Paradox

Four long months it has been since I left Grand Rapids, Michigan on a plane.

It seems like a very long time, four months. It is a very long time. A whole lot of things happen in four months. I have lists and lists of things that have happened to me in four months, and from what I can tell, they've changed me, broadened my mind, shaken up my soul, made me open my eyes and really see the world for the first time. Four months ago, I wasn't prepared to be away from everything I know and love for almost half a year. Four months later, I'm still not prepared.

It all began as a whirl. I adapt relatively well as long as I have a task or a job, something on which to focus, to draw my attention away from my emotions and feelings of neglect and loneliness. I do not make friends quickly. You can tell from my earlier posts that I was not particularly impressed, either, further throwing me into a dark mood.

Since then (and you'll have noticed that my posts have gotten progressively more positive), it seems as if almost everything has changed. I love England. I love the English. More than the English, I love the Scottish and the Greek. I love tea and curious words and the countryside and Spring and anything and everything having to do with this place except the weather (blasted weather--I have a whole other post about the weather).

Four months is a very long time, indeed.

With 25 days left to my journey, it is difficult to look back without noticing just how little time four months is. Despite the enormous number of curious events that have happened to me and lovely people I have met and picturesque places I have been, it seems that I have only just touched the surface of this place. There are so many places I still want to discover, so many people to meet, so much history to touch and watch unravel before my very eyes. I haven't seen the homes and graves of my favourite authors, or experienced the land and culture as they are meant to be experienced and appreciated, as those who write such lyrical lines about them mean for one to experience them. Even within York and its surrounding areas, I feel as though I've barely gotten to know the city. I don't even know where the nearest ASDA is.

Even more terrifying is the idea that I'm so close to all the most wonderful things I've ever wanted to see--the temple ruins in Athens and all over Greece, the Vatican in Rome, Amsterdam, Germany, Spain--the entirety of Europe, and yet four months is not nearly enough time to see it all! How can I have spent four months here and seen so little?

I can't thank God enough for these last four months, though. Despite feeling as though I don't have enough time with all of these wonderful people in these wonderful places, I get the feeling that God has started something big. I don't know what I'll do without the friends I've made here, from my flatmates to the volleyball team to the students at Red Dog music to the beautiful Vitsou family--each of them has touched my life and opened my eyes, and it's hard to understand that even in so little time, they've become a big part of my life.

The most frustrating thing is not knowing how to thank them all. I keep trying to think of ways to tell them how blessed I am to have been able to meet them, spend time with them, and get to know them, but I really can't think of a way. I suppose I'll think about it for another couple of weeks, then get things in order and actually try to figure out what to do. Until then, I'll just continue to enjoy their company, yeah?

Day 118: Neglect

Don't worry about the misleading title; this post is to assure my readers that I'm not trying to neglect you...I've just been preoccupied.

This blog is supposed to tell you all about my travels, and don't worry--it will! Unfortunately, that'll have to be a project that extends far beyond my mere five months of travel. You see, I've been busy experiencing the world, and not writing about it just yet. I have journals and logs, no problem, but usually nothing more than writing down what my group and I have done for the day.

With an overcast sky above, and an un-hoovered carpet below, I say to you, "Do not worry."

I have many a thing to write about--content is not a problem. There is enough action, emotion, thought, weather changes, places, and events to keep me writing and you reading for months on end. So try to stay calm while I finish out the last of my travels, and I will spend my summer hours dedicated to writing about my travels.

After all, if I was writing all the time, I wouldn't be taking the time to notice everything around me!

With all the non-neglect in England,
Yours.

I was born to be British

Oh, the British.
Perhaps this isn't true in the most base sense: I was most definitely not born British, and I also most definitely will not become British; however, I have complained too much about Britain's rainy weather and youth culture, and so I think it's about time I looked at the positive side of this baffling culture.

I was born to be British. Why, you might ask? It's fairly simple. The British encompass everything I have ever known and loved--perhaps the reason I loved it was because it was British, and it left me with a sneering sense of superiority, but that's rather difficult to explain as a ten-year-old, so we'll have to pretend it's something quite different. I attribute my rather bold statement to several different causes.

1. British humour.
I understand nothing better about British culture than its humour. I am obsessed with it, I enjoy it, I thrive in it. You see, British humour consists of a hearty mix of wit, irony, and my personal favourite, self-deprecating humour. How can I go wrong? This has been my sense of humour since I started understanding the meaning of humour. It is often said that Americans don't understand irony, but if there is anyone who understands irony in the form of humour, it is I, and I relish it. Music to my ears, irony is, and to be honest, Britain is the best kind of place for my kind of humour. It is sometimes dark, sometimes witty, sometimes punny, sometimes dry, and sometimes, it is simply difficult for Americans to understand. It's like I was meant for this place.

