Am I in Michigan?

There's SNOW! This feels more like Michigan than Bath.

 This is our back garden. I had to stand out in the snow to get this picture. My socks were soaked. That's commitment. 

 This was taken from our front door; our Christmas tree is still chilling in the front garden. It seems suitable now. 

 

The anniversary gift I gave Wesley was two tickets to see Panic! At The Disco. We went on Tuesday and it was AMAZING. 

Though, for the first three and a half hours I moaned about how I was never going to another concert again. It's funny how as soon as they started playing, I completely forgot about how miserable I had been while standing out in the freezing cold for two hours and then spending another hour standing in a crowd waiting for something to happen. Not to mention Wesley and I seemed to be the oldest people there! 

Although, who could be angry whilst looking at this? 

As soon as Brendon took his shirt off, Wesley (who had the camera because he's taller) turned to me and asked if I wanted him to take pictures. He DOES love me!

Needless to say, it was a pretty great evening for the both of us and, oddly enough, I'd do it all over again :) 

Am I Speaking English?

I'm sincerely embarrassed to say that I haven't written anything in ages.  Why?  There is no other reason than pure and utter lack of commitment. Except maybe the reason that I don't feel I am nearly interesting enough for others to want to read about, despite what my mother seems to think.  However, I do feel that having a blog and not using it is a waste of internet space that is already highly abused.

I have to admit that when I started writing this, I had no idea what I was even going to write about, but as I sat staring at my computer I thought about a conversation I had with my house-mate, Jake,one night and the confusion that ensued.

When Jake walked into my bedroom and asked if I had a bobble, I have no shame in admitting that I had no effing clue what he was talking about.  My first thought was that he was asking for one of those weebles.  You know, those toys with the saying "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down" ?  Of course, that thought only lasted for a fraction of a second before I realized no one in their right mind would want one of those, or even expect another person to have them.  I didn't even have enough of an idea to wager a guess, so he resorted to trying to figure out how to explain it.  Jake started making a circle with his hands and kept saying, "What do you call it?" until he said it was to hold someone's hair back.

A hair tie. Jake needed a hair tie for his girlfriend. All that effort to ask for a hair tie got me thinking about how many times that's happened to me now that I live in England. Sometimes I feel like I'm not even speaking English.

So today, when, in my upset and homesick state, I decided to go to Starbucks and saw that they had Christmas lattes, my spirits were instantly lifted. They had a praline mocha latte that I was convinced was going to make my day better.  When I asked for this grande praline mocha latte the guy at the counter stared at me and said "I'm sorry, what did you want?." I repeated that I wanted a GRANDE PRALINE MOCHA LATTE and after another quizzical look, he let me pay.

When they called out the order they say "Grande Praaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaline mocha latte". That's P-Rah-Lean for us ignorant yanks.

I swear. What assholes.

Hung, Drawn and Quartered

I hate people.

I mean, not individuals. I love individual people and have a tendency of getting along with almost everyone, it's groups of people that I hate.

Since living in England and travelling to London I've discovered a few things, most of which involve the fact that I can't stand being in large crowds and how people in England seem to ALWAYS be too close to me.

Instead of writing my two essays that are due at the end of this week, I chose to finally write another blog after too many months (let's not get into specifics, okay?) of neglecting it.  I figure it's a good way to get all the "informal" writing out of my system before I start wiring about media and television and blah blah blah.

So a few weeks ago Wesley and I spent a few days in London. An absolutely beautiful place: yes. An absolute headache: without a doubt.  Groups and groups and groups of people push and shove and wander through the streets making me not even recognize myself.

I started thinking things that were so unlike me. The old woman walking in front of me was no longer cute. Instead, I had a sudden urge to kick her cane away. Terrible, I know. I was so embarrassed that I didn't tell Wesley for at least 30 seconds.  I found myself enraged by the middle aged man who couldn't seem to decide what side of the road he wanted to walk on and I was swearing up and down that if one more person bumped into me, I was going to scream.

The underground was horrible. So many people packed into a tube shoulder to shoulder, sweating and breathing on my neck. One woman squeezed herself in entirely too close to me and then started to READ A BOOK, elbowing me the entire time. Leaving the underground was equally as stressful. I tripped and stumbled over everyone on my way out, all the while apologizing profusely while getting no response from anyone.

Wesley claims it's all like this because England doesn't have as much space as the U.S. does, which I can honestly understand.  I figured out that that is why all the isles in the supermarket always seemed to be packed full of people that are constantly backing into me. MAYBE LOOK WHERE YOU'RE GOING!  I miss the spacious isles of the large supermarkets in the U.S.

