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.
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