Don't eat the whitebait and other life lessons from my trip to the RUSI

All right, I realize it’s been a while since my last post, so here’s a long story in an attempt to correct this travesty. I have quite a few more stories to tell, including tales about the Mansfield College Ball, Halloween, and Oxford urban legends, but for now, this will have to suffice. So without further ado, I give you…

My Trip to the RUSI: The RUSI, or the Royal United Services Institute, is a non-profit organization located in London that describes itself as, “the Professional Forum in the UK for those concerned with National and International Defence and Security.” This is code for, “We have a lot of really interesting books on World War II.” And as such, my tutor has been pushing me to take a trip down to the RUSI library since day one.

I need to back up slightly and explain that, first of all, one of my tutorials for this term is Winston Churchill and the Second World War. It’s my primary tutorial, so I meet once a week with my tutor, Professor Neville Brown, for about three hours every Friday evening. Side note: this is an extremely long time for a tutorial. Most only last an hour, and even two hours is pretty rare. But three hours, which is how long Neville’s prone to lecture, is unheard of.

Now I need to give you a quick run down of Neville Brown. Neville’s in his mid-seventies with a classically kind English old man face: slightly droopy eyes, a broad smile, wispy, wavy, white hair, rosacea on his nose, and permanently flaky skin. He’s a good tutor, but he has a propensity to talk a lot, and he’s a slow talker. He tends to take about ten minutes to make a point he could have made in two because he goes off on tangents in the middle of his stories. He has a lower voice, not booming or too deep, but very serious, and he can relay the gravity of any situation with ease. He does laugh quite a bit at himself and our subject, and our tutorials are interesting if nothing else. I’ll leave it at that for now because Neville really could be his own blog entry, and I might have to add a full post just about him at some point.

One last thing you should know about Neville as it’s pertinent to our story: when Neville settles on an idea for something he wants you to do, he will hound you on it until you do it. I’m not sure if that’s just his nature, or if he forgets that he’s brought it up a hundred times before, but that’s that. So when Neville decided I should go to the RUSI to do research for one of my papers, there was really no way I was going to avoid the trip to London.

Last Friday, Nov. 13, it was settled that I would travel to the RUSI on Tuesday, Nov. 17 to do research for my upcoming paper on the Bomber Offensive. I’d get there as early as I could, do some research and meet with Neville for lunch.

Tuesday finally rolled around and I woke up bright an early at 6:40 am to get ready. With my current sleeping plan, this was waaaaay to early for me to be up. I haven’t seen the sun rise in about six months and that’s the way I like it, thank you very much. So after dragging myself out of bed and showering while I was still mostly asleep, I packed my bag for the day. The bus was set to leave at 8:00 am from a bus stop very close to my dorm, but I was three pounds short for the bus fare, and I needed to get down to an ATM before heading to the bus stop. Of course, the ATMs are in the opposite direction from where I needed to be, but there was no avoiding it. I set out for my favorite ATM, the one inside Costcutters, at about 7:35. I got down to the store only to find that Costcutters doesn’t open to 8:00. Crap. Fortunately the next line of ATMs were just down the street by Tesco’s. Unfortunately, this meant I was going to have to book it to get to the bus on time and I was wearing a nice wool sweater. Oh well, they’re called sweaters for a reason I suppose. I picked up the pace, rushed to ATM and made it back to the bus stop with two minutes to spare. Phew! But as with all stories when you rush to some place to be on time, the bus, of course, was late.

I hopped on the Oxford Express to London at about 8:15. The ride is about an hour and forty minutes long, so I settled in to eat my packed breakfast and read my current Jane Austen novel. Yet as is the norm with me riding public transportation, I fell asleep. I work up about two hours later to find we were just getting to London. Thanks to some traffic problems, we arrived at Victoria Coach Station around 10:50. Feeling as though I’d already lost a ton of research time, I hoped on another bus to head to Whitehall, the home of the RUSI.

