It's a Bittersweet Symphony, This Life: Farewell England

My last Friday here in Worcester. In fact today was my last full day here. I am spending my final weekend in London with a friend. London has always been my European dream city, and seeing as I didn't get to see enough of it the first time, I must go back once more before returning home to the states. Which is approaching rather quickly.

I go home Monday. Weird.

I have been looking forward to going home. There are certain customs and little things about America that I miss. Like stores that stay open all the time. Or how American drivers have to yield to pedestrians. And let's not forget the food. Oh how I've missed Mexican restaurants, free refills on drinks, and homemade cooking. The food is something I'm definitely looking forward to.

But these are really shallow reasons, aren't they? Surely I could eventually adjust to the ways of life over here. I could plan my schedule so I make it the stores before they close. I could get use to carrying spare change in case I need to pay to use the restrooms. And I'm sure my taste buds would eventually crave potatoes with every meal, and my love for Mexican food would develop into a love for Indian cuisine. If given the right amount of time, I'm sure I could love living here in England.

But there more reasons as to why I miss home.

I miss my boyfriend. He's probably the main reason I am looking forward to returning home on Monday. Being over here is wonderful, but missing the person you love is a difficult task to go along with it. No matter how much I delve into this country, I'm always missing him, and in the back of my mind I count down the days and hours until I get to see him again.

I miss my family. I can't wait to give them the souvenirs I bought for them and tell them all about England. I would like to think that after my six-week stay here, perhaps I'll inspire my parents and my sister, Julie, to make a trip to Europe someday. After Beth went to France last fall, I realized how enjoyable visiting Europe could be. I'm happy to say it lived beyond my expectations.

I miss my friends. I miss my pets. I miss driving (and driving on the right side of the road). I miss sleeping in my own bed, waking up to the smell of coffee in the morning, making late-night runs to Kroger for midnight snacks. In a nutshell, I miss my life.

There are students here that have fallen in love with England and the mere thought of going home is more than depressing. They feel as if they belong here. They love the people, the place, the opportunities available here that you can't find in the United States. They've enjoyed their trip to the fullest, and dread the fact that it is now coming to an end.

I admire them and I sympathize with them, for I know how they feel. The feeling they have for going home is the same feeling I have for staying here. I've realized, no matter how much I enjoy England, or perhaps just Europe in general, I am an American and America is where I belong. I like the British, and there are certain things about this about this place I wish American would adapt. But for once in my life, I'm not bent on complaining about my home country. Instead I've realized how much I've missed it, how much I appreciate it, and how grateful I will be when I return to it. I really cannot wait for the moment when my feet touch American soil again.

As much as I am looking forward to going home though, I do feel this bittersweet pain for leaving England. Worcester has become a second home to me. I've gained an appreciation for literature, and am coming home with a long list of books I can't wait to get my hands on. Along with reading, I again have this strong appetite to write, something I was direly missing at the beginning of the summer. I think London is a fantastic city and I love the beautiful English countryside. I remember a few years back I had a dream I was in England; I lived in this little cottage in the middle of a giant green field. Since that dream I had been dying to come see the countryside for what it really is. My dream did not fail me.

I'll miss taking the train to random cities. I'll miss all the history you can find here. I'll miss teatime and their delicious scones. I'll miss the Malvern hills in the distance, and I'll miss the occasional English rain. Just as there are a lot of little things about home I miss, I can think of a thousand little things I'll miss about England.

And last but not least, I'll miss my BSU Worcester family. I'll miss my small literature class. I'll miss going on random trips to the city centre. I'll miss traveling with them and hanging out with them. But before I get too sad, I'm grateful that all but one I will see back at Ball State. Still, I know it'll never be the same.

Today we had a final goodbye party thrown for us by the University of Worcester. The mayor showed up, the governor showed up, the vice president from Ball State showed up, and the list of important people who made their presence goes on. While I enjoyed this beautiful little party they had thrown for us (complete with teatime and sparkling white wine), there was one part in particular that stood out to me. I can't remember who said this, but someone said, "Studying abroad is life changing."

