Tales From Canterbury

An Ode to Self Pity, Unemployment and Graduation

2010-08-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

I've been absent from the blogging world a while.

Two days after graduating college in May, I zipped off to Europe with my cousin for a month, equipped with a broken backpack, gummy bears and Rick Steves.

After spending a month downing Strongbow and Nutella crepes, I returned home, apprehensive to confront life decisions and normalcy. I realized the rest of the summer would not be full of beaches and Louvres and S-Bahns, but unemployment and uncertainty.

Graduating from college is a scary step. There is no next semester lined up, no trips to Target to buy throw pillows and Steno Notebooks. The future is a question mark, and it's up to you to choose where your life will head.

So naturally I've been reclining on the couch watching "Say Yes to the Dress" and "Gilmore Girls," eating pita chips, doing a little yoga and throwing in the towel at 5:00 p.m. I don't want to work too hard. Limbo never felt so comfortable.

I've talked to many other graduates who are in the same boat. Maybe September will bring a job offer or graduate school, but for now, it's all about eating off the fat of the lamb and wallowing in your parent's family room with no money.

So to spruce up the summer, add a little zest to limbo, and save myself from "Say Yes to the Dress" marathons, I've decided to begin blogging about fun, cheap things graduates can do in the area. Summer concerts, tasty, affordable restaurants and ice cream stores, scenic trails, rollerblading excursions and any Hugh Jackman sightings (He's renting a house in Franklin). After all, we're only young once, and everyone says to savor these times of joblessness and uncertainty. Carpe-a-diem.

S'more Nutella, Please

2010-05-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

While abroad last spring, I blogged about my nutella infatuation. I would put nutella on bread, carrots, pretzels, naan, fingers, anything I could get my paws on.

Well, a year later, that love affair is still going strong, except this time, I've found some delectable nutella combinations that don't involve flesh.

1. Trefoil Nutella Sandwiches. For those of you with Trefoils stacked in your room from your annoying neighborhood Girl Scout, smear some nutella in between two Trefoils and put those shortbreads to good use. Not exactly a jaw dropping taste, but it works as a snack. I recommend using as much nutella as possible.

2. Nutella S'mores. A revolutionary idea, no? Screw Hershey's, rub some nutella on that graham cracker and you have a delicious feast. If you are really into the spreads, try it with Fluff.

3. Vanilla ice cream, pretzels, brownie bits and my lover. This may seem stolen from Coldstone, but I'm just ahead of the trend.

4. Your index finger. Ok, I lied. There will be flesh involved. Nothing beats scooping nutella out with your hand. I sound like a Violet from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

So eat up! And let me know what you think of these recipes, and if you have others to try.

Day-Old Bread

2009-09-15T13:20:00.000-07:00

Today I went to Jimmy John's to pick up some day-old bread that will pass as garlic bread for my roommate's orzo, feta, tomato, and parsley dinner tonight.

As I walked out with the loaf, wrapped in red and white checkered paper, I thought about baguettes.

I wished that my Jimmy John's 48-cents-day-old bread was a Parisian baguette. And I wished I could stroll into a local boulangerie, say "Bon jour!" to the shopkeeper like Julia Child, and prance back home to a red-checkered tablecloth of Chianti, brie and a warm, crusty baguette. Instead, I pranced out of Jimmy John's.

The shopping trip reminded me of how people shop in Paris. If Parisians need soap, they go to the pharmacy on the corner, if it's cheese, the cheese shop down the street, baby clothes, they have way too many around, and toilet paper, well I'm sure they have a toilet paper shop too.

Shopping for a meal in Paris is like a scene out of Julie and Julia (can you tell I just saw the movie?) A robust, rosy-cheeked Julia Child skips from orange vendor to meat vendor, huffing and puffing "Mmmm!" and "OhhhH!" at every stop. She can't keep her hands off that fruit.

If I were a street vendor, I'd probably tell her to stop sniffing my stuff and fondling it like it's her teenage boyfriend, but that's me.

At Marquette, if I want to grab some make shift items for dinner, I head first to Marquette Gyros, where 59-year-old Gus, the gray-bearded Greek owner, will hand me a warm pita wrapped in tin foil for free (He has since I wrote about him in our college newspaper. I try to pay every time, I swear). I'd consider Marquette Gyros my warped-college-lamb-scented boulangerie.

Then I'd go to Open Pantry, a haven for...Miller, Tostidos, unripe bananas and Stride gum. After picking up the necessities (Digiorno), my shopping trip is complete.

Only I have a multi-patterned, beer-stained tablecloth to come home to, month-old Busch Lights and day-old bread.

Job Hunting

2009-06-29T13:36:00.000-07:00

After frivilously frolicking around Europe for five months, buying too many nutella crepes and Strongbow liters, I've returned to the cold dark world of unemployment.

I knew I had to find a job quickly, after amassing a massive debt to my parents, as well as those lovely little overdraft fees from the superb U.S. Bank (383.33 dollars worth).

I assumed finding a job in GM-ravaged Detroit would be too hard, so I set my sights on Milwaukee.

I spent one day filing out applications on Water St., a street lined with college bars like Tequila Rita's and Buffalo Wild Wings.

I stumbled upon an Italian gangster bar/restaurant called Capone's, where I convinced the owner that while my serving experience consisted of selling smoothies to anorexic, constipated 40-year-olds and hostessing, I could learn quickly.

He bought it. When I asked him what I should wear, he told me he likes the waitresses to dress "gangsta-like." Hmm. Ah ... 50-cent style? I don't own baggy pants and Flava Flav pizza clocks.

And if it's Al Capone style, which it is, I refuse to don pin stripe pants and vests like the other waitresses. I'm just not investing in my gangster future, I guess.

Over the past couple weeks of working at Capone's, I've been told that I have a "rump," one that "guys would wanna bump up against in da club." Also, Bobo, a 58-year-old hand many at Capone's, drunkenly bought me a Miller High Life, which he hid in his "briefcase," tucked securely next to his revolver named Debbie.

After that night and following nights of making diddlysquat, I half-heartedly tried to job search some more.

I just went to a group-interview at Anthropologie. I showed up in a Banana Republic pink jersey dress, next to girls in white lace Anthropologie-esque dresses and vintage bowling shoes, who were "sign language majors," teaching art therapy to students at Wellsley, or studying psychology and fashion merchandising. So much for a journalism major.

When we were asked how to describe Anthropologie's style, one girl replied, "I think it's very pastoral, very natural, with the threads..." I haven't used the word pastoral outside of a William Wordsworth essay. I went with, "Ah, I think it's really classic, and uh, can appeal to a wide range of ages..."

The worst was when the managers asked us who our style icons were. Shit. Style? I mean, I like Jcrew's style, I like Anthropologie's style, I often shop at Gap and Old Navy...

Lacy white dress pulled out Natalie Portman and another one said Zooey Deschanel for "the way her style oozes into her music."

