I wonder if this is a bad idea.... + LINK TO PICTURES

I’m not sure how this lapse in technological judgment occurred, but it cost $12.

So, I was trying to update DirectX. Sam and I ordered FIFA 07 so I could properly learn “fOOt bawl,” and my computer said that since there was a new edition of DirectX out I had to update it. I’ve never downloaded DirectX before, because everything that needs it (except FIFA, apparently) comes with the necessary update loaded on the disk. I try to find it on Google.co.uk (which is what you get to if you type in google.com in the UK) and I’m brought to a bunch of sites that require me to pay for this update. I think “That can’t be!” but then, decide since I’ve never downloaded it before, and Microsoft is evil, it very well could be.

But, before paying for it, I try to see if I can get it to work without paying for it.

The UEA monitors our internet usage like Big Brother, it’s pretty obnoxious. We had to sign an agreement, a long list of things we wouldn’t do, and if we do them our internet gets cut off and it costs $100 to turn it back on.

Without committing to any badness, I just dip my toe in the water and search for the term “Keygen,” on Google. I push go.

Nothing happens.

Refresh!

Still nothing.

Skype logs off.

AIM crashes.

….

You’ve GOT TO BE kidding.

::knock knock knock::

“Dave, is your internet working?” asks one of my flatmates, poking his head through the door.

“Uh… no… that’s a big negative.”

I confide in my flatmate that I MIGHT have just got our entire flat’s internet cut off, who in good confidence, immediately tells the other 8 people we live with.

The next hour was like a power outage during a ‘nor Easter. We were all sitting in the kitchen, I made some dinner, some people just waited.

“Dammit Dave,” says Susan. “Why couldn’t you have fucked up the internet when I still had vodka?”

Juliet’s phone rings: it’s a friend in another dorm asking if our internet is working.

“No, Dave fucked it up.” (This is all being said half jokingly, half ‘did you really just ruin everyone’s internet?”)

About an hour and a half later, everyone’s internet kicked back on… mine included. Still frightened by my near-death experience (yeah, they would have KILLED me) I agree to pay Microsoft $12 for DirectX 9.0.C. annnnd the software still doesn’t work.

Annnnnd Microsoft has a warning on their site saying some British site is charging people to download DirectX 9.0.C and it’s free on “this link.” Insult to injury? The game still doesn’t work. I called tech support, they were no help.

In other news, I’m heading into London for my first weekend on the town on Friday morning. (I know I’ve been saying I’m going to London to study for about the last 2 years, I was kind of using it as a generic term because I thought I was going to be much, much closer. Technically I’m in Norwich, but it’s just a short train ride to the city!)

Don’t have classes today… going to read some of Henry IV part 1, and go into town to purchase a Fedora. (There is a fedora store in town… I’m very excited.)

Lastly, here are pictures!!! The link is to Facebook, but it’s set up so you don’t have to have Facebook, or log into ANYTHING to see them.

http://arizona.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2235610&l=3a265&id=10125855

Enjoy!!!

Emma

The death of a pet brings you to a different conclusion than the death of a person. While death is inevitable for all things, it is much more immediate with pets. When you purchase them, at some point you calculate how old you will be when they are no longer in your life again. It is this knowledge that changes the experience, because it allows you to love them in a different way than you would if they would be there forever. No more or less, necessarily, but in a different form.

This emotional logic comes from the mind of an adult, though. It is different with children. When we’re young all we see a small fuzzy thing to play with and love. I cannot say at 8 years old, when Maggie got Emma that I had even accepted the concept that one day my parents would die. I certainly wasn’t thinking about it in terms of her, or Max, when we got them.

So with the passing of Emma passes my last youthful acceptance of a pet coming into my life: the unconditional greeting of a new friend, and the faith that they will always be there.

I was afraid of cats when Maggie got Emma. My only experience with cats had been our 400 pound, razor-toothed tabby who spent her days pretending to be asleep while family was in the room, but bright-eyed and biting as soon as it was only the two of us.

I didn’t understand why Maggie would want another demon-spawn bundle of joy in the house, but she somehow conveyed to me that not all cats were like the one we had. I am sure of this because I remember sometime around Thanksgiving parading around the house putting up home made posters in favor of Maggie getting a cat for Christmas.

I was still a bit afraid of her when we got her. The razor-tabby (Lucia – only a two letter difference and it’d be Lucifer!) didn’t have front claws and she still drew blood on a regular basis. Emma came with claws! That could only be bad, I thought.

Conveniently, Emma was not only afraid of me too: but was afraid of all living things and the majority of inanimate objects. My fear of her quickly subsided as she and I had an unspoken agreement that she wouldn’t bite me if I left her alone. (I’d like to clarify that this agreement was made preemptively, as I never once witnessed Emma bite a human.)

Things stayed this way between Emma and I until Maggie left for college. About two weeks after Maggie left, for the first time in our relationship, Emma came and jumped up on my chest while I lay watching television. Through the rest of high school, including the 9 months where I was out of commission with mono, Emma kept me company by lying on my chest watching my face intently as I watched television.

Pets are one of the few things in life we go into knowing, whole-heartedly, that we will lose. Parents expect to outlive their children. When we buy houses, even if we know we won’t live there forever, it is at least expected that 100% of the money put into it will be returned to us, if not with a profit.

We eat food believing there will be more, fuel our cars believing there will be more gas next time – we fuel our lives believing there will always be more of whatever we need. We go into hardly any situation knowing that we will lose something in the end.

But we know we will lose pets, and coming with the acceptance of that is a different kind of love we share with them. We can love them for what they are, and what they bring us in the short time they’re with us.

I don’t know how well I've said what I'm trying to say, and worry I’m starting to repeat myself, so, I’ll leave it at that. I tried to find a good quote by Emma Thompson (who Emma was named after) but, that didn’t work so, I’ll go with one of Maggie's other favorites.

