One thing I miss from home is my car. I picture it, shiny and silver, that perfect vehicle of freedom and independence, waiting so loyally in a garage in Canada.
I rode in someone's citrus green Vauxhall today-- a make of car that is as ubiquitous in England as the Honda Civic is in North America. I told the driver that their car reminded me of my Honda Civic hatchback at home.

Oh, a Civic. Yes, nice. Quite a big car then, isn't it really?

To point out the obvious, a Honda Civic hatchback by Canadian standards is a mouse among the elephant-sized SUVs and ostentatious trucks driving on Canadian roads.

Yes, well...we drive up mountains and stuff....in Canada.

I'll apologize right now for the inaccurate stereotypes I am perpetuating during my stay in the United Kingdom; but you can't expect me to be a flawless amabassador around the clock. Usually I come up with replies that both amuse and educate--so my embarassing reply today about how Canadians "drive up mountains" can be written off.

I may long for my car but certainly not to the extent that I would ever get behind the wheel of a horse and cart over here, let alone a motor vehicle and not to mention anything with a clutch. I take my own life into my hands every day simply by trying to cross the street, I would never dream of endangering and certainly putting the breaks on someone else's life by attempting to drive.

Driving in the UK has been one of the most terrifying experiences of this trip (runs a close second to wandering the dark and scally-ridden streets of Salford). My first impression of England was on the road after leaving the airport--airports are like parallel universes that exist according to their own set of guidelines. So England didn't actually begin until I left the airport.

The culture shock that is driving begins as I approach the vehicle: on the wrong side. Passengers get in on the left-hand side, something I still haven't adjusted to. Once inside you can forget about being an annoying backseat driver because all the mirrors are turned in bizarre directions and so shoulder and blind-spot checking are lost causes. Not that I would have time do any of that in between white-knuckling the seat and ducking my head between my knees.

Driving in the UK is an experience with some semblance to what I imagine riding the luge must be like. Hold on. Tuck your head. Point your toes...okay, that last one only applies to the luge.

The vehicles are much smaller, and so they should be--the roads are mere goat trails. There is no concept of a grid system over here: roads simply wind and curve and veer off so that the road maps of England look like the varicose veins that meander across the back of your grandmother's legs (not my grandmother, of course--Don't worry Nana, your calves are lovely).

Whether it be because the roads are small and winding or every English driver is actually insane behind the wheel--everyone drives fast. I'm sure I've nearly lost my life several times on the road, twice by the same driver of some delivery truck on Ring Road (the highway-like road that is in essence, a ring encircling greater Manchester). Apparently he doesn't practice checking his blind spots--at least we got to shout things like "bugger," "sod," and "toss off" at him.

To add to the chaos:
- stop signs are an endangered species in England, I've maybe seen two.
- street signs are not where they should be: practically, at the top of a sign post at the intersection of two streets. Instead, they are sometimes found somewhere on the side of a building about two feet off the ground. I mean sometimes, because often times they are no where at all.
- stop lights flash Green-Amber-Red and then Red-Amber-Green. I can't understand the logic behind this and apparently the British can't either because it's pedal to the metal on amber.
- round-abouts are everywhere. There are rarely four-way stops, and especially not where you would think they are most needed, like a busy intersection of two main two-lane streets. Instead, drivers careen into the round-about, hugging the corner all the way and fly out (sometimes across two lanes) in order to hit their exit point. Extra laps are required when exits are missed.

Within a car occurs particular conversation as well, specifically about driving. While driving, the British talk about driving. Now that I've experienced it for a month it makes perfect sense to me: to get from point A to point B in the UK requires a team effort to decipher the roads. Often times there are five different ways to get to point B and the conversation is simply an argument over which way is the better. It's an open game for the driver, his passenger, anyone in the backseat and anyone who might be on a cell phone with anyone else actually in the vehicle.

The driving experience draws to an end as you enter a car park in search of a stall where you eagerly await falling out onto asphalt and slobbering kisses on it for the very fact that it is stationary unless subject to an earthquake. You can do that if you can get out of the car. But to do so, first slither your way inbetween the half inch the door is allowed to open before scraping against the car in the next stall. Every space is a small cars only space here.

I saw the driver of a Land Rover literally inch back and forth for minutes, desperately trying to back out of a stall and into the parking lot. After labouring at what was beginning to look like a lost cause, Land Rover finally passed its nose out of the end of the stall (by running up against a lamp post in the process). The Brit watching with me replied in conclusion:

And that is why you don't drive SUVs in England.

Extricated from the vehicle, door closed and safely five steps away from what is surely to be my coffin one day--I exhale, and decide on walking home.

Just stab me riiiiight ....there.

I'm relegated to my room tonight, which has taken on an uncanny resemblance to a prison cell to accomodate my situation. Normally, number 27 is a cozy safehaven from the social obligations of a long day. Tonight though, the cement walls and the cot reqiure more imagination than I can muster to appear as anything but institutional--not to mention, the mattresses in Castle Irwell come from Strangeways, a nearby prison that features but a few horror stories being the local execution locale up until capital punishment was ended.

Strageways has been the site of a 100 hangings since its official opening in 1868, not to mention an array of all the other wonderful events that happen within prison walls. Of course the locals have been happy to share a few stories with me, a favourite being about the Strangeways ghost:

The condemned block, which housed the prisoners awaiting execution is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of one of the hangmen who officiated there. Staff on night duty have reported seeing a mysterious man in a dark suit carrying a small briefcase. He is always seen walking along wing 'B' from just outside the condemned cell towards the central control area. When they try to follow this dark suited man, he vanishes just before the old iron staircase leading up to the main office.

The ghost apparently looks exactly like a long serving hangman of Strangeways, who also wore a dark suit and carried a small briefcase. The breifcase is said to have held his hangman's gloves and the black cloth hood he used to mask his victims with before dropping them to their death.

Cue Unsolved Mysteries theme song... and sweet dreams to me on my mattress.

On an only slightly lighter note, a handful of my house mates paid a visit to a tattoo and piercing parlour this afternoon. Results included:

One titanium barbell stabbed through a tongue,
A belly button punctured twice by another, slightly smaller, titanium barbell
One more puncture wound from a stud located in the style of a Cindy Crawford mole
And ink imbedded into the skin on a lower back, styled after a panda bear.
_______

And four ripped off house mates that didn't even get a discount from the guy who is putting his kids through university on the whims and misguided rebellions of Salford freshers

Silken Laumann anyone?

This week marked the first official week at school, which is noteworthy considering I have been in England nearly a month and on campus for over two weeks. But with all the preparation, anticipation and last-ditch effort grasps at so-called freedom, classes arrived just as uneventfully and as stalwartly as they ever do. Mine being the exception: the first lecture was cancelled and the other two got off the ground with barely a sniff at the idea of homework...blessed are my lucky stars.

