How do you 'do'?

I had my first proper Christmas do a couple of weeks ago.  Before you ask, a 'do' is basically a party.  They have a 'hen do' or 'stag do' before someone gets married, a 'leaving do' when someone leaves a job, and a 'Christmas do' for Christmas.  I'm not entirely sure on the restrictions or qualifications for something to be a 'do,' but apparently there's no such thing as a 'birthday do.'  There are still so many intricacies of British culture that I have yet to learn.  Teaching and working here has cleared many of them up, but clearly, there are some I'll never understand.  Anyway, our 'do' was in a room at a posh hotel in the town where the school is located.  It was a Friday night and it was fancy.  No jeans and a Christmas jumper for this one.  All the women were wearing party frocks with a bit more skin showing than I'm used to seeing from my coworkers.  In the absence of a skin-baring party dress, I opted for a long-sleeved black wrap dress.  I have to admit, I looked pretty hot.  Robyn and I had been invited to a 'pre' (a pre-party party where people get ready and usually start getting drunk) at one of the other teacher's houses, but opted to just get ready at home.  I took a nap, knowing that I would need all of my energy for what was to come.  At the hotel, we had a nice Christmas dinner, which is basically Thanksgiving with the addition of roast parsnips, pigs in a blanket (mini-sausage wrapped in bacon) and Christmas pudding for dessert.  
As exciting as bacon wrapped sausages are, it was after dinner that the real excitement began.  There was a disco, by which they mean a DJ and dance floor.  I can honestly say, it was one of the weirdest experiences of my life to boogie with a bunch of tipsy teachers.  We're generally a pretty straight-laced group of people, very rule bound and professional.  Not on Christmas do night.  They were letting loose.  The Latin teacher was my favorite.  She's a pretty big nerd and had said earlier that she'd only dance if they played good music, like Michael Jackson and ABBA.  True to her word, when the first few bars of "Dancing Queen" blasted through the speakers she was on her feet and proceeded to flail about in a manner that I can only describe as 'rhythmically challenged."  It was brilliant.  By comparison, I looked amazing.  Having never been drunk, I can't speak to how uninhibited one feels when intoxicated, but having witnessed the work Christmas do, I can honestly say I'm grateful that at least when I make a fool of myself, I'm aware of it.  My housemate and I danced the night away and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.  It totally blew all of my other work Christmas parties out of the water.  I think it's a tradition I'll have to bring home with me.

Lest We Forget

Today was Remembrance Sunday.  Sacrament Meeting was basically a memorial service for soldiers past and present with a gospel perspective of faith and hope for the future.  They do it every year, and I love it.  The entire country observes a two-minute silence at 11:00 on the Sunday closest to the 11^th of November in remembrance of the soldiers who have fought to keep England free.  Maybe it’s because I’m American and we’ve never really been that threatened by a war on our soil, but the wars have always felt very distant to me.  It’s definitely different here.  The memory of both World Wars is very real, as is the memory of those who fought and lost their lives in those wars.  There is great respect and admiration reserved for the armed forces of Great Britain.  The royals are expected to serve in the military and maybe it’s that that gives it a feeling of importance that doesn’t seem to exist in America.  Whatever the reason, there’s a sort of sacredness to it all. 

Besides the two minutes of silence, they all wear paper poppies in their buttonhole for the few weeks preceding Remembrance Sunday.  I think it’s absolutely lovely.  The British Legion heads up the poppy brigade and the money raised goes to help the veterans of Britain’s wars.  They sit outside supermarkets, train stations, and on the high street with their donation cans and boxes full of bright red poppies.  This year, I went for the fancy £2 poppy pin to keep as a memento of one of my favorite British traditions.  I’ll say one thing for the Brits; they love their traditions.  They might not be as openly patriotic as we are, but when it comes to things like this, they are all in.  Everybody buys their poppy and wears it proudly. 

The tradition extends to the schools as well, where our girls wear their poppies pinned proudly to their blue school blazers.  We also had a remembrance service on Friday where the whole school gathered to ponder the sacrifice that has been given for their freedom.  As I watched them sitting in absolute silence for two minutes, I appreciated the necessity of teaching our young people the importance of sacrifice for the greater good.  In a society where disrespect for nearly everything is rampant and often glorified, it was refreshing to be amongst young people who recognize that there are certain things that are sacred and deserve our respect.  It restored a bit of my hope for the future of our world.  

Tyne Cot Cemetery, Belgium

Thiepval Memorial, France

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

                                                     Laurence Binyon         

Yep, I'm Still Alive

I’m feeling a bit sheepish that I haven’t written in such a long time.  I got an email from an old friend the other day who mentioned how much she enjoyed reading my blog and I realized it’s been ages since I’ve written anything.  I guess life in England has become so familiar that I forget just how cool it is that I live here.  Life just becomes life when you get up and go to work every day.  The same thing happened to me on my mission.  Everything was so exciting and adventurous and new, but by the end, it was just life.  I try to remember everyday that this experience will end someday and that I need to take advantage of it while I can.  It still is pretty cool that I’ve lived here for 3 years now.  I can hardly believe that it’s been so long.  I love that I’m going to have so many amazing stories to tell about this grand adventure.  I remember growing up hearing my mom’s stories about her semester abroad and wanting to have stories like that of my own.  Hopefully I’ll find people who want to hear mine. 