Farewell, my sister, fare thee well.
The elements be kind to thee, and make
Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well
-William Shakespeare

Emma saying "Hi!" to me over Skype, January 23rd, 2008

The Laundry Diaries

Some stupid American’s t-shirt is hanging out of the washing machine because they weren’t paying attention when the closed the door and now there’s water all over the floor at the Laundrette… oh wait, that was me. (Yeah, they call it a Laundrette.)

As if prompted, the moment I start writing about this, some friendly maintenance man comes and unlocks the washer, gets my wayward shirt pushed back into where it belongs and resets the machine for me.

Apparently no one here is worried about their clothes getting stolen. At UofA I’d walk into the laundry room in our dorm to find 3 girls sitting on top of three washing machines, as if ready to attack from above anyone coming to steal their clothing.

Things disappeared from my wash from time to time, but I was 85% certain I had probably just lost it, and 99% certain that if I were getting paid minimum wage, the amount of time I’d spend guarding 1 potentially stealable t-shirt, I could earn that money back and buy two more.

People are definitely hanging out in here. It’s like an internet café except for the fact that it smells like soap, and do to my darling contribution there’s water everywhere. There is a row of girls sitting on the other side, reading magazines, texting and chatting amongst each other. All they need is those big hair drying cones and you’d have a totally different scenario!

If my theory stands correct that important things are inexpensive and crap is expensive, laundry is crap as my two loads plus 15 minutes of dryer time have already racked up an impressive $8.81. But, these dryers are like the ones we had at the gym I worked at. Not only could I fit inside them, but I could fit inside them with all of my laundry and still be comfortable. 15 minutes of drying time could do the trick… thank God dryers cannot leak.

Today I decided it’s time I stop worrying about not looking like… an American from “Death Valley.” (Apparently Brit’s aren’t impressed by the Grand Canyon. Of everyone that I’ve told I’m from Arizona, they’ve all asked “Oh, in Death Valley? Cool!”) I’ve been wearing my jacket everywhere but I’ve been leaving the scarf, hat, and gloves at home from time to time because I’m clearly the only one wearing them.

I guess I owe an apology to all of the Arizonans who I’ve been making fun of since the moment we moved here, who wear mittens and scarves when it drops below 85*. Note: I said I probably owe them an apology… but they’re still not getting one – losers!

I’ve officially had two weeks of classes. (As I’m done for classes today, and I don’t have class on Friday.) Shakespeare is exactly what I was expecting: A lot of reading, discussing what we’re reading, with the added bonus of a hot discussion group leader. Our lecturer, Peter Womack, is also my “The Politics of Language” instructor. That class sounds boring, and it sure is. We’ll spend the first two weeks discussing the history of the dictionary. For Tuesday, he’s asked that we spend “at least six hours becoming friendly with the Oxford English Dictionary.” I’m really not sure how one becomes friendly with a dictionary… I’ve always found them to be curt, and full of themselves, but who knows. Things are very different here in England.

Sadly, the entirety of my previous paragraph is true… we really are suppose to do this.

My creative writing class is an interesting group of students with a pretty badass instrutor named Henry Sutton (author of “Thong Nation” and “The Exhibitionist” and “Kids Stuff.”)

There is a lot of ego in the world of creative writing. I hope it doesn’t make me arrogant simply by saying this, but a lot of young writers are already writing their Pulitzer acceptance speeches already. We have yet arrived at the point in the semester where I have had an opportunity to read the work of any of my peers, and will not publicly criticize anyone’s work at that point, but I can already tell who THINKS they’re hot shit.

One girl in the class, an American (unfortunately) who, if she’s not from one of the Ivies, she sure wishes she was, is in that group. She also clearly wants to make sure everyone in the room can hear her voice booms like John Maddens.

There are “elements of fiction” which are taught to us in every single creative writing class I have taken. They’re pretty standard. Roughly they are, character, plot, issue, setting, imagery, language, dialogue… stuff like that. So, Dr. Sutton asks us to list, in order, our top five. American girl asks “What if I have more than 5?” He tells her “Just your TOP 5.” We go around, everyone up to her lists 5 that are actually ON the list.

It gets to her turn to say what her top five are, “Transcendence, Universality, (I forget the next two) and Conclusiveness.” Everyone in the class gives her that thoughtful look that translates to “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” and our professor kind of moves on.

(By the way, Laundry has officially crossed the $10 mark.)

At the end of that session, he requests that for next week we have an original 300-word excerpt showing how we use our #1 element. (Mine is character, by the way. I could care less what’s happening if I don’t care about who it’s happening to, which has been my primary struggle with Shakespeare.)

So, beginning of our next session, it’s time to read our excerpts. American-Girl’s turn rolls around. I’m assuming she’s picked something other than transcendence, assuming she’d be satisfied by proving to all of us that she’s much smarter than we are… but no!

She reads her little excerpt and Sutton, as he has done for all of us, asks “How do you feel this reflects (chosen element.)” He asks her this, and she gives a REALLY esoteric answer which included the immoral copout “Well this is actually true” (and thus, not fiction… in a fiction workshop) Someone in the class (not me, but I wanted to) interrupts her and asks “what are you taking transcendence to mean?” And so the game begins, can she tell us what it means without using the word? Well no, she didn’t, I believe she said it twice. It was something along the lines of “for it to transcend a greater form of grandeur,” except not nearly concise.

There’s always one or two people like this in a creative writing class. Unfortunately for all of us, in my poetry workshop at UofA, that person just happened to be our TA.

Anyway, this was all a long transition into saying why I like Sutton (The professor.) This is a short story class, he’s made that very clear. He’s put this in the most respectful, yet “I’m not kidding” way I’ve ever heard a professor say it. “I realize many of you are already well into the process of developing longer projects, primarily novels, which is fantastic, but this is not the venue for stories of such length. Everything you turn in MUST both start and finish within the page limit.”

That’s why I like him, cause he doesn’t take our crap.