My friend, on the other hand, was greeted with the news that his program was aiming to stuff three years worth of material between the very few months between September and July. And the content presented in one class was described as being so far beyond what anyone was capable of even taking notes on, the only alternative being taking in the comedy of the situation.

Blessed are my lucky stars, or did I already say that?

Repititiously or not, I do say it with complete sincerity for there will come a time when my stars will fire and fizzle and burn out in a depressing state of affairs, and school will again be the bane of my existence.

Meanwhile, I will figure out my own problem what with having to choose between rowing and soccer. Unfortunately, there isn't enough time for both, as well as writing for the newspaper and putting a worthy effort into classes.

I've been to one soccer practice and to a swim test for the rowing team. The weigh in:

Soccer practice --an old favourite. I will always love kicking a ball around and it isn't only because I look impressive in knee-high socks and Adidas shorts (sidenote to Adidas: yes, I will consider a modelling contract--but only because I believe in the company's product). Soccer seems like an obvious choice, but England isn't about doing what I normally do. Are not I supposed to return a changed person?

Rowing --so far I've only been to the social and a swim test, which consisted of jumping into a pool fully clothed to swim one length and back. Hardly a test.

Are you sure this accurately simulates flipping over an eight-man rowboat into an icy river that will drag me beneath the surface and extinguish my flame of life?
Wouldn't you like to see me swim beneath the surface? Tread water? Hold my breath?
Not even blow bubbles?

Guess not. But apparently I'm qualified.

In the spirit of this whole experience--experience being England, I think I am leaning towards the unknown--the wild blue yonder. Or the muddy Irwell River; it will work too.

I'm also banking on the fact that football, to fall in line with nation, is an obsession with the British and so I should be able to find someone to kick a ball around with if the passion strikes me. The professional footballers live just a drive away apparently--they would certainly be game for a friendly kick-around in the street before supper. Or does that only happen in the World Cup advertisements?

So Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

Thousands of people swarmed Manchester city-centre yesterday to protest Prime Minister Tony Blair's foreign policy and to urge him to bring troops back from Iraq. I was covering the event all day for Student Direct, the university newspaper--so excuse the "newsy" tone this might have. I do think it's worth writing about though, regardless of your interest in current or political events, no one wants to read about the Pav every day.

It was the first time I had to find my way into the city without any navigational help. Considering I've been on auto-pilot every other time I made the journey to the city thanks to Shaun, my captain up until yesterday, just getting to my destination was the first task of the day. Armed with my fold-out pocket map of the city centre and a little extra time, I did just fine.

I even had enough extra time to find myself a bag. Now this is a far cry from what I imagined my first Mancurian shopping experience to be like, but I was left with little choice: I would be working all day and I had to take advantage of the extra ten minutes at my disposal.

Mission 1 completed. Mission 2: get into the first store I see and purchase the first thing that would hold the odds and ends I insist on carrying around. This is like a shopping-lover/ perfectionist's worst nightmare.

Unfortunately, the first store I came across was the big-box department store, Marks & Spencers. "Everyone" shops at Marks & Spencers, but in case the use of that shameful, all inclusive pronoun everyone wasn't enough to tip you off: Marks & Spencers is not trendy. You can almost guarantee it isn't trendy if it is referred to en masse.

I emerged with something brown and corduroy--apparently I'm still holding on to the idea that if it's the colour of chocolate it will at least appear to be rich. It is a terrible misconception of mine. Or maybe it's my sub-conscious desire for chocolate...

Regardless, the bag isn't that bad. I just resent that I had to buy it and that it has such generic origins. I know I'm not the only one to hold personal feelings against objects, particularly fashion-related ones. But I bet I am certainly the only person that will admit it.

I also hold a grudge against a pair of Puma sweatpants of mine for being irresistably comfortable and yet so hopelessly frumpy looking. But, that's another story.

Back to current events:

The city centre was alive with people. It is a major city centre and I've yet to see it quiet, let alone deserted, but I doubt even the most oblivious passerby would miss feeling the pulse of Manchester this particular Saturday. I'm not good with numbers or estimating them, but even on the safe side there were at least ten thousand people within a couple of blocks of Manchester yesterday.

The protest took place in front of the town hall in Albert's Square. A town hall sounds deceivingly undignified for a city like Manchester, and the town hall is anything but that. It is a massive stone building dating back to the late 1800s. For imagination's sake, it rises 286 feet above the square it overlooks. This square was filled yesterday with protesters from all different backgrounds; however, everyone's message was the same.

In Britain there has developed a strong anti-war sentiment and the Prime Minister is not in good favour. He has already announced his retirement and won't be running for re-election in a year. But a strong majority of the British population is calling for him to step down earlier than his scheduled departure. Similar to Canada, a lot of people are concerned about Blair's foreign policy being too closely aligned with that of the United States and the Bush administration. As well, there is a strong Muslim representation in Britain and the occupation of Iraq is a unfavourable cause that is being strongly opposed within Muslim organizations within the United Kingdom, as it is throughout the rest of the world.

Manchester was a particularly good place to have a protest on Saturday because the Labour Party was holding its conference a couple of blocks away, which included the participation of PM Blair. The preperation for this conference included bomb-detection exercises, like sealing off man-holes in the vicinity of the conference once they were detected to be bomb-free. Security was evident throughout the city what with certain streets being barricaded from public access and the noticeable police presence. It was a definite presence. There were hundreds of police officers: lining the streets, sitting in police vans, on horse, in bomb squad units, with k-9s and probably where I couldn't see them as well.

Despite the preperation on the part of the police, the protest was successful without much incidence. There was a planned "mass dying" that called for participants in the march to lie down in the street as a symbolic protest against the lives being lost in Iraq. It was supposed to work like a "wave of "dying," but it wasn't as successful as planners had hoped it to be--believe it or not, a lot of marchers weren't willing to lie down in the dirty Manchester streets.

But for the most part, the protest was impressive. The number of people alone was impactful enough, not to mention the degree to which they were organized. That being said, I don't know how effective protesting is. I doubt Tony Blair so much as glanced out the window of whichever plush boardroom he was residing in yesterday.

But as one bystander put it: "It's a great expression of freedom of speech."
And then: "...I bet they will all go home feeling better having had a good shout at Tony Blair."

I'll huff and I'll puff ...

Everyone smokes here. Of course the all inclusive pronoun everyone is bound to be false eventually, but from my estimates the percentage of people who smoke in the UK/Europe warrants describing it with that particular word. There is a legitimate and long surviving smoking culture, you can tell by the way everyone just assumes that you smoke too--and the way everyone seems to so skillfully tap their ashes into the ashtray and hold their cig at just the right angle.

