Talk It Up

Great conversations are rare.

This whole trip, I've been spoiled with great conversations, but this past weekend was extra groovy.

The past two weeks had been miserable trudgings through the end-of-the year grinder. After working ten to fourteen hour days in solitude to finish my essays, I organized a Friday night dinner and movie for international and English students. We met at Weatherspoons, a chain-pub, then saw Angels and Demons. The movie stunk, but the outing was great. 

By now, four months after arriving, a lot of the thrills of England have worn off. English accents aren't cute but normal.  Pub culture isn't "WOW" but "hm."  I'm even looking the right "right" way when crossing streets.  Sad, sad, sad...

But bringing together international students doesn't get old.  Expecting only five to seven people, I was surprised when there was such a huge gathering that I had to throw tables together and steal chairs to make enough space in the pub. There were students from the US, Canada, Hong Kong, Bahamas, China, France, England, Thailand and Chile.  A veritable mix of 20-somethings. 

The conversations were fantastic.  Over the past four months, we had gotten to know one another.  We had bypassed the generic "where are you from what are you studying why choose Bristol?" questions.  And in the process of progressing from strangers to friends, something magical had happened.  I'm not sure where or why or how.  We didn't talk of geo-politics or global poverty or trade deficits.  Or at least not entirely.  The converstaions were not what I would call "profound."  Mostly, we talked of normal things -- movies, funny dorm-room experiences, pranks, school.  But suddenly, we had reached a sweet spot in social dynamics: just enough familiarity and difference to pull a water-into-wine trick by turning mundanity into greatness.  

But really, it's no trick at all.  A great conversation tight-rope walks between extremes: there's got to be a little discord to perpetuate discussion but enough agreeableness to prevent our hands from becoming fists.  A familiar international crowd satisfies those requirements.

On Saturday, I visited Susan Feuille, my LAS Leaders advisor, and her daughter Julie in Bath.

Susan is an absolute delight to be around.  We had tea, visited the Roman Baths, then went to a bona fide Italian diner.  

Again, the conversation topics were normal: LAS Leaders, campus crime, the economic crisis, celebrity sightings, why the woman at the table next to us kept turning around and lookin at us (we decided it was because Susan had once met Matt Damon).  These conversations were great for a slightly different reason.  I remember when Troy and I were traveling, it was sometimes a thrill to meet up with our friends along the way just to unload all our stories onto another person.  If an Atlantic Monthly article is right that human relationships are the only things that really matter in life, then it makes sense that experiences are only worth something if they can be spread through friend and family circles.

Traveling blends experiences with relationships -- what Michael Crichton identifies as the two ingredients to a worthwhile existence.  A good conversation mixes both ingredients, but a great one mixes something else.  Luck?  Atmosphere?  A good meal?  I'm not sure.  Whatever it is, that's a whole nother conversation.

Learning to Miss Missing

This summer at CTY Los Angeles, the kids tied glowsticks to the end of their shoelaces and, whirling the two lighted strings in orbits and crossing patterns, would do what they called "raving."

It took me about two seconds to abandon my supervision post, throw off my shoes, and try it out myself.

I think of raving now because so much of the value in this semester abroad is locked in treasure chests that only my attitude can open. I'm still trying to figure out what the right attitude is. But I think it has something to do with the whole-hearted impulsive embrace of raving.

For example, I finally, finally, went to my first class today. Immediately, I caught myself making comparisons: I have more legroom in lecture rooms back in the States; this prof isn't using a powerpoint? What! My teachers always use visual aids back at U of I!; if I was back at U of I, I would be safe and cozy tearing through the curriculum I've mastered and here, I'm waiting as the semester slowly gets its tired gears turning.

It's tempting to compare everything here with everything back there, as if substituting the superior "known" for the fearful "unknown" is a way to cope with uncertainty. Well, it's not. Doing so only further agitates me.

Yesterday, I visited Bath. It's Bristol's baby neighbor and, for several years, home to Jane Austen. I've never read any Jane Austen, but I learned I have a sister named after her. Plus, writing was the unwritten reason -- however strange that may be -- I came to England.

The tour was wonderful, and not only because it sheltered us from the cold Chicago winds that knifed through our coats and made spot-on navigation a matter of sparing us from a lunch of snot icicles. (In the spirit of looking English, I had worn my more conservative yet less warm coat, along with the single glove that I had not lost.) Jane Austen was a realist who knew a thing or two about how a town affects your identity, for better or worse (in Bath, it was for worse). She was unrecognized for her work until she died, but confessed to sneaking her ear into the conversations of the town as an outsider rather than a participant. That's not me. I see raving and I've got to do it.

Afterwards, I invited all my travel companions back to Unite House, where we made ham and egg sandwiches.

This is meant to be a therapeutic post. A roller coaster I ride once before demolishing it with willpower and adaptation, TNT if necessary.

So here it goes: I miss 24 on Monday nights and the Superbowl. I miss having a bike on campus. (Without one, I get a lot hungrier trekking up and down a big hill to class. Which means I have to go back for two lunches. Which means I walk more and get even hungrier.) I miss the little cubbies for studying at the ACES library. I miss Jerry's super-fried heart attack meals. I miss having Alkaline Trio fans like my brother and Al nearby so that when I say "Trio's in town" there's others to say "let's go." The Trio is coming Friday. The concert venue is literally at my doorstep, so there's no way I'm passing it up, even though it looks like I'll be going alone.

But in the space of missing, there's a big well ready to be filled with new and exciting friends, memories, and experiences. This doesn't all happen at once. But if I try to do one new, unexpected thing per day, I'll hasten the process along.

Those old things are waiting for me. There will always be another Superbowl. But you can only rave barefoot in Los Angeles once.