Doing the dishes by hand is a good time to wrestle with unanswerable questions. Like why am I doing my flatmates' dishes on a Saturday night?
I saw the notice when I returned from Paris.
Dear residents of flat 610,
We have inspected your flat for the second time and on both occasions have found the common area's to be dirty and badly cared for, no real improvements have been made...If the rooms are continually dirty and untidy there is possibility that you will attract pests of all sorts that will not only affect you but other tenants.
We had to clean, or else they'd do it for us at our expense.
I showed this to my flatmates. "Did you read that letter we got from Housing?" I asked.
"What letter?"
None of them had. Not that I could really fault them for it. The kitchen table was the base of a precarious architectural experiment that, at the moment, was defying gravity. Bowls with cherrios cemented in solidifying milk teetered on pots speckled with stale ramen. The only thing holding it together was the sticky patches on the table's surface that ripped pages out of any reading material I brought along for meals. Our mail slipped through the cracks and was devoured by whatever three-eyed mutants slobbered below.
Thing is, the note wasn't my problem because the mess wasn't my problem. If I had an isotope to label each molecule of dirt constructing this trash edifice, I'm pretty sure none would say "Eric." I had squeezed all my eating things into a single cupboard. I used one cup, one plate, one bowl, and one of each utensil. But here I was, wiping fossilized crumbs from the counters, peeling black molasses-like gunk from the stove top, and scrubbing dishes.
And the worst part was, I didn't know if my flatmates would even notice.
So as I scrubbed dishes the old-fashioned way, freezing my hands under the cold nozzle and burning them under the hot, I hashed out what I call Mess Theory.
Working definition of Mess: Something that deviates from order and into unattractive, unseemly chaos.
Mess Theory is nothing new. It describes our ability to adjust standards and comfort zones so that what I see as a Mess, you see as a normal order of things.
But here's the kicker: Gradually, as I invest time in forming connections, the Mess gets un-messy simply by adjusting to it. Call it cleaning with psychological powers. Eventually, I'll adapt to your perspective. No dishes have been cleaned. No cherrios liberated from their milky tombs. But the mess is gone. We both see what was previously a horrifying kitchen as a kitchen. Without ever lifting a broom.
I wasn't going to wait for Mess Theory to take hold of me. Lest I become that 44-year-old saxophone street performer. What he saw as a stepping stone to greatness (Paris hasn't discovered me because I don't want them to discover me yet), I saw as a trap door into financial and personal destruction. He lied to himself to hide the Mess of pain.
I think one of the reasons travel is so important is because it shields you from becoming a pawn to Mess Theory. As an international student, you're always on your toes. You're never given the full chance to adjust. You still are your "back home" self, with your own standards to measure Messes against. That's part of the reason why traveling to Guatemala this summer was so stunning: what natives saw as their lives, I saw as a Mess of poverty.
Here the Mess wasn't as grave, but it was enough to make my hands chap.
So I washed dishes. And hoped for happier times visiting Bath tomorrow.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Rendezvous in Paris
I was surprised my Aunt Dale remembered our "date" in front of Notre Dame.
In 2006, I was leaving Paris with a high school exchange the night Dale arrived. While I ate my last dinner at "Jardin de Notre Dame," she ran from restaurant to restaurant checking for me. Without cellphones or a specified meeting spot, we never connected. Before I left for my flight, I called her hotel and we vowed that we would one day remedy this missed rendezvous. One day, we would meet by Notre Dame.
The Italian restaurant wasn't Notre Dame, or even French for that matter, but I didn't care. Just to make it here from Bristol through the London-Paris Eurostar Chunnel, just to fulfill that promise of being in Paris with Aunt Dale and Nancy Schwinn, was surreal. So much had to happen right to have la pleasure of sipping rose wine and inquiring "ou sont les toilettes, monsieur" in my rusty Franglais.
