I finally know what it's like to be the token something

I'm sorry I keep writing such long entries. I'm afraid I'm not keeping your interest until the end. I just have so much to tell—it is all so different and fascinating to me. I try to keep only the interesting things in, but, as you can see, I basically find all of it interesting. Three cheers for culture clash!

On Friday, we had our seminar and my friend from Ohio Sarah and I sat and talked to an English girl and guy. The guy is actually from Sicily, but speaks with a British accent. They were so nice and interested in talking to us, even though they never had before... again, they just had to get used to our presence before saying anything. It's just weird! I was telling them about how Americans are extremely attracted to British accents (they all just love hearing that) and how they should come to America. "I would love that!" laughed the boy, Mario. (I didn't realize what his name was until a few weeks in, because English people pronounce it "MARE-io" and I only realized it was Mario when they said, "It's just like in the video game!) I thought to myself, "Well, you have a British accent and Italian good looks—you'd probably have to come in an armoured car to keep the girls off you."

They also talked about how Geoff (Prof. Wall, our seminar leader—everyone in England calls their professors by their first names, which is nice but hard for me to adapt to) is an exceptionally good professor and they had horror stories about past ones. "But Geoff is wonderful because he gives you so much feedback and keeps the class talking and knows everything about everything!" So I lucked out on my professor. Considering I'm always certain that God makes my life harder than everyone else's, I was happy that this is one area he didn't cheat me on (a most important area).

At the end of our seminar, Geoff/Prof. Wall informed us we didn't have one next week because of midterms week (even though we don't have a midterm). "It's just a break we give the students to recognize how hard they have been working the past four weeks," he said. Sarah and I, of course, found this HILARIOUS, saying, "Yes, I know, five hours of classes a week—how is one expected to toil under this inhumane workload?" (I'm paraphrasing.) Geoff/Prof. Wall then asked us, "Is this very different from American universities?"

We talked to him for twenty minutes about it. A college professor, sitting there talking to us for twenty minutes. No prior engagements, no obligations, just getting to know us. I just can't get over how they do this. There were also three English students from our class who sat there listening too, gasping at how we have to take math and science classes too and laughing about how often our buildings are revamped. I couldn't help but feel flattered that they all just sat there and listened to us talk. Sarah and I were the ones who ended up getting antsy at the end and inching towards the door. I think it will be incredibly hard for me when I get back and everyone is rushing to "be productive" again. Ew, productivity.

That night, I went to "West Side Story" (my favorite musical) that the university kids were putting on. It was worth the 6 pounds on amusement factor ALONE. They were all trying so hard to put on American accents and it was adorable. Most of the main characters were reasonably competent at it, but they would often start saying the first half of a sentence in an American accent and end up sounding English/Scottish. They would also always forget to pronounce their R's, which I really think is one of the key ways to sound American. I couldn't help but giggle a bit into my sleeve when Tony sang, "Maria, I just met a GIHL named Maria..."

My favorite parts of the play were the opening scene of them dancing/fighting (it looked so elegant and fluid and almost made violence look pretty) and "Gee, Officer Krupke!" (they all looked like they were having so much fun doing it). Anita was particularly good, even though she had this annoying habit of constantly putting her hands on her hips. It amused me when they performed "America" that all the Puerto Rican girls beside Anita were whiter than I am. And that's saying something. Also, when they say, "You came with your PANTS open" during the song, it takes on a much raunchier meaning (pants mean underwear here). Everyone laughed uproariously at that part.

The weird thing about plays here: they use actual cigarettes when they smoke onstage, there are no concession stands and they charge for programs. For PROGRAMS. What the crap? It's like four sheets of paper stapled together!

I think the weirdest thing about England is that it is not like going to some third-world country or anything. I have a friend in Nicaragua, one in South Africa and one in Brazil, and obviously everything is totally different there. The hard thing about England is that everything is similar enough to look familiar, but tweaked just enough to throw you off and make you feel as though you are in a parallel universe. When my friend goes to a parade in Brazil, it's this totally new, eye-opening thing that she just sits back and observes because she's never experienced anything like it before. I, on the other hand, will go into a situation thinking I know exactly what it's going to be like... and it doesn't turn out how I imagined it . Milky Way bars here are Three Muskateers bars. Periods are called dots. They charge you for extra ketchup packets. I reach for a program and they ask me for a pound. It's just WEIRD.

When I was walking back from the play, I realized there was still a little bit of snow left in some areas (it melts faster on some surfaces than others—isn't that weird?) and decided that I wanted to throw a snowball. Although I've built one or two snowmen in my time, I've never been in a snowball fight. Because I didn't have anyone to fight with at 11 at night, I decided just throwing a snowball would be enough. So I gathered together the quarter-inch of powder, compacted it into a ball, threw it... and it shattered in midair. What was I doing wrong? I tried it two times more and each time it fell apart as soon as it left my hand. God, I'm such a California kid that I can't even throw a SNOWBALL right.