"Ah, Grace Kelly?" I said. Safe. You can't debate it.

I left confident I would return to my gangster clothes while Wellesley college would don her bowling shoes with Anthropologie tailored blouses.

Still waiting on that call...

Back to America

2009-05-29T11:20:00.000-07:00

Study abroad advisors prepare students for the three phases of study abroad: One, honeymoon stage, "Oh how cute they drive on the other side of the road!" Two, bitterness and anger: "WTF, why do they do everything wrong and drive on the wrong side?" Three, acceptance, "I don't know why they do it, but I'll learn to look left...bloody hell." What they don't prepare you for is the last stage, the culture shock you experience in your home country.

I didn't think I'd have much of a problem adjusting to life in good ole' Detroit. I consider myself a pretty adaptable person. The trip home though set me straight.

The 12-hour plane ride from London to Chicago to Detroit wasn't a comfortable, reclining chair affair. I was sitting in my un-cushioned, blue chair that seemed to bend more forward than backward, with Vanity Fair and a pile of Cadbury eggs on my lap, trying to reason myself that going home to Detroit would be Ok and that London sucks, when Little Miss Alma College Sweatshirt with the worst Michigan accent I've ever heard hovers over me.

"You're gonna haave to move. I need to sit there," she said haughtily.

I said nothing, moved, and gritted my teeth as Miss Alma pushed her way in, plopping her big behind right next to me and her Coach purse against my ankles. Here's America, ladies and gentlemen. I sat back in my forward chair, popped a Cadbury egg and turned on my iPod. Simon and Garfunkel's "America" came on. I tried not to cry, but an overwhelming desire to sob and punch Miss Alma came over me. America here I come.

The rest of the trip was spent playing Evil Eye Tag with Miss Alma as she didn't have any concept of personal space and would bonk, shove and elbow me the entire trip. I huddled to the edge of my uncomfortable chair for eight hours, in between defiantly taking over her arm rest.

I believe I cried 10 times on that trip. Three times during Bridewars, The Office episode when Jim finally asks Karen out on a date and in He's Just Not That Into You, because he just wasn't into her...it got pathetic.

I felt removed from where I was going, apprehensive of landing and wishing I was back with Big Ben.

Over the past week things have gotten much better, and I haven't cried during The Office since. Still, things are different. Being around Midwestern accents and Bob Evans is a bit jarring after hearing Colin Firth talkers for five months.

Here are a few things I miss about the UK:

1. "Cheers." I miss hearing this after I bag my own groceries, pay for something, trip, wink, eat, whatever. It has such a nice ring to it.

2. Pounds. I don't miss the conversion rate, but I miss how regal their money looks. It's thick, unmistakably British, and you feel like a Brit carrying them around.

3. Cadbury eggs. I love them. I think they are now appearing like tumors all over my body, but they taste good.

4. Public transportation. Double decker buses, efficient trains, cleanliness...ahh...

5. Cajun Squirrel Potato Chips, Chili and Chocolate Potato Chips and my favorite, Crispy Duck & Hoisin Flavour Potato Chips. Just kidding. But they are a great representative of English food. What will they think of next?

6. Strongbow. Hello, my name is Rosemary Lane and I am, addicted to Strongbow. It's amazing. Strongbow is a cheap, hard cider that tastes like apple juice and champagne combined. I just found it by my house and I think I almost slapped the salesman out of joy.

7. Iranian-Kurdish-Swedish roommate hacking up phlegm every morning. Enough said.

8. Taxis. The taxis look like elegant, black Volkeswagens. I feel like James Bond every time I ride in them...and they don't have enough money pay...

9. The drinking age. God bless that drinking age. And taking two classes. And having a month and a half off to study for one final. And the drinking age. Amazing.

10. The people. Cheesy to end with that one on No. 10, but I met awesome roommates and friends that I'll keep in touch with. You get to know people fast when traveling, and I'll never forgot my time there.

Things I won't miss (short list):

1. English food. I still don't understand "mushy peas" (literally, mashed up peas), why chicken has to taste like my stale flat and why there are no preservatives in bread.

2. Bad teeth. It's true.

3. Driving on the wrong side of the road.

4. My Iranian-Kurdish-Swedish roommate hacking up phlegm every morning.

5. Bagging your own bags at Tesco and then paying for it.

First Taste of English Exams

2009-05-21T06:58:00.000-07:00

The University of Kent in Canterbury give its students the entire month of April off to study. All of April off. Hear that American schools? Which means English kids dutifully head to the library every day to "revise" and American kids go on European grand "backpacking" tours to Barcelona, Brussels and Santorini. Living the life.

I'm not excepted from this either. From April 1st, I left the UK and headed to the Eiffel Tower, the Ponte Vecchio, the Grand Canal, the Berlin Wall and the gyro capital of the world/slightly dangerous protest city/Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants set (Athens and Santorini).

When I returned, I spent the end of April doing nothing and most of May doing nothing, while English kids scurried off to "revise," English for study. On the day before my exam, I finally picked up my books and made my one trip to the library for a hellish day of I Told You Rosemary You Should Have Been Studying All Of April And All Of May Instead of Watching The Hills Every Day reminders to myself.

My grades don't count, so I wasn't that worried for exam day, but English kids were. They clumped outside the exam hall an hour before, smoking, heads bent over notes, quizzing each other on the answers, "Marketing, Premium...what's the other one? Bloody hell what's the other one?... Oh, enterprise!" (Those probably aren't the exact words).

You aren't allowed to bring anything into the exam hall except writing utensils, ID, a cell phone turned off and a jacket. One girl had a few extra items in a zip locked bag as if she were going through security at the airport.

My exam was in the Sports Centre. About 200 desks covered the basketball court in an orderly fashion. I had an assigned seat and my test was already propped on my desk. I felt like I was taking the SAT all over again as kids sat quietly with their hands folded, a sense of anxiety pervading the hall. Then a loud speaker out of Star Wars or Aldous Huxley's Brave New World booms "There will be no smoking." Duh. Then other directions. Then, "It is now 9:30. Begin." Woah! I'm used to starting at your leisure. But it was the SAT; people picked up their pencils and began.

Proctors prowl the aisles like stormtroopers in Star Wars during the entire three hour exam. Five minutes in one stormtrooper told me my jacket had to be under desk, not on the back of my chair. I'm sorry but I don't know how to tuck an entire essay in my thin, Old Navy throw that I would wear to the beach. Chill, stormtrooper.

I left the hall an hour before the 200 other kids taking exams, which is a little worrisome. But I strolled home excited to watch The Hills, maybe eat a pie and continue doing diddlysquat.

Canterbury Checklist

2009-05-15T13:10:00.000-07:00

For the past three weeks, I've been doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. And it feels wonderful. I have nowhere to go, no grimy backpack to lug, no train to Potsdam to catch, no impending shower to take (well, maybe yes to the last one).