For instance, it was complete chance that English and only English classes started a week late at the University of Bristol, freeing up a whole semaine. Upon hearing this news, I was agitated. In Bristol, you enroll the old fashioned way: going to department heads, smiling the "study abroad smile," and endearing yourself to them in the hope of being granted admission into a course. It was while I was making my case for admittance into a Postcolonial Literature class that the department head said I would not start until the following week, so why don't I cool down a little bit (I was shocked when my top five courses were all full or unavailable to study abroad students and was letting him know). He offered no explanation why English courses start late. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find an explanation for much of how England's academia works. Why not register online like back in the US? Why can't I be admitted into this Postcolonial Lit class? Why can't I take 50 credit modules (instead of the you-must-take-60-or-else standard) if it allows me to take classes I'm interested in rather schedule-fillers because I'm pretty sure I didn't come across the Atlantic to play patty-cakes for 10 credits? Instead, I heard the same thing over and over: Study Abroad students aren't allowed to _____ (fill in the blank) because they're study abroad students.
Understandably, most students would leap for joy at a week off, but my heart sank. Vacations are great, and I would regret wishing a hasty start to the semester as soon as it began, but right now I wagered that the best way to get comfortable in Bristol was to do what I came here for: study.
But Paris wasn't a bad alternative. Plus, if I was really so keen on studying then I figured I'd take notes from Dale and Nancy, both of whom boast lengthy travel resumes and resolves that didn't shrink from 6-8 miles of walking per day, as tallied by Nancy's pedometer. (Dale lives in Honolulu, so since she lives what most of us consider a dream vacation she must be a darn good traveler.)
Atop the Eiffel Tower, Dale pointed out city sites like a pro. We lunched at the Amelie movie cafe and the cafe Ernest Hemingway and the other expatriates frequented. We took a boat ride on the Seine, visited the Musee d'Orsay, didn't let a greedy chain-smoking waiter fool us into paying extra tip money above the 20% he'd already commissioned us. We had drinks at Irish pubs, cappuccinos at McDonalds. In short, a fantastic trip.
Dale and Nancy had a picturesque view of the Eiffel Tower from their room, glittering like a jewel in the night sky. I had a view of a snoring saxophone street performer with greasy gray hair who had yelled at me for asking him too many questions. For both of us, it was perfect. I'm still amazed that this sojourn to Paris worked. I guess if good travelers notice and capitalize on opportunities, then that (along with chance) fulfilled the long-awaited rendezvous.
Now, if only my classes were delayed a week longer...
In 2006, I was leaving Paris with a high school exchange the night Dale arrived. While I ate my last dinner at "Jardin de Notre Dame," she ran from restaurant to restaurant checking for me. Without cellphones or a specified meeting spot, we never connected. Before I left for my flight, I called her hotel and we vowed that we would one day remedy this missed rendezvous. One day, we would meet by Notre Dame.
The Italian restaurant wasn't Notre Dame, or even French for that matter, but I didn't care. Just to make it here from Bristol through the London-Paris Eurostar Chunnel, just to fulfill that promise of being in Paris with Aunt Dale and Nancy Schwinn, was surreal. So much had to happen right to have la pleasure of sipping rose wine and inquiring "ou sont les toilettes, monsieur" in my rusty Franglais.
For instance, it was complete chance that English and only English classes started a week late at the University of Bristol, freeing up a whole semaine. Upon hearing this news, I was agitated. In Bristol, you enroll the old fashioned way: going to department heads, smiling the "study abroad smile," and endearing yourself to them in the hope of being granted admission into a course. It was while I was making my case for admittance into a Postcolonial Literature class that the department head said I would not start until the following week, so why don't I cool down a little bit (I was shocked when my top five courses were all full or unavailable to study abroad students and was letting him know). He offered no explanation why English courses start late. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find an explanation for much of how England's academia works. Why not register online like back in the US? Why can't I be admitted into this Postcolonial Lit class? Why can't I take 50 credit modules (instead of the you-must-take-60-or-else standard) if it allows me to take classes I'm interested in rather schedule-fillers because I'm pretty sure I didn't come across the Atlantic to play patty-cakes for 10 credits? Instead, I heard the same thing over and over: Study Abroad students aren't allowed to _____ (fill in the blank) because they're study abroad students.
