exceedingly lacy, all the cashiers were exceedingly male, and I am exceedingly awkward in all purchases underwear related. As I later walked down the crowded university street toward my flat, and my underwearless Primark bagged ripped in half, spewing all its contents (which will probably very soon rip or break) onto the very public sidewalk I realized that the Universe -- even though it has plagued me with visa forms, a British medical system that continues to ignore persistent phlegmy infection in my lungs that is probably Mad Cow Disease, and the bloodiest shoe war in the history of humanity – is sometimes on my side.

The puppet show I was hoping to go to last week (because I am an adult) did not end up being a puppet shot, even though it was a performance at the Norwich Puppet Theater. Sorry Theatre. False advertising. But I did get to see the Ely Cathedral (another giant beautiful England cathedral). Side note, I don’t know if I mentioned this in an earlier post, but I think it’s really interesting. A lot of the cathedrals have these things called misery chords. They’re these tiny raised ledges that the architects build into the wall because people are expected to stand for so long during a sermon that they need something to lean on. They always have really ornate carvings underneath them of really inappropriate things -- someone taking a crap, a woman yelling at her obviously drunk husband, etc. Also saw Ely Apple Festival (there were alpacas!), Oliver Cromwell’s house, and Wicken Fen (marshy state park type place). Also, I've started watching British television. The Inbetweeners, possibly the most vulgar (but really funny) thing ever, and this really good show called Blackadder (except I couldn't find it on the internet at first because the English people that recommended it to me kept say Block Odda, so I couldn't figure out how to spell it). I highly recommend Blackadder; just don't watch the very last episode first like I did. Otherwise you will have the following experience: Delightful characters played by the Mr. Bean guy, the House guy, and other similarly delightful people endear themselves to you with perfect comedic timing,World War II references that you're American liberal arts education (which is much cooler than England's specialized nonsense) has prepared you to understand, and loveable quirks for 25 minutes. Then they die in trench warfare (not the shoe related kind that I've currently dealing with). Leave it to England to make a comedy about one of the most tragic and hopeless aspects of a devasting war. Conversely, English people love watching Friends. I have no idea why. I really don't want that to be America's representative contribution to British TV.

Among other silly exploits during the week, I went out to the club again with my flatmates on Saturday night. I always choose Saturday night because in the United States it seems like a good time to go out. However, in England, since most people also seem to go out on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. etc., the only thing that Saturday really signifies is the night that creepy townsfolk also go out. As such, my club experience was again hilarious. The one we went to this week was actually really cool. They had a dance floor upstairs for the old and nerdy (like me) that enjoy songs like Mustang Sally. Then downstairs they had your regular pop dance music, but much better mixed and DJed than the place we usually go. In addition to the regular antics of my freshman flatmates I also had the unique opportunity to withness a gentleman in a full white suit that did the robot continuously for 2 hours, and several people with break dancing tendencies (but not actual break dancers. Just people that like to watch break dancing movies) to very erratically dance to non-break dancing songs. No oompa loompa costumes this week. Everyone else I talk to seems to have fairly normal club experiences, but again, the Universe likes to send me crazy things.

I’m heading off to Nottingham this weekend for a women’s Frisbee tournament, and expecting to report back with a whole mess of silliness (Frisbee is universally a sport of ridiculous costumes, ridiculous games, and ridiculous people). Also, I’ll probably meet Robin Hood, so I’m pretty excited. I have booked a trip to Dublin with some friends for the end of November! And I’m starting to plan a few more since my weekends are long and this is supposedly the last weekend that I have mandatory work or trips for my American class. Norwich continues to be extremely cool/ “rich with vibrant culture” (tourist booklet translation)… but actually. There is a CASTLE in the middle of the city, which I probably already mentioned, but I checked out the history and a bunch of people were hanged there. I’m checking it out later this week. My workload should level out after next week so I’m going to explore more of the small pubs because apparently there are a lot of local bands and comedians that play in those venues. I finally made it to the outdoor market while it was opened and was able to browse the various, oddly specific vendors including the exotic birdseed and dog bones place (also the only place that was open last Sunday) and the vacuum cleaner attachments place. (They had normal fruit and veg places, but not quite as exciting as vacuums).

I feel like an outdoor vacuum cleaner attachment vendor is a pretty good metaphorical conclusion to my life this week – oddly specific, totally anachronistic and out of place with everything around it, innately funny looking, evocative of a scene from Wayne’s World.

The Honeymoon Period is Over

England and I are officially in a huge fight. Like, this is the point in our relationship where I have started throwing England’s possessions out of our second story window onto the front lawn and all the neighbors are watching. And do you want to know why? Because England is a liar.