I've enjoyed getting up at 12:45, lounging in moccasins and a College t-shirt all day, watching endless rounds of The Hills, Gossip Girl and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. Add in cheese and crackers and a pot of nutella? Heaven.

But as my time in Canterbury dwindles, I'm realizing I still have a ton I need to see. Screw The Hills, I have a English checklist to complete.

Here is the checklist, checked and unchecked.

1. Afternoon Tea at Harrods. Check.

I half expected to run into Queen Elizabeth or Joan Rivers. For a

21 pound tea (yikes), we

were served salmon and cucumber finger sandwiches, raison scones and miniature fruit pies. Our waiter introduced our tea like a wine coinoisseur, describing the Georgian tea's "oakey" taste as he elegantly poured it from the sparkling silver kettle. Plus, the meal was all you can eat (I later had to unbutton my pants during the meal).

Afterwards, we scoured Harrods' bajillion floors, gawked at the glass-caged, 1,000 pound Lady and the Tramp puppies (who are "socialized" every hour), supervised by the Pet Concierge, then checked out

Armani jackets for two-year-olds and sprayed Harrods perfumes all over our bodies. When at Harrods...

2. Mousetrap. Check

No, we do not have mice in our house (just creepy worm-like creatures with suction cups that like to attach to my computer cord and don't move until my Swedish-Kuridsh-Iranian roommate, who was in the middle of waxing his upper arms, forcefully removed it).

I'm talking about the play. The longest running play in England. Fifty-seven years. A murder mystery. And it's by Agatha Christie. I thought it had to be good.

Wrong. Unfortunately the Mousetrap's writing seems to be stuck in Pleasantville, 1950. And the suspense? The murder? Letdown. But I can't say more, the murderer told the audience to "intertwine the secret in our hearts."

3. Camden Market, London. Check.

My roommates and I hit up where People magazine often captures Mischa Barton strolling. The giant market is full of tattoo parlors, leather shops, knock-off Ray Ban sunglass stands, Indian food, and headbands with giant white birds attached to them.

We grabbed Styrofoam plates of chicken tikka marsala and lay down in nearby Regents Park to settle our hung-over stomachs. Always a good cure. Mischa probably does it too.

4. Run to Whitstable. Check.

Today I ran the five and a half, six or seven miles to Whitstable, a nearby seaside town. All the mile makers and the Internet report different distances from Canterbury to Whitstable, so I'll just go with seven miles. Along the way, I found convenient excuses to walk, like, "a bug just flew up my nose!" or "my phone just dropped!" or "look at this view!" But I made it, bug and all.

5. Oxford. No check.

This is absolutely necessary. My roommate says if I die on this trip, she'll carry my ashes to Oxford. A little morbid, I know. But I'm longing to see Harry Potter's lunch room, mingle with Dumbledore and feel smart for the day.

Traveling and Waiting, Waiting, Waiting

2009-04-27T09:48:00.000-07:00

Picture my mom calls my "hooker pose"

For the past month, I've been living like John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles. I've been traveling/backpacking through Europe, and have spent a good part of my time waiting. Waiting for a plane to take off, a bus to arrive...no automobiles, sadly, but I was trying for the metaphor. Patience has been a virtue.

While we were in route to Santorini from Athens (my most anticipated destination), our 10:50 a.m. flight was canceled. We were rescheduled for an 8 p.m. flight. Spending ten hours in the Athens airport was a real treat. I am now thoroughly acquainted with its spotless bathrooms, Bailey's testing table, suspicious Greek airline receptionists and its swanky McDonald's.

We spent the time aimlessly wandering up and down the white aisles of the airport, and then drinking and playing Never Have I Ever (I hate that game) in the posh hotel across the street where the waiters were reluctant to let six greasy backpackers mix with Japanese business men eating gourmet mousaka.

I felt like a caged pigeon. I kept checking my phone. Only 3 p.m.? Five more hours of sipping beer and feeling like I needed to run wild through the airport streaking like Will Ferrell in Old School? Shoot me.

Hour 7

Hour 9

To cope, my friend Graydon got drunk at McDonald's and did the Elf up the escalator (when Will Ferrell spreads his legs up the escalator). Our flight was delayed and delayed, but finally took off at 10 p.m. I call sitting in Athens airport for ten hours an accomplishment. I bet John Candy is giving me a thumbs up.

McDonald's beer

The next round of waiting was a lot more scary, and sober. I was finally leaving to go back to London from Athens, and my flight landed at 12:30 a.m. I took a train to the Victoria Train Station, which arrived at 2 a.m. When I got to the vast, empty station, a kind attendant informed me that the station was closed from 2 a.m. to 3 a.m., and the next train to Canterbury wouldn't leave till 8. Great. Real great. But I felt like it was a backpacker's rite of passage to sit outside in the cold and wait.

Outside, I immediately grabbed a large steak Cornish Pasty and sat down amidst gothic kids huddled against a wall, wasted blonde girls stumbling in barefoot (I think one later peed on the ground), couples holding hands, a boy in an Oxford shirt slouching against a wall with his eyes closed while he unconsciously chewed a kebab, homeless people, sketchy people and a man in a cheap tuxedo and bow tie eating a pasty. If it hadn't been so cold, I would have been fascinated. It was like exposing the ocean at night, you see all the wild life emerge and light up. "The freaks come out at night," kind of thing.

Once I got into the station, I huddled over the Dubliners, tried to stay warm, and watched group after group of drunkards scream and sprint into the station. I sat next to a man who kept saying "sweetie," and moved next to a kind old lady.

It's funny the things people to do amuse themselves to pass the time. Two girls started dancing the Macarena while Mexican kids next to me hummed the tune for them. The dancers then would squeal with laughter and ask for "coffee and tea" from passerbys (the train attendant finally bought them coffee to shut them up). Another drunk man with a massive pregnant belly and skinny hips made conversation with everyone around him. "You homeless?" "Why you here so early?" And to the old lady, "I saw you last week!"

I finally caught a 7 a.m. bus home and am happy to never travel again. Sitting at my computer and watching Planes, Trains, and Automobiles is more than enough.

Catching a Whiff of Public Toilets

2009-04-10T13:37:00.000-07:00

I've been traveling in London and Paris now for two weeks, and have been at the mercy of public bathrooms, or loos, or toilets, or however you want to term the crapper.

I'm no germophob; I can handle hairy hostel showers, mildewed bed and breakfast loos, but I do like a little cleanliness when it comes to public bathrooms (I realize that's an oxymoron).

I've been in and out of so many public toilets that you could call me Rick Steves' Toilets.

When I was in London, the bathrooms were lovely. Pub restrooms were tight, but clean and rustic. At Heathrow airport's bathroom, the stall doors were wooden and modern, there were pristine individual sinks, glowing mirrors and a horizontal bronze opening where your hands air dried. I felt like I was vacationing at Oprah's house.