At first this seemed just like a cheap cliché to say, for there are so many events in life we can consider life changing. But then I began to think about it and I realized the truth in those words. Coming to England wasn't just another vacation. Coming here exposed me to another country, another way of life. It affected my relationships with people back home, with people here. It created memories, both good and bad, that I'll never forget. I feel like I've grown from this trip. Things that bother me back home I barely thought about over here, and when I did think of them I realized how small those issues seemed to be. I would like to think that when I come home I'll be a little more mature, a little wiser, and a little humbler.

I will never forget the time I spent here. I know that even though I'll return to England again someday, it'll never be the same. And after all the wonderful things that happened on this trip, I wouldn't want it to be. For this was a once in a lifetime experience, and it truly was life changing.

Home Coming

I miss America. I do. I miss everything about it. And it's a strange feeling right now, because I've realized that I have less than 2 weeks in England, and while I am looking forward to returning home, I'm afraid once my feet land back in the country of liberty I will be missing the country that has become my second home. I feel torn. I'm not sure what to feel. Other than strange and confused.

It's starts with my boyfriend. I miss him the most. And I dream of the day I get to see him again, which hopefully won't be too long of a wait once I'm back home. It's a struggle, being over here without him. Even when I am perfectly content going about my business and England has plenty to keep me distracted, all it takes is one little subtlety to remind me of him. It's people mostly. I see two young high schoolers strolling around hand in hand. I'll see a couple pushing a stroller down the street. I'll watch an old man open the door for his wife to a cab. And I get this sinking feeling of jealousy, because even though I already have love, it is not with me. At least, not in the physical sense.

Being apart for six weeks though is really showing me how much I care about my boyfriend and I think he's going through the same thing. Last night I called him because I saw he had sent me a message earlier and I was confused, panicked at the thought that I might've accidentally missed a skype date. Fortunately that was not the case, and after confirmation that our skype date was tomorrow, it was time to say goodbye because he was eating dinner with his family. Right before we said goodbye, his voice dropped really low and he stuttered, "I miss you." At first I simply replied with "Bye," unknowing that he would not let that be. I heard him say it again, this time a bit louder, and I responded with an "I miss you too sweetie." Getting him to say that in front of his family is a big step. My guy is not one for PDA, especially around people we are close to. But perhaps all I needed Oh I cannot wait for the day I see him again.

But my boyfriend isn't the only thing anymore. I miss so much more about America than I ever thought I would. I miss Walmart. That's right, I miss the giant corporation that runs small business out of town and is a bit shady when it comes to employment. I miss that it's open 24/7. I miss that I can find almost anything in there. If you need it, you can probably find it at walmart. I miss cheap food. I miss air conditioning. I miss cars driving on the right side of the road and yielding, patiently, to pedestrians. I miss being in the same time zone as everyone else. I miss good customer service at restaurants, free refills, and not having to worry about having change on me in case I need to use the restroom out in public.

I miss pancakes for breakfast. I miss being able to text and call without ringing up someone's phone bill. I miss Americans, and how they don't judge me because of my accent. Yes, I miss Americans a lot.

But there are things about England I will miss as well. I will miss the nice British people, who are more than willing to help when asked. I will miss the way they say "cheers" and "love". I will miss hearing their British accents. I will miss their fashion. I will miss the public transportation, being able to take a train to anywhere else in the country. I will miss London and the big city feel. I will miss Worcester and how it has that quiet, quaint feel. I will miss the Malvern Hills in the distance and the beautiful English countryside. I will miss the friends I have made on this trip. I will miss this experience, because I know it can never again be repeated.

I guess it's okay to be sad and happy at the same time. It's the whole bittersweet feeling. Being able to look forward to something, while finding it hard to say goodbye. This chapter, this time I've spent in England, is about to come to an end. But it doesn't mean my story is anywhere near over.

I don't know how I know this, but for some reason deep in my heart I know that I will return to England again someday. I'll probably go back to London, just because it has always been my dream European city, and it did not fail my expectations. As sad as it is to say this though, I will probably never return to Worcester. Not because I didn't like it, for it's grown on me to the point that returning to it feels like coming home. But because I'm weird when it comes to nostalgia. This place has precious memories that cannot be replaced. To return would just remind me of the past and how it cannot be relived. I don't want any new memories to spoil the ones that I have. Six weeks have been spent in Worcester. And six weeks is all Worcester will ever receive.