I’m on holiday next week and am looking forward to a few days of travel.  I promise to put pictures up as soon as I get some.  It will be nice to have some time off.  I’m loving my job and I feel like I’m getting the hang of it, but it’s much harder work than teaching in America.  I teach 13 different groups of girls and 7 different subjects.  It makes for a bit of a chicken-with-its-head-cut-off existence sometimes.  One day I went to class and wondered why the desks had been rearranged.  It wasn’t until some of the students started wondering in that I realized that I had gone to the totally wrong classroom.  I enjoy the variety, though, and it makes me wonder how I ever taught the same thing 7 times a day.  Part of me is looking forward to that again, but I guess the grass is always greener.  What I’d really love is to teach at a high school part-time doing their AP classes and then teach a few classes at a junior college or something like that.

My students are really great and as always, that’s the part of the job I like the most.  We have a really good time together and they think I’m pretty funny.  I’m such a sucker for people who think I’m funny.  I think they also like that I’m American.  They’re pretty cute.  Kids are the same everywhere and I love feeling like I’m making a difference in their lives and leaving a lasting legacy.  I also love that someday they’ll tell stories about the year they had an American teacher who couldn’t pronounce yogurt right. 

I’m going to try to start keeping track of the funny things they say and do for the book I’m going to write someday.  I should have been doing it all along, but I guess it’s better now than never.  In that spirit, here’s my first story. 

I was teaching my year 8 class (who are equivalent to 7^th graders in age) about the Tudors and the religion situation.  We were discussing Mary and whether or not she deserved her nickname of ‘Bloody Mary’ for burning all the Protestants.  The girls were curious as to why someone would do that so we discussed the importance of showing power and control by ruthlessly enforcing your policies.  One of my students, who is actually one of the more clever ones, raised her hand and asked, “The Queen doesn’t still do that, does she?”  I had to try not to laugh out loud at the thought of Old Lizzie burning heretics at the stake.  Classic.  

Send Her Victorious, Happy, and Glorious!

I know I’m not technically English, but I certainly felt it during last week’s Diamond Jubilee Celebration.  In my defense, it was pretty awesome.  Also, ethnically speaking, I am mostly English.  Based on that, and the fact that I would NEVER have a chance to do it again, I decided to go to London on Monday for the festivities.  My fabulous old housemate, Kim, kindly offered the services of her couch for the night and I took her up on it.  After a delicious kebab dinner that we ate on the Tube, we arrived at Hyde Park to watch the Jubilee Concert, along with thousands of our closest friends.  There were massive screens set up all over the park and people dancing and singing. It was actually pretty great. We saw Stevie Wonder, Elton John, and even Paul McCartney!  I sang and danced and felt like a proper Englishperson.  Then Prince Charles came on stage and called the Queen “mummy,” which was by far the cutest thing ever.  Afterward, we got to sing the national anthem.  I sang it with all my heart, even though I didn’t really know the words, but luckily Kim was there to supply me with the correct order of ‘gracious’ and ‘noble.’  In that moment, surrounded by a crowd singing at the top of their voices, I felt like I was one of them.  There was a sense of unity that I haven’t felt before in all of my time here.  It was very cool.  Then, to top it all off, there were fireworks…and I got to see them!  It sort of made up for missing the New Year’s Eve ones. 

The next day, I went down to central London to watch the Queen’s procession from Westminster Abbey to Buckingham Palace.  I met up with some people from Kim’s ward to head down to Trafalgar Square and I had my flag al ready to go.  They weren’t too bothered about actually seeing the procession, so I dumped them and made my way as close to the action as I could.  Turns out I should have just gone down there by myself waaaay earlier.  It was chock a block and the best spots were already taken.  Luckily, I wiggled my way over to the side and found a spot where I had a clear view of the road and turning toward Admiralty Arch.  After waiting for a couple of hours, the procession began making its way towards us.  I saw all the horses and heard the bands and strained to catch a glimpse of the coach carrying Her Royal Highness.  As the coach approached, I stretched and just barely spotted the Queen in her lovely hat.  Then I rushed over to Trafalgar Square to watch the rest of the procession on the screens.  It was brilliant.  I loved watching the masses move down the Mall, in perfect order, and wait patiently for their beloved Queen to appear.  When she finally stepped out, the cheer that erupted was amazing.  As I stood there, once again singing the national anthem, I heard the rumble of airplanes and looked up to see the planes flying directly overhead.  Apart from a peek of Lizzie herself, the flyover was my favorite part.  By that time, it had started to rain, as always, but I decided that I wanted to take advantage of being there and absorb as much of the atmosphere as I could.  I wandered down to the Mall with its Union Jacks flying and Buckingham Palace in all its majesty at the end.  It was pretty cool and I enjoyed just being there making a memory.  I still am amazed that I was there for such a once in a lifetime experience.  

