Carte d’Etudiant, S’il Vous Plaît

It’s funny the things you treasure in times like these that you would otherwise take for granted. I was so hungry yesterday morning, because all I had were three biscuit packs taken from church at the Midland Hotel in Bradford the day before. I could only drink water with my hand from the tap in the bathroom. Buying food was almost exhilarating – I had lunch: a baguette, of course, along with some cheese and a bag of apples. That would last me several meals at least. Now I’ve just returned from buying some juice, tomatoes, and jam, all of which are so precious. New tastes to add to my palate after several meals of bread, cheese, and apples, as if I’d never tasted them before! And getting a plastic cup was like unlocking an achievement in a video game like Minecraft: drinking ability acquired! All these are thoughts I will soon forget as I settle into the confidence of routine, which naturally I long for in these uncertain times, but as in the past I’ve given others the advice to enjoy the uncertainty, for it is fleeting; to ‘live the questions’, I must heed my own advice now.

This morning we went to see the international office woman to get our signed documents back to release our ERASMUS funds, as well as obtain our student cards, a coveted item that would seemingly unlock all else, foremost being the internet. The woman had not signed the documents yet – she is, after all, very busy – and told us to come back the following day. Then another girl, the girl who’d done her best to take us through the blue form, tried to help us get our student cards.

The problematic requirement was called something like responsabilité civile – health insurance of some sort, I believe. That was what the Americans had been arguing about the day before, because their uni had already made them buy insurance and they understandably didn’t want to pay more. ERASMUS students were supposed to only have to pay €5, well, €20 when you add in some other charge, but they were saying we had to have an EU identity card, otherwise we too would have to pay the full €200. No thank you. I was mentally preparing to put my foot down when the American guy, the one who speaks French well, pulled out his international student identity card (ISIC, which you can get from STATravel which entitles you to numerous discounts) and said he had insurance with that card. Now, I had that card as well, having applied for it during the summer for the discounts on flights and other things abroad. But I didn’t know anything about insurance. Nevertheless I pulled mine out and said, ‘I’ve got that as well.’ That seemed acceptable; the international office woman photocopied them (every time a French person is willing to photocopy documents rather than telling us we need to bring photocopies, even though they have a photocopy machine right behind them, I rejoice, for it’s a rare occurrence) and we trooped down to the payment office.

But I knew we weren’t yet in the clear and stayed on prepared-to-put-my-foot-down mode for when the payments woman balked at a card she didn’t recognise. Miraculously, that didn’t happen, and we got away with paying only €20. Well, I say ‘we’, but the Americans probably really did have insurance with their cards – I doubt I do, I didn’t pay what they did. Thank goodness I ordered that card, though.

Confession: The French have not won me over to their bureaucratic, multiple copies required, filled-out-in-triplicate way of doing things. I tend to think that as long as I can get through the process and obtain the end item or state that is required, it doesn’t really matter if I actually have what they’re demanding – isn’t it just the government making people pay for things they’ll only need in the rarest of circumstances? Or institutions covering themselves so they won’t be liable in any case whatsoever? And then even if young French (who, from what I’ve seen so far, hate it as much as we do) resolve to get into politics to change it, by the time they get to a place where they could potentially change it, they themselves are benefitting from it too much to want to change it anymore. Sly fat cats.

Probably not very morally upright or even completely factually viable, but I am fairly exasperated. You’ll see why in a bit.

Back to the story. Again, I couldn’t pat myself on the back quite yet. We had all the required documents, but we still had to make the actual application. We went upstairs to deuxième étage and joined the queue. Thankfully it wasn’t long. Like at the picnic yesterday, I felt I should talk to people, felt it would be a good idea, but couldn’t quite work up the will. Other than those in our crew. Finally my turn came and I went in. I decided to ask, as endearingly as I could, ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ She looked at me in a sort of cute, helpless sort of way, shaking her head. Guess not. Oh well. Hope there are no problems.

She was stumped with the ISIC as well, and kept asking her colleague things. The colleague was a bit better at English, but not by much, so it ended up being the other student applying at that moment, a German girl, who asked me in English what they needed to know, then told them my answers in French. Germans are so reliable. I bet they’re efficient with their bureaucracy as well. I won’t deny that the thought, ‘Maybe I should’ve studied abroad to Germany after all’ has come to mind more than a few times over the course of this week, but I’m not a quitter.

