Homeward Bound

I’m writing this as I wait for my final flight at the Amsterdam airport (well, to be honest, I wrote the last two blog posts here too). I’m utterly exhausted, and I’ve been so stressed for the past few days (and am anticipating so much stress in the next few days) that I’ve been shivering. Despite that, I can’t even tell you how excited I am to finally be going home. And not just home as in the-house-I-grew-up-in-where-my-parents-live-that-I-go-to-on-breaks, I mean home as in the US, home as in my family and my Wellesley friends and my dog, home as in being able to buy Taco Bell and the tray of Oreos, home as in the familiar. 

I’m not even homesick really. Definitely not homesick like I was my first few weeks at Wellesley when I used to call home crying because I packed everything I owned but forgot to pack notebooks and pencils and had nothing to take notes with the first day of class, or because I didn’t know how to use the laundry machines and accidentally shrunk all of my pants. Not even homesick like my first few weeks at Leeds when I was so lonely that I just felt sort of numb and empty and watched “Lost in Translation” all the time, wondering what I was doing, leaving Wellesley. I’m just excited to finally be going home, I’ve so so enjoyed my time abroad, I’ve had such wonderful trips, and made such lovely friends, and yet I am very ready to be back in the US. When they checked me in and asked, “Heading home?”, I almost shed a tear out of happiness (not something I do very often). But for some reason, I really was, am, that happy. 

I’ve heard the warnings about reverse culture shock, and I’m a little nervous about jumping back into Wellesley’s curriculum after my relaxing, and borderline boring, semester in Leeds classes, but none of that seems quite as important, just a low buzzing shoved aside by the mental celebrations. 

On the purely logistical side of things, the blog is all up to date now! If you're behind on my adventures and want some voyeuristic satisfaction, feel free to go through my Instagram, where many pictures of my adventures are posted. (Not gonna lie, I sort of gave up on the Photo Gallery page, it's a lot of coding work to maintain. Coding work I am unwilling to do). Friends and family, I have a fairly extensive photo album posted on Facebook!

The next, and last, post I write will be from the US! And I’m writing that sentence with a huge smile! 

Christmas Czech Point

The adventure is on! 

Excitement (hopefully), romance (uhh…), and mishaps (with a money-back guarantee)—just a few of the many things everyone has anticipated about my solo jaunts across Europe. Instead of going home for 2 weeks for the holidays this year when I’d just have to come back to take my exams before heading to the States for good, I decided to run around the Continent a see the sights. Part of which, I have planned to do alone (*queue shrieks of terror from all my relatives*). This has unsettled many adults in my family who have seen Liam Neeson’s crowning achievement “Taken” a few too many times. Luckily, I, unlike Neeson’s street-naive daughter, do not plan on telling any strange men where my hotel is and what my room number is, and therefore do not anticipated being kidnapped and sold into sex slavery. 

So far, that plan is working. Rest assured guys. 

My first stop on my own was Prague in the Czech Republic, where I spent Christmas. It was the most relaxing Christmas of my life, I’m not gonna lie. 

I stayed at this swanky hotel, the Art Nouveau Palace, which was almost a little too glamorous for me (I said “almost”). It had the most beautiful breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen in my life, with smoked salmon, pate, eggs, bacon, pancakes, and they served some kickass coffee, too. 

I arrived in Prague after a long and arduous journey: I had a layover in London Heathrow (and we all know how I feel about Heathrow: I hate it, and it was an airport designed by an idiot). Then, upon arriving at the Prague airport, I had to go through passport control since I was entering the EU from beyond. Now, in these European countries, they have lines for European passports, where people just zoom right on through, and then a line for everyone else, which is where I ended up waiting for an hour. It was hot, it was late, I was tired, and I had hired a car service to pick me up at the airport that I was praying would wait for me. Eventually, I was next in line to get my passport stamped, but as soon as the family in front of me was finished, the man in the booth put up a sign and shouted to go to another window. I was at my wit’s end by this point, and might have half shouted “No!” in the middle of the airport before running and shoving my way to the shortest line, near tears of frustration. Or, we could all choose to believe that I handled myself with grace, dignity, and poise. 

To their credit, the car company did wait over an hour for me at the airport. And after an ordeal of a day, I spent that evening languishing in the massive bed I had all to myself. 

View of Prague Castle from across the Vltava

I went exploring over the next few days. Prague was the one city for which I had no real expectations going in; honestly I went to Prague purely on the recommendation of others, and boy did it pay off. Overall, there wasn’t a ton “to do” in Prague, but it was an absolutely lovely city for walking and wandering. Apparently it was one of the few major cities that was spared bombing during the 20th century wars, which means that quite a bit of it’s old architecture remains intact to this day. The city was filled with rambling streets and a myriad of Art Nouveau style buildings in Easter egg colors. 

Astronomical Clock in the Old Town Square

I explored various Christmas markets, and did quite a bit of souvenir shopping at the market in the Old Town Square. It was picturesque (though there wasn’t any snow!), especially at night when all the lights were turned on. And it was massive, making the dinky little market in Daley Plaza in Chicago look like a toy version. One day, for breakfast, I had a trdelnik, a traditional Czech pastry that is essentially just dough covered in sugar, so where could you go wrong, really?