For fairnesses sake, if someone had said this to me when I was in high school, convinced I was already writing the great American novel, I would have had a fit… I had not yet learned how critically important the ability to write short, concise stories is. No one who cannot write a good short story will ever be able to write a long, compelling novel. Unfortunately, the market for short stories is not a moneymaker but look at it this way.

Each minor league baseball team is owned by a major league club. The minors lose a huge amount of money for the majors, because since not very many people care what happens 'on the farm,' and tickets are dirt cheap, they're unable to bring in any revenue. But the majors wouldn’t be what they are without the farm teams, a stepping stone for good players to become great. The same is true for fiction. Short stories, and the small-money market that exits for them is a stepping stone for good writers to become great, and most importantly, to be heard of.

Sam has a Gambling Problem

“Dave, you cannot possibly eat all that pasta.”

“How much you want to bet I can?”

Dave wins 1 beer.

“If you can get a girl to kiss you at the party on Tuesday, I’ll buy you three beers.”

3 beers at stake.

“Okay, so what if it’s that girl, Amanda?”

“If you get her to kiss you, at ANY point in the semester, I’ll buy you 10 beers.”

13 beers (total) at stake.

“Think I can score seventy points in the game, Sam?”

“Not a chance.” (This was while playing Madden NFL 2007. 2 minutes left in the game, I had the ball, and 64 points, on my own 30.)

“I’ll bet you a beer I CAN.”

“You’re on.”

2 Hail-Mary’s later… 1 beer for Dave.

“I need to stop making bets with you.”

“I’ll bet you a beer I can get you betting again by the end of the night.”

“Piss off, Dave.”

All American Pigeons are Cowards

I still have yet to fully grasp the fact that I’m still a student, even though I’m in this exciting, fun new place. Classes have started though, I only have three, and only have classes three days a week. The Politics of Language meets at 11 on Mondays, Shakespeare meets at 9 on Tuesdays, Creative Writing meets at 11 on Tuesdays and then Shakespeare again at noon on Thursdays.

Shakespeare will require us to read between 1 and 2 plays a week, and do various essays. I’m about half way through King Lear (writing this on Friday night) as I have to have that, and Henry V read by Tuesday.

My other two classes don’t seem like they’ll be too difficult. Similar to UofA classes, which don’t feel hard as long as you want to be doing what you’re assigned to do. (In this case, writing.)

I realize I haven’t said a word about my living arrangement in this whole thing so far. I’m in Norfolk Terrace, (Norf-uck) in a single standard flat. 10 bedrooms sharing 3 toilets and 3 showers. (Yes, I’m aware I told some of you we had 2 toilets and 1 shower… there was 1 toilet and 2 showers I did not become aware of until yesterday.) We also have 2 large refrigerators, 1 stove, a grillthing (I haven’t figured it out) 2 microwaves that have burners in case you want to bake something, and a sink (With no garbage disposal. The nerve!)

My room is slightly smaller than Manzi-Mo, where I lived freshmen year but I’ve got it to myself. I have a waterfront view, and a ‘fire door’ leading to the walkway outside. Since I’m at the end of the walkway, it’s kind of like a patio.

It’s all neat and tidy, which, for those of you who know me, means only half of my belongings are strewn across the floor. I went and bought 24 more hangers today so I could put things in my closet. (24 hangers for $4. Score.)

Speaking of money: things aren’t as expensive as I thought they would be. Important things, even with the terrible conversion rate, are still significantly cheaper. For example, I had to buy some cookware, and found a huge pot with the most impressive non-stick-whatever I’ve ever had the pleasure of cooking with for $4. An equally large colander was $2. A Pyrex baking thing, large enough to bake a… large thing was $2 as well. Maybe I’ve been shopping at the wrong places, but that seems like some damn good priceage.

Important things I said, are very cheap. Crap isn’t. I brought a ton of PC video games to play on the plane on the way here, (which I actually didn’t use) but haven’t been planning on using them here (because that would be a waste of time.) My flatmate Sam saw that I had Madden Football 07 and nearly shit a frizbee. He tells me he’s been watching the NFL for the past few years, and has been playing an older version of Madden but no one ever wants to play it with him. He also tells me that even through playing the game, he still doesn’t understand defensive play calling and would love for me to show him.

Then he sees that I have MLB 2005 (sadly, that was the last year a MLB game was released on PC.) and out comes the frizbee! We’ve talked baseball a bit since I arrived. He owns a mitt but “doesn’t know how to use it”, and is going to bring it up from London next time he goes home. This very quickly turns into a conversation about “so where could we find a controller for you to use?” so we could play the game together. We arrive at the video game store and I have one of those priceless moments I’ll keep having. “Is that in DOLLARS?” 60 pounds per game. New releases are roughly 80 pounds. ($120 and $160, respectively.)

“Why, how much are they in the states?”

Novels are roughly the same price, maybe a little bit less. I have yet to buy a text book through the university, as most of the books my classes require are novels you can buy at any bookstore. I’ll keep you updated. I still need to get 2.

As we’re walking around the town square I almost trip over a pigeon. Fat little guy strutting around. He doesn’t fly off to avoid almost being squashed, instead he just looks at me like “You bloody wanker!” Sam teases me for almost tripping over a pigeon, and I tell him “You would NEVER get that close to one in the states. It would fly away.” Sam informs me that all American pigeons are cowards

Sam, Dominic, Etta (from UofA) and I go down to the Union Pub to watch the Chargers v. Colts game on Sunday night. (By the way: if Peyton Manning ever makes it to the NFL Hall of Fame it will only be for the record of “Most Games Lost because player wet himself, forget his name, and went to cry on the sidelines because there was a teensy bit of pressure.”)

During our evening watching American Football, talking about American sports, and America, Sam volunteers this bit of knowledge.

“When America gets to the pearly gates, the thing that is going to send you straight to hell is the invention of Cheese Whiz.” I shout “HERESY!” and we all laugh, as Peyton Manning sucks his thumb on the sidelines.