The only hitch is that English loos have no water pressure, so you literally have to break your arm to flush them. It takes time to learn the proper technique, as I have learned after cursing and pacing the bathroom stalls.

Otherwise, Rick gives London toilets a thumbs up.

As for Paris, I expected better. In a city that is the epicenter of style, where pates, children, fine wine and Coco Chanel are idolized, you'd think you'd have some tasteful, exquisite public bathrooms. You'd think.

Yesterday, my mom, sister and I went to Le Bon Marche, Paris' oldest department store-the Harrods of Paris. Le Bon Marche has Chanel make-up counters, lacy lingerie, waxed white staircases, and a bathroom that smelled like, in the words of Veronica Corningstone from Anchorman, "a used diaper filled with Indian food."

I did not expect a sticky stall that smelled like the airport bathroom Christ Farley gets stuck in in Tommy Boy.

The biggest disappointment was the palace of Versailles. This is where Marie Antoinette created a pseudo-peasant-Disney-like-dairy village, where gondoladeers were flown in from Venice, where flowers were changed every day for the King's eye. I expected bathrooms with at least gold-plated toilet paper.

Instead, peeling, orange, 70's counters greeted me and my stall smelled like its last victim. Oo lala!

I guess I have too high of standards. Back to the hostel bathrooms...

Scotland: the land of haggis, kilts and stags

2009-03-30T06:06:00.000-07:00

I've just discovered my new favorite country abroad.

It's the land of the savage, skirted Mel Gibson, locks, kilts, Harry Potter, whiskey and sheep (which equals cashmere).

And world famous for haggis, a "meat" made up of sheep's lungs, heart and liver, cooked in a sheep's stomach. Stupendous.

We spent last weekend in Scotland, scoping out Edinburgh and then scanning the countryside on a tour.

Here are the top five reasons why I love Scotland:

1. Kilts. I thought these were only worn by bearded bagpipe players. Wrong. I learned kilts represent family clans and are quite expensive. Our countryside tour guide said he didn't receive his first kilt until he was 21, and that was a big deal.

At Edinburgh Castle

There's something captivating though about watching grown men strut around town in plaid skirts with their hairy legs poking out.

2. Countryside tour. We went on a nine-hour tour led by Greg, a Scot with a lip ring and almost indiscernible accent, who told bad jokes involving "baby, mommy and daddy balloon." Don't ask.

Posing in front of Lock Lomond

Overlooking the countryside from the William Wallace monument

More pretty countryside

Greg drove us through the rambling heathers of the Scottish highlands in a dinky blue bus. Along the way, he pointed out important landmarks, like the Monty Python castle, where 700 women's bodies were found in a drained moat outside Edinburgh castle (they were supposed witches), a 16-year-old cow (pronounced "airy coo") named Hamish who has become a cultural attraction and may or may not have given someone on our tour Mad Cow Disease, and the building were his fellow tour guide lost his virginity. Highly informative.

Monty Python castle

Princes Garden, outside Edinburgh Castle, where the bodies were found

The famous 16-year-old Hamish

Kid who maybe received Mad Cow Disease from Hamish

3. Tea and scones. I have finally come around to this English tradition. Especially when you add raspberry jam. Yum. We tried some at the Elephant Cafe, where J.K. Rowling scribbled down the beginning of Harry Potter on napkins.

We were hoping to see tons of Harry Potter paraphernalia, and instead found kid illustrations of elephants, shot down elephants, and elephant chairs. Bogus. What was I saying about scones again?

The coffee shop where J.K. Rowling created Harry Potter

4. Stag Night. We ran into two groups of "stags" or bachelor parties at the bar The Three Sisters while watching the Scotland v. Holland futbol match. The first bachelor we met was dressed in a Ken Barbie, neon pink spandex outfit, complete with pink tights and a belly shirt. Every time you said "stag" he had to do 10 pushups, which he did with tissues under his hands for cleanliness.

Posing with Bachelor No. 1

Full body shot

Just say "stag" and he'll do pushups-with tissues of course

The second group of stags were English 40-year-olds dressed as Sherlock Holmes (who by the way, was created in Edinburgh). They were more rambunctious, asking if we wanted to play a game where they could make our knockers move without touching them. Hmm...not remembering by I love stag night.

Bachelor No. 2

Jamie talking to the Sherlock Holmes clan

5. Haggis. Ok, not really. But I did try it.

My roommate about to try haggis

St. Patrick's Day in Dublin

2009-03-25T12:11:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I spent the weekend before St. Patrick's Day in Dublin-an Irish girl in a college kid's dream.

But it wasn't what I thought.

On my first night, I went to Temple Bar, a notorious breeding ground for booze-hungry tourists. We elbowed our way through college boys wearing Virginia t-shirts and drunk girls swaying to "Oh Danny Boy."

After ordering Guinesses, my friends and I met two friendly Irishmen who bought us another round and danced a jig with us to Van Morrison. So far so good.

But then, one of the Irishmen said, "Why did you come here? Don't spend your time in pubs."

What? This is Ireland! This is St. Patrick's Day weekend!

He explained he wanted me to see Ireland's history and not think of the Irish as drunkards.

And after that weekend, I don't.

Surveying the streets at 3 a.m., I saw huddled Spanish kids chanting and clapping, a U.S. girls' sports team booty-shaking to bongo drums and our American group singing S Club 7 songs.

Live band in Temple Bar

I saw drunk Chicagoans with shamrock tattoos stumbling around the streets demanding Subway and two Spanish men wearing wife beaters that said "Kiss Me, I'm Maybe Irish."

The Irish do go out, but Americans and other nationalities far outnumbered them this weekend.

In Ireland, St. Patrick's Day is a day of holy obligation and usually celebrated as a religious holiday-not like it is in the states.

Two years ago, I went to Savanna, Ga., for the world's largest St. Patrick's Day parade. In between kids clamoring for beads from floats and tripping over beers cans, a sea of green shirts poured out of every bar like a fresh Guiness tap. It was impossible to even enter a bar.

And back in Milwaukee, our college bar, Murphy's, opened at 6 a.m.

"I'm gonna open and close Murphy's!" one friend said.

What did you do this St. Patrick's Day? Was it filled with green beer bongs and 7 a.m. bar call times? Did it seem crazier than Dublin?

And one more thing-don't order Irish Car Bombs in Ireland.

"My New Air-cut" (in the Jersey accent from YouTube)

2009-03-16T18:05:00.000-07:00

I just got the worst haircut. Think Marilyn Manson, a dread locked hobo and an aspiring 80's prom queen combined. Plus a little Golden Retriever. Ok, maybe it was just a lot of hairspray, but still.

My roommate and I wanted to get a new European chic haircut, like Kate Moss or Amy Winehouse.

