Stuffing Elephants into Shot Glasses

Tory Ribar, the study abroad adviser at Bristol, recently asked me to write 100 words about my study abroad experience. (Actually, she asked Troy Long, and he pawned the duty off on me quoting, I imagine, "love to, but my buddy here's an English major..." In other words, "I'm an Engineer -- I spend my time on worthy things." In other words, another Engineer assuming his rightful position above the writer.)

Well, I was thrilled. Or I was until the first word. I wrote as concisely as I could, and the first draft still ended up at over 400 words. I felt like I was trying to stuff an elephant into a shot glass. This was going to be a lot harder than I'd anticipated.

So I got all my homework done early, found a beer deal at Sainsburys, freed up an evening, and sat at my laptop.

Two hours and hundreds of taps on the DELETE key later, this is what I came out with:

'Why Bristol?'

English or American, Chelsea or Man U. fan, everybody's been asking that question of Eric Anderson, an international student from Chicago, Illinois. If a glossy pamphlet attracted Eric to Bristol, it's the unexpected gems that have made his experience worth galaxies.

For instance: Eric never expected to play point guard on the Bristol Men's Basketball 1^stTeam, read his poetry in a nasally Chicaaago accent at a crowded pub, collaborate with the Bristol Writing Club president on a play, or backpack through 11 countries in 18 days.

So 'Why Bristol?'

For Eric, the list keeps getting longer.

It was passable. More importantly, it was done. I sent it off along with this picture:

Yes, that's me sliding down solid rock.

Immediately, I felt better. The past week, I'd been frustrated with Bristol. There was a stupid grade issue that was souring other aspects of life. I had some tough decisions looming on the horizon: do I work in Los Angeles or Africa? Do I apply for the Rhodes and Marshall scholarships or not? Plus, after blitzing across Europe, the English lifestyle was so slooooooow.

In turn, I was ignoring the important things all around me.

Writing those 100 words helped me see the bigger picture again. I saw how many awesome things I'd done. I saw how glad I was to be here. I saw how many challenges I'd overcome and how many opportunities I'd pursued.

I went to a study abroad social where current international students would meet with Bristol students preparing to study in the US or Australia or Singapore, wherever.

I found my way over to the USA poster, a chaotic jumble of students trying to find their corresponding home/future study abroad university.

There, I found two students planning to go to the University of Illinois next year. I talked to them for an hour and a half. I answered questions about American culture, advised them about where to live, what libraries to study in, where to get good pizza and what days double bacon cheeseburgers are $5. I explained why not to jump in the Morrow Plots unless they're trying to be instantly expelled, and what kind of work to expect in Engineering courses. I urged them to go to American football games, tailgate, take advantage of the ARC, join clubs.

Afterwards, I realized several things.

For one, I realized how great of a school University of Illinois is. Those two Bristol students chose a winner. Annotating different key places on their campus maps unleashed torrents of memories. Good or bad, I missed that school with ferocity but not with desperation. I missed it in a good, make-you-smile-for-no-reason way.

And I realized 100 words to sum up my experience is plenty. Too much, even.

I can sum up my three months -- nay, any worthwhile study abroad experience -- in one word: appreciation.

Appreciate your time (because it's not as much as you think), appreciate the cultural differences (because you're not as similar or different than you think -- you just are), appreciate the challenges (they're beatable -- all of them), the moments you just want to scream "these English can't do ANYTHING right" (they really can't -- just accept it), and appreciate every time you step back and have a chance to remember where you are, what you're doing, and why it matters.

Flash Fiction: The Shark Who Was Afraid

For Writer's Group this week, Martin brought Chevelle, his 7-year-old genius of a daughter. In preparation, we had to write children's stories. This is mine.

"The Shark Who Was Afraid" was my first published story. I think I was 7. It appeared in a big book of stories written by other first through sixth graders. Every Monday we wrote in a journal about our weekend. After summing up my weekend in a sentence or two, I then made long lists of titles of "all the books I am going to write." I don't remember the titles. But there was probably lots of potty humor and Goosebumps rip-offs.

Maybe it was these lists of titles that clued my teacher into choosing me to represent the class in that kiddy anthology. I got pulled out of class (score!), sent to the library, and seated at a table with some big yellow lined paper. I was told to write a story. It wasn't hard coming up with the story. I had grown up on Steven Spielberg's Jaws.