Happy Wanderings

As I sit here watching football and feeling decidedly British in my allegiance, I decided that I should update this lovely old thing, even if there’s nobody that even reads it anymore.  Life in England is going really well, although I’m stating to wonder why I ever complained about not having work.  It’s just a darn good thing that I like my job.  We’ve got 5 weeks left and I just started teaching a new class on American history.  It’s been great fun teaching people who’ve never heard it before, though I must admit that my natural patriotism creeps in every now and then.  I figure they should get the full American treatment. 

Life apart from work has been fairly busy as well.  I had a lovely visit from good old Laura Lu during the Easter holiday that consisted of a few days in the Lake District (of William Wordsworth fame,) a few days in southern Scotland, a few days in Yorkshire, and a few days in London.  It was a fabulous trip, complete with hillsides covered with daffodils, just as I had always pictured them.  Scotland was rugged and beautiful, but not much different than the gorgeous landscape of my homeland.  I did, however, thoroughly enjoy the time spent in Yorkshire.  We went to the fascinating old ruined Fountains Abbey from the medieval times.  It was a Cistercian abbey until Henry VIII dissolved it and stole all its wealth.  It is fairly isolated and so remained untouched until a wealthy family bought the land and used the Abbey to stage parties and picnics.  I love the idea of some fancy-pants lady with a posh accent inviting her friends out to their country house for a picnic in the nave of a ruined cathedral.  I think it was made even more enjoyable by the fact that we were among the first people there and we had a lone wander for the first few hours.  It ranks on my list of favorite places I’ve visited in England.  London was great, as always, but was also greatly improved by the company.  We went to Kew Gardens to absorb all the springtime goodness, ate our way through Borough Market, and saw ‘Singin’ in the Rain.’  All in all, not a bad couple of weeks. 

Then the next month, I played host to Aaron and Camille who came to visit for a few days.  Unfortunately, I had to work, but we still got to spend a day amongst the treasures of the British Museum, the Imperial War Museum, and King’s Cross Station.  The following weekend I met up with them in Cheltenham, a lovely old spa town on the edge of the Cotswolds, where Aaron served for a time on his mission.  Saturday was spectacular and we decided to spend the bulk of it in the park with what seemed like everyone else in Cheltenham.  It was so nice to be together and have a proper chinwag.  The next day we went to church and met a few people Aaron had known when he was there.  We finished up the day with a drive through the Cotswolds and a delicious roast dinner.  I loved having them here and having them see where I live and meet my friends.  I wish they’d come back…we had the best weather we’ve had all year while they were here. 

P.S. The pictures are frustratingly out of order. Sorry about that.

Merry Old England

Turns out I’m pretty much the worst blogger ever. I did so great when I first moved here, but now I forget to share all the great stuff that happens because it’s just become my life.  Suffice it to say, I still live in England two and a half years later (yikes!) and I still love it here.  I especially love it in the spring. I don’t think there is anything as lovely as an English springtime.  I don’t feel the cold quite as much anymore, and I’m totally competent when it comes to knowing what to buy in the supermarket.  I can distinguish between different types of English cheese, as well as different types of English accents.  It weirds me out to see cars on the TV driving on the right side of the road and the rain hardly phases me.  I even walked all the way to the supermarket in the spitting rain yesterday without an umbrella.  I even say banahna like a proper Brit.  The ‘u’ has entered the spelling of many words and the ‘z’ has morphed to an ‘s’ in many others.

It’s strange, the process of acculturation.  There are things that I thought were so odd about England and the English people when I first got here that don’t even faze me anymore.  The fact that all the eggs in the shops are brown, that the postman doesn’t pick up your mail, and that the shops all close by 6 don’t bother me anymore.  I’ve just gotten used to it all.  I’ve found so many things that I love here, that I worry about how long it will take me to get used being back in America, once I finally decide to come back.  I don’t know what I’m going to do when I have to live without golden syrup, my electric kettle, and the glorious array of trees and flowers.  It might be harder coming home than it was coming here in the first place.  I can’t actually think about it.  It just makes me too sad.  

Back in the Saddle Again

I have now successfully completed my first half-term at my new job. I’m working at a fancy-pants girls’ grammar school in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire. Beaconsfield is one of the poshest areas in England, so the girls tend to be pretty posh as well. Perhaps needless to say, there has been a pretty steep learning curve. The school system here is quite different. When the kids are in their last year of primary school, they can take an exam to get into grammar school. If they pass, they’re funneled into the grammar schools, which are the best schools around. The general expectation is that grammar school students will go on to the best universities in the country and excel in everything they do. It’s a slightly different system than the good, old public schools of America that I’m used to. Added to the fact that the students are super clever, grammar schools are single-sex so there aren’t any boys around to distract them or make them feel bad if they’re smart. It’s fabulous. I think I like it even more because of the lack of all the spitting and other nightmares I had to endure as a full-time supply teacher.

Anyway, I was pretty intimidated to work there, since the girls have lofty ambitions that I could possibly destroy through my lack of knowledge of the English school system along with a general rustiness of the old teaching skills. Luckily, the person I replaced spent loads of time helping me prepare and giving me resources to use. Also, it turns out teaching is like riding a bike; once you learn, you never forget. Plus the girls are marvelous, they think I’m cool because I’m American, and they’re super keen to learn. It’s by far the easiest gig I’ve ever had as far as the classroom management is concerned. Basically it consists of an occasional well-placed look of disapproval or, as a last resort, a brief “Ladies, this is not the type of behaviour I would expect from you.” (It has to be spelled with a ‘u’ because it’s at an English school.) That is quite literally all I have to do to get things under control and that doesn’t even happen on a daily basis.