Despite all the people that made me want to cry, London was an absolutely beautiful place with a history that Americans can't quite comprehend.  The architecture is amazing and breath taking and I even got a bit of a sun burn! Not too shabby for the notoriously rainy country.

We had a wonderfully entertaining tour underneath the London Bridge that was full of information about the great fire of London. We also learned all about the traitors being hung, drawn and quartered.  After the educational aspect of the tour, they proceeded to lead us through a scare house where I screamed more than I can ever remember screaming,

We also saw Buckingham Palace where I tried desperately to get in. After all, Wesley always tells me that I'm a princess.

We ended up in a club called Tiger Tiger with my good friend, Steph and housemate, Ryan. The night was mostly like any other night out, with the exception of the waitress thinking that Wesley and Ryan were a gay couple.  She even told Wesley that she liked his purse. Asking him to watch my purse while I went to the toilet was the best decision I've ever made.

All in all we had a fantastic time, despite all the sweaty people on the trains.

Do Not Try To Shrink Me, Gypsy!

This is long, long overdue.  I will take any complaints, criticisms or death threats that anyone has to offer, either for not posting in two months, or getting your hopes up that I was finished and then surprising you with this garbage.

However, as relayed to me by my mother, my Aunt Cynthia (recently married, congrats!) said not to be one of those people who start a blog and then just leaves it.

So here I am, not being one of those people.

It is probably well known that I am currently living and studying in England, but before I can talk about how things are going here, I have to go back... to Spain.

We're driving to Spain from Portugal with Steven.  I have already been forewarned that it's about a 10 hour drive, so I have come mentally prepared for whatever hardships this trip entails.  It just so happens that this trip entails hardships such as flies attacking my grilled cheese sandwich, gypsies trying to sell us melons on the side of the street, creepy little rest stops, gypsy music and oh, yes, gypsies feeling the need to fit their entire family in a single-person bathroom.

I cannot explain the urgency in which I have to relieve myself after hours of driving and drinking Pepsi.  I practically sprint into that creepy little rest stop, where I find what I can only assume is a creepy little restroom.  I knock politely on the door and when I receive no response, I try the door handle. It's unlocked so, naturally, I open to door.  I open the door to see two young girls standing next to a sink and one calls out "Ma!" So I quickly shut the door, walk over to the drink area and try to look nonchalantly at what size Pepsi I want for the remainder of the trip.  After a few minutes, I see the two girls and an older woman (all what Steven explained as Moroccan gypsies) come out of the restroom.  So there. I'm going back in. Another little polite knock and no response after, I try the door and open it again.  What do I find? MORE GYPSIES! At least 3 more! How many of them are in that bathroom built for one? At this point, I'm pissed, because I have to use the bathroom and those gypsies are taking it over!  I honestly think I might pee my pants, so I buy my drink and have to run over to another restroom next door.  Right as we're about to leave I see about 8 gypsies (including the ones from the bathroom) pile into a car that's probably made for 5, tops, INCLUDING what looks like all of their possessions!

Those gypsies....

Our first two nights are spent in a hostel (to which most people reply "Hopefully it's not like the movie!" I've never seen it, so please quit freaking me out with your horror movie references) that I can only classify as slightly below satisfactory.  Though, I manage to keep myself feeling slightly at home by watching some Disney Channel dubbed in Spanish!  Luckily, I've seen every Hannah Montana episode and know what's being said anyway.

The Barcelona Zoo and Aquarium are highlights for me. I'm really a sucker for animals.  The rest of the trip is filled with late night dinners of tapas (a Spanish meal of lots of little appetizers), Steven's wonderful, Russian friends Andre and Igor, and plenty of Gaudi buildings to go around.  Before I know it, it's time to go back to Belgium.

Such a foreign place but such a wonderful time.

é possivel seis pessoas?

The morning of our flight to Portugal we take our packed things, that do not include my hair dryer or straightener, because apparently the voltage here is tons stronger than the voltage in the States (twice the power, if you were curious).  I found this out when I innocently tried to use my hair dryer only to have it start up sounding like one of the electric air mattress pumps (the insanely loud ones, you know what I'm talking about), start smoking and smelling like burnt plastic and then shut off completely.

So a little side note: if you want to travel to Europe, either buy those sorts of things there, or make sure you have a transformer.  It could get dangerous.

The flight is fairly easy and we arrive in Portugal in no time. We are picked up by Wesley's older brother, Steven (very charming and single, ladies) and his cousin Daniel (also very single and happens to be a model).  The country club that everyone stays in is wonderful and the villa is beautiful.  The family is so sweet to me and the cousins are a ton of fun!  Of course, that night, we go out.