After getting lost on Whitehall due to construction and my own idiocy to not write down the RUSI’s precise address, I found my way into the RUSI lobby. John Montgomery, the librarian came down to pick me up and escorted me on a tour of the library. It was a nice, smaller library. It reminded me of an English gentleman’s large personal library (the kind I’d like to have some day). There were big squashy leather armchairs and great, high shelves, a nice gallery with workstations, and a nifty spiral staircase to take you between the lower and upper levels. By the time I had grabbed an armful of books and set up at a workstation, it was nearly time to meet Neville for lunch. I worked diligently (i.e., I power skimmed the books looking for relevant information) until it was time to meet Neville in the lobby.

I met Neville at the appointed time and we plodded our way towards the National Liberal Club for lunch. Neville’s a member of the club (in spite of his “varying political beliefs,” as he reminded me about twenty times leading up to the trip), and he wanted to show me, among other things, a portrait of Winston Churchill as a young man. We got to the club, but we were told we could not dine there because I was wearing jeans. As Neville put it, “In spite of their name, they have very conservative standards of dress!” We were allowed, however, to go look at the portrait of Churchill. It’s a great painting of him. You can really see the melancholy in his face. Churchill used to say how the “black dog within me,” would sometimes get the better of him. It’s probably what drove him to his borderline alcoholism. Neville took a picture of Winston and me together, and we set off to find somewhere else to eat.

After ambling our way around for about ten minutes (and when I say amble, I mean inch, because Neville walks about as quick as a snail on decaf), we settled on a traditional London pub, the Clarence. I lead the way into the pub and got us a table for two. The host sent us toward a small table in the corner. It was one of those half booth tables where one side is a booth and the other is a chair, and since I was leading the way, I took the booth seat, expecting Neville to take the chair. To my surprise, Neville sat right down next to me asking, “Is there room for the two of us in here?” Not really knowing what to say, I let him squeeze in next to me, even though it was clear that we weren’t going to fit two sets of plates on this side of the table.

In the name of cleanliness (and to escape the awkwardness of the situation), I headed to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I came back, Neville made to get up to let me back into the booth. I politely declined and took the chair instead. While I was away, Neville informed me that he’d been perusing the menu.

“Now they have the usual, boring sort of sandwich fare, nothing exciting there. But on the starters, they have whitebait. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Thinking he was merely asking my opinion about his lunch selection, I said yes. It turns out, he wasn’t merely asking my opinion for his lunch. When our waiter came over, he went ahead and ordered the whitebait and a half pint of bitters for both of us. This took me by surprise, and after thinking, “well, I actually wanted a sandwich, but ok,” I resigned myself to having the whitebait.

I had no idea what whitebait was, but I was assuming it was some kind of fish. I thought it was probably going to be fish chunks, sort of a mini fish and chips, minus the chips. Our meals came and I took stock of my plate. It seemed I was right; the whitebait appeared to be strips of fried fish all piled up in a little bowl. In the name of healthiness, I dove into the side salad first (in retrospect I’m glad I did). After demolishing my salad, I tuned to the whitebait. I dipped the glorified fish stick into the Bloody Mary sauce it came with and took a bite. It was extremely fishy tasting, and I’m not a huge fish fan, so I really didn’t like it. But I thought, “Ok, Neville ordered this for you. Be polite and try and chow down a few of these then you can leave it alone.” I uncomfortably down seven or eight more with copious amounts of sauce, until I came to a whitebait wasn’t fully breaded. As I picked the piece up, I noticed a fish eye looking back up at me. Upon closer inspection, I saw the entire fish head, and I realized that I had been eating whole fried sardines. Eyes, bones, brains and all.

Have you ever gotten the chills and known it wasn’t from being cold? As I weighed the impoliteness of throwing up with the impoliteness of ordering your own meal, I made a mental note that the former was probably worse than the latter and decided that I’d be ordering my own food from then on.

Yet that didn’t take care of the current dilemma, which was dealing with the realization that I’d been eating fish heads. I needed to get the taste out of my mouth and so I reached for my bitters. Before I took a swig, I noticed something floating in the foam, and proceeded to remove a long, black hair from my beer. At this point, I didn’t care. I needed this beer, and took a big gulp. As I did, my lips landed on a huge lipstick print. I hadn’t put on lipstick that morning. Ew.

