Life, The Universe, and Whatever Else There Is.

Hello world!

We've been stuck in a hostel with super slow, very iffy wifi, and pretty much no space to be quiet and actually work. Today we'll be headed into the city to look at yet more places to live; and Ariel to orientation. This week is the official start of my tenure as a graduate student.

(Oh goodness...)

I'll figure it all out eventually. I still need to get down to Kingston to talk to the foreign languages department about Italian courses... I think it would be a great opportunity to stretch my Italian skills back out after such disuse. On that note, I've had great practical application in the last few days! There has been an influx of Italian people, who I assume are here because of some bank holiday or something. I've been listening covertly on the Tube and in the hostel as they converse. I find I can get at least the gist of it when they speak slowly enough, or use phrases I remember. I figure that's a start!

Well, it's cold and rainy. Very cold and rather rainy. Even the Brits are admitting that it's a titch nippy now.

(Oh... I can smell this guy (Nigerian? Algerian? One of them, I'm fairly certain) from across the bar. For the love of all that's good PLEASE SHOWER. Or use some kind of deodorant. YOU. SMELL. RANK. I think he's been wearing the same suit for at least the three days I've been in and out of this place. It is, frankly, distressing.)

We've got the greater part of our baggage collection in a storage locker because we've got zero space here. Eventually though, we will have to go back just because we will run out of the necessities long before we find a place. (That's not entirely true, that's just the soul-crushing feeling that this whole hunt for a flat has been causing.)

I think it is patently ridiculous to ask for references in order to rent a flat. I take it back, it makes a decent amount of sense in certain situations and in certain ways. However, three? A previous landlord, a previous or current teacher/professional, and a character reference. THIS ISN'T A JOB, it's a place to live. I'd understand a credit check, and I definitely agree that having a photocopy of my passport page is good, but jeeze.

I know; I understand; I get it. Choose any, choose all. I still think it's really ridiculous.

I've been trying all morning to figure out what, exactly, my school schedule is. It has been remarkably hard to pin it down; then again all of my professors are artists, computers aren't their thing. Aside from writing programs that is! They already said it, and I'm going to quote it.

I'm trying to figure out how I'm supposed to afford books, housing, and food for another two weeks until I get my loans disbursement. The school, as ever, has been completely useless, aside from Peter in FinAid. He got the letter drafted that got me a bank account, so at least the disbursement can go through without having to wait yet another week for a cheque. I think its hilarious, in a sad way, that the whole "starving" thing will come before the "artist" part gets to take off.

That's part of the joy of living abroad, though. Right?

Well, ADVENTURE AWAITS!

Okay, Okay. I've heard that you lot think I've died. Well, I haven't, but I have been busy running hither-and-yon trying to work everything out. Housing is a nightmare and trying to get enrolled... I'll start on that later! Safe to say though, that after listening to the cogs and gears at work in the school bemoan the new system, I don't feel quite so left-in-the-rain. I definitely sent them an email with that as the closing. Peter (the cog) told me he was absolutely sorry to hear that circumstances were such for so many internationals, but that the new system had just been put in place and was causing nightmares all around. Apparently another London school had to tell 2,600 of it's brand-new Internationals that their visas were invalid unless they found a new school in less than one week; I'm alright with having to hoop-jump if it means not being deported for my school's mistakes! All in all I feel I've been fairly mistreated in the entire adventure, but it is getting better. Tomorrow is the Globe Theatre for "The Taming of the Shrew" and then Thursday is... duhn duhn duhn! Ariel! I'll go ahead and use first names this time. Too confusing otherwise, what with both our names starting with "A". I miss you all, but I'll be getting on just fine I think. Happy travels!

Well folks, I've made it to London. Might have gotten a bit turned about (make that a lot turned about) but I made it. I'll add more later, but I just thought you'd like to know. I know I was glad to know...

Hello, World! Nice to be a part of you once more. For all those who don't know, A. and I are heading to London for a year. A year! A year of not being home, of meeting new people and certainly new foods. Perhaps even eating said foods! I am leaving the 10th of September for this grand adventure, and I have every intention of updating the blog on a far (far) more consistent basis. Perhaps every week at least. (One can try.) I'm probably going to do a joint blog venture with A, wherein we'll be doing a Vlog as well. That means that all of those playing the home game can participate in our merry band of adventurism, whether you like it or not. So there. I'm going to be hell-for-leather for the next few weeks, but I am really, really excited about this. Terrified, thrilled, and truly ready to start something new. Adventure Awaits!

Do you know what I miss?

I miss dinners in Italy. I've traveled to Italy three times, each for greater than a week. I miss the tables filled with laughter and good food. Even when the tables weren't filled with laughter, or even half-decent food, dinner was the get-together time. In Italy, dinner is the meal of the day when everyone comes together to talk and relax.