I can drink legally in Portugal, though I tell myself I need to be careful, because I don't want to make a fool of myself in front of his cousins.  We go to a few bars, have a few drinks (where I received a free shot from a wonderful man named Miguel) and then end up sitting around in a fantastic lounge called Amore, where we all got a free shot.  Soon enough, though, the night starts to wind down and Wesley and I are ready for bed (as were four others from our group).  Our next task is to find a taxi that can take six people.  Kindly, Wesley's cousin Alex (not single, sorry) takes charge.  In drunken Portuguese he says, "Disculpe, è possivel seis pessoas?" Which literally means "Sorry, is it possible to six people?"  The taxi driver starts answering in speedy Portuguese to which Alex says "I'm sorry. I tried, but I don't know what you're saying."

We can't take that taxi.  Only a few minutes later we hear Alex, again, go  "Disculpe, è possivel seis pessoas?"   and have the same exact outcome.  After quite a while of trying to round up a taxi, we manage to find a taxi for six people and head back to our villas, miraculously, alive.  This driver was so fast, and had the sharpest turns that I had to sit in the back with Alex and have a conversation with him as to why this man can't crash us (i.e. his job depends on it, "I mean, he has to feed his family, right? He can't just go crashing into things! He'd lose his job!")

We get home safely, though, and I crawl into bed, willing the hangover to leave me alone this time.  I was not so lucky, but my first night in Portugal was definitely worth it.

All these foreign places are.....well, so foreign to me.

Looks Like There's Some Kinda FYER!

Somehow, I’ve always managed to find myself in situations that I’ve always thought were beyond my reach, usually financially.  I think to myself  “Oh, there’s no way I can afford that!” and suddenly, I can afford it.  I also have this way of just pretending things are going to work out and then somehow, they do.  It’s almost like that book  The Secret, where you visualize, and then it happens.  Only, it’s not so much visualizing something’s going to happen, it’s me just assuming it will.  And somehow…

So when I wake up in Belgium on that Tuesday, August 17 (at 2:00 in the afternoon!), the only way I can describe the way I feel is: lucky.  I feel so lucky to be here despite all the obstacles and so lucky to have been accepted to Bath Spa and so lucky to have all the friends and family I do and so lucky to have my Wesley (who miraculously put up with me through 18 hours of traveling).  I feel like such a jerk for somehow getting to where I am, where others struggle their `entire lives just to put food on the table.

Nevertheless, I find a way to enjoy myself in the cute little country of Belgium.  After waking up and having some of Wesley’s favorite cereal, his mom drives us to town to get a few things and also to get Wesley a haircut and glasses.  I find Belgium so adorable, with all it’s little cars and the fabulous old buildings.  Everyone there is so nice, even when the find out I don’t speak Flemish, they just smile at me and speak in English with a very sweet Flemish accent.  I tag along behind Wesley and his mother, taking in all that I can and, again, I feel so insanely lucky.

My favorite moment, though, will have to be when Wesley, his mom and I are driving to the grocery store when we see a fire truck (and a very interesting one at that) parked outside and a few firemen wrapping up a hose.  Instinctively Wesley and I both go “IT LOOKS LIKE THERE’S SOME KINDA FYER!” and laugh.

Wesley’s mom, who the reference is lost to (and if it’s still lost to you, you seriously need to see the video called ’My push up bra will help me get my man’ on youtube, it’s hilarious) goes, “Do you think we can still go in?” Which only induces more laughter from me, because the grocery store is clearly unharmed.

But for now, my time in Belgium is short, because soon we will be off to Portugal, where I’m sure there are more adventures to come (because I can finally legally drink now that I’m in Europe).

These are, really, such foreign places.

Not a Fan of Poland

So after a completely restless night, Wesley and I pack up our things and head over to my parents house with high hopes.  When we get there my parents have made breakfast and they have all the credit card information from my uncle.  We jump on the computer and see that the seats are still available, so we hurry up and buy them before anyone can buy them all  (as if that were probable).

Now I have a ticket, but I know that I will have to fly by myself from Krakow to Warsaw and then to Brussels.  Wesley suggests that he might be able to switch his flight to mine, but I'm really not relying on that happening.  With both of us having our tickets and our bags in the car, we say our goodbyes to everyone.  Of course, someone had to start the crying, and that was Therese.  We all start crying and hugging about twenty times each and after waving goodbye to Therese and Anthony, GG, Grandma Brandon and Dan, Tyler and Grandma Carol, we're off.