I quickly scoured the menu for something edible and settled on the apple crumble with custard. I’ve become a huge apple crumble fan and our dining hall makes the best crumble in the world. Thinking that I couldn’t go wrong with the crumble, I ordered it as soon as possible. It took forever and a day to come out. Neville commented that, “they were probably harvesting the apples.” When it finally came out, it was piping hot, but I didn’t care. I poured on the custard and dove in.

I imagine it’s difficult to screw up crumble. After all, it’s pretty much fruit, sugar and crust, but this pub managed to screw it up royally. It was not sweet at all, and there were whole chunks of nutmeg and cinnamon just sitting in the crumble. I immediately bit into a clove of nutmeg, thus combining the horrible fishy taste of sardine with the hot, raw spicy taste of a nutmeg clove in my mouth. Not a good combo. I somehow managed to eat half of my terrible crumble and spread the other half around to make it look like I had eaten more of it. That’s five pounds I wish I had back.

After splitting the bill with Neville, I was ready to go home. But I still had another couple of hours of work to do in the RUSI before I could go back. I dutifully headed to the library and churned out a few more hours of work.

The thing about the RUSI library is that while I did get some useful information, it’s nothing I couldn’t have done at Oxford. The only real difference was the photocopying was cheaper and all the books I needed were more conveniently grouped together. Since I’m not a member, I couldn’t check any of the books out, and the ones I found really helpful all have copies at Oxford (but I can’t check them out there either). Essentially, I spent a day in London that probably could have been better spent at Oxford.

I worked till 5:30 pm when the library closed and I was kicked out by John Montgomery (who’s actually from California. Go figure). I knew the next bus left at 6:00, and since I wasn’t about to risk another terrible London food experience, I decided to try and catch it. After being forced to by another bus ticket (apparently you can’t buy two way bus tickets in London), I made it to the coach station just before six. I raced down to my gate and saw that the bus was waiting, but had all of its lights off. I wasn’t sure if the driver was taking a break or not, so I hesitated at the gate. Just when I was about to go out and check on the bus, it drove away. Crap.

Extremely hungry and sick of the day, I purchased a croissant to soothe my soul and stomach. The next bus wasn’t set to leave until 6:30, but fortunately, the bus came early and we left at 6:17. The ensuing ride home was uneventful, excepting the fact that I had a rather large woman as a seat partner who grunted loudly from time to time. I turned up my iPod and tried to forget about the day and the rumbling in my stomach.

When I got home, I raced over to a local pub, The Cape of Good Hope, for a good bite to eat. Steering away from anything that might be reminiscent of fish, I had a nice steak with peppercorn and excellent chips. The best part of the night was that it was trivia night, or quiz night as they call it here. I was eating by myself until the table next to me invited me over to join their team. I did and we had a great time guessing on most of the bizarre questions and getting to know each other. They said they come pretty much every week and they wanted me to come join their team on a regular basis. I think I will. Overall, the Cape of Good Hope gave me a nice end to an otherwise crappy day.

So what can you, the patient reader, learn from this experience? I’ll break it down into a few simple lessons:

1) Public transportation is a surefire sleep aid.

2) Always order for yourself.

3) Whitebait is gross and it is possible to screw up apple crumble.

4) The RUSI library is nice, but not really worth the hassle unless you’re researching for some obscure military defense project and/or live in London.

5) To salvage a bad day, go to quiz night at a pub and either bring or make friends.

Trust me on these ones kids, I lived ‘em all a day.

A Bright Idea

Light Bulb Story: Generally speaking, the English fail at making appliances. (And I’ve noticed my appliances have gone all screwy since I got here. Like my iPhoto, for instance. Keeps quitting without warning so I can’t actually access my pictures. Gah!). But overall, I’ve had the worst luck with English light bulbs. They sell two different styles of bulbs here: regular screw bottom bulbs (you know, the kind that work) and these funky, bayonet bottom bulbs. The bayonet bulbs look like a screw bottom bulb’s retarded cousin: instead of having a grooved spiral screw, they have two little metal nubs sticking out horizontally at the bottom, which I suppose screw into some special type of lamp. But mostly, I think they exist so that American students buy 500 light bulbs before getting the ones they need (it’s a conspiracy, man!).