The truth is I don't know when I'll return to England. I'm assuming somewhere off in the future, a few years down the road, when I am financially stable and have the time and freedom to return. The next time though I'll be bringing something that I left behind this time: my love.

Until then, I have less than 2 weeks. Less than 2 weeks to still take it all in. Less than 2 weeks to enjoy England. Less than 2 weeks to ask God to help me not lose my sanity from missing Joe. And in less than 2 weeks, I will be back home, far from England and everything I've adjusted to here. And while there will be 4,000 miles separating us…it will forever remain close to me, in my heart.

London

I have been in England for a month now, and although it's 19 days into the month of July, I have only written in here twice. This needs to change and change quickly. But I don't think it'll be a problem. England is indeed inspiring me to write (as I wrote about in my last blog). But today I have no particular thoughts in which I wish to go on about. No, today's post, or perhaps just this one (because I have a feeling I will write more later), is about London. Simply London. Too bad it's not as simple as stating it.

We arrived in London on Friday and while it was a 3 hour bus ride from Worcester, and I barely slept the night before, I could not catch a wink of sleep during the ride for I was just too damn excited to get there. I had a map and a list of sites to see and things to do and they needed to be embarked upon asap. We arrived in London, and after gathering with a few friends, I was off to see the Tower of London. Warning to all of those who might travel to London someday and wish to see the Tower: it is tourist attraction central. I felt a vibe of being more in Disney World than in London because of all the tourists, and all the different activities going on that would draw in a tourist, such as myself. But since my plane touched down in Birmingham a month ago, I have been determined to NOT be a tourist. I am an American, yes, and I am trying to take in as much of England as possible, but I don't want to feel as if I'm on vacation here. I want to feel as the reason I came here; to really get a sense of this country and the people who live here. I want to know what it's like to really be apart of England. And the Tower of London was not the place to find it.

However, don't read too much into that last paragraph, for I did enjoy going to the Tower of London. And the way I rushed about London, big-eyed and in awe of everything there's no doubt that I was being a tourist. But I was in London. LONDON!! My dream city. Life could not get much better than that.



The rest of my day was still pretty eventful...I saw Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. I ate at a lovely little Italian cafe, learned how to ride the Tube (which I'm happy to say I've successfully mastered and no longer fear getting lost on), found Sherlock Holmes' house (which is actually 221 b, not 22 b), attempted to take a photo of my friends posing as the Beatles on Abbey Road, caught a glimpse of Hyde Park (which I will later devote an entire blog post to), and visited Piccadilly Circus, aka, the Times Square of London and what I believe is the only place in England that has everything open past 9pm.



All that on a Friday.

Saturday is my day of disappointment. You see we were all given the London Pass, a pass that gave us free access to many sites and attractions in London, and I discovered on the website that there was something called the British Music Experience. YES! Finally! What I came here for! The music.

Again, this is something that I will later write its own blog post for, so I will make this short and to the point. It was THE biggest waste of time. Traveling there, seeing it, traveling back, getting lost, getting a headache because I was lost, then feeling sick, then not doing really anything else for the rest of the day. In two words? Epic fail.

But again...nothing could really be that bad. Even if I didn't see or do a whole lot on Saturday, I was still in London. In fact that night I went back to Piccadilly Circus and went into a souvenir store and called my Mom to see if there was something she liked. I found out my parents were in Mansfield, OH with my sister; my sister Beth works at a camp up there and it was family weekend, so they were going out to eat. When I heard they were enjoying a lovely meal of Oliver Garden, (something I definitely miss about the states: food) I wasn't jealous. Because as I said to my sister, "Guess what? I'm in London!!" London beats Oliver Garden, any day. London beats a lot of things any day. Nothing could really be that bad, because you know what? I was in London.

And finally came Sunday, my last half day there. I went with my friends Uhleesuh and Dennis to the Wimbledon arena. I am not a big tennis fan, but I do enjoy watching it and attempting to play it, so I was happy to go and see this spot that I don't think many people who come to London would take time to check out. I had plans to venture back and see what else I had missed, like attending a service at St.Paul's, going shopping on Oxford St., and taking a quick glimpse of the globe. None of that happened. My two friends and I got back in town where we ate lunch at a Starbucks (my one and only encounter with Starbucks here AND I didn't buy coffee) and crashed on the lawn in front of Tate Modern. My heart was willing to see and do so much more before our bus was to leave at 4pm...but my body could not handle any more of it.