We heard about this "Salon Chocolat," where they give free hot chocolate, free chocolate samples and have such a French sounding name.

We were all for it. The night before we picked out styles from a British hair magazine called "YourHair." Clever, I know. I gravitated toward Heidi Klum's sleek, shoulder-length haircut. It was no Amy Winehouse, but it would do.

We show up to the salon, which is in back of a chocolate display. My hairdressor's name was Brent. He lives in France, commutes to Canterbury twice a week, and spends the rest of the week teaching the latest styles from Paris to hairdressors in Belgium. Legit, right?

I told him about the Klum look, and he talked me out of it. "You've got such great curly hair!"he said. Tell me about it. He convinced me of a look that's popular in Paris right now. The hair is cut to be angled behind the head, with a little fringe in the front draped back. Sick. But if it's all the rage in Paris and he teaches in Belgium...what the heck, I thought, I'll go for it. When in Rome...

He let his "assistant" wash my hair, which turned into a creepy thumb massage, and "assistant" blow dried my hair. My hair came out straight. I was praying that now Brent would work my hair like putty into something Parisian-fantastic.

Putty he used, all right. Brent applied gobs of wax and hair spray for my "wavy-fringe-Paris look." I peered in the mirror. I looked like a wet dog that had just ran through a tornado of dirty wax. Not joking. I sat in my chair fuming.

"Isn't my hair supposed to be curly?" I asked.

"Yeah, it is. That's funny. Hm..." he said.

Apparently "assistant" used the bean-chocolate-whatever-conditioner, which is wrong. It makes dry hair very straight and flat. Smart. And "assistant" didn't curl my hair but blow-dried it straight.

"Well, come back in a few weeks and I'll blow dry your hair for free so you'll get your money's worth," he said.

My money's worth? What? Isn't that what I'm here for today? I asked if he could start over, which he did. I came out looking much the same, just with curly, individually sticky hairs. It was sick. I think if I fell over my hair would stick to the floor. And then they could use it to wax a speedboat. I sat in my chair on fire with anger. "Yeah, it's really great, nice how cuurly it is now," I kept saying.

My new "haircut"

From the back

Are these people delusional or just know they screwed up and are trying to sell it to you? I don't get it. I paid 40 frickin' pounds for my natural hair to be sprayed with a gallon of hairspray.

I think he felt bad for me, because he gave me a box of chocolates, which I gave up for Lent.

I ran outside and chomped them down like T-Rex, enraged. I then went into every single store on my way to the bus stop, looking to buy something, anything, to make me feel better.

I kept saying to myself, people in Somalia are starving and you're ready to cry about your hair? But our hair is so personal. It says something about us. If you have a bob, you're not afraid to be different. If you have a mushroom cut, well, God help you. But whatever the style, it's a part of you. I did not want to cry to the world that I wanted to be Ryan Seacrest with moussed extensions. Shoot me. I'm still a little bitter.

I ended up buying nothing and then dunking my head in the shower to wash all the goo out. It actually wasn't a horrible cut, just bad styling. Last time I trust the French with style.

Nuts for Nutella

2009-03-09T07:43:00.001-07:00

I have a new obsession (it doesn't involve plucking eyebrows or black labradors): Nutella.

Nutella on pretzels, toast, crepes with strawberries, celery, Carr's crackers, fingers, naan, anything I can find, basically.

I feel cliche to pine over it, like Mary Kate and Ashley in Our Lips Are Sealed when they first discover surfers and nutella in Australia, but it is amazing.

I first tried it with my boyfriend in Rome on crackers, and since then, nutella and I have not separated. It's sweet, dependable, alluring, full of surprises--you can't go wrong. I even gave up all sweets for Lent, but reasoned that nutella is hazelnut and a spread, therefore, not a sweet.

Yesterday, I wandered through Portobello Road in Notting Hill, a trendy street with markets and American Apparel, and smacked on a warm nutella crepe with strawberries. I told the Italian woman who made it about my new obsession and she warned me.

"I used to have three a day and I was much bigger," she said as she gestured her arms in a big circle.

Yikes. Well, I'm willing to turn into Kirstie Allie for nutella.

No Sandwiches in Sandwich

2009-03-09T06:57:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I was bored. I looked at the pile of pamphlets on my desk like "25 Fun Things To Do in Kent" or "Flying Pig Amsterdam" (don't ask), and the little town of Sandwich caught my eye.

The brochure said Sandwich was "the best preserved medieval city" and I thought I saw something about the ocean. It sounded like a small Cape Cod destination, where you can eat crab sandwiches on the sea.

So I grabbed a friend and went. As we approached some wooded cottages on a river, I asked an old man where the city centre was.

"Sandwich is not a city," he said as he shook his finger at me. "It's a town."

Sandwich's "town centre"

It certainly was. We made our way through "town," looking to eat a sandwich in Sandwich, and encountered pubs, pubs, pubs and a flower shop. Since all restaurants in Britain seem to close from two till six (for siestas?) we tried to look for the sea.

We asked a purple-haired old woman for directions.

"The sea? That's a long way off! We have a river..." she said.

Sandwich's river

Standoff by the river

So we saw the river...and the town...in about half an hour. We then walked two miles through moorish countryside to an old Roman fort that's now an eroded pile of rocks. On the way, we got chased down by a horse, barked at by dogs and stood feet away from cows. Breathtaking, really.

At "Gallows Field" where they buried people alive

Sandwich countryside

The Roman fort/amphitheatre

We treated ourselves to a well-earned crab cake dinner on the river. We decided Sandwich was a retirement village for wealthy old people driving red porches, and then left. So much for sandwiches...

My friend Angela excited for crab cakes

Our first Sunday Roast

2009-03-01T15:46:00.000-08:00

In Canterbury, students have a designated going-out spot for every night.

Monday is The Works, a sleezy nightclub that had a "Sex" theme last week welcoming students dressed like prostitutes and pimps. The club also hosted a stripper, who wore gloves and professor-ish glasses. Classy.

Tuesday, Thursday and Friday students go to more bars on campus. Every academic building has a bar, which are surprisingly popular. It would be strange to go wasted into Johnston Hall dressed like a rejected 80's prom queen or a bloated cow, but here, it's the norm.

Massive Mungo's, in a school building

Wednesday and Saturdays are the Venue, the University of Kent's own nightclub. You'd think it would be like the Annex, where you get chili cheese fries on Sundays but otherwise wouldn't go. Not here.

The Venue on Friday night

Girls dress up in black Topshop tube top dresses (a popular store where Kate Moss has a line), with black tights and black patent leather heels. The Venue also has a swanky bar and a two-level dance floor with a semi-cage and people grinding to Girltalk. It's an experience.

But Sunday, Sunday is Roast Night. No, not a roast of Bob Saget (which my friend thought), but a legitimate pot roast dinner at a pub. My roommates and I have tried all the other weekday activities, so tonight we made our way to the Penny Theatre for a full-on roast.