The fact that smoking is permitted, excuse me--thrives--in public is also slightly telling of how ingrained tobacco is in the culture of this society. I've been told that non-smoking is being introduced to restaurants and public facilities this year, I've yet to see any evidence of this. The first time I walked into a club I had to register what exactly that grey haze was, floating dramatically above the patrons' heads. By the end of the night out in the UK, I rub my eyes as they sting and weep in reaction to the chemical assualt they have never before been exposed to. My throat is sore and my clothes smell like I've just stepped off the page of the latest Virginia Slims ad.

I've surprised myself with my own tolerance of what is so foreign to me. I estimate Canada is about five to ten years ahead of the UK and Europe as far as putting the awareness of the detrimental effects of smoking into action. Not that I think any Brit would be surprised if you told them that smoking was unhealthy for them--but the severity of smoking just wouldn't register. It is a part of the culture.

On the other side of the pond, it is very much so a social taboo to smoke in Canada. Anyone who continues to smoke is relegated outdoors and even now, supposed to keep ten feet away from the entrance. Melting heat, pelting rain or freezing temperatures...heck, come Noah and his ark...smokers endure their "punishment" for persisting with that "dirty, little habit."

"Oh.... you smoke," is a natural response to the discovery of someone lighting up, followed fittingly with a wrinkle of the nose and every facial expression of disgust imaginable.

Even smokers themselves often precede their own indulgence with an acknowledgement of their apparent misbehaviour:

"Excuse me, I have to go get some "fresh air."
"I know, I know... it is a dirty habit. I'm trying to quit."
"I'll be right back, I just need a quick suck on my cancer stick..."

The thought of anyone justifying smoking a cigarette here is unimaginable. Smokers here rarely ask if you mind their puffing in your presence, let alone excuse it. It is not because they are inconsiderate, but simply because it is so rarely they are smoking around someone who isn't delighted at the excuse to light their very own cigarette and join them. Cigarettes and cigarette boxes are passed around here like the Stanley Cup is passed around the winning team's players, family, friends and wannabes--everyone wants a piece. I even congratulated one individual for getting through a whole box from the time I started dancing to the time I needed a break--maybe six or seven songs--I truly was impressed.

Lit cigarette tips join the light effects on the dance floor, ashtrays are hopelessly full all of the time and the smell of cigarette smoke will forever remind me of my time in England. They smoke in the morning, they smoke at lunch. Never is a cigarette turned down after dinner, and I even witnessed one dedicated individual prepare a meal all the while with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. You know the Alanis Morissette song...

One hand cooking dinner and the other one is flicking a cigarette...

I picked up a pamphlet on secondhand smoke today (to appear as if I had better things to do, to be honest with you), and was surprised and slightly amused with one of the first headlines:

Let's face it, we all smoke.

So I'm obviously the anomaly here.
It's alright though; no need to set off the fire alarm. We're all getting out alive.
The irony might be a little strong on that one, but my point being that the smoking is nothing I can't handle.

It is fluff in comparison to my hair appliance situation.

Besides, according to this pamphlet, my body starts recovering from secondhand smoke just twenty minutes after becoming smokefree. After eight hours my oxygen levels return to normal; 24 hours later and I can look forward to the mucas and debris cleaing from my lungs, and (best yet), by two to twelve weeks I can look forward to running like a marathoner! That must be the explanation for why I keep putting off running--my pesky secondhand smoke habit.

I've never been a numbers person, so if anyone can work out what

my 4 months in England
+ my embarassing number of hours spent in the Pav
x the number of cigarette brands on the market
- the square root of the number of different slang terms for a cigarette and then
/ by the 21 years I spent nearly secondhand smoke free...
_________________
we should come up with my chances of surviving the next four months in smoker's heaven.

It's All Fun & Games...

Today the Activities Fair was held at the sports hall on campus. The gymnasium was cluttered with stalls from almost all of the representatives from the university's collective sports clubs and societies. There are over 50 clubs or societites at Salford for the 2006-2007 school year, and anyone can organize their own club provided they are confident anyone else would care enough to join them--some tables did look a little lonely, "Wargames and roleplaying anybody?"

Everything you can imagine from football (soccer, because there definitely is not any football over here) to scuba-diving and the Christian Union society to the rock society. There seems to be a little something for everyone. I won't list every club and society, but a few honourable mentions deserve at least this:

Most popular (two-way tie): men's football and hockey.
The first one is a given.
As for the second one: in the United Kingdom, hockey does not refer to the greatest Canadian game ever to occupy endless hours among spectators and athletes alike. No, instead, if you refer to hockey in the UK you are refering to field hockey. You must precede any reference to hockey with the word ice, and even then you aren't guaranteed to have anyone properly following the conversation.

Best suited for adrenaline junkies: skydiving.
"Hiya, are you interested in skydiving? Once you try it, you'll never go back."
I think she needs to change her hook phrase, it might be a little too prophetic for me.

The club that will never get off the ground: snowsports... unless they are flying to the Alps on weekends.

The club/society I avoided like the black plague (three-way tie):

1. Circus and Juggling. (She was painted head to toe).

2. Women's Rugby (I recognized the team captain from the bar the other night when I commented that "I think she has more testosterone than she knows what to do with").

3. And the Almost Famous society. Acting, singing and performing. They were the ones breaking into coordinated dance patterns so inspired by the Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera jams playing overhead.

I vote for a name change: Definitely Dillusional About Being Almost Famous

And the club I have to mention: Roller Hockey.

The rep was a veritable Wayne's World surfer dude with an English accent on rollerblades.

He asked if I like hockey: "The real thing, absolutely."

And I asked him if there were even ice rinks in England. Unfortunately, I couldn't understand a word he answered me with; but I think a rink may have opened recently. I don't think anyone is using it. It's the thought that counts though.

I asked him his favourite team: "ohhhh (confidently tapping the jersey on the table with the blade of his stick)..San Jose, defffinitely."

I asked him why: "..Because, I got NHL 05 when I was eleven and when I turned it on that was the team the game assigned to me. I've loved them ever since."

Not quite the way loyalties are decided on back home, but I suppose that will work when the nearest NHL organization is based across the Atlantic ocean.

There were political societies, a paintball club, the Respect society, religious societies representing Christians, Jews, Buddhism, and Islam, and a club for the military tactics lover in you. Each club has a low induction rate (between 3 and 10 pounds) and a year's worth of fun, socialising and a few other promises, depending on the organization. For example, go to Ghana with the RAG (raising and giving) society at Salford. It is a group of people that dedicate their free time to organizing and hosting fundraisers for other organizations and causes in need throughout the city.