England makes flashy promises about free health care, and then it makes me wait in 4 different lines on Monday, and pay $45 for a doctor to tell me that she won’t prescribe me antibiotics because the fact that for the past week and a half I have been coughing up phlegm in a lovely shade of Kelly green so violently that the sound waves are causing my ukulele to resonate a C6 chord does not concern her, and then England makes me wait in several new lines on Friday as I attempt to have a follow up which England also incorrectly promised would be free, and England tells me that I am not allowed to have a physical exam for the paperwork I need for the India program next semester unless I wait in several more lines, call the hospital, call several other numbers because no one in the hospital knows where I can get a basic physical exam and apparently there are no physicians in the entirety of Norwich because English people are immune to all forms of sickness, and then England tells me that my basic physical examination is going to cost $240 that will not be covered by the free medical insurance that England said I would have, or the private medical insurance that I actually have. England, you are a broken promise, you are an empty stapler in the microroom. But that is okay England, because every second of my life that you waste making me wait in lines and dial unnecessary phone numbers for medical advice that I could get from a Snapple lid, in the afterlife Saint Peter is going to make you watch a minute of Spider Man 3. Too bad you’re not from America, God’s favorite country.

Okay, rant over. Besides the fact that I am dying of the plague, England and I have actually been getting along famously. I just got my acceptance to the India program for next semester, so I am excitedly filling out more paperwork, my favorite pastime. This Saturday is my last mandatory field trip with my American class, so I’ll be able to start traveling on the weekends soon. We’re hiking in Wicken Fen, which is a giant marsh/swamp thing. I only brought one pair of sneakers, and some flip flops (still no progress on the appropriate footwear battle front), so I had the good fortune to introduce myself to more people in really strange manners as I went on a rain boot borrowing expedition throughout the apartment complex. The people of England are a friendly people, offering me food and drink and inviting me into their homes (weird little 10 foot room/pods with shoilet identical to mine) in the same manner that ancients used to offer hospitality to travelers. Sadly, no one else in England owns a pair of rain boots because they have evolved in such a manner that their feet are impervious to the constant rainfall of the region. I think they have a layer of plastic that grows around the outside of their metatarsals, which would also explain English women’s ability to wear unbelievably fancy and uncomfortable shoes for all occasions. Bottom line: no boots (called Wellies in the tongue of the natives), Jesse hikes with plastic bags on her feet tomorrow, and pretends it’s a normal American tradition. More good first impressions (I apologize to any American who ever plans on visiting England. You are going to have to battle some fiercely bizarre stereotypes about Americans based on my behavior).

Also, since I have been just about bedridden with the plague for the better part of the week (mostly interacting with the natives, playing tetris, and learning Jason Derulo songs on my ukulele – I’m really concerned that I won’t be up on my crappy American pop music references when I get back), I’ve decided to really live it up next week to make up for it, which is why I will be watching a performance at the Norwich Puppet Theater. I am 5 years old.

It’s 5:15 AM right now (the plague is unfortunately keeping me awake), so I’m going to take another swig of my Boots brand purple cough and congestion syrup (which I am planning to transfer to a hip flask shortly and also pretend it’s a normal American custom), cut this post short (since I now realize that I have done nothing interesting this week, but am going to post this anyway to waste your time), and attempt to sleep (I’m actually probably going to look for episodes of Jersey Shore online).

Jesse Battilana and Benjamin Franklin, best friends forever

Hey there, Land of the Free. Another glorious week has passed in good old England, and like my endeavors in Carlisle last year, I have still managed to fail in finding even mildly appropriate footwear for the weather. Maybe if I wait it out, the weather will yield to the whims of my shoes. As expected, I had the pleasure of meeting many fine people this week, one of whom apparently recognized me from freshers week when (allegedly) I was “running around in bare feet shouting excitedly about Stone Henge or something.” This was at the comedy society meeting I attended for more of my personal cultural studies. Some of you, (Mom) may know from stalking every single one of my and my classmates’ Dickinson blog entries despite my incessant pleas for you to stop reading them, that over the past two months I have become ever increasingly baffled by the amount of cross-dressing in British entertainment. I am happy to report that the comedy society at UEA, too, makes humorous use of women’s clothing. There is also a magician in the club, pretty sweet. Thankfully, my strange accent and general existence is hilarious to other people because I did not understand about half of the English pop culture references in the jokes that people made or how to imitate a Geordie accent, but that’s okay.  

