I'm in England now, seated at Vicki's computer in her charming room. It is quite comfortable, though small. The bed, especially, is tiny. It is just a single mattress on the floor. Brings me back to my youth in a way. Fortunately, the closeness of the bedding has not been an extreme annoyance as of yet. She has her own bathroom and shares a common kitchen area with seven other grad students. It's a bit like Gage Towers at UBC, except that there is a view of sheep and green fields and stone walls and farm buildings from her desk.
There is a covered walkway called "the Spine" that winds its way around the campus. Last night we walked along it and I counted seven pubs along its length. In the first pub we had a half-pint each of Strongbow Cider (1.50pounds) and in the last we had a half-pint each of bitter (1.38pounds). I think it was Smith's. Drinking seems to be a big part of scholastic endeavor here. This is in stark contrast to some American Universities I have been to (e.g. Marquette , Michigan).
Tomorrow we are off on an adventure to Shelly's in Manchester to do some shoe-shopping. I have decided the footwear I have with me is wholly inadequate. I have a pair of battered Nike running shoes (fashion faux pas) and a pair of used black brogues I bought for three bucks from some old German guy so I wouldn't look like an idiot at his son's wedding. The black brogues have already proved uncomfortable for extended hiking. I thought I could get away with wearing the running shoes if I wore them with jeans. Sadly, I forgot to bring my jeans. And so it is off to Shelly's.
The voyage here was uneventful and smooth. I was a model of decisiveness and efficiency to all around me. For instance, buying gin. I stormed into the duty-free shop in Toronto, stepped in front of a perplexed looking woman with a bland beige scarf and grabbed a one-litre bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin. The price was $16.00.
"Gorgeous," I exclaimed and flurried off to the checkout counter.
When I turned away with my purchase, the bland, beige woman was standing there with her own one litre bottle of Bombay Sapphire. I looked at her accusingly.
"You just seemed so sure," she said. "Is it a good price?"
"It's a steal of a deal," I replied. "And the tastiest gin you'll ever encounter."
And then I was off, leaping aboard an enormous metal machine costing millions of dollars that was about to fly through the air 41,000 feet above the surface of the Earth at over SIX HUNDRED MILES PER HOUR. This plane flies so high that the whole thing is pressurized and the inhabitants breathe bottled oxygen just like the astronauts on the Mir Space Station.
My time in Manchester was equally an inspiration to others. I cleared customs like a whisper and leapt nimbly onto the Heinlein-esque moving sidewalk that carried me in fits and starts to the train station where I bought a ticket and walked down the stairs and onto my waiting train just before it left the station.
Vicki met me at the train station and we rode a double-decker bus to the University.
All in all, except for the horrifying shoe disaster, it's been a good trip so far.
A quick fashion update before I go. Makeup and short skirts seem to be popular here. It's a bit unsettling. The general effect (at least on me) is not so much "Wicked Babe with Great Legs" as "Little Girl Playing Dressup". Perhaps I'm just not used to bright lipstick. People in general don't look quite as real here. No doubt it is because I'm a foreigner here. Most other countries I've visited it's plainly obvious that you are not a member of the general population. In Asia, most everyone else was browner, shorter, and spoke a completely different language. In the U.S. they were pinker, surlier, and completely unaware of other languages. Here, they look a bit like Canadians except more British and with crooked teeth and they not only speak English but claim to have invented it. Despite this, sometimes I can't understand a word they say.
While I was on the train, I plainly heard one porter say to another "Fox not the pinion hound."
"Faster, I can pigeons," his mate replied.
Yours, in the land of Odd,
Chris Yanda
"Fox not the pinion hound"-- Old English Proverb
