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I am in love.
Not with some dashing Brit boy I stumbled across in some quiet pub, but with an entire city. Liverpool. So vibrant, so bustling with life that the very streets seemed to breathe on their own, a great ball of energy tucked into the city’s center.
The city was perfect. The sights, the sounds, the tastes–every inch of the city opened to us and welcomed us, strangers in a strange land, drinking in every bit as fast as we could, terrified that we would miss something–only to realize that we live here now. We are only 20 minutes away from this incredibly metropolis by train. Each time I remembered this, it was only echoed back to me by the city by some new shop or sight or smell that I could not bear to say goodbye to just yet. I will be back, Liverpool, I promise.
Everything in Liverpool is huge, but shares the space equally with tiny pubs and restarants, cramped clubs and shops that tempt the wandering tourist as they pass. The streets wind casusally past great glass skyscrapers and ancient cathedrals, only to be intercepted by another winding side street or narrow alleyway, leading to what mysterious places I’ve yet to discover.
The weather was perfect, and Liverpool seemed to welcome us with the sun and a cool breeze that made the day chilly, but not unbearable. Everywhere we looked—people, people and more people, while cars and double decker busses whizzed past them causually. No battles for the road–each knows thier place and the city ensures that all is well within its gaze.
We took the Magical Mystery Tour..and it was here that I discovered that the Beatles aren’t just music to Liverpool…not even a great band. They ARE Liverpool. They are the pride of the town, nearly a religion unto themselves. Hallowed be thy names, George, John, Paul, and Ringo. They aren’t “The Beatles”. The are “the boys”. On our tour, we paused outside John Lennon’s childhood home and saw a passing biker salute the home and make the sign of the cross. It was at this moment that I knew that this wasn’t just any city–this was something special.
We saw it all–Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane, the Beatles’ childhood homes, the Cavern Club–it was there. It was real. It wasn’t a documentary or a photo in a book. As we drove down Penny Lane, the driver played the song and it literally came to life before my eyes. At the corner where the bank was, two school children came running down the street and stopped to mess around in front of the bank, just as
“On the corner is a banker with a motorcar,
The little children laugh at him behind his back”
blared through the speakers. Where else but Liverpool? We saw the construction and the tangible pride our guide felt in the city’s position as Culture Capitol 2008, and of the improvements being made on the city because of it. All of the city seemed to reflect this pride: the lights, the sounds, the colors–everything took a moment to absorb due to the enormity of it all. It was big–huge–but somehow still not overwhelming. I fit here.
I cannot wait to come back. It’s only a train ride away.
It’s been one full week, almost now to the hour since we arrived in England.
Since then, there have been several meetings and orientation settings, dozens of meetings, several trips into town and hundreds of memories that I will never forget.
This may have been the best decision of our lives.
Everything–Ormskirk, Edge Hill, the other Americans, the real live British students…everything has met or exceeded our expectations.
Ormskirk is bustling today with another street market (every Thursday and Saturday) and Abby and I have already discovered several new nooks and crannies that as to date had been left unexplored. That’s my goal really: to become part of Ormskirk, to find the places off the beaten track and to learn to appreciate and marvel at the things that I may not ever see again.
Details here are important. On our walks into town, I am usually the one who lags behind because I’ve found some little growth sticking out of a rustic garden wall or noticed some winding side street that begs to be explored.
My journal is becoming a rediculous mess of hastily scribbled notes, as I’ve no time to actually write coherent descriptions of the day. Hopefully once this week slows down I will get some time and be able to translate them into some sort of interesting prose.
The people are wonderful. I don’t know where people have gathered the understanding that Brits are stuck up or reserved–every person I’ve met here has been warm, welcoming, and absolutely willing to help, no matter how stupid the question. Perhaps it’s just my delightful American accent.
The other American students have quickly bonded into a sort of second family. We all get along wonderfully and it’s been great having people to hang out with and who understand the frustrations and the challenges of our Edge Hill experience. Our house is situated farther back from campus, but it has quickly become the meeting spot and the hang-out house for all of our friends.
It is cold here. I’ve been shivering since we arrived, but I finally found a coat at one of the tiny local thrift stores for only £10. (About $20 American). It’s totally bad-ass. Doubling the money has been rather rough, but since our student cards were activated, I have been able to save a bit of money that way. There are still some things I need, but for the most part we’ve been able to survive on what we’ve found around town. Getting phones was one of the biggest challenges, but once again, the shop workers were more than happy to explain just how exactly UK phones worked and we were able to get them without much hassle. (Free incoming calls….All the time!!! To all phones!!!)