2. Tea.
Tea always will be the happiest hot beverage on earth. America is dominated by coffee drinkers. Here in England, my flat doesn't even have a coffee maker. It does, however, have a quick-water-boiler, which  makes making tea literally a minute-long event (depending on how long you wait for your tea to steep, of course). I have bought for myself a large box of Twinings Lady Grey tea, a small jar of honey, and I always, always, always have milk, and I suspect that I will run out of all three by the end of this semester. I love tea, and I will never love coffee the way I love tea. In fact, I will never love coffee at all, though it is much more widely accepted as a morning caffeinated beverage than soda is. Coffee is simply not what I enjoy. Tea, on the other hand, will always have a piece of my heart.

3. Keep Calm and Carry On.
There was never a truer phrase to describe the English. The British do not panic. Ever. If it was the last thing they ever did, it would be to take a deep breath and carry out everyday activities as if nothing in the world could matter more. Almost get hit by a car? No matter--keep calm and carry on. Boyfriend broke up with you and hooked up with your sister AND your best friend? No matter--keep calm and carry on...after you down an entire bottle of vodka (it happens, too). Run out of money? No matter--keep calm and carry on. Essentially, nothing phases the British. This may be a bit of an exaggeration, because any teen, British or not, loves throwing a bit of attention, but the fact is that everyone around that teen will simply keep calm and carry on. No one apologizes for anything unless the need for it is so incredibly great that only an apology will allow one to continue one's daily activities without complete psychological breakdown.

4. An Obsession With Dialects.
Now, Americans have an obsession with dialects to an extent--we love foreign accents. We also love making fun of other American accents, as long as they're not like ours. The English, on the other hand, are obsessed with EVERYONE'S dialect. They think all of them are fascinating. I have overheard more than one British conversation in the library that consisted of something like the following.

Person A: Say 'bottle.'
Person B: Bottle.
Person A: Now YOU say 'bottle.'
Person C: Boh'le

Everyone laughs. Why? Because despite the fact that they're all British, they all have different accents. There's a huge regional difference in almost all dialects here. There's Northern and Southern, Welsh and Scottish, Irish, Newcastle, Yorkshire, London, and more. Southern accents, I've found, are the closest to what we hear on, say, literally any show or film that has any British people in it unless they were hired specifically for diversity of accents. The "proper" English we tend to prefer is, in fact, a Southern accent. So no, not everyone here has the same perfectly proper accent that actors and actresses in films do, which  makes everyone much less endearing, of course. The Yorkshire accent tends to butcher (and I say that as kindly as possible) their vowels, and puts stress on strange parts of words, making it much more difficult to understand; however, because I am as ridiculously obsessed with dialects as any Brit, I've grown accustomed to the sound.

5. I hate the weather.
And so does everyone in Britain. If you want it to be warm, it's cold. If you want cold, it's warm. If you want rain, the sun shines. If you want sunshine, it pours. All day. If you don't want rain or shine, it will do both. And sometimes, just to be spiteful, it will tempt you with the most beautiful day ever, and then add such a bone-chilling wind so that all you can do is stay indoors and look at it sadly. The weather never, ever cooperates, and is never, ever nice. Ever. There is always something wrong with the weather.

6. All things British: class system, history, kings and queens, everything BUT the Royal Wedding.
Fortunately, even when some British humour revolves around British history, I am always prepared. I know more about British history than I do about American history (which, I know, is a HUGE disappointment, but it's true), and British Literature, thankfully, is brought up just enough to make me look better than my American peers, because I have actually heard of them before coming here. Mentions of Lord Byron and Alfred Lord Tennyson and Charles Dickens are not lost on me. Not only do I know them, but I have read their work and know about their lives, and can comment on it. Also fortunately, the only person I have ever encountered who not only brought up the Royal Wedding, but referred to it as "The Wedding" was an American from my peer group, and I did not feel guilty for having absolutely no idea to which wedding she was referring.

7. I was born to be British.
I mean, come on. I've been practicing since I could read.

Day 50: I Propose A New Movement

So I suppose this isn't particularly related to being in England, except that I'm starting to realize that the problem is more evident here than it is in, say, America. It's been going on for some time now--the previous generation, our entire generation, and the next generation have been pushed, and have pushed back, becoming (especially in our and the next generation) increasingly obsessed with image.