In the end they accepted the card, but not before sending me back up to the international office woman to get her to photocopy my passport. Thankfully they saved my spot in the queue. The other things required were, of course, two identity photos, which – this frustrates me quite a bit – are so that they can stick one on the application form and scan one for the student card. Why don’t they just scan it and then stick it on the form, and therefore only need one!? I bought eight photos in the UK before coming, wishing I could buy less, and now I’m almost out.

Oh well. No matter. I was on my way to the guy who prints the cards. Could this be it? At long last, was this fabled mythical item, with all the riches and glory that accompanied it, about to be mine? I imagined myself celebrating with hands in the air as if I were back at Far East junior year, right after we won the football championship on penalties. He had me write my name on a list. He put my photo in the scanner. He stamped a single sheet of paper five times and gave it to me. He stuck a blank card in the card-printing machine.

Ennnh. The card came out with half my face blacked out. Ink problems? He adjusted the roll inside the machine and put another card in. That one came out with a thick black line on it obscuring some of the information. He looked at me. I looked at him. No way.

“Vendredi.”

What!! Come back Friday!? It’s only Tuesday! What could possibly take three days about replacing an ink cartridge?? But of course I had none of the French to express these feelings, so I could only muster, “Vendredi…d’accord.”

Then it got worse. As I left the room the girl behind me, the awesome, helpful German girl, sat down and got her card. just. fine.

What.

And everyone after that, including the people with me, got theirs just fine.

What. What. What.

Most of you will be pleased to know I didn’t pantomime the rage roiling within me. I’ve hated foreigners in Japan (don’t take that the way it sounds, foreigners) long enough to know that throwing a fit gets you nowhere, and generally just confirms stereotypes. I’m not about confirming stereotypes, as far as I’m able. So I left with the others. Vendredi? Vendredi.

I did also have that sheet he stamped five times, which contained all the same information as the student card would, so maybe I could procure internet with just that. Our group returned to our Arsenal accommodation and asked about internet. Apparently it wasn’t so much that the student card was the magical item as that the numbers on it became our login username and password details. But the accommodation internet was not, as we’d believed, wi-fi; we would need ethernet cables to connect. Joy. Another thing to buy.

We went shopping. In addition to Monoprix, we’d also found an electronics place yesterday where we were able to by power adaptors (after all my trying to think of how to ask where they were in the shop, the word turned out to be the same in French as in English. Recollections of Japanese…) so we returned there and some of the others bought ethernet cables. I decided to wait until I had my full funding – the soap, shampoo, toothpaste, towel, duvet, and duvet cover that I also bought today nearly cleaned me out. In fact I had to borrow money from my American friend when he and I went food shopping afterward. Not ideal.

[This next bit I wrote this afternoon, whereas the rest I’m writing this evening – or later days and changing the ‘date published’ on WordPress, but never mind – so it is representative merely of my state at that time, not my current state or general state in relation to being in France. It is a comparison of my financial situations in successive study/work experiences.]

The first time around, the only challenge was finding an ATM – there was one in the commuters’ lounge, but it was often out of cash, and the next nearest one was at Wawa’s, about a twenty minute walk away. So I found myself withdrawing large amounts of cash when I was in downtown Philadelphia – two things unlikely to be found together in the same sentence outside of a crime report – to take back to campus. But I’d already had the account, and it already had savings in it.

The following year was a piece of cake as I was earning money and withdrawing from the same account. The most complicated bit was creating that account in Japanese, and that wasn’t that hard – world’s best customer service, for the win. Plus, it being Japan, there was no need to think twice about carrying around large amounts of cash in my wallet.

The second time around (third time, yes, but second uni) was more complicated – I took a lot of pounds with me and deposited them in an account once I’d made one – which wasn’t overly difficult and everything was set up and running, including my debit card, that same day – and that was that until it ran out. There were a few days of panic, but then my parents and I discovered that it was super easy to do a bank transfer from Japan to a Lloyds TSB account in the UK, and I was set for the next year and a half.