I was expecting to sit down at a rustic dining room table with a skewered melt-in-my-mouth pot roast while a guitarist strummed Bob Dylan.

Ah, no. We walked into the low-lighted bar, where kids were playing pool and "Lady Marmalade" blasted. We walked into a cozy dark corner, sat on stools, searched for the non-existent pot roast, and settled on burgers and beer.

While you eat, they have Quiz Night, where every table receives an answer sheet filled with different categories like "Celebrities" and "Sports." An announcer reads questions and you write them down, hoping to win free pints or horse shoes (don't ask).

I was excited to participate, confident of my Trivia Pursuit skills. Question one: "What second-rate star recently got a boob job?" Ah, Audrina Partridge? Joan Rivers? Wait, we're in England, shoot. No idea.

We were clueless for the rest of the questions as well, and put answers like "Charlie bit my finger" and "Pete Doherty."

We left slightly tipsy and with a score of zero, but glad we finally made it to Roast Night. Now for more academic bars...

Visiting the Canterbury Tales

2009-02-24T09:09:00.000-08:00

Canterbury is famous for two reasons: One, Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury from 1162-1170, was cane-slaughtered in front of the Canterbury Cathredal. Two, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the gaudy, boozy stories of pilgrims venturing to Canterbury.

I've already been on Canterbury's "ghost tour" where a man in a black cape and top hat showed us where Becket was murdered. I visited the Canterbury Cathredal. I figured all that was left on my must-see list was the Canterbury Tales.

Luckily, there is a Canterbury Tales exhibit where you can tour musty-smelling rooms and hear/see each pilgrim's story. One lackadaisical Sunday my roommates and I decided to do it, excited to see our 9th grade reading assignment unfold.

The exhibit is in an old medieval church, where, according to our ghost tour, they used to throw naughty (or Catholic) nuns off the top of the building. With that in mind, we headed inside to the brown-paneled room.

Zoe posing with the priest

Me imitating the Wife of Bath

You take an audio guide and are hustled into the first dark room, where the dungeon doors to the lobby shut menacingly behind you. I think they sprinkled horse manure about the area to give it that "medieval-chic" smell, because it stunk. Molded casts of double-chinned priests, beggars with beard stubble and empty flasks and bacteria-laden porridge bowls littered the room, only seen by firelight.

The first room on your pilgrimage

Drunken buffoon

We wandered room by room, with our audio guides pressed against our cheeks, wondering why we paid 3.50 for manure and dirty casts of horses.

We saw the Wife of Bath riding in a glossy forest, which reminded me of being in the Rainforest Cafe, saw murals of Chauntecleer, a naked bum hanging out the window and getting branded, fake rats, dirty streets and smelled that lovely manure. Thank goodness I'm not a pilgrim.

Typical medieval street

The trip was a great refresher of Chaucer's tales, but I was ready to get my hand sanitizer and fresh air as soon as I left those dungeon doors.

Learning the English Lingo

2009-02-15T15:44:00.000-08:00

My mom never let us say "pop" when we were little. It was always "soda" or "coke." I suppose it was an effort to retain our Maryland roots in the midst of nasal-y Midwesterners saying "paaaap." Nonetheless, "soda" has stuck.

That was the only small regional language difference I learned. Other U.S. lingo can be easily picked up: east coasters sometimes say "wicked," or "shady, " and, according to my Californian roommate, "stoked," and "hella" are popular Cali terms. I may not live there, but I can figure out what these mean.

In Britain, it's a whole different ballpark. Phrases and common courtesies are completely lost on me. Here's my William Safire list of British say-isms that still boggle me.

1. "You all right?" or "You ok?" I jumped when the cashier at Parkwood Essentials asked this as he scanned my two gallons of Strongbow. "Ah, yeah, I'm fine?" I nervously glanced down to see if my pinky was bleeding or a pad was stuck to my shoe. Nope. Later my English friend Sam asked me this on the phone. I mumbled "Oh, yeah, uh, fine...how-are-you?" Just how do you answer "You all right?" I usually blush and quiver, worried that my face reads "My life is not ok right now. Please ask immediately." Apparently, it's the American equivalent of saying, "Whatsup," or "How are you." So now I answer, "I am all right. Are you all right?"

2. "Cheers." I love this one. My roommate and I have taken to saying it after any remark, like, "I have to go to the bathroom. Cheers." I still don't know how to correctly use it, for English people say it constantly. After you put your food in your own grocery bags at Tesco (ridiculous), or a server takes your plate away or you thank someone for directions, you hear "Cheers!" I think it's like, "cya," "have a nice day," and "your welcome" combined. But I could be off the mark. In any event, it's great to say when clinking glasses or talking about how your cat just died.

3. "Manpoints." Our English guy friends told us about this one. They said it's the universal guy code of giving points for doing "manly" things. I said, "Like hunting?" They said "Noo!" . Their example is if you run through a club naked and smack a girl's bum, you get one Manpoint. Or if you sleep with a girl and then do a backflip into the pool naked and the girl steals your knickers, maybe five (That's considered a lot).

They constantly debate how many points to delegate. Not to be left out, my roommates and I have created "Geez points" (English people sometimes answer the phone, "Whatup Geezer!" and so developed Geez). I have 3/4 of a point for trying to do a dice move dance-off in a club, as does a friend who asked random boys in a bar to be our tour guides for the night (they declined). I don't know if we'll graduate to the "run through a club naked" points yet. Maybe we'll just settle for hunting.

4. "Wankers." This is a bad word, and not to be thrown around lightly. I didn't know that. My roommates and I were eating at a Japanese restaurant called Wagamama's, asking our waiter what Wagamama's meant. I playfully said, "Wanker?" He got quiet for a second and then said, "Woah! I wouldn't say that! Don't hear that from a girl." Yeah, maybe just don't say it. Just think of the word, and corresponding motion. Got it?

5. "Toilets" and "Pushchair." The British are so practical with their vocab. Where are you going? To the toilets (although I don't like to say this. I feel like it gives a vivid picture of what you're about to do. I stick with "restroom" or "loo"). What is a stroller exactly? Well, it's a chair you can push. Pushchair. Bam. It just makes sense.

6. "Well, hello sailor!" I was walking through Whitstable yesterday, a quintessential English seaport town with pebbles on the beach, fish and chips shops at every turn and pubs galore, when a man stopped me. He said, "You've got something on the back of your leg." This felt like someone was saying "You all right?" again. I turned frantically, and then he said, "Well hello sailor!" I laughed and walked on. Still don't get it.

Snow Day in Canterbury

2009-02-05T13:20:00.001-08:00

This winter, Milwaukee has received 100 inches of snow. They've had no snow days.

Last Monday, Canterbury received one inch of snow. Snow day.