Understandably, most students would leap for joy at a week off, but my heart sank. Vacations are great, and I would regret wishing a hasty start to the semester as soon as it began, but right now I wagered that the best way to get comfortable in Bristol was to do what I came here for: study.
But Paris wasn't a bad alternative. Plus, if I was really so keen on studying then I figured I'd take notes from Dale and Nancy, both of whom boast lengthy travel resumes and resolves that didn't shrink from 6-8 miles of walking per day, as tallied by Nancy's pedometer. (Dale lives in Honolulu, so since she lives what most of us consider a dream vacation she must be a darn good traveler.)
Atop the Eiffel Tower, Dale pointed out city sites like a pro. We lunched at the Amelie movie cafe and the cafe Ernest Hemingway and the other expatriates frequented. We took a boat ride on the Seine, visited the Musee d'Orsay, didn't let a greedy chain-smoking waiter fool us into paying extra tip money above the 20% he'd already commissioned us. We had drinks at Irish pubs, cappuccinos at McDonalds. In short, a fantastic trip.
Dale and Nancy had a picturesque view of the Eiffel Tower from their room, glittering like a jewel in the night sky. I had a view of a snoring saxophone street performer with greasy gray hair who had yelled at me for asking him too many questions. For both of us, it was perfect. I'm still amazed that this sojourn to Paris worked. I guess if good travelers notice and capitalize on opportunities, then that (along with chance) fulfilled the long-awaited rendezvous.
Now, if only my classes were delayed a week longer...
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Tea Time
"So," George said, sliding a cup of afternoon tea across the table, "what stereotypes do Americans have of English students that we have proven true?"
Good question. The directness of his query was a bit jarring, but also refreshing. Glancing down at the cup of tea he had given me, I realized I was stuck answering it. Lest I uphold the "rude American frat boy" stereotype by stomping out of the room. It seemed if tea alone can force people away from televisions and YouTube and email and open doors to face-to-face communication, then maybe the Brits are on to something.
"You've already broken most of them," I said.
I thought back to the adjectives listed in one of our pre-departure guidebooks about what to expect from British students.
Sarcastic, elitist, clinical, sophisticated, dry sense of humor... After reading all that, I figured I'd be lucky if I escaped with one British friend to my name.
Friendship had been my biggest concern. I'd never had a problem making friends, but I had to keep reminding myself of this fact as I ventured across the sea. Being completely friend-less while abroad was the most surefire way to make months of lonely hell. Armed only with 6 Chicago Bears playing card packs to bribe friends, I vowed to be as social, cheerful, and helpful as I could to whomever I met. Completely refraining from judging people is probably impossible. But I would try my best to at least stow my opinions beneath a guise of politeness.
Of course, not judging meant discarding stereotypes George and I were discussing right now.
According to George, English students view American students through the American Pie lens. I died a little on the inside when I heard this. According to the American Pie movie series, American students are a bunch of loony rich drunks who run around trying to...well, you know.
By the time our tea was getting cool, George and I were laughing about the strange preconceptions that make it across the Atlantic in a completely disfigured form. George wasn't pushy or snobby or distant. He was just another student. He was my friend.
After lunch, I went running, losing myself along the twisting streets of Bristol. I thought about friendship. About how silly my concern over being alone in a strange town was. About how this concern were only silly because I was lucky to have friends to laugh with.
Running forged another kind of friendship -- this one not with a person, but with a city. Like a stereotype born of fear, a new city is a threatening place because it's streets are alien and its inhabitants strange. It's an unknown. By running for an hour and a half, I let myself get lost in the city, slowly building confidence each time I reoriented myself and discovered where I was. Bristol and I aren't friends yet, but we're getting there.
That night, four Hong Kong students invited me to celebrate Chinese New Year with them. I met them at a restaurant. We sat, talked, and ate for over three hours. We talked about everything: university life, travels, what it's like to live in Hong Kong on Chinese New Year. They even taught me a few words in Cantonese.