It's not the same kind of image I used to imagine, though--it's more than just a health craze and a desire to maintain a certain look. Instead, we've begun to completely reject any image, and have started to take on whatever image comes our way. All three generations have lost what being an individual really means, and have instead created yet another mass-produced individuality, where it's more important to hate everyone who isn't like you than it is to become someone you want to be. And so it's not exactly that we've learned to love ourselves, but rather that we've learned to hate everyone else more than we hate ourselves.

So I propose a new movement. In this movement, we promote modesty, our natural selves, and focus on how we treat other people. In this movement, we promote silence, Especially silence. Why? Because if we are silent, our actions have time to speak.

I guess I'm just tired of all these people who are so narrowly focused on such petty things--there's an entire world of people who could be doing amazing things--and instead, we're all talking and hating and treating each other like we're better even when we know we're not, and at some point, if we thought about it, I think we'd notice that nothing in this world is getting done, nothing is changing, and we're all heading in a downward spiral toward a great big pile of meaningless.

So I propose we forget about ourselves and fitting in, and instead, silently (I repeat, SILENTLY) start treating others with humility, modesty, and respect--even when you don't think they deserve it. I think if even a few of us tried to start living this way, we'd figure out that maybe life is more than being self-absorbed all of the time.

I'm tired of wasting my time worrying about what I'll lose by doing what I believe. I'd much rather perform well knowing I'll lose than win knowing I never tried being the best human being I'm capable of being.

Day 48: Trousers, Cheers, Are You Going Out Tonight?

If I am pushed I will push back, that is the way I am. I am very British. We don't like to be pushed around. When the chips are down we might have to step into grey areas. (Damon Hill)


Americans glorify the British. Am I right? Hollywood makes them seem mysterious and interesting, almost always intelligent AND sexy. Ninety percent of the time, they are also attractive, because, well, it's the movies, and even if they aren't attractive, we somehow find them attractive because of their accents. Thank goodness, the accent lost its allure years ago, and instead, I was incredibly attracted to the idea of the British school system, and how much more intelligent and engaging they must be in comparison. I had in mind green countrysides, quaint little villages and shops, a homey community, and friendly Brits always willing to have a conversation about something relevant. Most of my favorite authors came from England, and I was determined to meet the next C. S. Lewis. 


What I was imagining, however, was an image of the few and far between, and from at least a decade ago. The world I was thrown into was a mess of British youth, who have been pushed by ancient generations to be precisely what I had hoped they would be, and so became precisely the opposite. Thus far nearly every person I have met I met in a bar or a club, and almost all of them were too drunk to remember who I was the next time I saw them. Girls wear tights and short skirts or shorts with tall heels, dye or bleach their hair unnatural shades of red, pink, blue, purple, and blonde, either wear no makeup or so much makeup that they look plastic, and drink until they can't see straight, and guys wear a mishmash of clothing, talk of absolutely nothing relevant, and also drink until they can't see straight. And so, instead of the stimulating conversationalists concerned with thought and meaning I expected, I received four months of "please get me out of here."

That's just the people, though. Thankfully, they're not ALL of England.

The history and quaintness have been maintained, and I love it. Were I confident enough to travel alone (i.e. were it safe enough, and were I not female), I think I would like to simply travel the countryside, sitting and staring at sheep, or walls, or sitting in tea shops contemplating how the wildly different American nation came from this weird little island. I would sit and write in my journal day after day, telling of my exploits and wondering what adventure would come next. 


Things have been rough, to say the least. Living here is expensive and lonely, and to be honest, I'm not entirely impressed with it. After almost four weeks (a month, already?), my morale has gone up and down so much that it's getting hard to manage.

Only three more months of this. Then I can come home. 96 more days.

Let the countdown begin.

Day 23: What day is it?

After three amazing weeks in Asia that are easier told in photos than in any other form (mostly because I did not have any time to write for Catching the Trade Winds), I find myself suddenly in England, where it is precisely what everyone has warned me: cold and wet. Despite the chill, however, I am managing to bundle up and carry on. I arrived yesterday morning after a seven-hour flight (which seems almost short after 18 hours of air time getting back from Asia), at which point my group and I were rushed off to get our keys for the Grange (apartment complex), then rushed off to the Grange to put our things in our flats, then rushed off to Orientation, then rushed off to an International Student pow-wow...by the time we returned to our flats that evening, I was so exhausted that I nearly fell into my bed and was asleep by eight o'clock.