And every single club rep capped of their selling speech with: "Plus, our club has the best social in the entire university."

"Oh, you do? See, I've misunderstood because I was just informed that I would find the best parties with the High Rollers gaming society."

It really didn't take much deliberation on my part to know which clubs I was interested in. I really just took it all in for entertainment.

I returned home a new member of the Women's Football Club, as well as the Salford Rowing Club. I'll keep you posted.

Sing Me A Song

Fresher's Week has offically begun and so far lived up to the hype. By day students flock to campus for registration and other bureaucratic procedures, but by night the Pav is the place to be. Fresher's Week at Castle Irwell and the Pav even holds more appeal than the great city of Manchester just twenty minutes away.

These were the three most common questions of the night, in order of popularity:

"Are you a first year too?"
"What are you studying?"
"Where are you from?"

It seems the idea of Fresher's Week is to distract first-time university students with eye-catching signs, organized gatherings and alcohol so as to ease them into their next four years at uni. The tactic is obviously successful because venues draw second, third, post-grad and even the odd non-students, as well as the hoards of wide-eyed, gung-ho and fresh-faced Fresher's. Everyone is eager to enjoy themselves before the work starts, regardless of their area of study or what year they are in.

One particular post-graduate student lamented the appeal of returning every year as a Fresher. This such student also suffers from an acute case of the Peter Pan syndrome. Then again, Fresher's Week is reminiscent of NeverNeverland, where people never want to grow up and strangely enough, tights are in.

I cannot say that I hold the ideals of Fresher's Week (party, party, party) close to my heart; but I do find the atmosphere charming. It is a genuine and valiant effort made on the part of many to simply have a good time. The night begins early and holds strong well into the morning. The muffled, and sometimes not so muffled, sounds of after hours partiers interrupt the quiet of the night that might have been. And plans for the next night prematurely develop when the weak ones call it quits.

One particular phenomenon I'm taken by is the overwhelming occurence of singing that occurs among the British. Sporadic and instantaneous chants and songs will errupt from one table and be picked up by others, sometimes spreading across the whole bar. I'm not describing lip-synching, it is full-blown, enthusiastic, hands in the air and coordinated singing.

If you're interested in hearing one such song that inspires the British to drop their conversations, throw their arms up in the air and belt out a verse or two, look up Place Your Hands by Reef. Other songs that inspired group participation are Jon Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer and none other than Lynyrd Skynyrd's Sweet Home, Alabama. The irony of a bunch of British university students singing an iconic American song celebrating the history and culture of the Southern United States was not lost on me.

Even when the music stopped at the end of the night I noticed that the chanting continued. It wasn't long before I figured out it was coming from two opposing groups of people chanting in support of whichever football team they favoured. This particular square off was between Aresenal and Manchester United fans. Back and forth it went, one group promising the victory of their team and then pausing long enough to hear the rebuttle from across the room.

Now nearing 2 o'clock in the morning and with the party still alive outside my window (singing included), the first offical night of Fresher's Week was a success -- and to think there are still five more to go.

Butter buy another...

Riding on a bus today, I recalled making some abstract reference to national security in my last write up. Excuse its randomn nature; it was the result of many hours without sleep. Apparently sleep deprivation affects the ability to think clearly.

Business aside, I'll move on to the really important stuff:

Someone stole my butter.

I tried the first fews days here without purchasing butter, hoping I could save a small amount of money and room in the fridge. Eventually though, I realized the role butter plays in my life and couldn't deny it any longer.

I bought a small container of Flora's original butter and used it a couple of times, leaving it on my shelf in the fridge--never giving its appeal to theives a thought...until this morning when I discovered the crime. At first glance I noticed that one of the three items occupying my shelf was missing. Apples and eggs still present (I proceeded to count that all three apples and all five of my eggs were indeed still there). Paranoia sets in.

I checked behind the eggs, despite obviously being able to see clear across my sparse shelf to the back of the fridge. Not there.
I checked the shelves below, the shelves above and the shelves in the other fridge. Not there. Not there. Not there.
I even rooted through everyone else's loot--no instant, microwaveable edibles were left unturned.

"ohhh, chocolate!"
"'Pickled' what?!"
"Is that furry? I don't even have to reference the expiration date on that."

Empty-handed.
Twelve hours later and my butter is still at large.

So I considered confronting my room mates about this because if I have to start marking my milk container, keeping tallies on the outside of my egg carton and doing inventory every night I might have to engage Plan Counter-Insurgency. At least that way I wouldn't have to go grocery shopping tomorrow.

For anyone composing a mental picture: my shelf presently holds a carton with five eggs, three individually-sized yogurts, three apples and a half full jar of strawberry jam. Oh, and don't forget to include the can of spaghetti in my cupboard.

In the end, I only casually mentioned the case of the missing butter to a couple house mates--as a point of interest. It probably isn't worth crying over spilled milk, or stolen butter for that matter. And my room mates are more than likely all innocent--at least innocent until proven guilty, and I don't think I can afford a lawyer.

There is a constant flow of strays and accquaintances moving throughout the house. And you know what they say, a pound and some pence is never worth getting inbetween an addict and his next butter fix.

the good, the bad and the ugly

I had my first official experience of the rougher side of the city last night at the Pav. After recieving my fair share of bumps on the dance floor, I turned around to see who was so insistent on violating my space--of which, I realize, is very small in a club on the dance floor. Nonetheless, the third time this bafoon knocked into me almost landed me on my face.

I turned around to place a hand on his shoulder to communicate he was practically on top of me, something I've done endless times before and something to which most people respond apologetically me. However, when Ignoramus (or Iggy, as I will call him) turned around, I realized I was dealing with someone so far from "with it" he had practically come full circle to "before it."

Iggy put two hands on me and gave me a little push.
Dumbstruck, awe and incredulousness are only a few of the words that describe my initial reaciton.
But being not a wilting flower, I was quickly aware that this loser was way offside.

"What country am I in?"

I matched his push with a solid shove, one that nearly sent him off his feet. Luckily for him--and me--his friends caught him and made a concerted effort to diffuse the situation.
Though I was soon to find out that Iggy wasn't just your average drunk belligerent, I don't regret engaging in a little brutish activity.

Obviously I'll never fight my way out of any trouble. But if I'm going to get pushed, I might as well push back.

The next twenty minutes were spent watching Iggy pace back and forth through the crowd just in front of me. Eyes locked on me, unblinking and framed by a strong, furrowed brow. His gaze is most accurately described as intense. He wasn't looking for kicks, he wasn't showing off for his friends. His sole intention was intimidation.