Siena was the first study abroad I did (with A, which was the start of a wonderful travel-buddy system) and the first time I'd left the country. I spoke a little Italian, and had more on my mind than just speaking it, what with the classes every day and sightseeing and the general amazement and exhaustion which comes with travel. A and I shared a host-mom, Fulvia. Fulvia was, we think, a vegetarian who ate a lot of zucchini and "melanzane", which we later found out meant eggplant. Fulvia was a great cook, though. Everything you'd imagine an Italian grandma to be, and when we went home after school, Fulvia would have dinner almost ready. Usually some pasta, some salad, and some kind of bigger dish, usually vegetable in nature, sometimes meat-related. Dinner was when we would put our new speaking skills to work. "Noi abbiamo" is probably the biggest thing I picked up from that experience. I was a horrible speaker at that point (let's be honest, I got really good and now could probably limp my way through another conversation. Maybe.) and so it was a slightly embarrassing but ultimately enjoyable way to learn the language. The three of us would talk for a long time, Fulvia would help us with our homework (oh those worksheets were brutal sometimes) and our pronunciation. All of this, though, surrounded dinner. It was dinner when we recounted our days in Italian (Fulvia being unable to understand English, it was a real learning curve!). I'll never forget the warmth and happiness, and to be honest a bit of embarrassment and consternation.

In Montepulciano, my second study abroad in another Tuscan town not far from Siena, dinner was a whole different animal. With 30 people in a restaurant, things can get loud and close, but it was still nice to get everyone together for a meal. To just sit and talk, split "un bottiglia di vino rosso" (the house red, made in the restaurant owner's family vineyards outside the city) and good bread. The food wasn't always good, I'll firmly state that. For being a restaurant, they did a good job of feeding 30 people every weekday. We had to feed ourselves breakfast and lunch, and dinner too on the weekends, but dinner was gathering time. We got announcements, saw the people with whom you did not share an apartment with. (I had 7 roommates. All girls. OH THE HUMANITY.) For some of us, it was a chance to practice our Italian as well. The owner more than once came to talk to myself and the other three more fluent students. For all of the people and the mediocre food, it was still the meal everyone was loathe to miss, not only for the fact that you'd already paid for it (in the tuition) but for the sense of solidarity it brought. Each night, full up with food, desert, and wine, we'd stumble off to our apartments and resume our small scale wars (I will never live with artists again, I swear it.) But for a while at least, the world focused on food and talk.

My third trip, this past summer's adventure, had me in the ups-and-downs of dinner in Italy. First few nights in Salerno with A, we had pathetic sandwiches, fruit, and nutella covered something for desert. Dinner was more of a signal to slow down and talk, to stop walking and just enjoy a few moments of rest. When we joined up with C and T at C's grandparent's house, dinner was more like it was with Fulvia. Wonderful food and wonderful conversation (in English mostly, but there were a few dinners held at least partly in Italian) all of which would last for hours at times. We talked about any and everything, over home made meatballs and pasta, or a spread of dishes, with each of us encouraged to eat more, since we were all obviously too skinny. The classic Italian Grandma routine. Which, I must say, is a wonderful thing to be on the receiving end of once in a while.

Dinner in Italy brings up so many images, so many feelings of happiness and warmth that I can't help but miss the closeness of it. In my house, more often than not dinner is a lonesome affair. Unless otherwise informed, everyone does their own thing, and sometimes we might not even see each other in the evenings. Dinners with friends are nice, but usually entail sitting on a couch or something similar, never really at a table. We tend to have interesting conversations, but as with the family, not everyone is eating at the same time.

I guess I just miss the camaraderie which dinner can bring, but I do miss the food like mad. ITALIAN FOOD IS AWESOME AND I'D EAT IT EVERY DAY (AGAIN) IF I COULD.

Rocks. Croatian Rocks.

In Croatia there were rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Rocky beaches, bluffs, cliffs, boulders and pieces of ragged concrete, all making up not only a country, but an experience. Two rocks in particular have insinuated themselves into my memory and will, with any luck, always be able to pull me back into those times, those little slices of life.

The first is the jumping rock we found at the beach in Lokva Rogoznica, the one we had to climb, crawl, and swim to reach. We stood at the top of what had to be seven or so feet above the sea, and took deep breaths, and when we leapt, it was free fall for a blissful moment, before the slightly stingy portion of the dive. The current was strong, the water crisp, the air turning cold as the sun disappeared behind clouds and a mountain. We went up and down that rock a dozen times at least, though it was always a little different. I managed some flips and Air even got some back-flip air action. We climbed and scrabbled and swam, shoes in hand and the underwater camera ready to shoot.