This time, the third uni, I’m close to pulling my hair out, in a quiet, internal sort of way. Maybe it’s just that I’m in the middle of it. I thought I’d be receiving my ERASMUS grant almost immediately after arriving. How naive of me – I now know not to expect anything to happen immediately in France [this is the outburst I asked you to take with a grain of salt in yesterday’s post]. As of now I have forty pounds in my UK account. I have plenty of money in my US account, but it doesn’t have a chip so I don’t think I can use it in ATMs! I just need to find something that works and stick with that – or borrow money from friends till the grant comes through.

I can’t help but feel that I am living in an interim period. The globalisation of banking is still playing catch-up to the globalisation of travel. Or maybe I’m just stupid and don’t know where to look. I hear Citibank is good. They call themselves the world’s first global bank. I’m not really in a position to switch everything over to them at the moment, however.

I admit it, I’m stressed out. It’s not consuming me, but sometimes it feels like it could if I let it. It’s not like there are concrete things that are seriously bad, I’m just out of my comfort zone. And this summer I got used to being sat firmly on the couch in the centre of my comfort zone. This is good for me. This is good for me, I keep telling myself. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to scream sometimes. Why am I doing this again? Is there something at the end of the tunnel that makes this worth it? French mastery? What use will the language be if I hate the people and policies by the end of it?

Hah, I won’t hate them. I might just need a long break from them.

[Okay, now that the minor breakdown with brief philosophical interlude to reflect on globalisation is done with, let’s carry on with the account of the day’s events.]

That evening, our group (myself and the two I came from Bradford with, the three Americans, and the other two English girls we met) went out for dinner. We walked through the area called Saint-Pierre, where a lot of bars and some clubs and hordes and hordes of students are; carried on along the river, where we saw even more students doing something – either a freshers initiation or some sort of protest – and found a nice quiet place a bit farther along. As we were all trying to save money, I wouldn’t call it the height of the French dining experience – hopefully that is yet to come – but it was good food, and a good time.

It’s going to be a good year – I’m going to enjoy it. Perhaps I didn’t spend enough time during the summer anticipating this year, as I did before I came to England. It’s important for me to make up my mind that I’m going to love a place, because if I get caught off-guard (as I have, somewhat) it’s easy to descend into bitterness, but I don’t want to live like that. I will enjoy my wine and my cheese, everyone that I meet, and every bumbling mistake and crucified pronunciation on the path to fluency.

Oh, and I should mention – seeing as it’s probably the true cause of my improved mood – that I was able to use my US credit card to withdraw euros from an ATM on our way to the restaurant. That was such a relief. Didn’t need a chip after all, the dreadfully outdated swipe bar sufficed. Thank goodness I changed the PIN when I was able to something I can remember so we don’t have a repeat performance of Turkey! They’ll probably whack me with a massive overseas charge, and since I don’t yet have internet I haven’t seen yet what that charge is, but at least I won’t be out on the street starving. That is unless they cut off my access because it’s coming from a new overseas location. But this should get my by until the ERASMUS funds come in, which will hopefully be by the end of this week.

So today turned out to be another productive day, though no student card. I at least have a full set of bedding, which is probably the most key to my current physical and emotional well-being. That and money. Does that say something about me I don’t want to be said?

Experiences Rapid-Fire

[My stockpiled journal entries reached critical mass, and this is that explosion.

I’ve been here for about half a month, I guess, and though I haven’t put anything out on Facebook for a while, I have been devotedly recording the interesting happenings of late (I’ve become quite an avid journaler). Though I know the current trend is to blog every day, popping up short thoughts or recaps for (if you’re lucky) a few people to read and maybe care about, I’m old-fashioned; I still prefer the longer, more collected entry, and aging and editing only improves that, methinks. At any rate this is what’s been happening in and around my mind since our last formal contact.

It’s very long, long enough that you may not want to down it in one sitting, unless you’re one of the few people alive endowed with massive amounts of free time. Make it last – these notes won’t be coming out with the same frequency in the next few months, for things are picking up and I’m getting involved in various activities. I’ll try to keep you ‘abreast’ of those too, though.]