Remembering the small things like looking RIGHT not left when crossing the road and understanding cultural differences are becoming easier and much more routine. Even the odd obsession with fire doors and fire extinguishers has become less perplexing and more amusing. I lived in terror that the house was going to burn down around me for the first couple days, but apparently here in the UK they just like to be prepared. I’ve spent hours wandering the different super markets and looking at all of the different food options. It’s become exciting going to lunch or eating out, because even the salads are different here–not bad different, just different from home. It’s these differences that I am learning to appreciate and I think already grow fond of. Crisps vs Chips and Chips vs Fries is a debate that will never be won, however, but I am trying.
My laptop has supposedly been fixed, so I should be getting it soon and then be able to post up pictures and such things. I want to share this experience, so we will be linking our new Flickr account shortly for photography purposes. Look forward to that.
Until then, Cheers!
As we orientate ourselves further into British life and culture, the kind people at Edge Hill thought to also expose us to other parts of Britain. They offered the exchange students a free day trip to Wales, which Abby and I readily accepted.
It was amazing. When I have time to transpose my notes I will write more, but it has already cemented itself in my memory as one of the best things I’ve done here.
Thanks, Edge Hill.
Well, we made it. After 270 days and one of the most epic years of our lives, we are now officially registered students at Edge Hill University.
Everything has led up to this.
The trip to the airport wasn’t eventful, nor was the 2 hour wait. We met a bunch of kids who are in the same program as us and hit it off instantly. The plane ride was long…the food…not so good. Abby got the chicken and I got the lasagna. Bad life choice. But I pulled through.
Our arrival at Manchester airport was an experience in itself. We were first taken through customs/border control and carefully questioned about our intent and purpose for England….Somehow they decided it was cool for me to come in, so that was fine.
Then came baggage….oh dear. I would just like to say that I packed LIGHT. I mean…LIGHT. But not light enough. After dragging about 150 pounds of luggage through the airport, I am still feeling the effects…but that also might have been the part where my unevenly balanced luggage tipped me over and I fell down. In front of my new roomates. Awkward…yet awesome.
Upon our arrival, we pulled up to the Milton House…and suddenly, everything was real. For about 3 months I’d been staring at a picture on my monitor, and all of the sudden, there was the house in living color. The feeling was indescribable (as was the emotion I felt when I sat on the mattress for the first time. But that’s a whole different story). But we’re here. It’s real. Everything is different, but just “right” enough to be okay.
Of course, looking at things as right and wrong is the worst way of doing things…so I see it more as novelty. Everything–from the brands and foods sold in the stores, to the WAY things are sold (meat at a real, live butcher’s shop to eggs not being refridgerated is just…fascinating. Even the keyboards are set up slightly differently, which has been slightly frustrating as I’ve tried to type this entry. The cars parked on the “wrong” side of the road still amuse me, and I can’t stop listening to the accents of our SA’s and international workers.
Then we were taken on a whirlwind tour of Edge Hill and Ormskirk. Edge Hill is slightly bigger then Ambrose, but there are loads of back streets and courtyards, so it gets a little confusing, but I think we’ll pull through.
Ormskirk is amazing. We arrived on a market day, so the entire town, it seemed, was out to greet us. There are stalls with everything you could possibly imagine, from fruit to dog beds. There are about a dozen thrift stores all within the town area, as well as about twice that many bakeries.
For now, I will leave it at that. Ending on baked goods is a good way to go out–but we will update more later.
Hello all! In case you were at all worried about my visa from hell, it is fixed! I received it in the mail a few days ago which means I won’t have to be an illegal immigrant anymore! Yaaaay!
In other news, I have officially said goodbye to 75% of my friends. I never imagined just how hard it is to leave them all behind. I will miss them greatly but at the same time I am so excited to embark on this huge journey. I have lived in this town my entire life…I was even born down the street from where I go to school. Obviously, it’s time for a bit of a location change!
I can’t believe we leave in three days…it’s so unreal. Let’s do this. 
Hope you are all having a wonderful day,
Abby
3 days.
A long weekend is all that separates us now from England…and I, of course, am getting sick.
This is because God hates me.
Hopefully, whatever evil bacteria that is lurking within me will be gone by the time I leave, but if not, I am going to be greatly annoyed if the first purchase I have to make in England is a box of kleenex and some nyquil. Currently, I can’t sleep because when I lay down, my head feels like its going to explode. So I’m waiting for the drugs to kick in before I get some rest. I know you were all very concerned.