During the third quarter, one team had to punt the ball, which the announcers pointed out was the first time in the entire game that this had happened. Sam comments that this shows a different attitude about sports. In England, they don’t focus as much on the individual players, but as the team as a whole. The commentators continue talking about the fact that this is the first punt of the game. Sam can’t take it anymore.

“What kind of useless fucking piece of information is that? Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do with that?”

Some point after this, when I realize the Colts aren’t going to win because Peyton Manning is still sucking his thumb and has thrown his 14^th interception of the season, 6 of which occurred THAT GAME, I see an Australian girl named Amanda across the bar, who I met at our international student orientation. I excuse myself from our table and go start flirting with her. She’s sitting with a guy, who introduces himself to me, shakes my hand and then kind of squeezes my shoulder. In the most politically correct way imaginable, I took this to mean he was gay. In an ever so wonderful twist of fate, he’s actually her boyfriend… who is also studying here for a semester. I shift my mode from “flirting” to “just saying hi” and as I’m getting up to head back to my table, she invites herself, and boyfriend to join me. Easy decision there, and they hung out with us for the rest of the evening.

About to head to bed. I've got to finish King Lear tomorrow. I've got pictures taken that I just need to upload and share with you all, so until then, thanks for reading!

DAVE'S PHONE NUMBER IN ENGLAND

My phone number here is +44-798-529-0855. If you DO NOT INCLUDE THE + SIGN your call will not go through. On both my phone and my Mom's phone you get the + sign by holding 0, but if you cannot figure it out, call your service provider.

CALLING THIS NUMBER WILL BE HELLA EXPENSIVE FOR YOU: T-Mobile charges $0.34 per minute, I don't know what other carriers charge but it will be roughly competitive with that.

However, since I have a pay as you go plan, I only pay for outgoing so if you call me, I don't pay a dime. Long story short: call at your own risk.

A Hore, The Police and Two Kisses

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Come in.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Come in…”

“It’s the police! Is there a David Robbins in there?” says the voice behind the door.

Doesn’t this just sound like a prefect way to start the experience?

“Can I help you?”

“Are you David?”

“Yes.”

“We have a message for you,” the officer says as he pulls out a note.

“A parcel from British Airways has been delivered to the University Police Station, to be delivered to you. You may pick it up any time, our doors are open to students 24 hours a day!”

The last time the police delivered a message to me was “Hi. Your neighbor called 911 about your dogs barking. I can’t hear them, so you don’t have to do anything… but I was required to let you know. Have a good night.”

This was on the evening of my second day here, and for the record I was already asleep when this note came. I was taking a pre-party-power-nap, which judging so far how these kids party, hard, and into the not so wee hours of the morning, I’ll be doing frequently. More on that later.

At around seven on Thursday evening, I met Sam. Sam is a fellow from South London, who is studying American History. He immediately asked if I’ve been following the US Primaries, and then says “Look mate, I just want to tell you if… and I don’t know if you are… but if you’re a Bushite people here are going to rip the piss out of you.”

To rip the piss out of is a term for “Tease.” Sam uses it frequently. There are other things you can rip from someone, such as “the Mickey” but that is reserved for company who doesn’t appreciate hearing about your piss, such as Grandmothers. “Taking a piss on” someone is like teasing, except in the sense of pulling your leg, and “Fuck off?” is the preferred response when you think someone is taking a piss on you… synonymous with the American “No shit?”

I tell Sam I am not a Bushite, and that my piss is safe from being ripped out of me. By the look on his face, no one ever says anything of that sort out here, and I am already accomplishing the #1 thing they hope all American’s will accomplish: saying silly things.

This all is on the way to the grocery store, after Sam informed me that he didn’t have any food (As he had been gone for a month) and realized I hadn’t bought any since I arrived.

“I want to clear a few things up mate. We Brits aren’t all lawyers, and we don’t all have bad teeth. Do American’s really believe that?” I tell him I hadn’t heard the lawyer one but the bad teeth one was certainly a belief.

“In fact,” I say, “my friend Rachel even told me I should bring 6 months worth of toothpaste because you don’t even sell it here.”

“And she’s a good friend then, mate. I have to go to Paris every two weeks and smuggle a tube back in my anus. By your tone, I’m assuming you’ll be coming with me on Saturday?”

This conversation of stereotypes continues until we get to the store. I ask him shortly after we get there if they sell peanut butter here, which they do… everywhere. Mayonnaise is my next question, which he also confirms and then pauses, and gives me a sad look.

“I want you to know I could have ripped the piss out of you twice right there, and just started at you blankly as you asked me about peanut butter any mayonnaise… but I know you’re tired because you’re still jet lagged so I’m being nice, but tomorrow: you be ready,” says Sam.

We get back, eat some food, then go chill in our rooms for a while with the plan to leave for “The Union Bar” (the pub) in an hour. The University of East Anglia has at least 7 places that serve liquor, for a discounted rate, on campus. Five are full-on bars, one is a restaurant that has a bar, and one is a liquor store. (During out hour of chill time is when my message from the police comes.)

We get to the pub at around 9:30, it’s already packed. Sam and I go up to the bar and he asks “what are you drinking?” I tell him I’ll try what he’s drinking, as most of the drinks are new to me. He orders two Fosters-Shandy’s. Half Fosters beer, half lemonade. I’ve heard in America that Fosters isn’t popular in Australia, where it allegedly comes from. That may be the case, but it’s VERY popular over here.

Sam and I sit at a table and start chatting. We get back onto American politics and history, and he informs me that he can recite every US president ever, every state in alphabetical order, and every state capital. This isn’t because he’s majoring in American history, either. Every British student has to know this information.