During my first week, I wanted to purchase a small desk lamp at Boswell & Co. (the one stop shop for almost some of your shopping needs!) so that I could read in bed at night without having to get up, turn off the room light, and grope my way back to bed when I’m done reading. Before I went to buy the lamp, a friend warned me just how difficult it was for her to find the correct light bulb for her Boswell lamp. “Oh please,” I thought. “She just wasn’t looking hard enough and she wasn’t being careful to purchase the right bulb. It’s a light bulb. I think I can handle this.” Later that day in Boswell’s, lamp in hand, I pompously waltz into the light bulb section and grab the appropriately sized 40-watt bulb. I’m so confident, I buy two bulbs. After paying for my surefire success bulbs, I get back to my room to set up my new lamp. I go to screw in the bulb and… it didn’t fit. While I had correctly chosen right the size and wattage, I had purchased a bayonet bulb. Crap.

So of to Tesco’s Metro supermarket I went to buy a 40-watt screw bulb. I found the 40-watt screw bottom bulb and again purchased two, since I was sure this one was the right one. Wrong! I had purchased the “small” bottomed screw bulb for specialty lamps. At this point, I’m a bit frustrated.

After suffering through a few more lamp-less lights, I made it back to Boswell’s and headed to the lighting department. To avoid the chance that I might purchase another set of ill fitting light bulbs, I grabbed an identical lamp to the one I purchased, took it downstairs to the guy working the home electrical section and asked him which bulb I needed. He grabbed the correct bulb in about two seconds and started to ring me up. Just to be sure, I asked him to screw one of the bulbs into the lamp I brought downstairs. After looking at me like I was a complete loonball, he screwed in the bulb and, indeed, it was a perfect fit! Nearly overcome with emotion at the prospect of being able to read into the night, I dashed home to light my lamp. The bulb fit perfectly, just like the one in the store. Success! After all my failures, I could finally enjoy night reading via the light provided by a properly fitting 40-watt filament bulb.

That night, while basking in the warm glow of my lamp and reading Sarah Vowell, the bulb burnt out.

Maybe I don’t really need a desk lamp after all.

Likes and Dislikes

As in any new place, there are things that I love, things that I hate, and things that fall somewhere in the middle. Here’s my current list of things at Oxford that fall along that spectrum.

Things that I love:

The fact that this place is oozing with history: A few weeks ago I went to the 12^th Annual Oxford Beer Festival (something that could be in it’s own category of things that I love), which was held at the Town Hall. On my way to the women’s restroom, I passed a glass display case containing the largest civic mace in the UK. Let me state that again: on the way to the women’s restroom. They have so many cool historical items here that they can just toss one like the largest civic mace in a hallway on the way to the bathroom, no big deal. How cool is that? For some more perspective, Santa Clara, the oldest University in California, was founded in 1851. My college here, Mansfield College, was founded in 1838 and it’s one of the newest colleges at Oxford. Awesome.

The amount of stone: This goes hand in hand with the oozing history aspect. It seems to me that nearly every building is built out of stone. It gives the city a magnificent and stately air. I can’t help feeling that I’m a part of history. What have the buildings that surround me witnessed? What have these stones survived? If they could talk to me, what would they say? I suspect that one hundred years ago, the city didn’t look that much different (albeit with fewer cars and more horse manure). And I’m willing to bet that in one hundred years from now, the city still won’t look that much different. It’s a delightful feeling to be a part of something that’s so static, yet so vibrant. Plus there’s just a ton of gargoyles everywhere, and that’s just cool.