Aside from just wandering around and eating things at the Christmas Markets, I did try to do some sightseeing. There were several small niche-interest museums that I visited including the Kafka Museum, the Museum of Communism, and the Mucha Museum. Now, when I say “small” and “niche” I mean in a house or on a side street in an old shop front. The Kafka Museum was cool, though definitely trippy and would not make any sense to someone who was unfamiliar with Kafka. It was fun and I got through the whole space in just over an hour. The exhibits were a strange, and sometimes startling, mix of historical artifacts (mostly letters, a few drafts, some photos, and even an object like a watch now and then) with audio-visual…experiences…I’m honestly not entirely sure how else I would describe them. There were often eerie sound effects in areas where reading letters between Kafka and his father, and a strange video interpreting one of Kafka’s most contentious and mysterious works, “The Castle”, along with many other oddities. But it was interesting and informative, and definitely a fun way to pass the time for an hour or so. 

The Museum of Communism was tucked away near on of the main modern shopping thoroughfares, the sort of place that you wouldn’t be able to find unless you knew exactly where to look, but I think it was well worth it. The museum was bursting with artifacts from its own Communist history, many of which were quite fascinating, though I wish I’d had the foresight to book a guided tour in advance, as I think a tour guide might have helped bring the exhibits to life. There were old uniforms, exhibits about propaganda and political cartoons (the ones they used against the US were particularly amusing, and not altogether irrelevant today actually). My favorite exhibits were the small recreations of Communist era rooms. There was even a rather moving video about the history of resistance against Czech Communism and the events leading up to the Velvet Revolution in 1989. I found myself crying right there in public after watching that video—I sometimes forget that Communism was a very real and very scary and very unironic thing in many parts of the world. However, the museum gift shop did not kowtow to such emotional sentiments. This gift shop was, in fact, the most self-aware and ironic gift shop I have ever been in. Naturally it was the perfect place to get all of Ethan’s souvenirs. 

Me and Lenin 

The Mucha Museum was lovely and very conveniently located just across the street from my hotel. I popped in on Christmas Eve and had a look around. I’ve loved Alphonse Mucha for quite a while (but the aesthetics of Art Nouveau have always appealed to me), so this museum, filled with a range of his works, including many of his most famous posters and subjects, was a dream and the perfect thing for me to do on Christmas Eve. Chances are, you’d probably recognize some of Mucha’s more famous works, actually, as his whole aesthetic is making a comeback. I’ll include some photos of his stuff. 

Mucha's Flower Series

Aside from the niche museums, I found ways to keep myself busy. One night, I happened upon a woman selling tickets to a Christmas Carol Concert that would take place in a Medieval church. How could I say now to that? Plus, with the insanely favorable exchange rate, the ticket was only like $3 (everything in Prague was so cheap it was incredible). I had to wander around a bit to actually find the church, but it was gorgeous. The concert was really fun as well, the choir performed Christmas carols from around the world in their original languages. 

Views of Prague from Petrin Hill Park

On Christmas Day I slept in and then decided to take a walk in the famous Petrin Park on the other side of the river. It was quite warm on Christmas, and the park turned out to be on a rather steep hill, so by the time I got to the top, my coat had come off, I was red-faced, and out of breath. But the views of the city were definitely worth it. Plus I got a little exercise in and saw Prague’s own mini version of the Eiffel Tower (I didn’t go up because it was going to be another 200-some stairs). I took the famous Charles Bridge back across the river, and then had a lovely traditional Czech dinner in the hotel restaurant before a 4 hour Skype session with my family. 

And back down the hill...

Overall, it was a really really lovely holiday. I don’t think I’ve ever really just been out and about on Christmas Day before, so it was nice to just sort of wander at my leisure, it felt very luxurious, though I did miss my insane family a bit (is this better than eccentric guys? *wink wink*). 

Thursday 26th November 2015

AKA Thanksgiving

Though you would never guess that since today was just another day of class for me. Today I'm experiencing one of those rare moments where I really feel my American-ness while abroad. It's more than just feeling like a foreigner or out of place because Thanksgiving is such a uniquely American holiday.

Right now, I would normally be watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV, followed by the dog show (one of my favorite holiday programs), but instead I'm writing this post while I wait for my seminar to start. It's just an all-around strange feeling, like it's something that doesn't exist it's such a non-event. I mean, objectively I knew this was how it would be, but it's just a little surreal to be like "Guys! It's Thanksgiving! Really? No one?" in my head all day, while everyone around me is just going around living their lives. It's weird to be going around, sitting in class, discussing readings and historical events when the whole time I really just want to be lying on my couch watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

I've been feeling a little blue about the whole thing for the past week, so yesterday I decided to go out and treat myself to a little shopping as a way to cheer myself up. I figured, if I'm not going home, if I don't even get the day off, then I can at least wear a new dress! That feels like a totally valid thing to do, right? Although the dress did keep me feeling a little more upbeat today, I'm still a little down an out today, it just can't be helped I suppose.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm kind of bummed out about the food (it's always the food with me though). I feel a little like Peppermint Patty felt when seeing that Charlie Brown had cooked up some toast, popcorn, pretzels, and jellybeans for dinner to be honest, except I'm the one who has to procure the food. Normally we have a true feast, with deep fried turkey, and green bean casserole with the crispy onions on top, and two kinds of stuffing, and candied sweet potatoes, and those weird jellied cranberry pucks (you know the ones I'm talking about American friends, that stuff that comes out of the tin can and stays that shape), and an assortment of delicious pies. Here, I have a choice between another bowl of reheated pasta, the same one that I've been eating for the past several days and that I will continue to eat for the next week or so, or mediocre take out from some place on the walk back to my dorm, which includes knock-off McDonald's and a sub-par Chinese take out place that seems to be run by a whole bunch of non-Chinese people.