Needless to say, I must go back. My friend Season and I will be making plans to go one more time during our last weekend here in England. One weekend was not enough. Heck, I think I could spend my entire six weeks here just in London. But I'm glad I didn't. Because if I had, I would've missed out on the other great parts of England. Like the Iffley Road Track in Oxford, or the Beatles tour in Liverpool. And let's not forget the beloved Worcester, which has become my second home.



I have two weeks left here. And I'm now beginning to realize how even six weeks is not enough time.

Reading inspires writing; who would've thought?

I have this urge to read that I haven't experienced in a long time.

I just finished reading a favorite childhood story of mine, Peter Pan. But this time it was not told in Disney form. Peter Pan is more complicated but in the simplest of ways. You want to love him but you feel as if he is always passing by, a character you are never quite able to grasp. You want to get to know him as someone deeper, but for what J.M. Barrie shows, he is simply a boy who himself doesn't know who or even what he is. And what about Wendy? My beloved character who I have sworn I would name my daughter after is true to most of what I knew and assumed she would be; until the end. At the end of the book she has grown up. And Peter comes to see Jane, her daughter, and fly her off into Neverland. Sure, there was a cartoon movie about Jane but I simply dismissed it. Wendy grows up, this we know, but she's not suppose to see Peter again.

I think that's what is with the book that depresses me so much. The book is suppose to end with Peter returning to Neverland, and Wendy growing up, with only the memory of Peter and what he meant to her. Nana is not suppose to die, and Mrs.Darling is not suppose to be forgotten about. And Tinker Bell, the sassy fairy you love despite her hatred, disappears. We assume she dies, but Peter doesn't remember her. The fairy who saved Peter's life is simply gone. There really is no happily ever after.

I am trying to wrap my mind around what that must mean. Why Barrie decided that the book would end so mournfully. Why the tradition seems to carry on, that Wendy's daughter flies off to Neverland, only to return, grow up, and have a daughter of her own. Then Jane's daughter, Margaret, flies off, returns, grows up, and too has a daughter. And so it continues. The book really never comes to an end.

And the theme with mothers. It is such a prominent theme in the book that both the cartoon and real-life movie couldn't avoid it. But how does that relate to never growing up? Is it this strong desire to always stay young, but in order to do so we must have a mother? Well that wouldn't make sense because Peter doesn't have a mother. Is it that we need a mother and therefore we must grow up, for without her we cannot? Well that seems to make a little more sense. Perhaps Barrie understood how necessary it is for a child to have a mother, so that he or she can grow up into a responsible adult. But yet, that seems to ruin the feel for the book. The reason the book is so precious is because of the idea that there is Peter Pan in all of us…no one really wants to grow up.

Maybe this is something I'm not supposed to grasp. I've always viewed the story of Peter Pan in a bittersweet way. The story, to me, is the preciousness of childhood, and how we all yearn for it. But the reality is we must grow up. The only way we can escape is to fly to the second star on the right, and keep going until the sun rises. But we know that if we were to do this, we would be missing out on the love for the people around us. Children are meant to grow up. Except for one.

Regardless of Peter Pan, I enjoyed reading the story so much I've realized I've forgotten how much I enjoy fiction. For so long now I have been reading biographies and autobiographies and tales of true stories that happened in real life. I have held a grudge against fiction because of how deceiving it is. Fiction novels can oftentimes feel just a little too real. I don't want to be distracted by what is false. I enjoy wrestling with the truth, even if it can be a little more boring.

But I've forgotten the need for fiction. The need to escape from reality. I've forgotten how relieving it is to read a story that is completely false and find joy in it. I've forgotten how sweet it is to get lost in daydreams. Perhaps this is why I've found a deep struggle for motivation to read over the past year. Reality has become more of a burden than a relief.