While waiting at the free city bus stop to go shopping a man dressed in a fancy sweater and disturbingly tight white pants spontaneously struck up a conversation with us about how terrible Bradford was. I think a car revving by set him off. There is certainly an improportion between reckless drivers showing off and police officers, and I think I heard that there are races on this hill sometimes. As I write this, even, a car outside is making a completely unnecessary amount of noise outside. If it’s not the engine it’s the stereo, which at times (late at night, naturally) somehow manages to vibrate my entire room. I always think, if I had music tastes that bad I certainly wouldn’t make it so obvious…

To be honest, over-testosteroned drivers unaware of what constitutes classiness don’t really concern me. But it was fascinating to hear the tight-white-pants man’s views on how Bradford is going to the dogs but they somehow think that redesigning the city centre will change that, and that the uni is the best part of the city. Good for us.

Then at Tesco we were waiting in the checkout line and an Indian international student in front of us got caught trying to pay with a counterfeit fifty-pounder. Wow. A burly shaved-headed security guard came out and starting expounding on how the note was obviously fake – felt like paper. The student was protesting that it’d come straight from the Bank of India. If he didn’t know it was fake, which he probably didn’t, I feel really sorry for him. He was still with security when we left, trying to get ahold of his bank manager.

Amusingly, I also paid with a fifty and was a bit nervous, but the cashier said he could tell from a mile away that it was real. Good for him. Shall we test out that range, and I’ll take my purchases with me while we’re at it?

I’ve had to use fifties quite a lot in the stores around here because that’s what I was given at Narita, and they always get checked, apparently it’s quite unusual, but I haven’t had any problems so far.

Why would a counterfeiter ever make fifties? Make fives, they never get checked.

*   *   *

“Did you say you’re from London?”

“Yeh, how about you?”

“Where do you think I’m from?”

“Erm…I can’t tell by your accent…London?”

Score. Brace yourself, England – you’ll never stop me now.

I’m getting really mixed reviews on the accent, though. Just when I think I’m doing alright, maybe getting some compliments or people thinking I’m British, I’ll get some odd comment that I can’t quite figure out – is it the accent or is it that I’m an international student, that I said I’m from Japan, that my name is Brad, or something else? There’s a weird combination of people not really thinking about accents and thinking about accents a lot which is hard to maneuvre. I guess all I can really say with confidence is that no one’s accused me of faking it outright, which is good, because I am. And it’s not Japan, people don’t have this terrible revulsion to/fear of speaking their mind, so I am making progress.

I went to the comedy night this evening, and it was actually very funny. The host, Ed Gamble, did a bit before each act and was hilarious, though profane. He’d interview people and make fun of them – seems that’s quite a popular thing to do in England. More audience interaction than American stand-up. There was a guy, Phil, who apparently comes to every comedy night and is quite strange, so he got a lot of making fun of. Was in a cage on stage by the end of the night.

The first guy was Scottish and probably really funny, but no one could understand him. It wasn’t completely his fault, the mike booming added some murkiness, but really, isn’t is possible to tone that sort of thing down? It really would’ve helped. Felt sorry for him.

The second guy, Chris Ramsey from Newcastle, was great. Really entertaining. Told a lot of stories, audience interaction. He had a habit of interrupting his jokes with other jokes that some word reminded him of. But he always remembered his place, except one time he forgot what the TV show host did next, and that was when Phil went in the cage. Fortunately he remembered and finished up the show. So I’m impressed with British comedians, and happy that I could understand it for the most part, and that I’m starting to see the regional variations in accent as well. I should get a big map to put up on the wall to look at it that way as well.

Oh yeah, we almost didn’t get in. I didn’t buy a ticket because I couldn’t be bothered to during my napping this afternoon, and then I was waiting with Edward and Stefan, and of course they didn’t have tickets. We got to the front of the line and that was when the UBU officer came out and said they’d run out of seats. But we were able to get in on standing room, and it turned out there were still plenty of places to sit, if not seats. We got the pool table on the side. But it would’ve been almost funny if they cut the line just in front of us. All because I decided to have chips with my sandwich beforehand. Or that I wanted a tom-ah-toe in it.