I mean, I know this is a one time thing for now, that I'll be back celebrating Thanksgiving next year, I think I just hadn't fully prepared myself for how very, very strange it would be to have to be outside the US on Thanksgiving. Guess it's just making me a little homesick for turkey and sweet potatoes and all things sweet and pumpkin flavored. Ah well, I'll make a go of knock-off McDonald's!

My Roman Holiday II

Part 2: When In Rome

Ok, ok, I know. It's been like a month since I was actually in Rome and I'm just finishing up the Rome posts now. Sorry, I was busy, I do have actual school work to do sometimes guys, and I just finished up paper season (phew).

In fair Rome is where we had set our scene. It was sunny and warm and I'd just had a wonderful little morning with my mom and aunt at an outdoor market. The rest of the day was decidedly less eventful. Mostly we just wandered around, we did some shopping, mom got her pair of custom made sandals (which she sort of needs since she has, essentially, child-sized feet), and we looked at some landmarks. I made it my personal mission that day to pick up every ironic postcard of the pope that I laid my eyes on, and boy was it a fruitful day. Everyone seemed to make some fun purchases, and we ate some yummy pizza and saw the sights.

The Trevi fountain was nice, though it was a little disappointing since there was a fence up around it and the fountain was devoid of water (wah wah), but it was cool nonetheless to see if "close up" (we couldn't get that close--see: fence). Then we walked all the way over to the Spanish Steps. It was getting kind of dark by then, and the plaza at the bottom of the steps was very, very crowded. I didn't even realize we were looking at the Spanish Steps until someone told me because, honestly, it was just a large outdoor staircase, and there wasn't much that made it stand out (yes I know, a heretical thing of me to say. I promise, I am an appreciator of art and architecture, but really, after several days of being on my feet all day with no alone time, can you blame me for being rather unenthused about a staircase, famous or not?). It, too, was fenced off, so, yeah that gives you a sense of the sightseeing portion of our Sunday.

At the end of the day, one of my aunts (cousins? again with the family tree and title thing) wanted to visit the Gucci store. Of course, me being me, I followed her and her husband in like a duckling following its mother because I was intensely curious to see the inside of a real designer boutique. I mean, the fanciest store I've ever been inside in my life is probably Lord and Taylor. I felt a bit like an imposter, like if I didn't walk right on my relatives' heels, someone would sniff me out and a salesperson would gracefully push me out the front door with their carefully gloved hands. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it was all just so dreadfully chic and glamorous.

I found it fascinating to watch as someone bought an actual designer handbag from a designer boutique. It was probably the largest purchase I've ever witnessed someone make, aside from when my parents bought their car (though the car dealership wasn't nearly as aesthetically pleasing or amenable, I mean, they brought out free water in little glass bottles, with crystal tumblers to serve in all on a dark lacquered tray. I mean...).

After that, and a lot more walking, and quite a bit of time being lost, we made it back to the hotel and went out to dinner, sort of as a way to celebrate my last night there. Dinner was nice, I was exhausted, and we had to take a ton (and I mean, a ton) of group photos. I had a fairly tearful goodbye the next morning with my family, as they all piled into a van to go on their food tasting tour of the city, and I waited in the hotel lobby for my cab to the airport to arrive. I hadn't really realized until that moment how much I missed the sense of familiarity that comes from home, even just from being around other Americans (I haven't met more than one or two in Leeds). It was a strange, makeshift, portable version of home, but nonetheless, it was decidedly less foreign and I felt that.

I didn't have to miss it for too long though. Hahahaha. Haha. Ha. Ha...

I got all the way to the airport, stood in line, and when I got up to the check in counter, found out that my flight was extremely delayed due to some monster fog that had eaten the Netherlands. Consequently I was going to miss my connection back to Leeds. Yes. I stood there in the airport, breathing very deeply, insisting that the counter employee check every single flight back to Leeds that day. She kept clicking her mouse, mumbling to herself in Italian, and shaking her head, while I stood there focusing all of my energy on not crying in public. I tried not to think about the fact that I had three classes the next day, or the strict attendance policy Leeds seems to promote, or any of that. Nonetheless, I was stressed. I mean, I was Princess-Mia-driving-the-Mustang stressed. I was breathing very heavily, which made the airline person glance up in concern at me a few times. Finally, she said something to the effect of well, I see no solution for you today, but I can book you on a flight tomorrow! TOMORROW. Apparently, this fog was so crazy that a whole bunch of flights were disrupted, and so many passengers were displaced that every flight to Leeds, on every airline flying out of Rome to every possible connecting city was absolutely full.

Just my luck.

I was sort of in a daze as I accepted my new boarding pass, asking where I could find a cab. I didn't really see any other option except to just go back to the hotel. By this point I was totally out of cash, so I had to wait a while until a cab with a credit card reader could pick me up. I continued to do my paper-bag breathing (sans paper bag) all the way back to the hotel, where I walked up through the front doors to the astonishment of the concierge at the desk who had seen me off in the morning. I sort of just shrugged my shoulders and said, well, I'm back. He was very kind, asking me if everything was alright, and if my family knew what had happened. They didn't (since my phone didn't work unless I had wifi). Well, he said, this will be a nice surprise for the Aquinos (which he, and everyone else, insisted on pronouncing "Ah-KWEE-no", saying that it was an Italian name, even when we said it was pronounced differently in Southeast Asia. That's a different story, though).