Either the English freak about the slippery driving conditions of one inch or they're so infatuated by snowfall they can't possibly do anything but stare. Whatever it was, students went wild.

Hundreds of kids in our apartment community gathered on their front lawns making snow men, raced through the streets heaving snow balls at strangers or pushed boulders of packed snow to the front door of the convenience store and left it there.

My roommate and I headed out to the football fields where dozens of students were snowball fighting or building snowmen. We decided to build an igloo. Like the kind from Pippy Longstocking, except we didn't make chocolate cake and swing in circles singing Christmas carols with monkeys on our shoulders.

It was perfect packing snow, and we were able to build the igloo about five feet high. About eight first-year British boys and one short bossy girlfriend came over and asked to help. They got into the spirit of igloo building, discussing the dynamics of where to fit snow, what kind of snow to use, and how to properly construct a roof (one did it with no gloves but claimed he didn't need any because he was "from the mountains").

Zoe scrupulously building the igloo

The girlfriend stood around saying, "Boys, you've got to use soft snow because it's more malleable. "

One replied, "Stop using posh words. None of us know what malleable means."

She told us the boy's concentrated snow building efforts just goes to show how all boys are 12-year-olds at heart. True, but I think snow days bring out everyone's 12-year-old. I fanatically ran down the street yelling to my other roommates, "We're building an igloo with British kids and it's really big! Come!"

Our helpers also said it rarely snows in Canterbury, and we were lucky. Oh yeah, I really miss the 84.4 inches of snow in Milwaukee.

After an hour the boys gave up, and so did we. The best part of building something is destroying it, which we did, gleefully, in a crash into the igloo and fall awkwardly with your crack hanging out way. But it was a nice igloo, Pippi would have appreciated it.

We walked home through the snow, grabbed some Ben & Jerry's Caramel Chew Chew Ice Cream (or just I did), and snuggled into our Swedish roommate's double bed while he was gone to watch some Arrested Development on a small Mac computer. A great Canterbury one-inch snow day.

Final unfinished product

London Calling

2009-02-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

In Charlotte Bronte's novel Villette, the main character, Lucy Snowe, arrives in London for the first time alone.

She says, "Descending, I went wandering whither chance might lead, in a still ecstacy of freedom and enjoyment; and I got-I know not how-I got into the heart of city life. At the West-end you may be amused, but in the city you are deeply excited."

Deeply excited was the way I felt when I discovered London for the first time. Watching haughty guards with black poms poms perched on their heads carry the British flag across Buckingham Palace, seeing the Rosetta Stone, posing with the doorman at Harrod's-everywhere I looked there was something new, historic, dazzling-and expensive.

The Rosetta Stone

Within our first step we discovered London's high cost of living.

My roommate and I walked into Victoria Station with our hefty backpacks and the flushed faces of tourists. We were ready to conquer London. But first to find a bathroom. I found a "loo," only to discover you had to pay 20 p. to enter the bathroom. 20 p. to pee! Ridiculous. That was the first eye-opener that England really is the most expensive city in the world.

We took a 10 pound cab-ride to our hostel in Bayswater, London. The hostel had white columns, was next to luxury condos, bordered Hyde Park and was near a pub called Whiskey's. Jackpot. It had to be good.

We entered the hostel to the blast of crooning emo-music, a mildewy/b.o. smell and a disinterested girl at the front desk with a lip ring and boyish red hair cut. Hostel life here we come. We learned we had to pay 39 pounds each for two nights, 5 pounds for a lock, 10 pounds for a security deposit and then 5 pounds if you want to rent a towel. Note to self: bring a towel and lock next time.

We walked into our room where a red, jungle gym array of bunk beds were smashed together. After fumbling with the lock for our bags for 25 minutes, we rushed out of the hostel for the non-B.O. smell of the city.

Like Lucy Snowe, we got into the heart of city life. We visited the British Museum (which was free, thank goodness), and strangely enough contains the main artifacts of the world: the Rosetta Stone, Cleopatra's mummy, a piece of the Great Sphinx's beard. As I walked through its great dome and arching pillars, I thought how the museum really showcases how imperialistic Britain once was.

Cleopatra's mummy

To add to our cultural experience we bought tickets five minutes before to "Jersey Boys," a musical about Franki Valli, the high-pitched, greasy-haired, Jersey boy of the 1950's. The show was as American as you can get.

Jamie and I in front of "Jersey Boys" at the Prince Edward Theatre.

We sat 8th row, in jeans, next to fur-clad old women. At intermission, we split a three-pound Haagen Das the size of a Chef Borardi container. We were living the good life. After the show we ate at an American diner called "Ed's," similar to Johnny Rockets. Very American. They had hamburgers and shakes (yes!) along with a grand selection of beer and wine.

We walked through part of crowded Tottenham Court Road. We were in a little cobblestone street but it felt like Time's Square. Horns tooted, men on bicycle cabs yammered, people spilled out of pubs, there was life everywhere.

We spent the next day perusing Hyde Park. We saw an Indian family getting attacked by swans and pigeons, little children playing soccer games outside Kensington Palace, and dogs frolicking leash-less through the park. I wanted to live there.

Family getting attacked by birds in Hyde Park

Throughout the afternoon, we watched the changing of the guards, took pictures of Big Ben and the London Eye, wandered into the National Portrait Gallery and about Trafalgar Square. I remember standing in Trafalgar Square and turning in a small circle. At every step I could snap a picture of something beautiful-the grand facade of the South African embassy, the two fountains, the Gaza protests and armed police. And in the foreground, in front of the National

Portrait Gallery, behind the man singing jazz into a microphone, and behind the straggly-haired hippy chalking "All You Need Is Love," on the ground, was Big Ben. I felt happy, amazed, like Lucy would when she saw this.

Our last stop was Harrod's. I can't comprehend the sheer opulence of the place-it puts Marshall Field's to shame. Harrod's has everything: a bank, an optometrist, a pet parlor, boards of Clue, a room dedicated to meat...One wonders why you would ever need to leave. We walked into Harrod's "Ludree," their tea room where you can have a 21-pound tea underneath shelves of pretty little pink and green boxes. We settled on 1-pound Krispy Kremes.

The doorman at Harrod's and I

After two days in London, I was ready to return to my simple room, eat a free dinner, and pee in a free bathroom. But I can't wait to go back and see more.

My first trip to an English Nightclub

2009-01-29T14:31:00.000-08:00

When I imagine a European nightclub, or "discoteca," I think of the scene from the movie Eurotrip. Techno music blaring, people popping E, Carmen Electra-wannabes grinding on a glass ceiling, and of course, two fraternal twins making out. So when I heard Monday night is the big night for Canterbury's main nightclub, The Works, I was stoked.

The opening night's theme was "schoolgirls." Considering my roommates and I had no idea where to find a B. Spears outfit in quaint little Canterbury, we stuck with nightclub gear. We took the bus to the club, packing in the back with other wasted Americans and boys dressed in plaid skits and belly button-bearing oxfords.

