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.
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