While I feel that I generally have the classroom management under control, the subject matter is another story entirely. The courses are run on a fortnightly schedule so I see each class a certain number of times over the course of the two weeks. For example, I see the year 9s twice per fortnight, while I see the year 10s and 11s five times over the same two-week period. I think it’s a lame system, but it allows the students to take a wider variety of subjects. What it also means is that I’m preparing a whole load of lessons that I may only teach once. Some days I have 5 different lessons to teach, with a different 5 lessons to teach the next day. Add to that the fact that I’m teaching subjects I’ve never taught before, like Irish history and Medieval English history, and you can see that my workload is massive. Luckily, they don’t expect me to grade nearly as much as I’m used to. That being said, I was supposed to mark a truckload of papers over Easter that I didn’t do. Oh well.

I’ve enjoyed learning new material and I feel like the girls appreciate my efforts and are engaged in the lessons. They also really like it when I say words like ‘awesome’ and ‘dude’ so I throw those in there every now and then. My fail-safe method of getting their attention and adoration is to speak in my English accent, which for some reason is exceptionally posh. It never fails to produce gales of laughter. They really are wonderful girls and I’m amazingly blessed to have a job there. The staff members have made me feel welcome and have incorporated me into their world with very little difficulty for anyone. I enjoy working there so much that I’m actually kind of excited to start back tomorrow after a two week Easter holiday. Now I just need to figure out a way to convince the teacher I replaced not to come back off maternity leave…

Worst New Year's Eve Ever

I’ve had some pretty lame New Year’s Eves. The one on my mission was a non-event and I thought that was as bad as it could get. Every year I think New Year’s Eve will be great, and each year I’m disappointed. I don’t know why I keep expecting magic when every time I do, it turns out terribly. I think this one might just be the worst (and that’s counting the New Year’s Eve I spent puking and watching a Frank Sinatra documentary with my parents,) mostly because my expectations were so high. I was finally going to see the fireworks in London on New Year’s Eve and I was excited. I absolutely LOVE fireworks. And the fact that I was going to do it in London added to the excitement. The weather was mild, I was going with some of my very best friends, and it was London! What could possibly go wrong?

The plan was to meet up with some friends in Reading, drive to London to meet up with some other friends, and then take the Tube down to the river to participate in the festivities. I knew it would take us ages to get there and I wanted to be sure we gave ourselves long enough to get a good spot. The comedy of errors that ensued combined to ruin yet another New Year’s Eve, despite the fact that I met a super cute French guy and got kissed on the cheek twice.

First, we didn’t leave Reading on time, and then we witnessed an accident on the way into London and had to do our part to help the people involved. Once we finally got to London to meet up with the other group, it took us ages to get everyone mobilized and out the door. We finally did get on the Tube, but kept getting separated amongst the billions of others who thought London on New Year’s Eve would be a good idea. For some reason, we went to the south side of the river and then couldn’t get across the bridges. We walked down the promenade and then just stopped somewhere to wait for the fireworks. It was a fun atmosphere and everyone was in a party mood. At midnight, we heard the first sounds of exploding fireworks. I was looking toward where I thought they were coming from only to see nothing. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the glitter of gold and turned to see that the fireworks were coming from behind the building to my left, completely obscured from view. The nearly eleven minute display yielded only a few fireworks high enough to clear the buildings. Unfortunately those few were obscured by the trees planted along the river. It was a complete and utter waste of time. I was gutted. All that effort for nothing. Maybe it would have helped if I’d been drunk like everyone else. I’ll try that next time.

Merry Christmas in Merry Old England

I decided to try staying in England this year for Christmas. I had visions of Mickey’s Christmas Carol running through my head: people in period dress singing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas,’ large roast duck, Christmas pudding, and the occasional supernatural visitor. It didn’t happen exactly as I’d expected, but I did get to try Christmas pudding for the first time. I learned that Christmas in England is not altogether different from what it is at home, other than the lack of snow and cold.

I was kindly invited to spend the holiday with my flatmate Robyn and her family. They were fantastic and made me feel so welcome and kept me very well fed and watered. They even taught me how to properly pull a Christmas cracker. I had taken crackers home my first Christmas here and we had pulled them individually. Come to find out, you’re really meant to pull one end while the person next to you pulls the other. Whoever ends up with the larger portion gets to keep the prize inside. My prize this year was completely useless. I can’t even remember what it was, but I did proudly wear my silver crown throughout dinner. Christmas dinner was delicious. It was turkey with all the trimmings. I’ll give the British credit; they know how to do a roast dinner. They have all sorts of veg, which they cover with gravy, plus roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings. There’s almost no point in even having the turkey.