Oh, and ‘whilst’ the hall is stinky and stuffy, my room is fresh and fragrant with a bathroom-y version of 畳（たたみ）smell thanks to plug-in air fresheners. Well, one. It’s quite strong. Not exactly authentic nor manly but gets the job done. Girls would like it but there won’t be too many of those in here.

*   *   *

I went to Lloyds TSB this morning to finalise my account, but she said she hadn’t done it, could I come back at 12? Yes, of course (this wouldn’t’ve happened in Japan). In the afternoon it was packed and I had to wait ages for a few minutes of obvious stuff. I felt sorry for the guy in front of me; he hadn’t done anything beforehand and had to wait even longer than me. I’ve noticed that in most shops the staff certainly aren’t plentiful. They’re plenty helpful, but I’ve several times wished there were more available. I suppose that’s culture too, and perhaps the recession.

Another interesting thing happened: I was walking up the hill from the bank to the mall and passed a group of Middle Eastern-looking girls, and right before I walked by, one of them turned her head in my direction and said in a thick Indian/Northern England accent, “What the f*** are you staring at, you motherf***er!” It took me a second to discern what she’d said, but as soon as I did the next second was spent freaking out inwardly, thinking she’d said it to me (I had glanced at them right before that). But then I realized there were two guys walking in front of me that she’d been looking at as she profaned, and was immediately relieved. Wow. Imagine that happening in Japan. Not easy, eh? I’d love to see it though.

*   *   *

I came to the UK to get away from American pop, but it’s here too! Ack. Be proud of your own music! Granted, there’s not much to be proud of, but try! Kidding, kidding. Oh, I found they have a music centre here and I’ll be able to go in and practice drums regularly. やった！（-マン）

*   *   *

I went to the gym for the first time today. It’s really nice – it better be, considering what I paid for it. I should work out a schedule to go there. I don’t want to get huge muscles, though, just fit – why am I writing this? I know all this, and not much interesting happened there. Oh, but I found out the treadmills have TV (as well as radio) so I guess I should just go there to get my British culture and entertainment. And exercise all the while!

Blue Tack is to this year what scotch tape was to my PBU year. You can see that I’m moving up in the world. It’s amazing. It’ll stick anything in place, on the wall or on my desk. I’m tempted to stick down everything – indestructible organization. I’ve just built two…what would you call them. Paper receptacles? for all the papers that I’m bound to get this year. One is marked ‘In’, the other ‘Useful’. I may have to add another category at some point. The point is not to let piles build up and to sort everything. I was moved to ambition after hearing the introductory speech to Peace Studies this afternoon – things like timetables and assignment lists do that for me. I want to start strong and keep going strong, especially since the deadlines will start sliding into home base very soon.

*   *   *

I was scared again this morning. I was in the kitchen eating my cereal as always, and thought it would be nice to have some toast, though I have yet to buy anything other than butter to spread on it (I’ll start going into withdrawal if I don’t get peanut butter soon, ha). I pulled out a slice of bread and stuck it in the toaster. It made a mashing sound and smoke immediately began snaking up from the slots in no small amount.

I panicked when I couldn’t at first get the bread out by pulling up the lever, but with a little work it popped out and the smoke stopped. I looked inside and sure enough, there was a chunk of bread wedged down there, and not from my slice. Unplugging it and wondering if I was supposed to turn the outlet off first (every socket has a power switch here), I took it over to the sink and emptied it. A lot more than that one chunk came out, although I suppose it’s only natural that the bottom of a toaster would be knee-deep with crumbs. Having cleaned it out sufficiently (or so I thought) I returned it to its original setting and tried my bread once more. Same result, minus the mashing sound.

However the smoke wasn’t quite ‘billowing’, so I decided I would just go for it (same thinking as plugging my Japanese electronics into the too-high voltage sockets here, except that then there was no smoke); the bread hadn’t taken that long to toast anyway, last time I’d tried it.

That decision was overturned in my mind a few short seconds later when I remembered the smoke alarm. Our dorm’s had gone off about a week earlier due to someone accidentally (hopefully accidentally) spraying deodorant too near it. The security had said that if it happened again they’d search room-to-room until the culprit was found. If the sensor in our kitchen went off I could be expelled.

I hurriedly popped the bread out once more and threw the two kitchen windows open. Phew. Safe. And cold.