He was succesful. I've never been more intimidated in my life. As he took a stand one foot away from me, leaning in and sucking in on his Marlboro, he carefully blew a cloud of smoke into my face--not breaking his gaze, not flinching a muscle. Again his friends arrived on the scene and attempted to corale his aggressive nature whilst he yelled incoherently in my direction.

Dealing with obnoxious drunks is child's play; putting up with persistent creeps is mostly just a cause for irritation, but being intentionally and actively intimidated is something that I've never encountered before. The demonstration of this person's respect for me as an individual and me as a female triggers alarm bells so adamant they cannot go ignored.

We cannot let ourselves be intimidated by others. On the same token, we should not expect ourselves to have to carry protection or fight off belligerent dunks. However, this seems to increasingly be the case. Our conceptions of personal space and safety are being tested often, and on more than one level.

From personal security at a club to national security and how Canadians became instrumental in the military actions in warzones across the world, the question of safety is demanding new answers that will address what seems to have developed into a complicated and diluted idea of basic human rights.

What is most angering about the situation is the chance I take simply by taking a stand for myself. Had I slipped away, or quietly taken a few more stomps from Ignoramus, I probably wouldn't be recording the situation like. But what makes it record-worthy is that standing up for yourself is worth it, in any way, shape or form.

Coming to England was about perspective. Mine needed to be changed because it had become so familiar that it was distorted. Experiences shape our perspectives, among other things, and hopefully I will see a fresh perspective of myself, my life and the world at the end of these four months.

I was thinking about perspective, mine included, after talking to the South African I met at the beginning of the week. When we met eachother and he told me he was from South Africa, my natural reaction to that particular place in the world was one of surprise and interest.

Wow. South Africa. I don't know what "Canada" sounds like to someone who has never been there. But to my ears, South Africa is one or the more exotic places I can think of. I'm aware of general South African history and I have a basic understanding of the country and its struggles, appeals and dynamics. However, I've never had the chance to spend any time with someone from the country--someone with first hand experience and a perspective that differs from my own.

The idea of perspective came about when we were walking near midnight from Manchester city centre to Salford--an area I've recieved endless warnings about from family members, locals, people who have been in the area for some time and authorities. It is common knowledge. So as we walked down the street, I wondered how dangerous a "rough" part of town really is.

I think I subscribe to the idea that if you go looking for trouble you will find it. And, if you're asking for trouble you will get it. At the same time, I had a feeling my perception of the danger Manchester/Salford poses was altogether different than the one of the person walking beside me.

At 6'3" and a former rugby player, Shaun obviously makes much more of a presence than I do walking down the street. And to state the obvious (as well as what may be his biggest advantage over me in this situation), he's a guy. Of course his reply to my question about how "rough" Manchester and Salford are was measured by how safe he felt himself, or so I assume.

He mentioned somewhat of a reputation the area has ascertained, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, simply via the mindset people will have about it. He obviously doesn't consider the area a safehaven because he has walked well out of his way several times so that I arrive at Castle Irwell without having to navigate dark streets on my own. But at the same time, the "rough" area of greater Manchester isn't the same place to me that it is to someone from South Africa.

So I asked Shaun what it was like coming from a third world country. The idea of it strikes me because my experience is entirely different. Canada has its own uneven wealth distribution issues, and its own complicated and unjust racial history, and even its own healthcare and national security issues. But Canada is not a third world country by any standards.

What someone like Shaun can tell me about growing up in a place like South Africa is interesting, but what more can he say than that it is a different place than the UK. As a native of South Africa, Shaun will undoubtedly have a different experience than my own, especially considering it was tempered by the fact that he came from a privledged background by South African standards.

Shaun's experience of South Africa and Cape Town is positive. Before the conversation about coming from a third world country he spoke of a laidback culture, the place where mates for life remain and where he would like to retire. He has mentioned body surfing and 4x4ing in places like Botswana.

Holidaying in Botswana--the country I did a group project on in a Grade Ten Social Studies class, of which I can remember tribal warfare, AIDs and extreme poverty--is not an experience I've had. Which leads me to realize of how many experiences I haven't had. How many haven't shaped my perspective of myself, my life or this world. How many different experiences have I had that a South African never has?

If I waited for experience to decide what my perspective would be, I would be waiting for a long time. It now appears so subjective and alterable, so sensitive and reactive to everything else in the world to me, that I realize I cannot award my own or any other perspective with too much importance. It is more like a work in progress, probably forever. Hopefully forever.

Perspectives are like the bananas I bought eight days ago--better when they are fresh.

Someone told me before I got here that Salford had the greatest rate of teenage pregnancy than anywhere else in England.

It's true.

On a twenty-five minute walk to the area's shopping centre and back, I saw more teenage mothers than I could count on both hands. Way more.

They are everywhere, pushing the same brand of Tesco strollers and dressing their children in the same Tesco clothes. Apparently the UK has a teenage pregnancy issue throughout the country, and Salford is an exemplary city.

The city is referred to as the poorer cousin of Manchester: a lot of buildings are dilapidated and rundown, or altogether vacant. However, I have seen several blocks of construction and development taking place closer to the university campus.

Some of my roomates have referred to many of the people of Salford as scallies. It's a slang term in the UK that refers to a person on the lower end of the socioeconomic scale. The definition is well understood among the British, and implies income, job, attitude, patterns of speech, patterns of behaviour and dress to name a few.

As scally is also a CHAV. Apparently a CHAV is a term that encompasses a broader group of people. I have to ask again what the acronym stands for, but I do remember that it ends with And Violent.

I saw several "scallies" today as I walked into the shopping centre, or at least what have been described as such individuals. Many of the women are overweight, more often than not pushing a baby stroller. Their hair is worn either tightly pulled back and slicked down, or in two French braids that run down either side of the head. Their clothing is such as you would find at Tesco, and had the theme of fleurescent pink. Tattoos, oversized immitation gold earrings and thick immitation gold necklaces with name medallions were common to all scallies I saw today.

Standing in line at the post office was an experience I've never had before either: a line (queue) of twenty people that included four toddlers in stollers, three young children on foot, a handful of scallies, one or two individuals with questionable mental stability, a near scrap over someone's place in line and percentage of people who showered this morning well out numbered by those who did not.

Walking home I heard two police sirens, one ambulance driver, a handful of cat-calling passersby (which included the ambulance driver himself on the way back from his emergency) and the little voice inside my head, "You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

Oh! Canada.

Apparently making an entrance at the Pav solo is a habit of mine because I managed to wander into the hub of student socialization again last night like a desperado steps out into the middle of dusty road.

(Cue tumbleweed.)

This time I imagine my "cool as a cucumber" facade was a little less believable because I was expecting to meet someone there. If you can't picture it I will tell you: looking expectant and then confused, followed by disappointed and then lost is never a cool look.