I hired a car for the holiday so I could go visit friends and see some of England. Robyn doesn’t live far from Brighton, so I decided to drive down there one day. It was cool and felt very British. I walked along the pier, bought a stick of rock (hard candy with a word written through the middle), and ate fish and chips within sight and sound of the sea. It was a fun day, but I think I’ll need to go back when it’s not too cold to even think about sticking a toe in the water. I also got to visit all my old friends in Reading and Oxford. It was perfect.

Tale of Three Thanksgivings

This was the third Thanksgiving I’ve spent in England and I must say it’s been the best one. The ward I’m in now has quite a few Americans and I was hopeful that I’d get invited to a good ole-fashioned homemade family Thanksgiving dinner. I was not disappointed. I ended up having three Thanksgivings. My first one was actually a few weeks ago and was a great way to kick off the feasting season. My friend and fellow American with whom I serve in Young Women’s is married to an Englishman. She does a Thanksgiving every year for all of her friends and family and this year I was included. Pretty much my favorite part of Thanksgiving is hanging out and making the meal and chatting, so I asked her if I could help with the cooking. She was nice enough to accept my offer and I had a fabulous time. We mashed potatoes, roasted yams, and gabbed the afternoon away. Then we headed up to the bishop’s house for the party. The dinner was delicious and we laughed and I felt like I was back with my family. It was a great night and I discovered that I can fit an entire slice of coconut cream pie in my mouth all at once.

My second Thanksgiving was a bit more low key, but delicious nonetheless. Another American family in the ward called this week to see if we would want to join their family for Thanksgiving. The answer was definitely yes. We went over Friday night and had an amazing meal. She had made rolls and they were so fantastic. I ate three. Then we played games with their cute kids and watched a movie. They were so hospitable and I felt right at home with them. Their kids are sweet and made me miss my cute little guys at home.

Then today I hosted my very first Thanksgiving dinner. I have to say it went well. I was pretty worried about it, having never cooked a turkey or made stuffing before, but I can honestly say that I did a pretty darn good job. I do make all sorts of experimental food and it usually turns out well, so I was fairly confident. I invited a few friends from the ward here and a few from Reading. We ended up with seven of us and I had a distinct sense of accomplishment at the end. I roasted the turkey to perfection and even made stuffing just like Grandma makes, though not quite as well as she does. Everything was done right on time and there was plenty of it. The house was even clean and the dishes loaded in the dishwasher. It was loads of work, but totally worth it. I feel like a proper grown up woman now. Maybe next year I’ll even try pie.

My Grand Misadventure

I had work in Oxford the other day. It’s at the same school where I worked a lot last year. It’s a pretty rough school and I was hoping to never have to go back there, but I’m not really in a position to turn down work right now so I had to take it. Besides not being a particularly good place to work, I also didn’t know how to get there from my new flat. I know my way around Oxford and I knew which bus to take once I got there, but the getting there was a problem. That problem was exacerbated by the fact that our internet still wasn’t set up so I couldn’t use my trusty friend google maps. On a totally separate subject, I LOVE google maps. I can with complete assurance state that, without google maps, I wouldn’t be able to survive life in England. It has become my truest and nearly constant friend. It never lets me down and is always there when I need it. Except for this time. But it wasn’t google maps’ fault. It was the unwillingness of our internet provider to come set up our phone line until nearly two weeks after we’d moved in that was at fault. Two freakin’ weeks. That’s just ridiculous. But I digress. Back to the story. Charlotte, my bookings agent, had called me Wednesday for Friday so it did give me some time to see if I could figure things out. I agonized over what to do and finally decided to test the sincerity of our neighbors’ offer of ‘anything you need.’ I had only met them once, but they seemed really nice. So, I popped across the hall, knocked on the door, and unfortunately interrupted their dinner. They were gracious and welcomed me in and set up the computer for me to use.

First I checked the national rail website where you can plan train journeys. Strike one. No trains from High Wycombe to Oxford. There was an option to go through Banbury (of Banbury Cross fame,) but it would have cost £26 and that’s just outrageous. Then I typed in the postcodes on google maps and, sure enough, something came up. It would take over two hours, but it was pretty straightforward. I wrote everything down, thanked the neighbors for their kindness, and headed home. I spoke to Charlotte the next day and told her I’d give it a shot and if it worked I’d go back. (I was secretly hoping it wouldn’t work so I’d have a good excuse never to go back to that h*** hole.)

6:00 Friday morning came really early. I got up, got dressed, ate my go power, and headed out. Step one: catch bus 32 into town at 6:47 for £3.20. That part went smoothly. I was familiar enough with town to know where I was and where I needed to be. Step two: catch bus 275 to Oxford at 7:08 for £5.50. This step was also completed without incident. The bus ride was lovely. It wove through charming towns, patchwork fields, and dense forest. I typically quite like taking the bus because it forces me to see areas that I wouldn’t otherwise see. Step three: get off bus 275 at the end of the Headington Road, walk a couple of minutes to the Cowley Road and catch either bus 1 or 5 by about 8:20 for £2.90. Now the success of this venture hinged on me knowing where to get off the bus in order to get the next one without wasting too much time. As we came in to Oxford, I began to feel a bit nervous about this last step. I had no idea how long it would take for the bus to get to the right spot, nor did I know exactly where the right spot was. Unfortunately, I missed getting off at the correct stop, so step three was a fail. I got off at the next stop, which was several minutes farther into town in the opposite direction of where I needed to be. As I was walking to the right bus stop, I saw a number 5 go past. Lame. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for a number 1 and we were back in business, but after wasting nearly 10 minutes, I was going to be cutting it pretty fine. I did in fact make it with 2 minutes to spare and didn’t end up having a first lesson; all the rushing was for naught. The day went pretty well, but I was pretty glad to leave.