I was so distraught and caught up in the stress (as I am wont to do) that I completely forgot for a while that if I was going to be stranded somewhere, at least I was stranded in ROME. Eventually I calmed down and managed to let my family know what had happened, then settled in to catch up on some homework before they came back. I sat at the desk with the window open and a cup of coffee and I felt a little better. My family was very sympathetic, and I treated myself to another plate of tiramisu at dinner that night (I deserved it).

Then I had to do the tearful goodbye again. My family was scheduled to leave early early the next day to catch a train to Venice, but my flight wasn't until the afternoon. I woke up briefly to say goodbye to my mom and aunt, but I was only half awake really. When I woke up again a few hours later, I was alone in the room, which made me feel a little blue and achy, but was what I had expected really.

This time, I actually made it back to Leeds. Of course, the universe wasn't going to make it easy though. The wrong terminal was printed on my boarding pass, so I ended up having to walk 2 terminals over, which was fine. But then, I had to take a tram all the way to the international terminal, and then I got on a bus to go out to the tarmac to actually get on the plane (which I really hate doing, it's just so much shuffling). After a few hours we landed in London Heathrow, which is just a hot mess, let me tell you.

I had to first figure out which terminal I was transferring too, since this would be a domestic and not an international flight, and it turns out that I would have to take a 20 minute long bus ride to my connecting terminal. There, I had to check in and pick up my boarding pass. All I had was the flight and ticket number that the woman from the day before (when I didn't cry in public) had written on the back of my first boarding pass. The man at the counter seemed a little confused, but eventually he sorted it out. Then I had to stand in line for another 45 minutes to get through passport control. They only had 1 person stamping passports that weren't UK/EU. Oh joy. Then it was another 30 minutes through security, and by then I only had 15 minutes to pick up a sandwich before I was scheduled to board. But of course, after running through the terminal to make it, I get there and find out that my connection has been delayed a half hour. Wonderful. I love traveling. So much fun. Adventure.

I made landed in Leeds only to be welcomed by insanely thick fog. Gotta love that fog. It was 8:30 PM before I actually made it back to my room where I promptly fell onto the bed in exhaustion.

After Italy, going back to school, going back to cold, damp, dark England felt like being pushed into the deep end of the pool: you sink all the way to the bottom and have to fight for some momentum in order to get yourself back up to the air, struggling to breath the whole way. I felt like Dorothy at the end of the story, when she leaves the Technicolor dream world of Oz and heads back to literally gray Kansas. While there isn't nearly as much corn and dust as Kansas, Northern England can certainly rival Kansas in dull grayness. I guess that every time it's cold and windy and rainy here (i.e. every single day), I'll just have to remember that I'll always have Rome.

Cambridge to Cambridge Connection

This week in “Austen Does Day Trips” I ventured down to Cambridge with some of my friends. After leaving at the ridiculously early hour of 7:30 (uhg it was still dark out...or was it just really cloudy?), we arrived in the picturesque land of Cambridge. 

Me, Sara, and Petra in front of King's College (pc: Sara)

While I have been to Cambridge, Massachusetts numerous times, have walked along cobblestone streets there, and have even drunken tea, Cambridge, UK was starkly different. The town and campus looked like they had been plucked out of a story book or movie set! We wandered around amongst hoards of Asian tourists, peering into the windows of posh tailor shops advertising £600 suit jackets, strolling through an open air market, and generally enjoying the prettiness of the setting. 

We ate lunch at a delicious Italian restaurant, which made me all the more excited about my upcoming trip to Rome (!). After the one of the best eggplant parmesans I’ve ever had, we ventured to Great St. Mary’s Church, at the center of Cambridge. The church itself was quite pretty, though I always feel strange walking on stores paved with people’s gravestones—it feels disrespectful, but seems quite common in Europe. We decided to go up into the tower of the church, which advertised the best views of Cambridge on a sign in the church gift shop (a strange thing in and of itself, but no one else seemed to think it bordering on the realm of Indulgences, so I let it be…). 

So narrow...so steep... (pc: Sara)

We had to climb up the narrowest and steepest set of stairs I’ve ever climbed in my life. I’ve never thought of myself as a claustrophobic person, but I was holding on for dear life as well climbed up to the top. The views were absolutely worth it, though. The buildings at Cambridge (like in many European cities, I’ve found) were all rather low to the ground, so we could see a lot. The campus is beautiful, and we had an amazing view of the iconic King’s College. The lawn had such precise stripes (that you were constantly reminded not to walk on), that the whole place seemed like something out of “Alice in Wonderland”. I read the little information pamphlet about the church and was once again amazed at the immense age of some things in Europe. The church had been “well established” already when the university started building up around it in the 12th century CE. My constant shock amuses my friends, but I can’t help but feel a sense of reverence walking around a fully functional structure that is exponentially older than my country (in terms of it’s “establishment”, trying to be PC here folks). 

Top of the tower! (pc: Petra)

After our long descent in the spiral stairs from hell, we decided to stroll through the local art museum. It was quite nice with a pretty solid collection! I even got to see a real portrait of Henry VIII that wasn’t in a history textbook—it was quite novel. We spent a few hours tottering around the museum and then we went and met up with a friend of mine, Mark, who I’d met in American Cambridge last year while he was studying abroad at MIT. It was loads of fun to see him again, though it was sort of like seeing two worlds collide: my Boston life and my Leeds life bumped into each other in Cambridge! Mark took us punting, a uniquely British activity. Punts are little river boats that you move with a long pole, like gondolas (but the driver doesn’t sing to you!). 