Pubs: And all that comes with ‘em! I love the history behind the pubs, the number of pubs, the names of the pubs, the kind of people that go to pubs, the pub food, and, of course, the pub beer. My favorite pub thus far is The King’s Arms (for the beer), but it’s followed closely by The White Horse (for the fish), The Cape of Good Hope (for the chips), The Angel and Greyhound (for the location), and The Eagle and Child (for the name). I’m hoping to set up an actual pub-crawl with friends, but this takes foresight and planning, which I’m not doing so well with right now. In all honesty, I’d really like to do the pub-crawl just so I could buy this poster where you color in the pubs once you’ve had a drink there. Hey, everyone needs a hobby…

The British sense of humor: “They say that anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Except for polio.” –The Inbetweeners. What can I say? These people know how to make a Jackie Stotlar laugh. Especially when it comes to British sitcoms. Some new friends introduced me to the show “Black Books.” It is by far one of the best shows I’ve ever seen, and I’ve only seen a few episodes. Keep ‘em coming!

Walking everywhere: It’s nice to clear your mind with a good walk, and here at Oxford, I have to walk everywhere. I have a 10-15 minute walk onto Mansfield’s campus for classes and food and such, and a 12-17 minute walk into the heart of Oxford for shopping and food and friends and such. Walking everywhere has given me a great sense of direction and the feeling that I am an actual city resident. “Why yes, sir, I do know where the Wheatshef is, and I can tell you how to get there!” I also get a good workout in just by going shopping. See, Dad? Shopping is good for my health!

Things that I hate:

Walking everywhere: Oh my god, I know why they invented cars. The thing about cars is they’re awesome. First of all, cars can hold a ridiculous amount of groceries/clothes/books, far more than can fit in my backpack. Cars can also travel great distances at great speed, with minimal effort on the part of the driver. My friend lives on the other side of town, probably about three miles from my dorm. With a car, the situation plays out like this: “Oh, you live only three miles away? Great I can be there in two minutes.” When you have to walk there, it plays out like this: “Oh you live three miles away? Crap, I’ll be there in an hour and two minutes.” This is especially a problem at night, when it gets quite cold and dark. I’ve tried to alleviate the problem by purchasing a bus pass, which has helped. Yet you still have to wait for a bus, in the cold and the dark by yourself. A car just sits patiently, waiting for you to hop on in and drive away, shielding you from the cold, dark night, and delivering you home in a matter of minutes with all your groceries and books from the day’s outing. *Sigh,* I miss my car.

Banks: I chose my bank, Abbey National, based off of a guide sheet provided by Mansfield. Abbey had free international transfers and they had a desk specifically designated to setting up international student accounts, so I thought they would probably be pretty good at dealing with the type of account I needed. Wrong. I think the reason they have free transfers and a separate international student desk is because they are inept at dealing with international student accounts in general, and so place them in a separate “screw you” area, and the transfers take so long to clear, that they know no sensible person would pay to wait that long for their own money. I’ll have a full bank story about this later, but for the purpose of this list, I’ll say that banks are generally inefficient and a huge pain in the butt.

The fact that everything shuts down at five pm: Would you like to do your shopping later in the day after you’ve put in a good days work? Too bad, because everything will close before you have a chance! Now, would you like to get something to eat to ease your frustrations about the fact that all the shops are closed? Too bad, because everything closes before you’re hungry! Looks like you’re eating pub food again. Better get in before they stop serving food at nine…

Driving on the wrong side of the road: Seriously, who told England that they should drive on the left? This goes against every traffic safety lesson I’ve have since I was two. The biggest problem is that I automatically look to wrong way to check for traffic. “Nobody’s there, it’s safe to…gah! Where’d that car come from!?!?” Driving on the left side of the road also makes me extremely wary about getting a bike. While many of my friends have bikes (which cut their commute down a ton) I know I’d mess up and drive on the right side of the road. So I choose life, but thanks for the offer, bike.