I’ve also finally managed to get into the classes I need so I was actually able to attend them all this week. American Autobiography is probably going to be the most hilarious thing ever if it continues in the manner that it did last week. Having been enrolled late, I also got the reading late, so when I discovered I had to read Benjamin Franklin’s entire autobiography in a very short amount of time, I was a little concerned. Then I remembered that everyone in the class is from England, and that I have the advantage of about 12 years of American History plus yearly family outings to the Franklin Institute (Ben and I go way back. I pretty much came up with the bifocals idea actually. He just made it popular). They were really scared to say mean things about him until I gave them the okay. I think I’m going to dress up as a Revolutionary War soldier the week of Halloween and insist that America invented freedom to see if anyone says anything.

Speaking of which, one of the community service organizations is throwing an American style frat themed party to fundraise this coming week. So after gathering my flat mates around and explaining as best I could what a frat and sweet frat bro were, one of them excitedly exclaimed “What are you going as? I’m going to be a gangster!” …I love American stereotypes.

This weekend was pretty eventful as well. I went out with the Frisbee team on Thursday night, when I was assigned my new team family. In addition to a whole mess of other everyday words I’m not allowed to say, I am no longer allowed to refer to my Frisbee mom by her real name; I must call her Mom at all times, or else some horrible Fight Club-esque fate will befall me. This tradition must absolutely be brought back to the Dickinson Frisbee team. Saturday and Sunday I got to explore the coast line and Norwich City Center, both which are even more awesome and exciting than I expected. I’ve also finally had fish and chips (and I own a pair of skinny jeans now. Yes, the transformation is complete. I will return with a monocle, top hat and silly English accent). With that in mind, I am going to close this post with a close examination of English condiment packets, all of which I had the compulsion to try with my fish. As opposed to your regular ketchup, mustard and maybe relish of you’re being fancy, England provides the following variety of packets: malt vinegar packets, brown mustard (it is actually dark brown), salad cream, mint sauce, and a suspicious looking packet labeled only SAUCE (also brown). Are the English perhaps more trusting of otherwise unlabeled packets which may contain radioactive materials? Is it a secret insider knowledge sauce that they use to ambush foreigners? Who knows.

Anyway, until next week, cheers (I still have no clue what that means. They say it for everything).

I am a tetris goddess

This blog is both an account of my weekend and a very important document that I need to complete instead of the paper I am still supposed to be working on.

I wasn’t complete honest about the club fair last week. I made it sound like an apocalyptic vision from one of those futuristic movies where people are dying in the streets and crowds are rioting everywhere (which it was), but I forgot to mention the part where I did what I do every year and signed up for pretty much every single club in the entire school. Crime of omission. Anyway, I have been trying to field a giant flurry of e-mails through the four e-mail addresses that I currently have (Please don’t ask me why I have four working e-mail address. I promise it’s not split personality disorder). So I’m pretty excited for this week because I’m going to be meeting a ton of new people at all these meetings I’m supposed to go to.

And I am going to be meeting them smelling like garlic. Why you ask? Let us backtrack to where our story first began (I’m trying something new here. Imagine me doing that little dance move that Wayne and Garth do in Wayne’s World when they signify a flashback). It all began when I opened my very first bank account in high school at First Union bank, bank of my childhood, such a dependable bank. Years later in college, little did I know that the bank would be changing hands like six times, so literally every time I went home I would have a panic attack because all the sudden my life savings belonged to Harleysville (which sounds like a bunch of irresponsible, no good biker gang types) or First Niagara or god knows what it is now.

Now let us move our story from America, land of the free, to England, land of the expensive/ land of the bankers who will not allow me to open an account because I will not be in the country for more than six months. My bank, whose name I’m still a little unclear on since it probably changed again last week, loves to change its policies, so I have no idea if taking £15 out of the ATM will amount a hidden $3,000 charge. Normally, this hasn’t been a probably because I am receiving the money that usually goes to my mandatory Dickinson meal plan in stipend form. Dickinson, glorious though it is, expects me to eat caviar and truffles with gold flakes on top for every meal so the money that was supposed to go to just my food this week also paid for clothes, books, club fees, taxi fees, laundry detergent, furniture for my room, a ukulele, an all other manner of things that didn’t fit in my suitcase. Anyway, I have £2 left in my pockets and I rationed my food perfectly (I like to live dangerously) until Wednesday. Unfortunately, my garlic shaker exploded on the rations which explains why I get to make excellent impressions on this week smelling like a vampire hunter. On the plus side, I have graduated in cooking skills from half cooked pasta and Nutella sandwiches to really meals. Side note, British people love beans. They’re everywhere.

I’ve been spending a lot of time on my paper so I decided to take the weekend off.

I joined the frisbee team and the football (soccer? footy? the Brits keep changing it on me to mess with my head) so I did that Friday and Saturday. Unlike American frisbee, the boys in England do not sometimes dress in women's clothing to play co-ed tournaments as I thought was traditional. I asked. (now that I think about it it's starting to seem a little weird). Saturday was great because it was actually sunny for a change so we could play outside.