Mark making punting look easy (pc: Sara)

Mark punted us around for the majority of the trip making it look quite easy (little did I know that he has done this numerous times before and was also a crew person…), so when he offered me a go, I thought it might be fun. Haha. Ha. I tried so hard to make the boat move, but mostly I swung the pole around in the water, trying to make the boat point straight (but mostly just making it spin around and drift sideways). I think I moved us a few inches forward, but really this was just a rude awakening to the complete lack of core strength I have as I desperately threw my entire weight into trying to move the boat and essentially failing to do so. 

Me failing to move the punt (pc: Sara)

Mark had pity on me and resumed punting, giving us his best tour guide impression as we went. My friends and I learned all about the womping willow (both of them) that grew near the river, the stake where freshers who are witches are burned, and that Queen’s College is so named because that is where the Queen herself throws all her ragers. It was truly informative. Mark also rejoiced in his quest to his every duck, goose, or swan we encountered with true vigor. Overall, our trip was really nice! It’s always good to get out of the residences, off campus, and away from Leeds for a day. 

The always lovely Petra and Sara :) 

It was nice catching up with an old friend, though it did make me think of Wellesley, which made me a little homesick (as did talking about how much I missed Taco Bell…I know, I’m an addict…). My bout of homesickness lasted a few days, and I ended up drowning it in a small shopping trip, 2 packages of Oreos (which are blasphemously sold in the biscuit aisle of the grocery store!), Willow’s sad and soft playlist, and a TV binge. 

For the most part I’m just trying to keep myself busy to ward off any feelings of homesickness, and it’s proving not too difficult to do so here! I’ve started working at Special Collections regularly now! I’m helping to catalog a rather extensive archive of material from the famous British poet Tony Harrison. I’m mainly working on his photo albums (of which there are many), and throughout the semester I’m working to put out a digital resource of images from the albums and texts that focus on one of Harrison’s projects. It’s all quite exciting and everyone at Special Collections is quite lovely (though I do miss the people at Wellesley’s Special Collections quite dearly!). 

Outside of academics, I’ve had a few more moments of culture self-awareness. I’ve recently discovered that some truly wonderful food items are not universal! Several of my European friends have asked me about hash browns when I was describing what I eat for breakfast (a list that amused them in and of itself, but that’s a different story). I was truly astonished and mildly horrified that the wonderful item that are hash browns are not enjoyed globally! A true travesty if there ever was one. I’ve also discovered that my friends from continental Europe have never had Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Lattes before! I’m not really much of a Starbucks supporter in general, their coffee is honestly nothing special, but their Pumpkin Spice Lattes are the gateway into Fall for me! So we are all trying (or have tried) them at my insistence (I tried to describe it as drinkable pumpkin pie, but that reference didn’t land because apparently that’s an American thing too). Lastly, root beer floats! My favorite dessert! I’ve described to numerous people before about how wonderful root beer floats are because it’s not too much ice-cream and you can quench your thirst at the same time and it gets so frothy and wonderful, but my friends all looked quite disgusted and confused when I described the concept. 

Speaking of unique food experiences, this past Monday I went to my program director’s home for dinner! It was one of the most English experiences I’ve had so far! He and his family live in York (about 30 minutes away by train) in a sweet little row house. He had invited me and two of his post-grad (or grad students in US English) that night to eat with him, his wife, his daughter (about my age), and his son (elementary school age). They were all so lovely and welcoming and I had a really lovely time! My favorite part of their house was probably the kitchen because it was so cozy! It even had one of those old fashioned oven/stove tops! We had a very very British meal, as well. We had roast beef (and everyone was amused and slightly horrified when I said I’d only ever had it in lunch meat form in plastic from the store), which was served with horseradish and “hot” English mustard (both were quite mild by my standards, though). We also had some yummy baked or steamed veggies and Yorkshire pudding (which is not like the chocolate pudding you can get in the US, but like a dough puff that you bake). For dessert (which is also called pudding, confusingly enough) we had a yummy apple tart or cake of sorts, and a chocolate cheese cake! The conversation was interesting (I learned a lot about the NHS and its politics) and everyone was so sweet! Plus it was just so nice to have a real, home cooked meal after a month and a half of reheated pasta everyday!

"To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go"

-Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a certain girl in possession of the name Austen must like all things “Jane Austen”. At least, that’s what everyone seems to think. I come from a family of bibliophiles, and my mother loved Jane Austen so much that she named me after her. Now I will confess something here, Jane Austen is not my favorite author. 

I know, I know, cue the shrieks and disbelief and looting. I like Jane Austen, sure: I admire her writing, she’s smart as a whip, hilarious, and keenly aware of how people tick, and I’ve always admired her as a woman for what she did in her time. She’s a key historical figure and a wonderful author, but if I’m being honest, a lot of the connection I’ve felt toward Jane Austen is not through her writing, per se, but through our shared name. 

Nevertheless, even I couldn’t help but jump up down and clap my hands like a little girl when I found out I was visiting Pemberley. Yes. The Pemberley. 