Being in doubt, I hung a sharp left towards the bar where I was rescued again--I'm telling you, there is something to that advice--by two locals wanting to know where I was from. Apparently I haven't mastered asking for orange juice with any sort of believable accent.

So I ended up at a table of eight English university students. The British are proving themselves time and again for friendliness and a good time. It is the same experience as sitting at any pub with eight Canadians, minus the "ehs" and any conversation about hockey.

Actually, everyone elaborated on how I could most likely body check any of them with more effectiveness than they would care to find out. Elaborating further, they discussed how Canadians are actually born as hockey players on hockey skates...on the ice. Apprently we "literally, just slide out." It was graphic, but their ability to paint Canadians so ridiculously but with undeniable accuracy was entertaining.

Back to why hanging out with a bunch of Brits isn't so strange: accusations of where one was actually from, name-calling, a skapegoat, lewd comments, pop-culture discussions, dirty jokes, little to no politics, lewd comments, girls rolling eyes at guys and a few lewd comments.

They had never heard of Canadian beer--"Yes, Canadian...no, that's the name. Canadian is the name. Just Canadian"--or Kokanee or anything else. Fair enough though, I haven't heard of their Newcastle Brown Ale or anything else they were drinking. Beer in England is a part of the culture in a way it isn't in Canada, in a way that is older than tv commercials. It is incredibly cheap too (one or two pounds in some places).

Later into the evening I find to my right a girl from Scotland and a guy from Ireland to my left. The Irish and the Scots, from what I can tell, are to the English what Newfies are to the rest of Canada: mock their accents and use them as skapegoats. All in good fun, of course. These accents are both intense, although with basic differences: if you're Scottish, apparently, yell loudly and drag out vowels; if you're Irish, speak quickly and don't finish any of the words you start.

The Irish guy was from Northern Ireland, the part that belongs to the UK. But according to him, all of Ireland is really split as to who wants to be separate from the UK and who doesn't want to. It was reminiscent of French Canada. The difference being that the country is literally split into a half that belongs to the UK and then the Independent Republic of Ireland. He actually has family in Quebec (Cue-beck), but he says they are as Canadian as Canadian can be. Apparently talking like an American makes you Canadian.

His name was Cahul, I think. I've never had to ask someone to say or spell their name so many times in my life--and I still sound like I'm spitting up a hairball when I say it. (kah-ewl). But Cahul Mahullund from Ireland was the most Irish person you will ever imagine: his hair was reddish and shaved and his complexion was pale. His eyes were bright blue and they sort of danced about in time to his voice. I've never heard anyone speak so quickly in my life. If I wasn't listening as intently as I was, I probably wouldn't have understood a word he said. But as it was, I caught about half.

Cahul insisted that all the Irish do is drink; it wasn't a complaint or an accusation but simply a statement, like an identifying mark. "Eef ye doh dreenk din ye eent Eerish." Upon parting he threw his arms around me and then gave me his house number, in case I ever wanted to stop in for a beer.

With all due respect and in all seriousnous: imagine a leprechaun with a bit of Brad Pitt's character in Snatch. And yes, I asked about gypsies. In reply, they roared in unision, "those damn gyps!" and then explained in perfect mock political correctness that we don't refer to them as gypsies anymore, but travellers.

"But those damn gyps did try and steal my fridge for scrap metal once!"

They were surprised to hear that there weren't gypsies in Canada. I explained that there were homeless people, but to the best of my knowledge they weren't caravanning anywhere.

It was entertaining to state the obvious. And I am pretty sure the night was tame by their standards.

It's a bird, it's a plane...no, it's a reminder of home

Standing in a courtyard near 8 o'clock this morning and I hear something familiar overhead. At first I don't pay attention until I realize it is so familiar that I would never pick it out unless I was surrounded in as unfamilar an environment as this place...

It isn't beautiful, nor does it command attention like an ambulance siren or the clap of a thundercloud. In fact, it's really an awkward squawking. And just as I turn my head to catch sight of the origin of this noise I realize, it can be none other than

...the call of a Canadian goose.

And then there they were. Flying overhead--only five--in a lopsided V-formation, but five Canadian geese nonetheless. How many times have I seen Canadian geese? Countless. But never before have I been so delighted, dare I say proud, at such a gander. Unfortunately there was no one around; had there have been, I would have informed them that "yes, they too are Canadian."

In England though? I guess so. They looked lost though, being only the five of them.
"Maybe they're Newfies," I thought to myself.

They may not be magestic birds of prey or graceful birds of elegance and beauty, but you too would feel the pang of some heart string somewhere inside of you at the sight of a Canadian goose so far away from home.

Okay, I have to admit that I censored something from the previous blog for appearances sake, and upon review I've decided that I don't want a censored blog. Now, this isn't to say that I'll write my innermosts or my deepest, darkests...but if it isn't me writing--then what's the point?

I went to Manchester today with two guys I met last night: Shawn and Dimitre. Now, I know my description of Dimitre the Greek wasn't glowing--but I have a feeling it didn't express my exact feelings toward this person.

Herein lie my intentions: simply, to convey what was going through my head while I shared the streets of downtown Manchester with this certain individual (it is, afterall, called TM Mind's Eye)....

He was arrogant, flagrantly so. So much so, that if he attempted to make eye contact with me one more as if to express any connection in any shape or form--I was thinking about making a definite connection with him. Physical, actually. A solid bop to the nose. How is that for a connection?

If I had to see him one more time look a member of the opposite sex up and down, give any other female just one more once-over, sneer at, curl his lip at, or express approval or disapproval for one more woman I might have lost my Canadian civilty.

I understand the historical importance of Greece. I admire personal confidence and character strength in anyone else; nonetheless, I cannot bear self-importance. It's nauseating.

Following here are only a few thoughts running through my head as I followed behind the Greek:
"Dimitre, did you hear someone discovered the universe is not actually revolving around Greece?"
"His name was Galileo; and it's the sun."

"Dimitre, what's the Greek word for arrogant?"
"And self-important beyond tolerance?"
"What about chauvanistic?"

"Dimitre, what's that other thing Greek's are famous for? ...you know, besides philosophy and the Olympics..."

Alright then, here stops the Greek bashing. Now I'll formally declare that I do understand the difference between Dimitre and all Greeks. Furthermore, I will officially declare that I do not believe Dimitre represents the whole of the Greek culture, history or population. I actually do have faith in humanity.

I've spent a lot of time on the English streets the past few days, whether it be following behind intolerable internationals or on my own. This morning I finally ventured beyond the student village compound while I was running. I discovered the origin of the children's rhyme that goes:

Don't step on a crack

or you'll break your mother's back.

It's from England and the country's perilous cobblestone roads.