“I thought of another stereotype,” I say after he tells me this. “British people are smarter than Americans…”

One of Sam’s friends comes over to say hi to him shortly after. Sam introduces us. Friend goes and sits back down at his table, and friend’s gorgeous female companion comes over to say hi to Sam. I have no way of knowing if she’s his girlfriend though. Sam introduces me to girl as well, whose name I learn is Emily. As soon as the American accent creeps out of my mouth her eyes go wide and she comes over and starts talking to me. We talk for about fifteen minutes, I don’t remember what she’s majoring in but it was something similar to creative writing. She tells me she lives in my dorm, the floor below me, and only one room away from mine. I’m getting psyched by the implications and then Sam’s friend comes back over. This has happened to me three times now, and I now understand that it’s just how they do things.

Sam’s friend is the boyfriend, shame… He interrupts our conversation and holds out his hand for a shake and very sternly says “Hi, I’m (insert name… I don’t remember.)” He then gives Emily a look, and points with his thumb to the door and says to her “We need to leave,” then turns his glare back at me. I’m happily sitting in my seat, and return his glare with sheer size… so scrawny boy with ruffled feathers and hurt ego leads his bombshell girlfriend out of the pub, and Sam and I continue chatting. (I didn’t just ignore my flat mate the last 15 minutes, he was off talking to someone else. I told him the story afterwards.)

Last call in England is at 10:45 pm. Pubs close at 11. Some have a permit for extended hours, which lets them serve until 1, but pubs usually only apply for that for special events. So what do Norwich kids do after leaving the pubs? SEX! Well… at least so the advertisements would say. The Norwich Campaign for Free Condoms has signs up on busses and all over town, which display “No Name? No Judgment? No Problem!” I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to mention that… I don’t think I’d get a better place than that. Prostitution is also very legal here. I’ve found their slogans and advertisements equally as amusing as those for the free condoms, however for sake of the fact that my mother is reading this I’ll just tell you that you can Google “Norwich Escorts” and find all the billboards if you’re interested.

The next day, which I believe was Friday we did more orientation stuff. I’m locked into my three classes, fiction, Shakespeare, and the politics of language (Which sounds really boring.) I went to the advisers office and tried to switch out of Politics into “Book Publishing” which sounds amazingly awesome.

At UEA you have to request an add/drop form ahead of time, and that has to be approved before you can even TRY to get into a class. (Unlike at UofA where you go pick one up and get everything approved after it’s signed.) So many people have requested forms for this class that they are no longer even granting preliminary add forms. I asked if I could go speak to the teacher and see if they would add me.

“Yes. You’ll have to speak to Whore about that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whore. Rachel Whore. That’s the professor. If for some reason enough people drop the class, and none of the 20 students who have been issued preliminary add forms show up, then maybe… but Professor Whore is who you’d need to talk to.”

It was like this woman was trying to see how many times she could say WHORE before I let slip a giggle.

“Uhh… how do you spell that?” I ask scrambling for a pen and paper. All she responds with is “No W.”

I meet three more of my flat mates the next day. Dominic, Susan and Juliet. The four of us (Sam included) go to a “Welcome Back Party” for all the students at the LCR (lower common room.) I assume this’ll be a dinky little get together in some room below the bookstore. No, the LCR’s actually another bar. Go figure.

Shortly after we get there, Dominic announces he’s “going to the ladies,” and walks off. I ask Sam after Dominic is no longer within earshot if Dom is a ladies man. He confusedly answers, with vague details and then asks why I’m asking.

“Well, he said he’s going to the ladies… does he know some girls over there or… is he just going to go hit on some random girls?”

So in England it is common to say “Going to the ladies room” or “Gentlemen’s room” which gets shortened to just “the ladies” and “the gents.” Dom, in the same way I occasionally tell people I’m heading off to the powder room, makes the same joke. I figure now is a good time to tell Sam that if anything is ever said to me, and I immediately follow it with a question that has no bearing to any of the relevant context, assume I’ve misheard something.

Sam shortly heads back to the dorm, and Susan and Juliet wander off into their own world. Dom and I bond. As we’re wandering around, running into people on the rugby team (which Dom is part of, which is a pretty big deal here) I spot two girls trying to take a picture of themselves doing the ‘holding the camera in front of yourself’ method. I whisper to Dom “I’m flirting,” and then approach the ladies. They say they think they got a good shot of the two of them, but thank me for offering, this sparks a conversation.

Like most women I will randomly approach to flirt with, these two ladies were gorgeous. Dom observed later that again, as soon as they heard the accent and asked if I was American they wanted into my trousers! (Roar!)

So, like the girl from the previous night, there were boyfriends. Boyfriends were there. It took me until this evening to figure out that this is just how it WORKS in England. The guys came up and interrupted the conversation to introduce themselves to me. Unlike the guy last night, they were playing it cool, and like always, I was too. In America, the guy would come up and start yelling “YOU TRYING TO COP A FEEL ON MY WOMAN, YO? WHAT DU FUCK!” This is much more civilized. I wait for my cue from the girls, one of whom says “Well it was wonderful talking to you. Have a wicked time before going back to Arizona!” and then… and then…

Girl number one leans in and gives me a big kiss on the check… with boyfriend still standing right there. I freeze, fully expecting to get punched in the stomach only to feel girl number two kissing me also, still with boyfriend in toe.

These Brits kick ass…

I apologize this post is as long as it is, and I’m assuming it starts to be apparent about halfway through that I was feeling deadline pressure as this has covered the span of roughly a week… I have more to write, I’m finishing this two days after it happened and have two more days to write about but I’ll save that! Thanks for reading!

Dave's Mailing Address

David Robbins
Ntc006 Norfolk Terrace
University Of East Anglia
Norwich, England
NR4 7TJ

I haven't quite finished writing the most recent post but it should be up soon! I love the comments, keep'em coming!

Preview of Next Post:

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Come in.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Come in…”

“It’s the police!” says the voice behind my bedroom door.

My final day at home was far busier than I had anticipated. I had a long list of things to do over the last week. It had roughly 30 things on it, and I got done all but two of them… however, I added about 5 on the last day. Packing was one of the tasks on the list, but considering how long it took it should have been written down at least five times. I thought it would take at tops three solid hours. Oh foolish world traveler! How wrong I was.