The car ride to Chicago is about 2 and a half hours, and the entire ride there is filled with us saying "there's some kinda FYER" or shouting "STAY ON YOUR SIDE!" (don't understand the reference?  Check out the video entitled 'my push up bra will help me get my man' on Youtube).  Then Breanna decided we should play a counting game that should not be described on the internet.

At the airport in Chicago it's easy to find the check-in desk for our flight.  We nervously approach a very disinterested-looking young polish man at the desk and hand him our passports.  Wesley quickly starts to explain the situation from the previous night.  The young polish man stops Wesley and swipes my passport to make sure that I have a flight.  "You have a flight," he tells me, but not before we're already telling him the problem with me flying alone.  He looks at the screen and calmly says, " I'll see what I can do," and walks off!

We stand and wait with my sister and my parents while this polish kid is "seeing what he can do".  After about twenty minutes, he approaches us at the desk and tells us that he can't switch Wesley's flight to mine because the airlines are different, but he can switch both of our flights to one that leaves directly from Warsaw to Brussels instead of first going to Krakow.  It's perfect!  We thank him over and over again, but he only shrugs, says "It's really no problem," and then walks off.

After a few more minutes of waiting, our new found Polish friend comes back and tells us that he manged to switch the flights as well as get us seats next to each other.  I seriously want to hug him!  We thank him again and again but, once more, he nonchalantly tells us that it's "really no problem."  He weighs our bags (while ignoring the fact that mine is too heavy, not charging Wesley for his extra bag and also allowing Wesley to have his guitar as hand luggage) and sends us on our way!

We're in awe and I can't count how many times we each say we want to marry him.  An excruciating goodbye to my parents and sister puts Wesley and I in line for security.  I cry for at least half of the 40 minute wait and receive both concerned and exhausted looks from people around us.  It's not too long and we're boarding the plane for Warsaw.

On the flight a group of rowdy bikers from Warsaw seem to know every person working on the plane and laugh louder than the captain speaking on the intercom!  Wesley and I watch some Louis C.K. (a comedian who I highly recommend to everyone) and by 8:00 it's already dark outside!  Since our previous night was a bit stressed and our morning was early, we're tired and decide to try and get some rest.  I fall into a fitful sleep that is disturbed every 20 minutes by the seat in front of me hitting my knees because this grown man can't seem to sit still, while a woman a few rows away is trying to whisper but is definitely not being successful.  My experience with Poland is already what I would call "less than satisfactory."

I see the sun go down and come back up faster than I ever thought I could.  The Warsaw Bikers have gone back to their post with their fellow Bikers in front of us, standing around, laughing and speaking in Polish.  My patience is at an all-time low (and for me, that's dangerously close to crimes being committed).

After 9 hours of no sleep, loud Warsaw Bikers and nearly shattered kneecaps, we land, exhausted, in Poland.  Already irritated and on the verge of just taking someone out completely, I'm not ready for Poland.  While trying to avoid stereotyping, I need to vent that our 6 hour layover was, to say the least, unbearable.  The people there refuse to speak English to me, no matter how many times I speak to them in English.  They just continue on in Polish while I stand in front of them hoping that I'm really getting a coffee (because at this point, I need it desperately).

The hours are not going by fast enough, and my temper is quickly rising.  We watch a movie to try to pass the time, but I feel more and more sleepy by the minute.  I use to bathroom to freshen up, but then I somehow get stuck in a corner like some kind of animal being herded.  I politely and timidly say "excuse me" to the woman who's enormous bag is blocking me from leaving the now packed bathroom and get to safety.  The woman does not hear me, or understand me, or care; I'm not sure which one.  So again, more loudly I say "excuse me!"  I get no response from this giant-bagged woman, but a small woman standing next to me tries to shuffle out of the way and let me through, but with no success.  So in a bold effort, I tap the bagged lady on the arm and say again, "excuse me!"  She STILL does not seem to notice.  Finally her lady companion grabs the bagged lady by the arm and yanks her out of my way.  I leave the bathroom frustrated, and completely not a fan of Poland.

It's finally time to board the flight and I hurry on, excited to be able to sit and sleep for at least 2 hours in the 15 that we've been travelling.  On the flight, to my dismay, the man who is sitting behind me has worse flight-etiquette than a 2-year-old.  He seems to be dying from something like the whooping cough, and feels the need to brace his feet on the back of my chair every time he has an attack (each of which happen at 5-minute intervals).  It took every ounce of strength I had not to whip around and strangle this coughing, kicking, awful man.

When our flight finally lands in Brussels, Belgium, I feel haggard.   I can imagine that his mother's first sight of me was not promising ( I made sure to dress nicely the next day).   We have some wine and dinner and then Wesley and I finally, finally get to sleep.

Theses are such foreign places.