On Saturday, Genevieve and I returned to infamous Leeds, where we had traveled last week but everything had been shut tight as a coffin. This time, we actually got there at 1 p.m. or so and were able to actually step foot in a store! Gasp! It was funny because we weren't really used to any of the chains and just sort of wandered into any store that looked interesting, ranging from crap cheapo stores to the English equivalent of Neiman Marcus.

We wondered, though, if it were some big shopping holiday or something, because everyone and their mother was out buying things. Normally, this would only bother me a little, but the hard thing about England is this: they don't have a concept of the "space bubble." Despite the fact that they keep to themselves, they will brush past you in a store and think nothing of it. When I first got here and they did that in the supermarket, I jumped back and said, "Oh, sorry!" They kind of looked at me strangely. Now I realize that they just don't have the same idea of personal space as Americans do and don't really care if their butt touches yours while walking by. I still wince and apologize though—it unnerves me. I wonder if I ever will get used to it.

We finally ended our succesful shopping day (I managed to find a hippie shirt and earrings—in Northern England!) at a noodle place. I decided on the "pud thai" (for some reason, that "u" just makes it so much more unappetizing) and when we went up to order, the cashier just stood there, staring and laughing at us. "Where are you from—Canada?" We said no, America. "Oh, where in America?" California. "Ohhhh... Ca-li-for-nye-AY?" he asked, a huge grin plastered across his face. We nodded dubiously, and I tried to remember the last time I had called it that. Probably during our unit on miners in the fourth grade.

"Can you guess where I'm from?" he asked. His accent was really muddled, and he found it sooo funny we couldn't guess it. "Oh you Americans, knowing nothing about anything outside your own country!" (I always bristle at that cliche. It's just so... aggravating.) We finally guessed Australian and he said yes (but to be fair, his accent was kind of a British/Australian mix, so it wasn't all that obvious where he could be from). He then asked us if we knew the capital of Australia. "Because I know the capital of America—it's Washington, and not the state!" When we didn't know Australia's, he laughed again at our incompetence. But I mean, come on—Australia isn't exactly a political powerhouse. If Australia were in the middle of a war with Iraq, you can bet your buttons I would know about Canberra.

Anyway, I just found him noteworthy because I think he was the first person to be charmed by our accent. As much as he was teasing us, he kept talking to us and laughing delightedly at how we would pronounce words, parroting them back to us in a demented John Wayne-type accent (this is how all English people imitate American speech). I remember my dad saying there was only one guy in England who was charmed by the way he and my mom spoke (a random pub owner), so I thought this might be the only time someone would be this taken by our accent and tried to enjoy it.

Later, when Genevieve and I were wandering the streets of Leeds to explore (we ended up finding the adult-store-and-strip-club street—success!), I thought about it and said, "You know how we should have been able to tell that guy wasn't English? Because he flirted with us." Genevieve laughed, but it's true—he was basically being all coy and teasing, which I have yet to see an English boy do. They are more cynical and bawdy, but basically treat every girl the exact same way. There is nothing obvious about English flirting. I think they consider playing hard-to-get a type of flirtation here, which is not good. My friends always compliment me on how normal I act around my crushes and how "I can't even tell at ALL that you like him!" Combine this with a coy English boy and neither one of us will know we're attracted to the other. My goal of kissing a British boy is moving farther and farther away with each new ritual I learn about the mating dance here. :)

When we got back to York on the train, we were waiting for the bus and playing Holey Moley on the ticket stand computer, that game where you try to hit the moles as they come out of their holes (on a touchscreen, of course). Genevieve introduced me to this game and I have slowly become addicted, and that night I got third place on the all-time record holders! I was so excited about this that I couldn't stop giggling for about five minutes (This also might be because I had only slept about five hours the night before... nahhhh.)

On Sunday, I went into the Nouse office to proofread for the night. And when I say "night," I mean its entireity... well into the early morning. Although the newspaper comes out only every three weeks, they are hardcore about it here. They are basically in the office from Sunday morning to late Monday afternoon with no sleep involved. The even more amazing thing about this is that the office is TINY... two rooms that together are about the size of my bedroom at home (or my room at Oxy this year). Imagine stuffing about 20 or so people in there, and it become a madhouse. They don't have enough chairs, so you basically have to curl up on the floor and hope that no one steps on you. I did a crapload of proofreading for the really sweet girl Ellen who does the music/arts/theatre section. I had to take a break to go to "The Glass Menagerie," another play being put on here (another thing I love about big campuses—constant plays to go to!)