If I manage to make it home without spraining my ankle or ending up horizontal on the sidewalk it will be blog-worthy. I swear I might have hop-scotched my way halfway home in order to avoid taking a spill. Running on Canadian aspahlt is certifiably monotonous compared to the hop-skip-and-jumping I did up and down the road today.

In closing, the three most popular questions/comments addressed to me today about Canada:

"Doesn't Canada consider itself very British? Really, not at all? Are you sure?"

"Gee, there must be a lot of snow there."

"Is all that stuff they say about Canada on SouthPark true?"

"Ohhh, Canada...like in SouthPark."

"Why are they always picking on Canada on SouthPark?"

It's All Greek To Me

I made it into Manchester city centre today. I ran into Shawn from Capetown and Dimitre from Athens at the University House where a Welcome Programme is being held for international students. They were planning on walking into the city so I thought I would join them.

First impressions easily convey that there is a lot more money in Manchester than in Salford. The main city centre is a mix of historic, brick buildings and modern arcitechure. Right into the heart of Manchester there are a few streets for pedestrians only, where pubs and shops all bask in the glory of the hoards of people. Night life will be interesting.

The trip was uneventful though. I stood outside of HSBC waiting for Dimitre to sort out some sort of money dilemma. Just from today's experience, I would say that Canadians have a lot more in common with South Africans than Greeks.

Dimitre never broke stride at crosswalks, stopping to look for oncoming traffic only once he was halfway into the street. His approach to locals for directions was abrupt and matter-of-fact, but no matter how many times he asked for directions--his sense of direction was horrible. He was dramatic, arrogant and perfectly assured of himself.

Shawn, on the other hand, was reserved and more thoughtfully spoken. His intuition about crossing streets (look before you cross), was aligned with my own, and he never attempted to pinch my cheek--yes, the former did pinch my cheek.

I've met a handful more British too: Saffron has moved into the house, she's from nearby and so is her friend, Bill, who is staying in another house. Sophia has also moved into the house--from York, or Yawwrk as she pronounces it. And then there is Ralph (pronounced Raife), a gay Brit from Southern England who isn't in this house but who thinks he might be more often due to the lack of English speaking roomates in his own place.

We had a discussion about the difference between Northern and Southern Englanders, much the same as any differences between the Thompson-Okanagan and the Coast, or Western Canadians and Easterners, or South Kamloops and North Kamloops. Everyone will tell you their opinion, everyone has their loyalties; but from what I can tell, we only point out the differences because they are more interesting than the similarities, not necessarily because they are more abundant.

So I've officially had my first experience out in England. I hate to disappoint, but it wasn't exactly exotic.
The Pavillion is the resident club/bar at the student village. For those of you who have experienced Thompson Rivers University--it is Heroes stepped up a notch. Now, I've never been to the Max (but I can imagine), and I think the Pav might be reminiscent of.
The entryway is actually an open lobby--deserted, at least for my entry--where you will find to your right a doorway for the Ladies and one for the Gents to your left. Up a stairwell and you enter into what seems to be another lobby, should I expect this place to get packed at high season or is ballroom dancing a popular Wednesday night activity? Apparently the real action takes place into the bar section of the Pav...

So there I stand under the archway with the bar directly to my left, a spacious and empty expanse of dance floor, and to my right: everyone else. Talk about an entrance, no one needed to announce that arrival, nor point out that it was done solo.

I'm fine with solo, but this was downright funny. Fortunately, I found it so at the time and was genuinely laughing at myself (on the inside of course; on the outside I was cool as a cucumber). With not a single vacant seat in the house, I managed a pretty brave stroll down the middle of the dance floor and veered left to the bar.

When in doubt, head for the bar.

I've said before the British are very friendly, and they proved themselves consistent tonight. At the bar I found a friendly face, two actually, in two girls who struck up conversation. I would love to share their names, however, both being British and Muslim I wouldn't dare attempt to spell what I know I wasn't even pronouncing properly. Imagine my delight in finding that they don't drink either--imagine the bartenders delight in pouring two orange juices and a water.

We played a game of pool (rules suspended) and met a few other Pav-illioners: Shawn from Capetown, South Africa; Jess from Boston, U.S.A.; and Dimitre from Athens, Greece. The girls are originally from London, currently residing in Manchester, and hopefully we will all manage to see a bit of both cities in the next four months.

So here's a glassful of orange juice to the Pav, the British and girls that don't drink!

Tomorrow I will have been in England for a week, and so on the eve of such an important moment in time I feel I should blog with a little extra pizazz. Maybe I'll blog in rhyme, maybe in pig latin . . . I will probably just blog.

I woke up at 8am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed--still holding on to Canada time. Actually, I haven't found the jetlag experience to be all that daunting. The worst part of it was being awake for nearly 48 hours, I have a better appreciation for how effectively sleep deprivation as a tactic of torture might be used. But aside from feeling sleepy throughout the day at times, jetlag has been a breeze.

I made the walk to the Salford Shopping City again, and on my way back I took a detour down a street I thought might hold the University campus at the end up it. Twenty minutes down, I decided to turn back. I've been warned that Salford is a rougher part of town, and I can see evidence of that though I wonder if I'm just being sensitive to a paranoia I've developed heeding all that advice and growing up in a small and relatively harmless city.

There is some saying about searching out trouble, and generally I think I'll be fine unless I set out to find myself an exceptionally rough experience. But I can't help but feel a little out of place walking in my Nike Shox, LuLuLemon pants, vest from the Gap and a polo t-shirt from American Eagle. Now I don't consider myself a brand-hound by any means--I like the sound of Prada and Gucci more than I would ever like their stuff--but once you list it from top to bottom, it's hard to pretend I'm only a starving student.

I've worked for everything I own though, so I also won't be digressing into any sort of self-debasing critique of the materialism in my life. But I suppose what I'm trying to get at, is that while walking down the streets of Salford I don't exactly yearn for anything.

Place me in a haute couture shoppe along a Parisian rue and, sure, I guess something might catch my eye.

Contrary to everything I was told before I got to England, I've found all the Brits to be affable on the whole. As one of my hosts put it: "Despite how we might look, if you'll just ask you'll find that most of us are desperately willing to help."

I met two men from Africa today, once on my way up Cromwell Road and then again down the other side of it. The first one--I actually didn't ask for his name because the paranoid tourist in me was too busy trying to avoid eye contact and revealing personal information with which he might later track me down with--was from South Africa. He quickened his pace to walk in step with me for about one block, engaging me in conversation I was hesitantly participating in the whole time. And after that he said he wished he didn't have to rush off but did so promptly by crossing the street.