The funny thing is…I’m not particularly anxious. Yes, I’m a little nervous, but honestly, I’ve rationalized it out. I see no point in getting upset about not seeing my parents or whatever for a semester, because if I had chosen to go to a school any farther away, I wouldn’t be able to see them probably until the same time frame. The internet machine is magical in the ways of keeping people connected, and so I anticipate that it will just be sort of like I’m really busy at Ambrose and can’t make it home…only I’m busy going to Paris instead of ….doing…other things….
I got the final word from the paper, and they are going to keep me on. Click on “catie’s blog” over —> in the blogrol to see my columns and other such nonsense from my brain.
We got an email from the school today, reminding us to pack our passports and tickets.
Thank you, study abroad.
They STILL haven’t told me what classes I will actually be able to be in…but were kind enough to remind me to bring my plane ticket.
Sigh.
I’m just grumpy because I’m sick.
But hey–the next time i get sick…I will be in England.
National Health Care, here I come*.
** Just kidding, any border agents who might somehow be reading this. Please let me in.
England. The very word conjures up visions of tweed and steaming cups of tea, fog settling over the mysterious moors, and country gardens touched with sunlight, watched over by cozy cottages and brick paths that lead to thier discovery.
I know, of course, that much of England is now steel and concrete, cement and glass. Bustling cities have built up over the carriage-trenched dirt roads, and stately stone mansions now exist merely as a reminder and gateway to a world that once was….I just haven’t fully convinced myself. Not just yet. I want the magic to last for a bit longer.
I know, of course, that it’s perhaps a bit childish, a bit petulant to refuse to acknowledge what I know to be true, even in my own mind. But there is something immortal about words embossed on paper, black and white, the contract between myself and the author, asurring me that yes, endings can be happy ones. And now, I am finding the stories of my childhood fully realized. All of them. The names, people, places, houses…they exist. Baker Street, Sherwood Forrest, Buckingham Palace…they aren’t just words or photographs or pictures that flicker to commercial before I can drink my fill–instead, they are train tickets or bus rides away. Dickens, Austen, Bronte–whole museums, days, week long festivals in their honor, in rememberance of that magic they created. I will be there, to thank them personally.
It has been so long, such a laborious, patient wait that I think the very word “England” has taken on a sort of magic. England itself seems magic, a foreign and mysterious place that awaits our discovery.
I know, of course, that we will arrive and be greeted by Coke billboards and Nike ads. Supermarkets will carry (some of) the same foods, McDonalds still have BigMacs on the menu. But it is that promise of change, that need for a new place that drives me. It is the wonderment of L’s with curly bits for money and buildings over 500 years old. It’s wondering what exactly is in a Yorkshire pudding that makes it different from Jello and asking the silly questions like “will they have cool whip there?” (The answer is no).
Tiny, tiny things stacked up to become one great mass of electric excitement, slowly growing brighter as the days tick slowly forward down to 0. It is no longer a far off dream or even, really, a long wait. Twelve days. Then 11, then 10, and then, soon enough, we will be flying away from the mundane and familar into a place completely unknown.
I write now because I know that as the day gets closer, more and more trivial details will come up and I will be want to write and more inclined to pack and repack a few more times, check on a few things or reread those words that have been my companion since childhood in preparation for thier actualization in reality. Basically, I’m going to be hella busy.
I am ready.
12 Days.
Granted, it’s…16 days early, but today began an adventure that I will not be repeating for a long, long time.
Sweet lord. 2 suitcases at 50 pounds a piece sounds like a lot. But really? It’s not.
Jeans, sweatshirts, sweaters, shirts, pants, workout gear/outdoor stuff, shoes, jackets, enough underwear and socks for about a month, headbands, bobby pins, pajamas, swim suit (just in case), slippers…
vitamins/supplements, power bars, bathroom necessities, camera/cables/batteries/memory cards, ipod cable and battery back up….
At the end of all of this, I am hoping I can make a comprehensive list of everything I took that I did not need, and everything I didn’t bring but wished I had.
In other news, my laptop broke last week and the nice Geek Squad member was kind enough to tell me that it can be fixed….in 3-4 weeks. I leave in 2. So. Rather than spend the money on a new laptop, I decided that I’ll just suck it up and have it sent…hopefully Mom and Dad can throw in some goodies, as well.
It’s strange, though. Suddenly, my closet is very empty and this is getting very, very real.
It’s about time.