Now, the real adventure began. I needed to be home no later than 6:30 because we had a young women’s camp reunion and as the camp director, I really needed to be there. I thought it wouldn’t be a problem at all, seeing as I had three and a half hours to make the journey. I took bus 1 back up the Cowley Road, got off at the right spot, and walked to the bus stop across the street from where I should have gotten off that morning. So far so good. I waited patiently for bus 275 thinking that surely there would be at least one every hour. I had made the schoolboy error of not checking the return journey on google maps, but I assumed I could just make the same journey in reverse. I waited for half an hour without seeing one and figured that I must have just missed the one that came that hour. After another half hour without any sign of bus 275, I began to panic. I knew the bus ride would take around an hour and a half and I didn’t have loads of time to spare. Plus, I needed the loo, but I couldn’t leave in case the bus came while I was gone. So I kept waiting. Finally after waiting over an hour, I decided that drastic measures needed to be taken. I called the bus company and asked when the next bus would be leaving from Oxford. Imagine my despair when the woman told me the next bus wasn’t until 5:40! That was just not going to work. I decided to get on the next bus to Aylesbury, which is in the same general direction as High Wycombe, and hope there was somewhere along the way where I could catch a bus to High Wycombe. (People here laugh at me for being more familiar than they are with England’s geography, but on this occasion, it saved the day.) So I got on bus 200 to Aylesbury for £3.80. The bus driver was really helpful and told me where to get off to catch the next bus. It was in a lovely little town called Thame. Luckily, there was a bus there that goes to High Wycombe. It only leaves once per hour and I got there with 10 minutes to spare. Not quite long enough to hunt for a toilet, though. So at 5:40 I boarded bus 40 for £4.40. (For those of you keeping track at home, that’s nearly £20 spent on transportation. The part that really frosted me was that I wasted the money I paid for the return journeys to High Wycombe and my house.) It was set to arrive at High Wycombe at 6:30 so I called Robyn and asked her to meet me at the bus station with a pair of jeans and a sandwich so we could head out there for the reunion. We made it in plenty of time, but needless to say, I don’t think I’ll take work there again.

What Have I Become?

When I was preparing to come to England nearly two years ago, I was convinced that I wouldn't become one of those silly people who move somewhere and then come back to America and be all pretentious and use foreign slang. You know the ones I'm talking about. We've all met those guys who went to Chile on their missions and now insist on calling it Cheelay. I was bound and determined to resist the temptation to change, but sometimes it's just easier to give in. So without further ado, my dictionary of English words and phrases that I now use in a totally pretentious, American ex-pat way.

Posh: usually used for something nicer than you need

Toff: old-moneyed people and their interests; like polo and sailing

Fancy: to like/want something or someone; could be chocolate, could be a man

Bunk off: skip, as in work or school

Chav: we don't really have anything like it. They are the low class people who have loads of illegitimate children and live off the government. Their distinctive lifestyle and way of dressing are fodder for comedians everywhere.

Camp: another word we have no equivalent for. It's a man who is heterosexual but has all the markers and behaviors of a homosexual.

Knackered or shattered: completely exhausted

Bucketing down: pouring rain

Minger: someone who is REALLY ugly

Spots: zits

Scrotty: dirty, gross, smelly

Sort out: get everything taken care of

Crack on: keep going

Dodgy: we don't have a word like this one; it pretty much means something that's a bad idea, risky, unreliable, or chancy. It's a great one. I use it all the time now.

Well: used the way we'd use 'very.' "That movie was well scary."

Shrapnel: the little bits of change hanging out in your wallet

Blag:There are loads of ways to use this one: make something up as you go, usually because you forgot to do it; convince someone to give you something; convince someone that what you said it actually true

Broody: baby hungry

Coppers: one and two pence coins

Then there's all the words like trousers, mobile phone, rubbish, courgette, aubergine, and handbag that I hate using, but have to so people don't keep saying "In England we say _____." Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. I promise I won't use them when I come back.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

As I was walking home from work today, it started raining. This isn’t really that out of the ordinary, but this time it caused me to reflect on a couple of things. First of all, as I watched a number of people cowering under trees to escape the rain, it occurred to me that Vizzini should have included one more thing in his list of classic blunders: going out in England without an umbrella. It's really just silly not to. It may look like a perfectly sunny day, but that's when it gets you. It only took getting caught, and subsequently soaked, once or twice for me to make the decision to sacrifice the space and endure the added weight of an umbrella in my bag literally everywhere I go.