Here’s how packing went. I took a lot of things - out of a thing - and put those things right into a different thing - leaving the first thing. I’d go more into detail, but I don’t think I can afford the extra bandwidth charge I’d have to pay to include the true excitement of moving thing one and thing two.

I’m not really sure I got everything I needed to… my second bag was approaching the 75 pound weight limit, and I didn’t think I could get it closed… before continuing to pile more stuff in I needed to test my theory. I fought the good fight of ‘volume vs. zipper’, and shoved everything in and closed it. It was at this point I asked myself, “now, why on earth would I open it again?” So I didn’t. Done and done. I can’t remember if I packed my raincoat…

Mom who had seemed a bit scared and anxious transitioned quickly into pure sadness that I was leaving. She said it was especially hard that she couldn’t be there to help me prepare and see me off. We had a good talk about this as I was waiting to board the first plane in Phoenix, and by the time I had to turn off the phone, we were both back to all smiles.

Dad, who seemed purely sad from the beginning stood his course and stayed that way until I left. He gave me the bracelet he has worn every day of his life since shortly after I was born. My mother gave it to him as a gift before he, Uncle Barry, and their buddies sailed off to Bermuda and back. She gave it to him for good luck and love, and as Dad said, he was now giving it to me for that same reason. Dad told me over the phone after I got through security that he was going to wait and make sure the plane took off on time before leaving, just like he and Mom did when Maggie and I were really little.

I’d like to clarify now that this whole post has been written over the course of 36 hours, in which I’ve slept a total of 5. I honestly can’t remember the flight from Phoenix to New York. That’s how tired I am. More on that later though…

I think I read the entire flight. Perhaps it was just incredibly uneventful. I’m reading “Lamb” by Christopher Moore right now, which will be added to my permanent favorite books of all time list as soon as I’m done.

JFK Airport was a trip. It was like the Biltmore Fashion Center did it with Sky Harbor Airport and their secret, post-marital-lovechild was put up for adoption, sent to New York and then grew up to be JFK Airport. There were all these upscale shops and restaurants, a place with a sign saying they make their own wine… oh, and a Rolex store.

As I waited for my flight I called my parents, tried my sister, and texted furiously. I boarded my double-decker British Airways 767 sleeper plane, and thought I had it made. I walked on board and there were twin beds for as long as the eye could see. As excited as I got, I very quickly realized that the eye could apparently only see through first class. So, I step into business class and get excited again because instead of beds there are big recliners. Sweet, I get a recliner… but my seat was in row 45 and I was just getting through the teens. Business class passes me by and I make it to the section with big, “normal” first class size chairs. Fair enough, I can live with first class. This kept going.

Long story short I got to the back of the plane and sat in my regular seat along with all my fellow poor people. I was also pissed that I had a window seat until I saw: her…

Extra cutie sitting in the middle seat. You mean? If I have to get up at some point I might have to touch her leg and ask her to move? You mean I might have to start a conversation? We might have to fall passionately in love with each other in the heat of international travel only to never see each other again?!?

And then I dropped my cell phone. My backpack was already in the overhead storage locker, all of my crap was under the seat and I couldn’t see where it went. Sitting down I pawed around at the floor. Nothing. I felt around with my foot. Nothing. She’s noticed I’m doing something strange at this point but hasn’t said a word.

“I dropped my phone,” I say quietly. She stares at me blankly. My heart thumps “She didn’t respond? Could she be deaf? Could I have an opportunity to impress Extra-Cutie using my sign language equivalent to that of a retarded fourth grader?” No dummy, you’re on an international flight, she just doesn’t speak English.

Lame…

At this point I’m standing up, facing the wrong direction, with my face against the back of my chair desperately feeling around under my own chair, mollycoddling the foot of the old lady who was sitting behind me. I won’t dwell but I’ll just say she was in a crabby mood the whole flight…

I fish my phone out from under the chair, FINALLY, as Extra-Cutie is now kind of leaning the other direction watching me intently as I probably looked like I was trying to blow up the plane before it even left the ground. Victorious, I hold it up and again say “I dropped my phone.” She sees it and says “Ohhhh” and nods her head at me.

“Oh” still has not confirmed for me that she can hear… deaf people say “Oh” all the time. For many, it’s one of the only words they CAN say. I let my little fantasy live on a little bit longer in my head until the beverage cart rolls around.

“Hi folks, we just wanted to let you know we’re running an open bar until continental breakfast is served.”

WHAT? I wonder to myself as the flight attendant hands me a plastic bag, which contained a tooth brush, tooth paste, an eye shade, and a pair of blue socks.

“Red wine, please,” I order. There was only one varietal available, but it was what I would have chosen anyway. Shiraz. Glorious!

Extra-Cutie orders “o-RONGE jooz.” So fine, she’s not deaf. Big deal.

Dinner is served, Lasagna with a salad, bread, two deserts, and of course, a teacup. I declined the tea because I didn’t want the caffeine to interfere with the scant few hours of sleep I might score on the plane. That earned me a look from the flight attendant as if by rejecting the tea, I were solely responsible for Princess Diana’s death.

I put in earplugs, put on sunglasses, turned out the light and was off to sleep… and then it happened. I feel Extra-Cutie’s arm nuzzling up against mine, sort of on top of it. Granted, this was probably a kind way of saying “Hey dickhead, share the armrest!” (Seeing as she couldn’t have said it even if she wanted to…) but I didn’t care. There was that slight chance that this was my moment in history… and it was at that very moment that I threw the blanket over my lap. (With my free arm. Duh!)

As I dozed off I had the song “And I Remember Her…” by Jim Croce playing in my head.

During continental breakfast I decided it was time to bridge the language barrier… and by that I mean try and make conversation while hoping she spoke a little bit of English, because I sure as hell didn’t speak whatever she did. She told me she was “Jer-man” and that her name was “CAT-ee” (which, I’m assuming is German for Katie… go figure. The unattainable ones are always named that.) I told her that my name was David, and as we shook hands she repeated “DAY-vud.”