Today has been the same kind of rigorous routine: starting at 5:30am, when I woke up suddenly and could not get back to sleep. Since we had nowhere to be until 9am, I ate a bagel with nutella and crawled back in bed after setting an alarm. I then proceeded to have a very odd sequence of dreams in which I was fighting off very malicious children that came from the forest on a path, struggling to protect everyone, and suddenly waking up in a room that was clearly still in the Grange. One of the students on our trip came in and told me that my cousin Ruthy had noticed I wasn't feeling well and had me taken up to the room to sleep. I don't remember much more happening before I awoke once again, in a different room in the Grange, very confused and wanting very badly to wake up in my own room. And then I did wake up in my own room, but I could tell that I wasn't awake, so I pinched myself and slapped myself and pounded my head against the wall without feeling any pain in severe frustration with the fact that I simply could not wake up from this ridiculous dream. I have never had an awareness of dream dream in which I was particularly frustrated with not being able to wake. And then I suddenly awoke to my alarm at 7:30am and was too terrified to get trapped in a dream to go back to sleep. So I got up with a good hour and a half to get ready and slowly put myself together for enrolment.

After the tedious things that were required, we walked over to visit the York Minster, a large Cathedral and Minster that is visible from almost anywhere in York. It was magnificent, of course, with intricate details paired with the highest ceilings I have ever found in a structure. It was beautiful. Hard to leave, in fact.

We ended the day at our program director's house for tea, snacks, Wii, and the Princess Bride (because for some reason the King's Speech wasn't available on Netflix UK). It's now nearing 11pm and even though I very discreetly passed out during the Princess Bride, I am exhausted, and we have a bright and early day tomorrow morning to visit Liverpool, which, though it is the home of the Beatles, will always and forever remain in my heart as the home of my favourite childhood author, Brian Jacques.

Day 1: Preparations

Boy, is travel a whirl of excitement, then panic, then utter breakdowns of stress, then excitement again! The last few days have been spent in either sheer panic and complete despair that nothing will be ready and blissful, relaxed forgetfulness. At one moment I'm checking and double-checking everything, and another I'm browsing my favorite websites and watching television. What's wrong with me? I can't seem to balance these extremes.

It happens every time I travel, but this time, it's even worse. Why? Instead of a flight to Houston or a trip to Wisconsin, I've landed myself on two consecutive trips overseas--one over the Pacific, and the other over the Atlantic.

Okay, so technically they're the same landmass--let's not get picky. It's a big deal for me--I've been out of the country (thank God I have some experience with non-American culture), but never this far, and never this long. This spring, I'm going to East-Southeastern Asia for a month, and then to jolly ol' England for four more months. I get sixteen hours of being home in between flights. I also have no idea what time to set my clocks. Trust me, there's a reason for my sheer panic during this next week.

In Asia, I am touring Guangzhou, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Manila with one of my college's top choral ensembles: Capella. In the group of about 40 strong, I am a second soprano, and we (as a choir) have an intimidating repertoire. This experience is one of a lifetime to debut us internationally as a talented non-professional choir.

Immediately following this trip (that is to say, sixteen hours after my return from Asia), I head out to Britain for the rest of the semester, pursuing numerous traveling opportunities and saving up for our Spring Break, when we are let loose in London to find our ways back to York in three weeks' time. Of course, there's classes as well (that's what I'm there for, really!). I am currently enrolled for Phonetics, Creative Writing, and a sociology and history course both involving a study of the Olympics and Britain and sports. We have, rather unfortunately, arranged this trip under the Kinesiology department, due to the preparations for the Olympics in England for 2012, but thankfully, only a few of our class excursions are very sports-oriented. We do have several previously planned excursions to historic English sites such as Alnwyk Castle, a Manchester United match, and Edinburgh. Needless to say, I am tremendously excited.

I have prepared this blog (rather obviously) in an attempt to keep my friends and family updated--I will be posting photos, and as many descriptions of my journeys as possible. Unfortunately, I will not have my laptop in Asia, which means I will not be able to post very much very often, but I will do my best to keep in touch.

I based the name of this blog on a particular quote by Mark Twain. It's a rather popular one, so I'm sure you'll have heard it before, but it goes something like this: "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." I decided it's about time I catch the trade winds in my sails.

I'm young, I'm versatile, I'm ready to explore this incredible world, achieve and revise my dreams, and discover things about myself, others, and this fascinating universe.

It's my time for catching the trade winds.