Secondly, rain is a totally different game here. Growing up in Utah, I’m accustomed to about two kinds of rain: the kind that boils up during summer afternoons, pours down for a few minutes, and makes everything smell clean and fresh and; and the kind that rolls in from the west during the spring and autumn months, lasts all day, and makes you want to eat soup and fresh baked bread. Either way, there’s usually plenty of warning. Here in England, though, rain is a way of life. As such, there is a myriad of different types of rain and ways to describe. Having lived here now for nearly two years, I feel like I’m starting to get a grip on English rain. There is rain the comes down in bucketfuls, rain that comes out of nowhere, rain that goes sideways, rain that blows up under your umbrella, rain that soaks through all your clothes in one minute, rain that lasts for days on end, rain that is really nothing more than mist, rain that gushes out of the sky and floods the gutters, rain that… The list goes on and on. I think they’re sort of like the Eskimos who reputedly have more words for snow than anyone else. The English have more ways to describe rain and the way it’s raining than anyone else. I think the best new word that has entered my vocabulary on the topic of precipitation is the word ‘spitting.’ It’s used to describe the type of rain that is literally like someone blowing raspberries in your face. It’s not raining enough to actually need your umbrella, but is quite enough to get you wet. You can’t use your umbrella without people thinking you’re a wuss, but it will definitely mess up your hair. I’d almost rather it chuck it down and get it over with.

The Wedding

What can I say? The wedding was amazing. It's been quite a build up over here. While most people pretended that they didn't care, pretty much everyone I know watched it. The British are funny that way. It's just not okay for them to actually admit that they're patriotic or that they care about anything, except football, and that's only every four years at the World Cup. It seems like the younger generation is just jaded toward the world, while the older generation still loves the royalty. I think this wedding may have changed things a bit. Everyone seems to genuinely hope that Kate and William will make it. They appear to be a happy couple and as Prince Charles said upon their engagement, "they've been practicing long enough." I can't imagine what it must be like for her to be thrust into this kind of life, but if yesterday was any indication, she'll acquit herself very well. She looked absolutely amazing. It was spectacular and a day that will spark dreams in the minds of little girls (and big girls) everywhere.

I was torn between going to London to be part of the celebrations held at Hyde Park and Trafalgar Square or stay here in Reading to watch it on TV with friends. In the end I opted to stay here, partly because the weather forecast had been for heavy rain and because I wouldn't have actually seen any of the wedding. I invited some friends over to Margit's house and we watched it with her and her family while eating a delicious brunch of crepes and scrambled eggs. It was pretty fun. Margit is unlike anyone I've ever known. She and I enjoyed the wedding probably more than anyone else. We exclaimed several times and gushed over every new part of the wedding. While I enjoyed myself, after watching the footage on TV, I did feel a little sad that I hadn't just gotten myself there. It looked like quite a party.

I don't think anything could have actually spoiled my enjoyment of the day. I began watching at about 9 while the people arrived at the Abbey. I think I inherited my love of watching people in amazing clothes and commenting on their choices from my grandma. I wish I could have watched it with her. I do love the English tradition of hat wearing for the women. There were some really odd selections, but I think it's fantastic. It seems that the more outrageous the hat, the better. I think I might just have to buy one. Anyway, back to the actual wedding. I absolutely loved the way they decorated the inside of Westminster Abbey. The Abbey is one of the most amazing places I've ever visited and the trees and flowers inside added to the grandeur of the surroundings. I loved watching all the royals arrive and especially enjoyed the fanfare for the Queen. The music throughout the wedding was spectacular. I have to admit that there is something about religious music, especially sung inside an amazing cathedral. Then Kate arrived. She was stunning. I loved her dress. I thought it was appropriately princess-y but also fashionable and classy. In a word, it was perfect. I also liked that she wore her hair down and curled instead of all fancy and piled on top of her head. The veil was perfect and the tiara was not too extravagant. Loved it, loved it, loved it. That is all I can say. Great Day!

Country Rambles

Last Friday was Good Friday and our stake organized a hike through the English countryside for the Young Single Adults. It was splendid. The weather was perfect and the company superb. It was the most glorious day I've spent in ages. We walked through fields and forests and enjoyed the beautiful scenery. We had a lovely lunch and then hiked back. After we returned to our cars, we sat and chatted and I can't remember an afternoon better spent in ages. It was a day that reminded me of just what an amazing experience it is for me to live in England.

I have developed a love affair with English post boxes. Not the column style standing solitary on the street, but the type that is built into walls, buildings, and posts. The initials at the top indicate which king or queen was on the throne when it was established. This one is from Queen Victoria's time. It's only the second one I've ever seen.

Here are a few pictures from the walk.

I love the trees here. I thought this one was particularly cool with all of the moss growing on it.

The Long Overdue Update

Life in England is going well. I haven’t been doing much, since I can’t seem to get any work, but we’ll get there in a minute. I don’t know if it’s just that last year I wasn’t sure what to expect or if I was used to more blue skies during the winter, but it seemed like it was miserable and rainy all the time. I guess I’m slowly becoming English because this winter hasn’t seemed that bad. It’s still rainy, cold, and generally grey, but it hasn’t bothered me as much this year. It might also be that it hasn’t rained as much. Who knows, but suffice it to say, I still really like it here.