And that was the end of our romance… one of the greatest love stories ever told, if I do say so myself!

Customs took a total of 10 minutes before I was cleared to carry on to the baggage claim where I discovered after about 40 minutes of waiting that British Airways had lost one of my bags.

This is the second time that this particular suitcase has gotten lost during an international flight of mine. I got incredibly upset about it last time, and I’m not exactly sure why… though I remember it somehow correlated with me missing a flight. Anyway, this time it wasn’t really a big deal. There was a slight look of confusion when I said “I actually don’t have a phone number for you to reach me at when you find it… I haven’t lived here that long… oh, ya know… about twenty minutes.”

I gave them the number for the school. If it’s not here in 3 days I’m saying I had a $3,000 suit in that bag and will be perfectly happy to re-buy all of the clothes I had in it.

I carried on my little way, honestly quite thrilled that I didn’t have 2 suitcases to lug around for the next five hours. Shit, I should lose my bag every time I travel. My shoulders are happy little campers. Everyone has told me that the Brit’s are very friendly. I ask a few strangers questions, people continuously point me in the right direction.

Then I ran into a gangly fellow with an American Accent, who is getting his whole degree over here. I forgot his name within less than 8 seconds, but he too was helpful. At that point I was trying to find the bus station, which required an elevator down, taking “the tube” (subway) up one stop, another elevator, down the escalator, through a long hallway, and turn right. This fellow has done this before, and showed me the way.

He asked if I really had fit all of my stuff into my one suitcase. I told him “No, British Airways lost my other one. They’ll deliver it soon.” He asks “they didn’t lose your laptop did they?” No, I reply… and then giving more information than I needed to “It’s in my backpack.”

Half way to the bus station we pass a currency exchange station, and he asks if I got pounds already, because you can’t buy a bus ticket with US dollars. “Yes,” I said. “Did you get enough?” he asks. Right answer: “I already have my ticket.” Wrong answer: “I have 40 pounds.” As soon as I said this I realized I shouldn’t have, but rested easy knowing that I purchased a security wallet, which was dangling around my neck.

We get to the bus station and he asks if I can watch his luggage while he goes to buy his ticket back to his campus. I say that’d be fine, and do so. He comes back with his ticket. I had mentioned earlier that I was hungry, and he points out a café behind me. I ask “do you mind watching my stuff while I go get some food?” He says it’s fine.

Then I realize what I’ve just done.

I was next in line when I made this realization. My laptop, Ipod, camera, supporting documentation (everything but my passport, which was also around my neck) $2,000 of migraine medicine, and a suitcase filled with contents unknown to everyone but me, have just been left in the possession of a stranger I met not more than twenty minutes ago.

He had asked if I had a laptop AND how much money I had. We chatted about school. He showed me where to go. He established my trust by having me watch HIS suitcases (Which occurred to me at that point, could have been empty.)

I barrel out of the coffee shop, in full 5’9” 200-pound kill-mode and see the fellow just sitting by my stuff, quietly reading a book. He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. I ask “You uhh… sure you don’t…. want anything?” He shakes his head no.

I go back in and quickly grab my breakfast. After I come out, he says, “I got an 8:40 bus ticket, I actually need to get going.” and he starts to gather his stuff and walk away. Throwing subtlety to the wind, I mutter “okay, nice meeting you” as I tear open my backpack to find what this gangly fellow has stolen, still in kill mode. Laptop: Still there. Ipod: Still there. Camera: Still there. Documentation: Still there. Medicine: Still there.

At that point I decided that this kid must either be the dumbest thief on the planet, or no thief at all. I’ll vote for the latter. (I have since searched everything. Nothing is missing, and nothing sketchy was planted in my bags.)

I’ve heard horror stories about people doing exactly what I had just done, and getting robbed blind within minuets of arriving in a foreign country. Lesson learned, possessions safe. Win-win.

And Pat, if you’re reading this (Which I’m sure you’re not, because you don’t like “words”) I heard your voice in my head right before switching into kill mode saying “Davey!?!?!?!”

I drink my coffee and eat my “That” which, was the end of needing food but not wanting to leave gangly-potential-thief with my stuff for any longer than I needed to. I quickly move into my second stupid idea which is, putting on my noise-canceling headphones and listening to music while I wait for my bus to arrive… which I will only know about via a PA system. I figure out that this is a one way ticket to sleeping on the floor at Heathrow International Airport about ten minutes before it’s scheduled to board. Two stupid things for a day were enough. I was a smarty-pants from that moment forward.

I boarded the bus bound for The University of East Anglia, in Norwich, Norfolk. (Pronounced Nor-itch, Norf-uk… you’ve got to squeeze the F into that first syllable, otherwise you sound like an idiot.)

Seated next to me was a girl named Dallas, also headed to UEA, also majoring in creative writing, also exhausted. We exchange exhausted banter the entire 4 ½ hours to school and she tells me how much she likes me, how funny she thinks I am, and how glad she is that we get to be friends. Score one for Davey!

We get to school and get our room keys and what have you. This is where the “I was so tired, I can’t remember” part starts to fade back in. I get my things brought up to my room and am too exhausted to be excited that it’s only slightly smaller than my room in ManziMo, except I don’t have to share it with anyone. I call British Airways to check on my bag, which they still haven’t found, and then realize I’ve had neither food or water in a few hours (except of course, for a bag of Swedish Fish.)

I meander in a diagonal line towards where I think food should be and somehow got there within a few minutes. I find a sandwich that seems like it shouldn’t give me an allergic reaction, and remember the advice of Miss Scott who told me to ask for “still-water,” otherwise I’ll get seltzer (which is the most foul tasting creation since photo processing chemicals.)

“Excuse me, do you know if they sell still-water here?”