Things that fall somewhere in the middle of my love/hate scale:

The Weather: It’s not particularly warm but it’s not particularly cold. It hovers in that annoying yes-you’ll-need-a-jacket-for-tonight-but-right-now-you’ll-sweat-like-crazy-if-you-wear-that-jacket-while-walking-to-campus temperature zone. It also tends to rain whenever I’m wearing wool, which makes me feel like a wet sheep. However, it’s much better than absolutely freezing and we’ve had some really nice, sunny fall days that make you understand why anyone said, “Yeah, let’s stay here!”

The Tutorial System: I think the best way to describe the tutorial system is that it’s very different than anything I’ve encountered in the U.S. There really isn’t a rhyme or reason to how your tutorials will work. For me, both of my tutorials have turned into one to three hour one-on-one lectures, which can be tedious at times. There’s also no set reading assignments. Both my tutors give me extensive reading lists that may or may not pertain to what we talk about next week. This can be extremely frustrating, especially coming from a system where I’ve been told what I need to do all the time. There’s also not really a great sense of how you’re progressing. While discussing your paper, your tutor might say, “Well, did you consider this idea?” But you’re not really sure if that’s a “Well, did you consider this idea because your idea was total crap,” or a “Your idea was great, but did you consider this idea?” That said, I’m learning a lot, but it’s very strange to not really be taught by a teacher.

The Food: Mostly, the food is pretty good. And they don’t lie when they say that the pub fish and chips are awesome. But the English don’t seem to understand the concept of salads and I feel like I’m constantly missing out on my veggies. I eat a lot of fruit, especially since the dining hall has a giant fruit bowl out at every meal, but I can’t seem to fill the veggie gap in my diet. Also, most things tend to come with gravy. Chances are if it comes with gravy, it needs it to taste good (a lesson I learned the hard way). Overall, I feel I’m staying well nourished, but I’ll be happy to return to American fare.

Comfort Food for Thought

You know what I miss? Cheetoes. There, I said it. Let the judgments begin. Here's a story about my quest for that wonderful comfort snack, the milkshake.

Milkshake story: In my never ending quest to make myself feel more at home here, I set out today to find Moo Moo’s milkshakes, a milkshake place that was vouched for by an American friend. (I suppose this quest actually began my first week here, when I ordered an Oreo shake at a burger place. It was, in a word, abysmal, and since then, I’ve been determined to find a decent, if not perfect, milkshake).

I made my way into the covered market where the heralded milkshake makers resided. After wandering around for a bit, being slightly distracted by the overpowering smell of fish (I never did see a fish place), I found my way to Moo Moo’s. I scanned the board and found that they did indeed have chocolate shakes, and since I was playing it safe, I ordered a small. While waiting for my shake to be shook, I re-read the menu and I noticed that what I read as a “chocolate shake” was actually a “chocolate candy bar shake.” Oops. My shake was indeed a candy bar shake (I don’t think they do normal shakes). The concept of making a chocolate shake with chocolate bars is an interesting one, and one that theoretically should yield similar results to a shake made from chocolate syrup. But then one remembers that cold bars of chocolate do not blend very well and have that slightly waxy texture/taste to them. So too was my vanilla shake with chocolate bar bits: it was ill blended and pretty waxy. That said, it wasn’t bad. It was really more a kin to a drinkable blizzard, which is fine, if that’s what you’re looking for. However, I wasn’t looking for a drinkable blizzard, I was looking for a milkshake. A thick, creamy milkshake made with ice cream, chocolate syrup, milk, and sugar. It’s really not that hard, England.

Oh well. I’m slowly learning that there are just some things I’m going to have to live without for the next year, and I suppose that’s all part of the adventure!

My first thoughts

Hey everyone,
Here are some excerpts from my journal from a few weeks ago. Enjoy!

Toaster story: As in any college provided kitchen, there’s a motley crew of random appliances and kitchen tools in my kitchen at the dorm. Yet the most crucial missing tool, in my opinion, is a pair of toaster tongs. You know, those wooden tongs you can use to get your toast out of the toaster so you don’t burn/electrocute yourself? Today I was toasting my pop tarts, which was a great idea until they were done, and they got stuck just below the top of the slots. Since I couldn’t stick my fingers in without burning them, and I couldn’t stick a fork in there to fish the pop tarts out without electrocuting myself, I decided the best rout would be to simply dump the toaster upside-down. Well, my pop tarts did come out, along with approximately eight years worth of breadcrumbs and burnt carbon cinders. Mmm. Moral of the story: If you want to toast something, make sure you can get it out of the toaster BEFORE you toast it. Unless you like a good moldy carbon crumb in the morning.