Once we got off the bus, people started sprinting. We didn't know why until we saw the massive "queue," as the English call it. The line went around the block, full of more schoolgirls with cigarettes in one hand and a Strongbow in the other (cheap cider). Eurotrip here I come.

We hoped the line would move quickly. And hoped. We were smushed shoulder to shoulder for 45 minutes. Forty-five minutes with drunk schoolboys. In the freezing cold. Every 20 minutes the crowd would surge forward and we could take one baby step forward. I started formulating an escape plan in my head in case I suffocated. It involved my elbow and the word "vomit."

After the 45 minutes and a 10-pound lighter body, I stepped into The Works. Not as glamorous as Eurotrip's club, but it seemed just as wild. Lady Gaga was bumping, fog machines puffed away, schoolgirls swung their braids around and kids packed the bar.

We had to wait another 20 minutes to check our coats (which cost 1 pound), and 25 minutes to buy a vodka shot half the size of my thumb (2.50 pounds). I won't even mention the line for the bathroom.

When we finally pulled ourselves away from lines and hit the dance floor, Bon Jovi was blasting on the "cheese floor," the first of The Works' three floors. The cheese floor plays 90's American music like "Mmm Bop," "Baby Got Back" and "Apache." The English go wild for it. Bon Jovi, yeah! The second floor is techno, and the third is R&B/hip hop (someone said Kurdish music too), but we never made it past the cheese floor.

After one hour of dancing to Aerosmith and two Jack and cokes (which took 20 minutes each to get), we were ready to leave. I needed clean air, space and boys dressed like boys.

So there weren't any twins making out or people popping E, but I think the cheese music and schoolboys sufficed. And now I can say I've been to a European club. Cheers!

The Three Stages of Study Abroad

2009-01-28T08:48:00.000-08:00

They say there are three stages of adjustment during study abroad: First, The Euphoric Stage, or honeymoon phase. Your eyes light up at every cobblestone, Colosseum sighting, Irish accent, whiff of B.O., etc. Some people stay in this phase for the entire trip, others lose it the instant they learn about the lack of Easy Mac.

Second, The Hostile Stage, commonly felt as bitterness. You hate everything about your host country. Why aren't the toilets automatic? Why do they drive on the wrong side of the road? Why don't they shave? Why don't they have regular peanut butter? Why does everyone hate Americans? Again, bitterness' longevity depends upon the person. For most, it lasts only a few weeks.

And the third, the best, is The Acceptance Stage. You come to terms with the quirks of your host country, and appreciate it. Yes, U.S. toilets may flush faster, but the U.K. toilets allow you more moments of reflection in the bathroom. Yes, they don't have living rooms here. Ok, that's a problem. But you accept it.

I'd like to think I'm still in The Euphoric Stage, but I've experienced a few annoyances with the British system.

On the first day of class, I reeked of hostility. I went to the English department to try and sort out my classes, which were all scheduled at the same time. I found out I had to buy two course booklets for two classes--7.99 and 5.00 pounds each. I use them for one day. I also had to buy Shakespeare's Sonnets for 10 pounds that I use for one day. In the whole semester. You know how you hear England is ridiculously expensive? It's those dang course booklets.

I go to the library, hoping that will soothe my nerves. I make a beeline for the cafe, and bundle my English coins while buying a chicken salad sandwich. I walk out to find a place to sit. Can I eat this outside of the cafe zone? Are food and drink allowed? Not knowing a place's customs throws me off. It's a simple task: where can I eat a bland chicken salad sandwich that tastes the way my moldy flat smells? Don't know.

Next I go to the library's PC Room. No Macs, pity. It's completely full. I trek up and down the three floors, wandering into each full PC Room like a hopeless American. Finally I see a spot no one has taken. I zoom in and see the keyboard has giant keys colored red and blue. Hmm...a standard British keyboard?

I look above the PC and see a sign that says, "Computer for the Visually Impaired." Damn. Now I have a huge sign on my head that reads "Clueless American Who's Visually Impaired." Off to lurking more computer rooms. After 20 minutes, I find a computer for people who aren't blind, and finally feel off to a good start.

Not so much. I reach for the Shift key, which is the size of a a letter key. Same with the Enter key. That just throws people off. I reach for the @ key. There is no @ key! How can I type my e-mail address? (Do I sound bitter yet?) After scanning the keyboard like a visually impaired person, I spot it on the comma key. This is what they call culture shock, I guess.

I slump home in my Target rainboots, next to a girl with a billowy jacket laced with gold buttons, black tights and fancy leather knee-high boots. Shoot me. And it's raining. I walk faster.

For dinner, my roommates and I want to use our oven. The temperatures follow: 1, 2, 3, 4...Where's 350??? I turn on the stove, and it doesn't work. We watch our British roommate turn the gas on, light a paper towel with his lighter, and hold this to the stove plate to ignite the flame. Second-degree burns, here I come.

Ok, I sound like a classic stage of bitterness. But it was only one day. And it was just "adjusting." Now, I can laugh at all those petty quirks. I'm accepting, I swear!

Jetlag and Dragon Tattoos: I've arrived in Canterbury

2009-01-15T13:58:00.000-08:00

I've made it. Canterbury at last! It has been a hectic past couple days, injected with jetlag and "Scrumpy Jack" (London's form of hard cider that tastes like apple juice with a kick-it's one pound and delicious).

We arrived at London's Heathrow airport at 6:30 in the morning on Jan. 13. A British taxi driver named Liam, who talked non-stop and had coincidentally bad teeth, met us with a sign.

On our hour and a half drive to Canterbury, he told us how to "bunk" a train (get on without paying), things that are "dodgy," and how he got a "caution" from the police once. I couldn't believe the British accent, it kept surprising me. We arrived at our campus, which is 10 minutes from Canterbury and extremely wooded. Birds were chirping, pigeon poop was on the ground, and it was a sunny 44 degrees. Bliss. And very different from Marquette.

Our flat is great, we have 5 roommates and our own rooms--no living room though which I found odd, or dodgy, if you will.

My messy bed

We didn't think anyone was there when we first got there. But there were rotting olives in the fridge, doughy spatulas on the kitchen counter, and men's boxers hanging in the bathroom. Suspicious. We later discovered we had a guy roommate who has dragon tattoos on his forearms and apparently enjoys incense who lives on the first floor. Then there's four of us girls living on the second floor, who are all really great.

All right, this is too long a blog. One more thing. The actual city of Canterbury is stupendous. It's described by Virginia Woolf as "the loveliest city" on Earth. Maybe (Detroit might be a smidge better). But it's very English, very medieval, and very me.

The view of the Cathredal from campus

A teacup ride in the middle of downtown Canterbury

Cozy pub across from the cathredal serving standard English pies