Much like Elizabeth Bennet, I did not find myself at “Pemberley” on purpose, in fact it wasn’t until the night before my trip that someone enlightened me. I simply thought that it would be fun to see the home of a Duke and Duchess (we don’t have nobility in the US, so this seemed so novel to me). I booked the trip, my first solo travel since my arrival, and was excited to go and see how the other half lived. I knew literally nothing about this place, Chatsworth House, only that it’s the seat of the Duke of Devonshire. When I mentioned the name to a group of my friends and someone said, “Oh that’s Pemberley! From the movie!”, I frantically started googling this, and sure enough, there were photos of 2005 Kiera Knightley on the official Chatsworth House website. Needless to say, I was fairly psyched. 

The next day (Saturday), I got on the bus and made a few new friends, and watched the rolling country side full of sheep (there are so many sheep here in England, seriously, they are everywhere) turn into hills full of trees. I saw signs for Derbyshire, the residence of the one and only Mr. Darcy. We pulled up to the massive gates and the place was teaming with people. Apparently touring the houses of great men is still a favorite pastime today for the English and foreign tourists alike. 

I walked through the massive house with my new friends, remarking the whole way through about its size, its grandeur, and its age (everything in England is so old and that never ceases to be a source of awe and amusement for me). Almost every ceiling had fantastical and masterful scenes painted on them, the staircases were all gilt, the wood paneling so intricately carved to make the reliefs of fruit and flowers and fowl looks so vivid and lifelike and delicate. Everywhere you turned there was lux and ancient satins, velvets, hand painted wallpaper, and oriental rugs. It was almost too much for my eyes to take in. 

Touring the house wasn’t just like touring a historic site, it was also a bit like touring an art museum, that’s just how laden the walls were with art work. Almost every wall I looked at had paintings by grand masters, or portraits that belonged in history books (and some I’m sure I’ve seen in history books, actually). Every room held a little bit of history, such as the room that house Mary, Queen of Scots more than once as a prisoner. This house was so old and so famous that I’m still trying to wrap my head around how it fits into all these historical events. Royalty has stayed there, and it houses one of, if not the, largest and most important collection of art still in private hands in Europe (and maybe the world? Don’t quote me on that…), and it was also home to another famous Kiera Knightley role, oddly enough, Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire and the subject of the movie “The Duchess” (who also happened to be a distant relative of Princess of Diana). If you’re interested in reading more on the history of the house, I direct you to Wikipedia. 

Yes, that Duke of Wellington stayed here

Even with all the history abound, you could see elements of the modern Duke and Duchess everywhere. The 12th Duke of Devonshire and his wife are great patrons of contemporary art, it seems, as there are installations everywhere, thrown into the fray with classical, rococo, and medieval pieces throughout the house and grounds. It was sort of strange to see these pieces that would make more sense in the Guggenheim than amongst a garden full of Renaissance marble studies. The Duke and Duchess also seemed to like collecting rocks and minerals (hey there actual geologists, Willow and Vickey)— there were massive geodes all over the place. They are also really into their dogs, this I gleaned from a few portraits of the noble pooches, and the abundant dog paraphernalia to be found in the gift shop. 

A "canvas chair", one of many contemporary art installations in the house

After wandering through almost the whole house, I finally came to the room. The room from the film. The sculpture gallery of Pemberley fame. Though it looked different from when Kiera Knightley strolled through 10 years ago, many of the pieces were the same, with the addition of a few contemporary installations. 

Kiera Knightley in the Pemberley Sculpture Gallery

My own photo of the Chatsworth House Sculpture Gallery

I made my way through and ended up in the gift shop, which was filled with books divulging the history of the house, real Chatsworth wool blankets and hats, local wines and honey, cute mugs and magnets with pictures of the house, and several shelves devoted to Jane Austen fan items. They certainly knew how to play to the crowd; I mean, they were playing the score from the movie in the gift shop. I got innumerable presents for my mom, since I knew she would probably pass out when she’d heard I’d gotten to visit Pemberley, and of course, I had to take some photos with the bust of Matthew Macfadyen’s Mr. Darcy. I mean, how could I pass up an opportunity like this? You could actually buy miniatures of the bust to take home with you (I would’ve gotten you one, mom, but they were pricey and heavy). 

Me and Mr. Darcy 

After a sweet lunch at the cafe in the garden, I made my way to take in the famous view of the house, the view from the movie, with the long lake. It was gorgeous. I can’t really describe my experience, it was just really pleasant and hard to believe, that’s the only way I can put it, really. I know people will say that it’s just like looking at a set, but this could have been the real Pemberley actually: Jane Austen visited this area once, and even visited Chatsworth House—a lot of people think that this was the real-life inspiration for Pemberley. 

Me and "Pemberley"

After I had my fill of gazing at the facade of Pemberley, I strolled through the extensive grounds with my new friends. There were lakes, waterfalls, art installations, hedge mazes (which took like an hour or more to navigate, oh my gosh), and traditional English style gardens. 

Very "Alice in Wonderland" hedge maze

As we wandered around, I looked at all the people and thought about how strange it must be, not only to live in such a massive and historically important house and have essentially a national park as your backyard, but to have so many strangers constantly milling around. I know that the public is kept cordoned off, only allowed to see a handful of rooms compared to the nearly 100/126 private rooms, but still, the front of the building has a parking lot, and there’s a gift shop and restaurants built into the house and stables, and people are constantly wandering around outside, which would make it awkward if you ever just wanted to sit outside and read or something. I can’t even imagine it, how strange that is, though I guess it sort of comes with the territory. 