I can feel the cold spray of the ocean, smell the salty tang in the air, can feel that thrum of adrenaline telling you, you’re alive! Alive! A precious memory, a feeling of contentment and joy, and perhaps some exasperation about the climbing bit.

The second rock is what we termed our “couch” rock. One night we were walking along the beach, talking about everything and nothing, observations on the clear sky, the bad music from the bar down the way, and the happiness we had at just being in such a beautiful place. We wanted to find a perching place to sit and watch the stars for a while, so we clambered up some boulders and lo and behold, the biggest rock had what seemed to be the perfect couch indentation taken out of it. I remember my feet dangling over the water and looking at that inky darkness below, amazed by the transformation from the bright, sunny shore we had been to just that morning.

We spent a good hour or two on that rock that night, and came back several times before we left Lokva for good. That rock, the couch rock, is cold beneath my imaginary hands, but firm and solid and real, it was slick from the slight mist, and the full moon above gave the shadows deeper recesses. I guess you could say that Croatia is one of my favorite places we visited not only for the fun and sun, the beaches and the people. Lokva and Dubrovnik were both wonderful places filled with pains and gains, friends well met and friends reaffirmed.

Some of Croatia was not too awesome, (though we really made some interesting food while we were there, poor though it was nutritionally, I’m sure) but overall, I think it is a place I would visit again in a heartbeat, if only to see the rocky beaches and breathtaking beauty of the place.

Thank you, couch- and jumping-rocks, for making a great trip even greater.

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There will be time, there will be time.

I remember things in snapshots of time; not just flashes of places, disconnected and disjointed, but pieces of emotion, of sensations.

I remember clearly in some places, hazily in others. I can barely remember what we did in Cork, but I remember clearly the way that Salzburg felt, how it tasted and smelled. I remember the nights from traveler’s hell, remember the heat, the cold. I remember the crazy showers and disgusting toilets; the smell of Paris and the grit of Prague. I remember the name of the hostel where we stayed in Berlin. I remember watching the World Cup in Germany and Ireland; Paris, Brussels, Bruges, Amsterdam. I remember crowded pubs and long lines.

Not only do I remember these things from these past travels but when one thought leads to another, I remember other dreams and half-imagined fantasies. My two trips to Italy, the trip to the UK. I wonder, sometimes, as I go through everyday life, whether or not the traveling was real. It seems a fanciful dream at times, so achingly real and yet so distant and dreamlike. In a heartbeat, though, I would give up every possession I have except what I carry with me. I would, in a heartbeat, drop everything and go.

Some of you might think that’s crazy and half-cocked and that I should probably get my head checked. Others might think, “Sounds like fun, but the logistics would be a nightmare…” All I know is that for a taste of what I had these past few summers, I would gladly and readily set aside “normal” life for a wandering one.

For the moment, at least, I would get up and go back. Back to shitty hostels and bad food; pasta and bread and not enough protein or green veg. Back to a different city every week, a different language, a different culture. The chance to see what I only dream of, what I’ve already dreamt that I’ve seen.

I remember Versailles with its oppressive heat and crowds, and I remember a night in the Brigg train station, freezing and hungry and tired. I remember anger and frustration and sheer panic at times. I remember running harder and faster than ever in my life whilst carrying 50 pounds of kit. I remember sketchy busses and awkward seat-mates. Trying to figure out what the label on the can says in the grocery store. Figuring out what money you need today, and whether or not you’ll be coming back to spend any extra. Nights in and nights out, pub crawls and concerts. I remember new friends and fast enemies. I remember long waits and longer trains. Kotna Hora and the Eiffel tower. The cliffs of Moher and the beauty of the Spanish countryside. A Spanish hospital and Dachau camp.

I’ve not gotten to all the adventures we had, and I hate having to pick and choose what to talk about, what to leave behind. I know you’re waiting for the rest of the trip, but so am I. Writing about what happened this summer, this adventure into the great wide world, is both pleasure and pain. I love to tell the stories, but it hurts to think of them for too long because I know that, at least at the moment, there are only the adventures I can write about. There are plenty of them awaiting me, out there somewhere. Until then, I only have the wonderful and painful memories of good times, and those not-so-great ones too. Here in my blog I can relate to you stories of only the good, or selective pieces of the bad. I can leave you with any story and leave out all the rest; in my mind, though, I replay each moment to its end, following the narrative as only a dreamer, a writer, an artist can.

So pardon me as I step back into the various pieces of my travels, as I relate to you the echoes of those masterpieces. There will be more to read, I promise. I just ask that you be patient, and that you read and enjoy these posts as much as I love to write them and to share my experiences.