Scouts: At Oxford they employ a staff of, for the lack of a better word, housekeepers that keep the dorms and meeting places clean. These people are called “scouts,” and so far, they have all been very friendly, middle aged women. The thing I find weird is that when I say clean the dorms, I mean they clean our individual rooms along with places like our shared kitchen and bathroom. My scout, Pat, is extremely nice, but it threw me for a loop when she first came to collect my trash and told me that she’d be in the next day to clean my room. Can you believe that? In America, colleges are more than happy to let you live under a foot or two of your own filth, just as long as you clean it up when you move out. As a ridiculously OCD person, I’ve never had that particular problem, but I do tend to let some things go, like cleaning out the sink. In comparison to dorms back in the states, this place is like a posh hotel. Well, a cold posh hotel, but more on that later. I supposed the thing I find both comforting and disconcerting is the fact that someone is paid to clean up after me. At one level, it feels nice to know there’s someone taking care of me. But at the same time the scout system has this lingering sense of classiest society. One that places me, the jobless, half-educated student, on a level above the hardworking housekeeper. I don’t know if that’s something I’ll ever be comfortable with. But I’ve got to go, Pat’s come to collect my trash.

Heaters: England is a cold, damp, and generally dreary place. I don’t say that because I’ve been homesick. I say that because honestly I think I’ve seen grey skies almost everyday since my arrival. There also just seems to be an excess of water in the air all the time. Nearly everything feels just a bit damp. When I opened my suitcases, I thought, “Oh jeez, did something spill in here?” Yeah, England did. That said, you would think the English would be on the forefront of heating technology. I mean no one really likes to be cold and wet all the time, right? Wrong, because the English suck at heating their buildings. I’m not sure any building is equipped with central heating. All the buildings I’ve been into have space heaters/radiators on a wall of each room. My dorm has one such heater per room. To work it, you have to crank it up to the maximum temperature, a balmy 21º C (that’s 69.8º F), flip all the switches, and then press this little red button for “One Hour of Comfort Temperature.” That’s right, one hour. Then you have to manually turn the freaking thing back on. But if you hit the button before the full hour has passed (because it usually doesn’t actually stay on for the full hour), the system shuts down and you can’t turn it back on for a good 30 minutes. If you’re lucky, the heater might warm up the wall that it’s on, but there’s no way it’s going to actually heat the full room. If by some miracle, you could use the provided heater to heat the whole room during the day, it won’t keep running at night when you could use it the most. I purchased a halogen lamp heater almost immediately and that thing is worth its weight in gold. The only draw back is that it’s really bright, so I still can’t run it at night. I compensate by cranking it super high before I go to bed and I aim it right at my pillows, so when I do go to bed, I’m nice and toasty. The person who invents a system where you could heat or cool an entire house with the touch of a button will make a FORTUNE! Oh wait…

It's here!

Howdy friends, family and any creepy pseudo friends stalking me on facebook,
Here's my much-anticipated blog! Thanks for being so patient while waiting to hear from me in blog form (as if you had a choice). I'm really doing well here at Oxford. I'm feeling settled and the homesickness I felt the first few weeks is gone. Everything seems to be rolling along at a good clip, and it's weird for me to say, but I'll be back in the good ol' U.S. of A. in thirty-six short days. My apologies for not getting this blog up and running sooner, but I have been a touch busy since I've arrived. :)
Now that this blog's up, I'll try to post once a week. I've decided to do this in a bullet-point form, kind of a "these are my thoughts on ___," as you'll see in my first few posts. All righty everyone, sit back, relax, and enjoy my Stories from the Shire!
Blog you soon,
Jackie