So, work. Well, when I got back from the States in October, I hit the job search hard. I applied to every history teaching job I could find, but to no avail. I also applied to be a supply teacher. (In America, we call it substitute teaching.) Here in England, they don’t have school districts, so there’s no way to get hired by a district and be sent out to schools by them. Instead, they have temp agencies that are dedicated to finding subs for schools. Anyway, I got hired by an agency in Oxfordshire, which is the county just north of where I live. Then I got hired by another agency that serves schools in the surrounding area. I was pretty excited, but there was some paper work, etc. that needed doing before I could start. Well, the paper work came through, but not in time for me to actually work before Christmas. BLEH! Anyway, since I’ve been back, I still haven’t had any work. I did find another agency based here in Reading. I met with them on Wednesday and they signed me. Unfortunately now the problem is that I don’t have my visa to prove that I have permission to work here. I had to apply for the new visa before the 31^st of January and haven’t gotten it back yet. So there you go. Luckily I have faith that my decision to stay was the right one because there are plenty of reasons to doubt. I’m a little bit nervous to teach here, but also excited for the challenge. I’m sure there will be plenty of interesting experiences that will make it onto these pages. Stay tuned.

Other than that, life is good. I have amazing friends and my housemates are great. I feel blessed to have so many fabulous people in my life. I have made some life-long friends here and I can’t ever think about leaving them without getting a bit misty. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to make new friends and it has been a good experience for me to be here and have to step out of my comfort zone and meet new people. It also makes me feel pretty good about myself that I’ve made so many friends who think I’m cool. Yep, still got it. In all seriousness though, I love the people here and they are extremely good to me. I love that I’ll always have friends in England. I’ve also invited all of them to stay at Mom and Dad’s anytime they’re in town. Hope that’s okay.

Spring has sprung?

I realize it's been ages since I've posted anything and I'm planning to be better. I guess I just forget sometimes how different things are here because it's become my life. Nothing is new anymore. That's not to say that I've gotten bored of it, just used to it. I'll try to be better.

Today I just wanted to post something that made my day. I was recently walking somewhere (since I walk everywhere now, I can't exactly remember where I was going) and I saw a tree in bloom. I'm not sure what kind of tree it is or what it's typical blossoming time is, but it's the first hint of Spring that I've seen. Suffice it to say, it the cold and rain of an English winter, it was a welcome breath of fresh air. I also saw a few daffodils peeking out of someone's flower patch. I'm so excited. Spring in England is a wonder to behold.

Cheeky Monkeys

I think I’ve mentioned previously that I moved into a new house back in July. What I haven’t mentioned previously is that the house has a tendency to be invaded by creatures from time to time, especially the kitchen. Now, I’m accustomed to meeting the occasional spider in the basements of houses I’ve lived in, but this is just out of control. There are literally spiders everywhere. I’ve killed several on the walls of my bedroom, leaving their remains as a warning to others, but the kitchen is a different story. My housemate placed horse chestnuts throughout the house to ward off the dirty beasts. I hate to say that despite her belief in their magic spider repellant properties, the konkers haven’t eliminated the scourge. This has made for a number of run-ins. Unfortunately, there are several different styles of spider disposal in the house, which has caused some mild contention. Catherine refuses to deal with them at all. As stated earlier, I prefer to smash them with a shoe and leave the carcass where it sticks. Charlie prefers to put a cup over it, slide a paper underneath it, and carry the spider outside. (I’ve wondered sometimes how many times Charlie has escorted the same spider outside.) Contributing to the problem is the fact that it now gets dark at about 4:30 in the afternoon, so there is plenty of nightly darkness in which the spiders can emerge. The bad news is that the bathroom is through the kitchen, so an appointment with death (for the spider) is not always avoidable.

Which bring me to the even worse news. As much as I dislike spiders, I prefer them to the other frequent invader we get in the kitchen: slugs. I blame my mother for my hatred of all things slug and snail. Her loathing of the slimy monsters boarders on the pathological. Being raised in this environment, naturally I have a warped opinion of the disgusting invertebrates. As horrible as the slugs and snails have been to my mother’s plants, at least they stayed outside. I cannot say the same about the English slugs. I have had several evening encounters with them in the kitchen. I can’t for the life of me figure out how they’re getting in the house. It just shouldn’t happen; I don’t care how moist the environment. The first time it happened I thought it was a fluke. The next time, I was perplexed. The last time, I was completely disgusted. The problem that time was that I stepped on it, in the dark, in the middle of the night, in bare feet. I was on my way to the bathroom and I had decided not to turn the light on or wear my slippers. Rookie mistake. (I thought I’d learned my lesson in Hong Kong when I didn’t wear my shoes to the bathroom one night and stepped on a cockroach, but I guess I allowed complacency to dull my instincts.) I knew the moment I felt the squishy sliminess just what had happened, even in my dazed awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night semi-consciousness. Wiping the slime from my foot, I tried to work out whether or not I’d stepped on it completely enough to kill it. I finished my bathroom business and re-entered the kitchen to assess the carnage. In the harsh light of the fluorescent bulb, it was revealed that I had indeed crushed the life from the nasty creature. As I scraped the flattened body from the kitchen floor, I decided that I would never again use the bathroom in the middle of the night.