So I've started a brand new list of books I desire to read, and this time there is more fiction than there is non. I have Nabokov's Lolita at the top of my list, a book I have had intentions of reading since I've heard The Police's "Don't Stand So Close to Me" (no, even though Sting was a teacher, it was actually this book that inspired him to write the song…hence the line 'Just like that old man in the book by Nabokov'). I have classics, like Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, another story I know from the movies but have not attempted to appreciate through written words. There's Lucky by Alice Sebold, the same author of The Lovely Bones, one of my favorite fiction novels. There's The Kite Runner, a New York Times Bestseller from which I've only heard good things about and has had a strong influence on its readers. There is Once a Runner, a story about running that I am dying to read, mostly because I know it is deeply inspiring, and I am searching for anything and everything that will bring my feet to graze the asphalt of the streets again. The list goes on. Eat, Pray, Love, Jane Eyre, and a book I'm terrified to read, The Catcher in the Rye. It is a classic, but it's hauntingly depressing, and has influenced some readers to take drastic steps. Mark David Chapman, the man who assassinated John Lennon, had an obsession with the book, and was said to act out scenes from it on the day of Lennon's death. He even had a copy of the book on hand, and claimed himself to be Holden Caufield. As sickening as it may sound, it is because of this I am curious to see what is so powerful about this book that would cause not only Chapman, but other readers, to take such violence upon others.

Needless to say, the list will grow, and I am anxious to get my hands on every copy that is written on a page inside my daily planner. But first I must get through Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey, which needs to be read before my literature class next Monday. For the first time in a very long while, I am excited to read.

I came to England to find inspiration to write. I had hopes that I would gain a greater appreciation for literature. And since this is the first time I am really writing in 10 days, I guess I needed to read to find the inspiration to write. Looks like England is giving me just what I wanted.

What you can get with 20 pence (dn)

Sometimes you have to pay to pee.

I was warned of pay-toilets before I left for England, but for some reason it still caught me off guard when I walked up to a bathroom in a local park, only to discover that the door would not open, even though the green light above indicated the bathroom was available. For a second I was confused. Was I trying to walk in on someone who was still in the restroom? I looked up again, and sure enough the green light was on. I pulled on the door handle again but it still it would not open. That's when I realized I needed to insert 20 pence before I could use the facilities.

Here it was: my first pay-toilet experience.

I rummaged through my wallet and pulled out two 10 pence coins and inserted them into the slot. The door was then free to open and I rushed in, afraid that if I didn't move quick enough the door would lock itself again and I would then be out 40 pence. The outside of the bathroom was rather deceiving. I expected to walk into an open area with one toilet, sink, mirror, and perhaps either a hand dryer or paper towels, especially since I had to pay for it. What I discovered instead was something similar to porta-potties back home, only this was slightly cleaner and a bit nicer looking. I was a little disappointed to discover I had just paid to use a porta-potty.

What I didn't realize was this was a little more complicated than your typical outhouse. For starters, the toilet seat was flipped up instead of down. At first I thought I had to touch the toilet seat in order to pull it town, and I was beyond repulsed. Fortunately I discovered the handle attached to the seat before doing so. I pulled the seat down, expecting it to stay there. Instead it flipped back up and the toilet flushed. I panicked for a moment. Was the bathroom going to unlock itself now that it thinks that I already used the restroom? I looked around and realized it was still locked, and found a sign that said you had twenty minutes to use the facilities before the bathroom would unlock itself. How odd; a toilet you had to pay for and came with a time limit.

The second time I readied myself, used the restroom and prepared to leave, relieved I had been able to figure it out. Instead as I was getting ready to leave I discovered a button that said, "wash hands." I pushed it, and out came clean water, shooting over the toilet for me to rinse my hands in. I found no soap, and half wondered if there was any sort of anti-bacterial stuff in the water. Then as soon as the water stopped a little vent above came on for me to dry my hands. I was impressed. The English had discovered a way to put all the necessities of a bathroom into the quarters of an outhouse.

I walked outside and was embarrassed to see a woman standing there waiting. I wondered if I had taken too long. I then realized the other bathroom was open; she was just waiting for me to come out so she wouldn't have to pay. How clever.

Of course, it was only 5 minutes later that I discovered a McDonald's. I rewashed my hands, with soap, in its free restrooms. I am grateful that in America we don't have to pay to use the restroom. But I will say it was well worth my 20 pence, just for the experience.