I will say this: it was the smallest theater I had ever been in. It seated maybe about thirty or forty people, tops. Everyone was scrunched in on these miniscule benches and you could actually see the spit escaping from the actors' mouths. I was worried about not bringing my glasses, but I was seated in the front row, literally about a foot from the edge of the stage. It felt so personal.

And they did an AMAZING job with it. It was better than "West Side Story," and not just because they pretty much nailed Southern accents. The actors were just so natural and blended into their parts so well that you actually forgot they were English. I seriously think they could be professional actors—it was just incredible. Throughout the whole play, I could hear this older man laughing even when other people weren't, and someone from newspaper told me later that he was the dad of the main character and also an MP (Member of Parliament)!

I returned to the newspaper expecting maybe to stay another hour or so and ended up staying until 5 in the morning. I really didn't care, though—I was actually excited to do it. We all went out for drinks at about 10, which I found SO funny. I mean, we were working on the newspaper! We should be able to concentrate and get it done as quickly as possible! But again, I realized that was an American way of thinking. They like to relax and take it as it comes and eventually, it will be done. I kept shaking my head and smiling while we were nursing our pints, thinking about what it would have been like if this had been the case for the Octagon or the Oxy Weekly. People would think you were crazy.

When we got back, I proofread and talked to people in between pages being printed out. Some of them were fascinated with my Americaness and kept asking me questions about it, especially this girl named Jenny, another copy editor. She was tickled by the fact that I said "period" for "dot" and spelled skeptical with a k. Another really nice boy named Toby just sat on the floor and asked me questions about where I was from, where I had traveled in England so far, etc. I loved talking to him because he has this little baby face and big wide eyes and would react like a little kid whenever I told him something he wasn't expecting. His English accent was so thick that sometimes I could barely make out what he was saying. He asked me, "You're from LA and you came here—why? It's the complete opposite!" I told him that was sort of the point.

Throughout the night, people kept making tea runs (there must have been three or so while I was there). I hate to give into cliche again, but I've never realized how much people in England love tea. Even the boys are into it here (almost more than the girls, it seems). I kept telling them how no one drinks tea in America, how it was considered kind of wimpy and the only people who really got it constantly were girls watching their weight. I told them since most Americans want the most caffeine money can buy them, they just naturally default to coffee (tea would almost seem like a waste of money). I told them I don't think I had ever seen a boy drink tea before. "Oh, but a cuppa tea and 'Neighbours'—it's just lovely," said Toby ("Neighbours" is this Australian soap opera that they are all OBSESSED with).

Sam then said that when he was in San Diego, one boy he knew was convinced that he was gay, even after having a girlfriend for three months. "I could see that," I said, and they all laughed in a shocked way. But the thing about the boys here is that they just aren't worried about looking manly. For instance, Sam's interests and activities on facebook: "allowing life to lap gently at my toes, listening to radio 4, quietly raiding the gin and other similar grandmotherly pursuits, strange noises, jasmine tea, bookshops, the subtle art of metaphor mixology, your well-being and happiness." When I first read this, I basically swooned. I could just not imagine an American boy writing anything comparing themselves to a grandmother. He would get teased MERCILESSLY.

But that is the thing about English guys—they are so secure in their masculinity that they're not worried about drinking tea or watching soap operas. They're so sure of who they are that they won't stoop to the level of trying to impress people, and that's what makes me fall for them so easily. Then again, I am probably just putting them up on a pedestal. But it sure beats: "the art of apathy, shit talking, lampin' and chillin' on campus, belligerance, keepin' it smooth like butta, savin' the flava, chaplaining fraternities, beers 'n' balls, showing up people in beer pong" (the interests of one of my male friends at Oxy).

At about 4 a.m., one of the boys Nicky was having trouble with a story he was writing with another boy. He wanted Sam to look at it, but Sam was busy, so Heidi suggested me. So I sat there with him for about an hour working on it and it was SO much fun. He was so against the word "said"—"It's so boring, we should say 'commented' or 'described.'" Coming from the Fels school of thought, I was adamant he used "said," as that is the right way to do it in journalism. Then I wondered... is that maybe just in American journalism? But I convinced him to bring down the number of "commented"s to a scant few and streamlined their argument a little bit, putting the positive stuff together at the start and the negative stuff together later.

"Such an American," the boys teased. "Let's put all the positive things at the start!"

Being English, they too didn't realize the space bubble and would read over my shoulder with their faces literally inches away from mine or reach their arms around me to type something in. This time, however, I did not mind at all. I was basically doing cartwheels and running with unicorns in my mind as they would lean in to read a part I wanted to change. So maybe this "personal space" thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Or maybe it should be implemented only with middle-aged mothers grabbing the closest sweater, not 20-year-old boys with hot English accents. Mmmm. I like that idea.