Overall, I had a really lovely day! I made some new friends, I got to try a traditional Cornish pastie for lunch (it was sort of like a calzone but not pizza stuffings and made with pastry dough), I got to see an amazing, beautiful, and historic house that also happened to be the filming location for a very famous movie. Even though I didn’t make a wrong turn and rediscover my true love, or end up having waffles with a duchess (I still can’t believe that’s a real story…), I thoroughly enjoyed my time wandering the great house and grounds. Honestly, it was probably the best way for me to cure my bout of homesickness!

(Also, feel free to check out my Instagram account for more photos! Everyone should be able to see it!)

When Homesickness Meets Wanderlust

Distance is a funny thing. Just the thought of it can change a person’s attitude. For example, when I first went away to Wellesley I was moving 1000 miles away from home, away from the only place I’d ever really lived and gotten to know, away from everyone I’d ever really known and understood. Many of my relatives (many of whom will read this, I’m sure) came to my graduation party and told me how much they were going to miss me, and how it wasn’t going to be the same without me around, even though in reality I would still see most of them about the same as I normally would. This isn’t anything against my sentimental and caring relatives, it’s just funny how the very thought of someone being far away and out of your immediate reach can make you miss them. 

I was talking with my brother a week or so ago, as he was adjusting to his first year at college and his first year far away from home. He said that sometimes it was just hard, and that even if there wasn’t anything in particular at home that you missed, somehow you stilled missed home as a whole. It’s the distance itself, I told him, just knowing how far away you are from any and all safety nets, that thought alone sits heavy, like a rock in your stomach, making you ache a little. The distance and the sense of familiarity. When you move far away, everything is new, and that's exciting, but it's also so alien and unfamiliar, and often trips you up as you go along. Two years ago I was in the same boat as my brother, moving far away from home, and two years later I tacked on another 3,000 miles and had to go through so many things again. 

It’s funny how quickly something so far away and unknown can become your normal, everyday life. You may have read about my adventures in culture shock in some previous posts, and yet in the course of just 3 weeks, although I’m not completely adjusted, I now know where to get my groceries and how and when to get to my classes or catch the bus back to my residence. I’ve settled into a mini routine that covers most of my day-to-day life. 

But at the same time, there will be little things that send me into a spiraling bout of homesickness. I wanted to buy a few more pairs of socks the other day, and normally I would just head to Target…and I suddenly realized that I had no idea where I would go here to buy socks, where I would even start to look. Or if I wanted to get a pair of sturdier shoes for the rain, where would I go? There isn’t a Target, or Payless, or DSW here. It’s infantilizing and scary and deeply unsettling when you don’t know how even the most basic things work. 

Sometimes I’ll just start thinking about my dog’s head and his fuzzy ears, and how he lets out a sigh when he plops down on the sofa, and suddenly I’ll be really sad. Or sometimes, when it’s really gray and rainy out, I’ll think about fall at home. There is a crisp brightness in the fall at Wellesley: all the lines feel more defined and there is a distinct and brisk clarity in the air. Here, everything feels a little muddled and blurred by the constant and inescapable mist. And sometimes the heater is just too hot, or the room is just too cold or damp, or my bed is too squeaky, or my sheets are too scratchy, or I just don’t have enough socks, and there are a million post it notes on the wall nagging me with all the things I have to do. 

It’s the littlest things that push you over the edge when you’re already dealing with the shock of suddenly finding yourself in a completely foreign and alien place. I remember after my first week at Wellesley, I tried to do my laundry for the first time, and I didn’t understand what washer settings were what temperatures and somehow ended up shrinking all of my pants. I was utterly horrified when I pulled everything out of the dryer and discovered I was left with ill-fitting capris instead of regular length jeans. I ended up running out into the courtyard in the middle of the night and calling my mom in tears. It was the first moment I thought I had made a mistake, the first moment I thought about turning around and giving up. She calmed me down and that weekend my roommate took me Gap and I bought some new pants, and I successfully completed 2 years at Wellesley. I always think back to that moment, though, I laugh at it now and try to remember how hopeless I felt in that moment when I’m having a hard time here. 

Nevertheless, the weight of the Atlantic Ocean weighs on me sometimes, sitting heavy on my chest, making it hard for me to breath. Sometimes I just miss “safe”. Sometimes I get tired of “new” and “exciting” and “unknown”. Maybe this is just the second stage of culture shock talking, or maybe it’s just always kind of hard to be away from home. Facing a challenge is always infinitely more scary when everything and everyone around you is unfamiliar. It’s like learning how to swim: always easier when your parents are right next to you at the neighborhood pool than when you inexplicably find yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean. 

Despite all of this moaning and groaning, I forge ahead. I think the toughest thing, really, is reconciling all of my wistfulness and homesickness with my incurable wanderlust. As much as I miss home sometimes, I can’t help but want to see more, to go further, to keep traveling away from home, at least for now. I lived in and around Chicago for most of my life, and I became so claustrophobic I had to move 1000 miles away to Wellesley. When I’m in one place for too long, I start to get restless, but when I’m away, especially far away, I feel so sad for the distance. It’s a hard thing to balance, but I just keep reminding myself that this is a big, old world, and that I want to soak up as much of it as I can. So, whenever I’m feeling lonely, when ever that distance pushes itself up to the front of my mind, I make myself a big cup of tea, I ask my mom to send me some pictures of my dog, and I put on an episode of Gilmore Girls—then when I wake up the next day, I look forward to every unknown and scary thing out there. 

“Dear old world…you are very lovely, and I am happy to be alive in you.” 