I realized the only reason I was invited to share their holiday was because, on a whim, I had gone over and introduced myself to them yesterday at a Study Abroad student tea party. They're fascinated with Americans, and it was uncomfortable to have so many eyes upon me. But I fought back judgment, and talked myself hoarse. That's not something I usually do, but I guess caffeine isn't the only miracle ingredient in tea.
Off to Paris tomorrow to visit Aunt Dale and Nancy Schwinn!
Good question. The directness of his query was a bit jarring, but also refreshing. Glancing down at the cup of tea he had given me, I realized I was stuck answering it. Lest I uphold the "rude American frat boy" stereotype by stomping out of the room. It seemed if tea alone can force people away from televisions and YouTube and email and open doors to face-to-face communication, then maybe the Brits are on to something.
"You've already broken most of them," I said.
I thought back to the adjectives listed in one of our pre-departure guidebooks about what to expect from British students.
Sarcastic, elitist, clinical, sophisticated, dry sense of humor... After reading all that, I figured I'd be lucky if I escaped with one British friend to my name.
Friendship had been my biggest concern. I'd never had a problem making friends, but I had to keep reminding myself of this fact as I ventured across the sea. Being completely friend-less while abroad was the most surefire way to make months of lonely hell. Armed only with 6 Chicago Bears playing card packs to bribe friends, I vowed to be as social, cheerful, and helpful as I could to whomever I met. Completely refraining from judging people is probably impossible. But I would try my best to at least stow my opinions beneath a guise of politeness.
Of course, not judging meant discarding stereotypes George and I were discussing right now.
According to George, English students view American students through the American Pie lens. I died a little on the inside when I heard this. According to the American Pie movie series, American students are a bunch of loony rich drunks who run around trying to...well, you know.
By the time our tea was getting cool, George and I were laughing about the strange preconceptions that make it across the Atlantic in a completely disfigured form. George wasn't pushy or snobby or distant. He was just another student. He was my friend.
After lunch, I went running, losing myself along the twisting streets of Bristol. I thought about friendship. About how silly my concern over being alone in a strange town was. About how this concern were only silly because I was lucky to have friends to laugh with.
Running forged another kind of friendship -- this one not with a person, but with a city. Like a stereotype born of fear, a new city is a threatening place because it's streets are alien and its inhabitants strange. It's an unknown. By running for an hour and a half, I let myself get lost in the city, slowly building confidence each time I reoriented myself and discovered where I was. Bristol and I aren't friends yet, but we're getting there.
That night, four Hong Kong students invited me to celebrate Chinese New Year with them. I met them at a restaurant. We sat, talked, and ate for over three hours. We talked about everything: university life, travels, what it's like to live in Hong Kong on Chinese New Year. They even taught me a few words in Cantonese.
I realized the only reason I was invited to share their holiday was because, on a whim, I had gone over and introduced myself to them yesterday at a Study Abroad student tea party. They're fascinated with Americans, and it was uncomfortable to have so many eyes upon me. But I fought back judgment, and talked myself hoarse. That's not something I usually do, but I guess caffeine isn't the only miracle ingredient in tea.
Off to Paris tomorrow to visit Aunt Dale and Nancy Schwinn!
Saturday, January 24, 2009
My Semester in England
Welcome to my Bristol Blog.
I've deliberated long enough how to introduce what will, fingers crossed, become five to six months of daily recounts. But we all know that moments spent deliberating are potential adventures forever lost. And because we never know if the dials will land 7-7-7 unless we give them a chance to stop, I'll make this quick.
My aim is to keep a concise running record of interesting, unexpected, or downright entertaining things that happen during my study in England. As honestly as I can translate them, I'll weave in my own thoughts with the plot of each day. Hopefully any rambling will be because I'm still fumbling around here, and probably will be for the duration of the adventure.
So why an overly cliche, slightly narcissistic, and a largely unread log of my trip? Simply: I feel compelled to write about my travels. Travel and writing fit together. Not like peanut butter and jelly, but like a cop and a prisoner cuffed at the wrist. Neither can ever get completely what he wants (arrest for the cop, escape for the prisoner) without sacrificing authority to his opponent, lest they beat each other up and destroy their own ambitions in destroying their opponent's.