I rewrote the 7-year-old version of the story for this week, keeping the basic plot line but fleshing out the characters and seasoning it with some description. It's no critical gem, and the message is slap-you-in-the-face simple, but Chevelle later said she could "see the sharks" in her mind's eye. Can't ask for much better from a 7-year-old -- or anyone, really -- prodigy or not. When words become images that tell a story, that's magic indeed.

So snap on your fins, load up that harpoon gun, and let's go shark-watching under the sea.

The Shark Who Was Afraid

Robbie the great white shark cared about three things: money, money, and money.

Robbie flossed his teeth with the rarest sea urchins. He scented himself with the most costly squid oils. He dressed himself in the most sparkling rubies and swam downtown so everyone could see how rich he was. He knew the other sharks were jealous of him, and that made him even hungrier for treasure.

But at night, even though he slept on a bed of gold, diamonds, and emeralds, he was not happy. Not sad either. The richest shark in the sea couldn't be sad. Could he?

One day, while swimming home from his very lucrative job, he glimpsed something sparkling.

Robbie slowed. He peered into the murky depths of the ocean. It was getting late.

But then he saw it again. A golden sparkle.

Now, there was an old myth in Robbie's part of the ocean. As the story goes, long ago, a ship bearing the world's biggest treasure chest sank.

Some said that, at dusk, a faint haze of gold glimmered from afar, signaling the place of the treasure. But only those deserving of the treasure could see it.

"I am most certainly deserving!" Robbie said. He set off toward the sparkle. The water cooled as he swam farther and farther from downtown.

He followed the golden sparkle for miles, and miles, and miles.

Then he reached it. The chest was bigger than a house. It was overflowing with golden coins, diamond-studded chalices, and sparkling sapphires. Robbie licked his lips.

Blinded by the treasure, he never saw the net. As Robbie rushed towards the treasure, the net tightened around him. Soon, he could hardly move.

"Help! Help!" he yelled. But there wasn't a single creature for miles.

So Robbie started biting the net. He bit until his teeth hurt. But the net was too thick. He gaped at the glowing mound of treasure, so close yet so far.

"Stupid treasure," Robbie said. He didn't want it anymore. He didn't care about all that money. The treasure sure wasn't rescuing him now.

Robbie chewed at the net until he was exhausted. He even managed to break some of it. But he was fat. He had eaten many expensive meals in his day. Chewing a big enough hole would take weeks. And by then…

Two days passed.

Once, a man in a mask wearing steel canisters on his back came down. Robbie snapped his jaws. The man was not scared. The man, he knew, was a shark hunter. Robbie shuddered at what was to become of him. He would be shot with a harpoon, chopped into little bits, sautéed in spicy sauces and served on toothpicks to rich humans. Maybe some little girl would wear one of his teeth as a necklace.

He was about to give up when a shark swam by, scaring the man away.

"Help!" yelled Robbie. He recognized the old carpet shark as the one who transported the garbage from downtown to the dump.

The shark turned around.

"Please help me," Robbie begged.

But the old shark only grinned at him. And swam away.

Robbie was hungry, exhausted, and terrified. But mostly, he was lonely. He had all the treasure he ever wanted right beneath him, but what he really wanted was a friend.

He tried to think of his friends, but knew he had cared so much about money that he didn’t have any caring left for friends. They had left him.

"Maybe I deserve this," Robbie said.

Then, he saw a big cloud of sharks swimming towards him – great whites, hammerheads, and nurse sharks. Leading them was the old carpet shark.

The vengeful looks on their faces told Robbie this was the end. They would tear him to shreds and take the treasure.

The sharks opened their mouths wide, displaying rows and rows of sharp teeth.

"I’m sorry!" Robbie screamed, squeezing his eyes shuts as the thrash of jaws attacked him.

But the sharks weren't after him. Robbie opened his eyes. The sharks were chomping on the net. They chewed and gnawed. Robbie's fins were free. Then his tail. Then the net fell into the huge chest of treasure.

Robbie didn't know what to say.

But before he could mumble thanks, the sharks started swimming away, ignoring him and the treasure.

"Wait!" Robbie said. "What about…"

He glanced down at the treasure. Suddenly, it disappeared.

To his surprise, Robbie was glad.

So he hurried to catch up with his new friends.

He had never been richer.

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.