My entire flat went to a club in Norwich on Saturday night, which was exceedingly fun for the following reasons: 1. Saturday is apparently the night that townsfolk like to go out to the clubs as well. 2. Being students with limited funds we opted to go out pretty early so we could get a discount. 3. Townsfolk really enjoy dressing as oompa loompas, gorillas, Village people, and other manner of really bizarre costumes, regardless of whether or not the club is having a costume themed night. 4. Clubs are built for people that really like to look at themselves so most of the walls were giant mirrors which create the illusion that you are in a fun house in an alternate dimension. So separately, some of these details seem mundane but taken together it created the following experience: Upon entering a dark, almost empty room, complete with fog machine and futuristic colored laser beam lights reflecting on walls composed almost entirely of mirrors, my flat and I were transported into an alternate dimension (image in if that scene in Harry Potter 4 where they enter the Department of Mysteries was filmed in the future in outer space). Naturally, I assumed that at any moment, danger would strike, just as it would in futuristic, outer space version Harry Potter 4. And danger strikes!!! Suddenly a horde of oompa loompas and Village people charge into the room (because it’s past 11:30 PM so it’s officially cool to show up at the club now)! Fortunately I did not have to battle them, as Harry Potter probably would have. I did introduce the Jersey fist pump to the rich repertoire of British dance moves as a peace offering and cultural exchange.

Now I’m off to finish the paper. I’m footnoting it, which takes a surprisingly long time and I haven’t made much progress, although I have won my last 6 games in a row of procrastinatory tetris. Next week I will be conducting more research on English paper procrastinating techniques as the students I have spoken to so far do not seem to use sporcle of or stumbleupon.

I was born before Toy Story 2.

Every English person that tries to imitate an American accent sounds like Paris Hilton. I am distressed. Furthermore, the popularity of Toy Story 2 and its famed cowgirl character, Jessie, has forever embroiled me in the minds of my peers with cowgirls and Texas. Conversely, my fake English accent is apparently very posh (see Appendix A for a full list of silly slang words that my flatmates insist on using. Yes, I made an appendix. I like making charts. It’s hereditary.)

This week has been overall fantastic if not extremely stressful. The English have the second most hilariously inconvenient administrative system I have ever encountered (the first being Rustin High School), so I have now been to every possible combinations of every single administrative building and stood in every queue, but my classes are finally right and Dickinson will be sending out the application for India study abroad that I gave them months and months ago (other hilariously inconvenient administrative stuff).

I’m pretty sure my flatmates think I’m their grandmother because I’ve been staying in all week working on my paper. I also decorated the flat with colored paper snowflakes so it looked like a kindergarten classroom when they arrived, made a list for everyone’s phone number, and have flat meeting plans in the works because I have too much crazy RA/summer camp counselor energy. Sadly the kindergarten snowflakes had to come down because they are a fire hazard, as is having a real stove in the kitchen or any door in the entire building that is not conspicuously labeled FIRE DOOR KEEP SHUT and reinforced by lead (I think they’re still paranoid about the Great Fire of 1666). What is not a fire hazard is the club fair (called a socmart here) I went to last Tuesday, in which about 5,000 people were jammed into a tiny room with unmarked tables and attempted to organize their social lives.

I’ve had a lot of opportunity for cultural sharing including religion, politics, class, slang and dialect, and Harry Potter the Musical (which for some reason is not that big over here. Probably because they actually have real magic over here and don’t need a silly musical). Also, I’m on a Boat is a far less popular meme than the rest of Lonely Island’s body of works. Popped polo collars signify the same thing in England as they do in America. I asked a boy wearing one.

I am still very loud and very short. I thought perhaps this would change as I entered a new culture and the norms shifted, but no, I am just a delightful American stereotype, complete with cowgirl name and Paris Hilton accent. All my dreams.

Anyway, I love my flatmates and pretty much everyone I’ve met so far. Despite the minor administrative malarkey, I really like the school overall, and I have a view of this huge, beautiful lake from the library (where I’ve been spending most of my mornings being an old woman and writing my paper). More exciting news after I finish this paper and classes start!

Appendix A:

Posh – pretentious/classy

Toff – a person who is exceedingly posh

Chav – acronym for council house associated vermin; mean epitet for someone

Taking the piss – messing with someone

Fringe -- bangs

Pants – underwear; I learned this when I very publicly announced that I need to buy some pants because the three pairs I brought were all dirty

Trousers – pants; apparently it doesn’t have the old-person-word connotation that it has in the homeland

Slag – women of ill repute

Chunder -- vomit

Quality – British version of awesome