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.