But sometimes, the cop and the prisoner, travel and writing...sometimes they work together to solve what neither could solve alone. That's exciting. The flipside is that sometimes the travel/writing connection sparks conflict that would never have come about had I decided to travel without reflection or write sheltered from my environment.
The point is that writing is not a passive reflection of travel. And travel is not a neatly plotted novel easily scribed into words. Not even close.
For one, knowing I'm writing changes how I travel. I'm more prone to sneak an ear into a bystander's conversation. I'm more libel to try new things, whether risky or bizarre, in the hope that I discover a gem of a story. In short, I have more fun.
While writing affords me an excuse for the multiple embarrassing failings that energize each day, it also makes the trip worth something. A token of memory, yes. A way to share a journey with loved ones, definitely. But also a way to anchor every journey, whether mundane or majestic, in the oceans of novelty. A way to encode, make sense of, and cohabit with the big blasts of newness that I might otherwise not be courageous enough to confront. A way to get down the specifics before they become impressionistic smears.
Most of all, writing extends the journey. It's a way to travel when you're too tired to walk anymore.
I'd like to dedicate these entries to the late Michael Crichton, whose memoir Travels is just plain awesome. To my brother Matt, who gets to go to Handball Nationals but who encouraged this blog by saying mine might be good enough to surmount the cliche. To my sister Jane, for her affability and social skills that, by mimicking, have already won me a couple friends here. And of course, to my mom and dad, for the infinite number of ways they've supported this trip and every trip I've ever taken.
I hope you enjoy it.
I've deliberated long enough how to introduce what will, fingers crossed, become five to six months of daily recounts. But we all know that moments spent deliberating are potential adventures forever lost. And because we never know if the dials will land 7-7-7 unless we give them a chance to stop, I'll make this quick.
My aim is to keep a concise running record of interesting, unexpected, or downright entertaining things that happen during my study in England. As honestly as I can translate them, I'll weave in my own thoughts with the plot of each day. Hopefully any rambling will be because I'm still fumbling around here, and probably will be for the duration of the adventure.
So why an overly cliche, slightly narcissistic, and a largely unread log of my trip? Simply: I feel compelled to write about my travels. Travel and writing fit together. Not like peanut butter and jelly, but like a cop and a prisoner cuffed at the wrist. Neither can ever get completely what he wants (arrest for the cop, escape for the prisoner) without sacrificing authority to his opponent, lest they beat each other up and destroy their own ambitions in destroying their opponent's.
But sometimes, the cop and the prisoner, travel and writing...sometimes they work together to solve what neither could solve alone. That's exciting. The flipside is that sometimes the travel/writing connection sparks conflict that would never have come about had I decided to travel without reflection or write sheltered from my environment.
The point is that writing is not a passive reflection of travel. And travel is not a neatly plotted novel easily scribed into words. Not even close.
For one, knowing I'm writing changes how I travel. I'm more prone to sneak an ear into a bystander's conversation. I'm more libel to try new things, whether risky or bizarre, in the hope that I discover a gem of a story. In short, I have more fun.
While writing affords me an excuse for the multiple embarrassing failings that energize each day, it also makes the trip worth something. A token of memory, yes. A way to share a journey with loved ones, definitely. But also a way to anchor every journey, whether mundane or majestic, in the oceans of novelty. A way to encode, make sense of, and cohabit with the big blasts of newness that I might otherwise not be courageous enough to confront. A way to get down the specifics before they become impressionistic smears.
Most of all, writing extends the journey. It's a way to travel when you're too tired to walk anymore.
I'd like to dedicate these entries to the late Michael Crichton, whose memoir Travels is just plain awesome. To my brother Matt, who gets to go to Handball Nationals but who encouraged this blog by saying mine might be good enough to surmount the cliche. To my sister Jane, for her affability and social skills that, by mimicking, have already won me a couple friends here. And of course, to my mom and dad, for the infinite number of ways they've supported this trip and every trip I've ever taken.
I hope you enjoy it.
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