“Where are you from?” he asks… picking up on the accent.

“The US.”

“Yeah, I figured. What part?”

I had just asked a Mormon, who was debating religion with a Hindu, for help. He invited me to join them for dinner. I didn’t know what conversation I had just been invited into, and probably would have accepted the invitation anyway, but boy was THAT a surprise. I didn’t even think they HAD Mormons in Europe!

I cannot express enough how difficult that conversation was to focus on while drifting by on 5 hours of sleep in the last 36.

So I said “more on me being really tired later,” earlier in this post. It’s now 7:33pm (12:33pm in Arizona) and I’m really just shooting to stay awake until 8:00 before falling asleep. Oh, and these Brits do everything in military time. So it’s actually 19:35 and I’m trying to stay awake until 20:00! I don’t have anything more to write…

I’m eating Milk Duds, and because I don’t have a student ID card yet I can’t get online, an subsequently can’t use Skype to call home, and can’t even actually post this until tomorrow so… Happy milk duds… and goodnight internet land.

1/6/2008 11:31pm

In 38 some-odd hours I’m moving to a country I’ve never been to. I know three people there, one of whom will live at least 200 miles away, the other two will be in dorms across the way, however though they will have only been there a week longer than me.

What I’m leaving is a house with impromptu polka dots. Every twenty feet there are four squares of different colors. From the street it looks like the mark of a stark raving lunatic, but from the inside you can learn it’s about to be painted one of those four colors… eventually

One of the toilets doesn’t flush. One of them never stops flushing. The sink in the kitchen gets hot when you turn the “cold” knob and cold when you turn “hot.” There’s been a beer can on the patio table since New Years, and a Nerf dart stuck to a mirror downstairs since the going away party last night.

The house, which has been for sale for a year now, is a casualty of the divorce that started 13 months ago. Both of my parents have promised me that it’ll be finished by the time I come home. Dad told me tonight that if the house sells while I’m gone his new home will be mine as well.

He also told me as he was going down to bed that he’s not going to die while I’m gone. While this is reassuring, the fact that enough people have told him they fear that he might, even without him having anything concretely wrong with him, is not. I was the first to tell him this a few years ago. He tells me that this “truly saved his life.” He’s profoundly sad that I’m leaving. He’s sad in a way I’ve never seen him before.

Mom on the other hand, who has been living in Texas since June is more scared than anything. She knows we can handle not seeing each other for a semester, but being 1,000 miles seems very different than 7,000. We spent an hour practicing using Skype today, running every possible scenario. Her computer calling mine, mine calling hers. She called my cell from her computer, I called hers from mine. With and without webcam. We covered our bases.

She reminded me today that when I got to the airport on Tuesday that I “really need to make sure (I was) through customs before (I) start to dilly dally.” I visibly winced, shook my head and started laughing to which she replied “I love Skype! If we hadn’t been webcamming I’d never’ve seen that reaction!” I assured her, in my own words, that I’d get through the gates before I started to “fuck around.”

When I think about England, I get an image of a narrow street with three story brick buildings on both sides. All of the windows have festive awnings, and a red double-decker bus is driving by with cigarette smoke pouring out of the windows. Steam is coming up through a sewer cap in the middle of the road, and that’s just London. All of that I’ve seen in movies, but I’m not living in London.

When I think of where I’ll be living, Norwich, I come to a huge void. It’s like in the video game Command & Conquer (and every other war strategy game ever), how the enemy base looks before you build the spy satellite. There’s a bunch of trees and hills, an alligator and a polar bear pacing uncomfortably close to each other, all of this surrounding a big area covered in black. They call it “shrouding.”

I know Norwich is the home to The University of East Anglia, where I’ll be studying. I know Ian McEwan studied there. He’s the author of “Atonement,” which I haven’t read, and “The Comfort of Strangers,” which I have. I know that they do not sell macaroni and cheese, but that peanut butter can be found at any “international grocery store” and that the university has an indoor swimming pool.

Everyone I’ve talked to, whether they’ve been to England or not, offers me advice. You’ve got to go to Pickadilly Circus.You’ve got to go to a soccer game. Don’t try and stay up all night the night before and sleep on the plane: you can’t beat jetlag.

What this boils down to is that I’m going to a country that I know almost nothing about, to live in a city that I really know nothing about, and other than three people I’ve hung out with a handful of times, I’m going alone. This is the first night I’m feeling nervous about most of this.

My wonderful friends from home threw me a going away party last night. It was the most intense mix of people I’ve ever spent time with, but it was everyone who wanted to see me off, and most of them – all of the close friends – have told me that they really wish I weren’t going, but know why it’s important.

I’m glad I’m feeling nervous. This is supposed to be scary. I’m not just going somewhere new by myself – I’m going far enough away that coming home due to homesickness is not an option. I’m going to be there until June 16^th, and that’s all there is to it.

There will be no girlfriend at home who will call me to start fights just to make sure I don’t get lonely. My sister won’t live ten minutes away and lovingly invite me to her parties when I neglect to go out and find my own. This is going to be nothing like freshmen year – because I’m going to do it right this time. I don’t have a semester to get used to things. I have a semester.

I have three suitcases, seven framed photographs, and a few thousand dollars. What that equates to, I’m not sure yet, but it’s going to change my life. If it doesn’t, it’ll only be because I didn’t do it right, and I just can’t let that happen.

CONTACT INFORMATION FOR DAVE IN ENGLAND (To be updated as I get more information.)
Phone: +44-798-529-0855 (if you don't include the + sign it won't go through. On some phones holding 0 makes it appear. If not, call your service provider and ask.)
AIM: MaximumBandit
Skype: darobbins10 (Skype is free VOIP, free international calling, free webcamming. It’s wonderful… and it’s also the only way you’re getting me on the phone.)
Email: maximumbandit@gmail.com

Mailing Address:

David Robbins
Ntc006 Norfolk Terrace
University Of East Anglia
Norwich, England
NR4 7TJ