On my way home I was flagged down by another man, this time as I overtook him and his young daughter walking on my left. He asked if I was a student and from there stemmed another conversation about Salford and our business there. Being slightly more at ease with the conversation of a total stranger walking down the street, I did happen to catch his name: Kenny, from Kenya (yes, I too caught the humour in that). Anyway, Kenny (and daughter, Sabrina) are in Salford while Kenny goes to school.

I'm not sure what to attribute these two conversations to. As a Canadian, I have sort of taken on a reputation for friendliness by default, even though I know myself to be somewhat guarded and even anti-social, particularly with strangers. Maybe they caught a glimpse of the Canadian flag attached to my backpack; maybe I look approachable (highly doubtful--I've been working on my "unapproachable" face); or maybe it is the other that is friendly and approachable. Both of these men were from Africa, does anyone know how friendly the African culture is, generally?

Maybe they were attracted to the novelty of me. Both men mentioned that they wanted to go to Canada. Though they had to ask if my accent is American, they both like it. Sidenote: everyone has asked me if my accent is American; no one assumes it is Canadian.

This is getting long.
Just some thoughts though.

I think "everyone" is at the Pav right now (the Pav being the Pavillion, on site club/bar to meet every downtrodden, homework-ridden, sleep deprived student's needs). I should really throw caution to the wind and find my way over there--yes, even without a hair dryer OR a flat iron.

Let's hope it's dark.

I have to make this trip everything it was meant to be for me. I won't let anyone else's idea about the next four months determine what it is for me: what I want it to be; what I deserve it to be; and what it is I came here for.

Day two - I can't write a blog. What am I blogging? My political opinions are inexperienced; my knowledge of the world is underdeveloped and my thought process is aimless more often than I am ready to admit.

Oh, but for perseverence, heroics and something else admirable. I will march on.
If anything, I will try and keep up a blog because I should be able to keep up something if it isn't going to be yoga.

I managed to find today the nearest Tesco in all its Walmart-esque glory. It demands a twenty-something minute walk to the Salford shopping centre. If you can imagine what Walmart is like in Canada on Christmas Eve, or perhaps in the candy aisle at 4:30 on Halloween afternoon, then you've just imagined a Tesco when it is quiet. It is true that England is an island with a considerable amount of people, but it must be the explanation for the swarms of people I've encountered every time I've been into a grocery or apartment store. It actually might have been a nice change from the seclusion I'm experiencing at the student village.

Who would have thought I belong to the minority of people who've decided to show up for school more than a week before it actually begins.

Fresher's Week starts on Monday. I'm an undergraduate and I am new to the school, but I don't think I qualify as a Fresher. I do have going on four years of post-secondary school under my belt--but something tells me not being a Fresher isn't going to exclude anyone from particpating in the activities. Activities being, from what I can gather, parties.

I have hope in the fact that eventually my days will consist of more than this room, and hopefully then I will have something more to consider than this small world that is Room 27. I've been weighing whether or not it would be worth decorating in a limited way. On one hand is a long four months, on the other is just how temporary this situation really is. Be it either functionality or an attempt to decorate, I bought a throw today at Wilkinson's. I considered my options: white, brown or red. Actually, I considered my options more than was really required, but at the time it seemed important.

The bedding is cream, so white is out.
Hm, red or brown. They are both Fall colours-that's convenient.
Brown might be drab. Red could be vibrant. Brown won't show dirt. This particular red might wash me out (in case anyone is considering my complexion while I sleep? How frightening is that?).
I went with brown deciding that it was actually a chocolate brown, remembering how that particular colour is really in this season. How rich.

As I consider it now, tossled on the edge of my cot...ahem, bed...it really isn't possible for a 6 pound, polyester-fleece, brown square of fabric to ever appear rich in the dorm room of student housing.

Regardless of its socioeconomic status, it still won't show the dirt.

So this is England, and this is a blog.
Exactly what I thought it would be--both of them.
Actually, that's not true. But how else would you imagine a blog to be. And how else do you imagine England?
Besides the fireworks that I hear popping outside of my window right now, England is just as you might think it is: Narrow streets, small cars--fast cars. Accents: it's Canaduhr, gayrawj and the loo. The houses are old. And it's possible that dentistry isn't a popular occupation.

The skies are often grey and the countrysides are green, but this all goes without saying, right? I'm in England.
This might actually be my fifth day here, but I might experience it as my first. The old, English couple I served back in Canada in June, the same ones who picked me up from the airport and have taken care of me ever since, dropped me off today at uni. So it is the real world from here on out--quite literally so though (you'll find quite peppering my copy now, it's really quite annoying actually).

Walking down Cromwell road in search of the nearest food vendor, I realized I'm in a country of some five million people, nearly all of whom don't have the slightest idea who I am, let alone worry about my wellbeing. This might sound trite, but it's slightly significant for a girl who has grown up in the same small city her entire life. And I'm not saying it isn't obvious either. Of course it is, and of course I've pondered the possibility before: that there is a world of billions, myself being only one. But it is another thing altogether to walk down a busy road in a strange country unaware of one's destination, and then to realize that in the real world (as painfully cliche as the phrase is), no one really notices.

So I thought about it but it didn't necessarily knock me off my rocker.

The real world also includes: bedding that needs to be purchased and still ends up being only satisfactory; imperative hair appliances that cannot be plugged into UK outlets, and endless queues of electronic store employees that are either quite incompetent or getting their kicks out of telling the Canadian girl it is practically impossible to use North American appliances in the UK in any way. In the real world, you will also find: clueless and much too straightforward foreigners (this isn't a reference to myself in the third person), a lack of towels and a lot of questions.

But questions are good; someone even went so far as to say that there are no stupid questions, didn't they? Welll there are rhetorical questions; I've heard "that's a good question," and I bet there is more than one impossible question. Oh, and questions of life.

Those must be the ones like, "why did the chicken cross the road?"

Hopefully there are a lot of questions in the real world, or at least in England, because apparently I'm finding answers here. I can't imagine answers without questions. Before I left, I used to joke when people asked me what I was doing in England: "Well, apparently I'll find myself there." Yes, apparently this trip is spiritual. Or is it supposed to be fun?

Will someone look up the word fun in the dictionary (damn, forgot to pack one of those), because I think it is quite possible one of the most overused words in the dictionary outside of the word like. Certainly England will be fun, but I hardly think it will be the defining word for this trip. It will be many things, including fun.

I'll tell you what would be really fun right now: someone knocking on my door with a ready solution to my severe lack of hair appliances. Jolly good fun. But in all seriousness, if anyone wants to post me an answer, feel free. Other things to feel free to do: send me a care package containing food (preferably sinful), money and or a small puppy/kitten; write me an e-mail; or show up at my door with that raedy solution to my severe lack of hair appliances I was talking about.

Welcome to England.