--L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

(I mean, I've already seen every single episode, but who wouldn't feel a sense of comfort from this? It's like having a hug from my own mom)

Austen in Uni-Land

Well I made it through my first week of classes at Uni! And even though things operate differently over here, and there are definitely some things I need to adjust to academically, class is still class (though, here they call classes “modules”). 

It’s been yet another week of discovery and pretending like I know what I’m doing while silently freaking out internally. For one thing, there are way more buildings here than at Wellesley, and whoever designed them had a…unique understanding of architecture. Sure there are some lovely old stone and brick buildings inscribed with Latin phrases and enclosed in wrought iron gates, but do I have classes in any of these buildings? Of course not. I have a few classes in “houses”, which are renovated row houses near campus. They were incredibly difficult to find at first because it looks as though someone just lives there, not like it is filled with classrooms, and they University signs are small and far away from the sidewalk, so it’s all a big guessing game really. 

It was in one of these houses that I had my very first ever class at Leeds, my Medieval European Literature lecture. Of course I was freaking out about being late to this class, so I left like 45 minutes early (which meant that I only had like 15-20 minutes to find my classroom in the labyrinthine campus after the 30 or so minute walk from my residence). I wandered around for a bit before finding the house, and then it took a few minutes of walking up and down several stairwells and a pair of kindly students who took pity on me before I found the lecture room. My lecture professor was entertaining though. He insists on being called by his first name, Alaric, insists that no one can give a wrong answer, wore Birkenstock sandals, and used the word “groovy” in every second sentence during class. It was wonderful. I had to read several poems in Middle English without any modern translation this week, though, which was an adventure in and of itself, but it’s a first level course so it should be a nice introduction to Medieval Literature. We’ve already starting our first major text in the seminar, the Nibelungenlied, a Medieval German epic that I’m quite enjoying—there are a lot of noble, yet not very bright knights, and numberless “adorable” ladies, each more gorgeous than any ever seen before ever. 

I usually have a few hours of break in between my classes, between 1-2 hours usually. It’s nice to have a little reprieve, but it’s also sort of annoying since I live so far away and I can’t really go back to my dorm and hang out in between classes like I do at Wellesley where everything is 10 minutes from each other. I usually find a quiet spot outside to eat my packed lunch (I’m perfecting my roast beef sandwich), and then go to the library to do some reading. 

I have a few classes in this one huge building, called Roger Stevens, which I swear was designed by blind architecture. For one thing, the building is hideous. Something out of late 70s architecture, all bare concrete and exposed pipes…it’s unpleasant. This building is full of lecture theaters, and the most confusing thing is that on your schedule, the room may be “lecture theater 2, 7.02” which means floor 7. However, the bewilderment comes in when you start going up the stairs and realize that floor 7 is actually the floor that you enter on…which, of course, makes no sense at all. The only floors that you can access (at least according to the elevator buttons) are floors 7-12. I mean, what? This isn’t the only building on campus with a wonky level system, though, there are a few where you enter on level 11, or other strange numbers. Even just the normal level system here took some adjustment: here the floor you enter is usually “Level G” and the next floor up is “Level 1”, unlike in the US where the ground floor is usually “Level 1”. 

Anyways, in this crazy, nonsensical building I have 2 lectures, one for a Cultural History of Japan, and one for the Philosophy of Religion. Both of these classes seem really interesting! The Japanese history class seems like the least intensive so far, and full of really interesting information. I was attracted to it because it listed Haruki Murakami in the syllabus, whom I love! My philosophy class seems like it’s going to be a little tough, not so much in terms of the work load, but in terms of the content. I’ve never taken a formal philosophy class before and I’ve only ever read snippets of philosophy in different contexts. Let’s just say it’s a little over my head. But! My philosophy lecturer is American! In the lecture on Friday I answered a question (apparently I was the only person in a room of 150 people who knew who Mark Twain was…?), and he gleefully said, “Correct! And you’re not from around here, either!” After class we briefly chatted about where in the states we were from and how I was adjusting, and he’d even heard of Wellesley, which is rare even in the US! 

Aside from these classes, I’m also taking a Cultural History course, which studies the major developments in culture throughout European and American history. Our first lecture was one of my longer ones, lasting about 2 hours, and covered the basics of what “culture” was exactly and what it meant to study the concept and history of culture. It seems like it will be a very thought provoking class. Oddly enough for this coming week, we’re focusing on the Enlightenment and the development of freedom, equality, and democracy, so we had to read the US Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. I feel a little like I’m back in middle school or high school, listening to School House Rock and learning about the Amendments and the powers of the 3 branches, it’s been that long since I’ve really looked at these documents and discusses them academically. And, of course, I’m the only American in my seminar, so I’ll end up having to fill everyone in with a little history lesson. 

It’s strangely comforting though, encountering these small scraps of home over here. Now that the realities and rigors of school are setting in (there is a lot of reading, and they actually take attendance here! It’s quite strict…), and the honeymoon period is fading away, I’m starting to miss home a little more. Little things are starting to nag at me, no matter how much fun I’m having meeting new people and having adventures with my friends, I can feel this wistful nostalgia for home, for Wellesley, for the US welling up at the edge of my vision. Maybe that’s what I’ll work through in my next blog post. 

All complaints and poignancy aside, I had a pretty good first week! It’s definitely more strict here, and the Brits certainly don’t hold your hand the way American college do, but I’m looking forward to trying out some new subjects and figuring out how to learn like the English. It’s certainly going to be an interesting semester, I can tell you that.