Being the persistent type, I still hadn’t given up on having my toast and so chose to try one more time, this time with the toaster next to the open window. Alas, the smoke refused to cease, so I held it outside and watched the wisps waft into dispersed oblivion. No toast today. But also no expulsion, I suppose, if you’re determined to look on the bright side. I’d been hoping for a little bit darker sides on my bread, however. In the end I used our tiny microwave to melt the butter onto the bread. It wasn’t great.

*   *   *

Went bowling with the Christian Union this evening. On the way Duran asked if I was good and I said no, but conditioned it with the disclaimer that I sometimes get very lucky. I know that sounds dumb, I mean, it’s true for everyone, right? But no joke, I once got a 185 on a Sunday School outing. I wasn’t even into it, I didn’t want to be there and I was way more focused on mailing someone. But 185. And I wanted to cover myself on the minuscule chance that something like that happened again – it’s annoying when people say they’re not good at something and then blow you away. If you’re not good, what am I? But I didn’t expect it to happen. I just wanted to get over a 100.

The first game was something in the 80s. Terrible. Several of us felt similarly which led us to play another. I got 172. Four strikes in a row. I honestly don’t get it.

My only explanation is that I’m like a machine that’s great if it’s on track but utterly awful if it’s not. In other words, when I’m on I’m on, and when I’m off I’m really off. I guess I have a good method, but I don’t play much so I always forget it in the intervals. It’s really cheap here, though, so I think we’ll be going more often and maybe I’ll develop some consistency.

All that to say, 172, sucka. Beat that.

I hate movies and TV shows that use vocal music as BGM. It’s nothing but a distraction from the story, and annoying, to boot.

*   *   *

Today was a good day, although I’ve spent too much of it in front of this screen.

*   *   *

I just got back from snowboarding. I’d heard about the snowboarding club the night I arrived, actually, and at the Fresher’s Fayre found their booth and signed up for their emails. They said they go every Tuesday evening for ten pounds (including everything) to an artificial place nearby. I was ecstatic. This is a price unheard of in Japan. I wondered if what sounded too good to be true, in fact, was.

It turned out my vision of it would’ve been too good to be true. On the way the driver said that it was like a glorified doormat, and I thought he was exaggerating. He wasn’t. We arrived and I saw a hill covered in large mats that, upon closer examination, looked exactly like white, thickly haired doormats. But I was feeling fairly authentic, wearing the boots and strapped into the board, with a hat and gloves as well. The only difference in my wear was the replacement of pants and coat with jeans and hoodie.

The lift was an experience. I walked outside with my stuff (including my goggles around my neck, which stayed there, as I quickly realized they were completely unnecessary) and saw a guy holding onto a cable and being dragged up the hill. Easy enough, I thought. I’ve held a rope behind a pickup while snowboarding down a road before, ruts and all. This should be no problem. I strapped my front foot in, the required ‘official’ slope form, and grabbed the bar.

The lift was alright once I got the hang of it…

About halfway up I started wondering if I’d be able to make it. And started to get worried. That side of the hill was steep – if I let go I might tumble all the way back down. It was also then that I realized the little plate-like metal thing at the end of the cable was not for holding onto, but for sitting on. Ah. So much easier. But seeing as I was hanging on for dear life I didn’t really have the option of changing to a seated position. I relied on muscular strength built up two years ago working as grounds crew and somehow managed to reach the top. Phew.

That circular bit is meant to be sat on.

Figuring that the lift is the hardest part of any slope (it is, that much is true) I dropped into the slope, thinking I was now in my element. Oh no. Snowboarding on the mats was basically like boarding through very short, thick grass. My board was unresponsive and hard to maneuvre. I didn’t make it very far before bottoming out.

Intense jumps considering that if you fall, you’re falling on doormats. Some people were quite good.

I’d been envisioning some sort of artificial powder. I think that’s what indoor slopes are made of in Japan. But that would take a lot of upkeep and equipment, and therefore a much higher price. So I guess you can’t complain. For ten pounds, you can do it almost any time of the year, almost any time of the day.

Grind…tube.

My runs got better with time, and I’d guess that if I stuck with it I’d soon be pulling out some jumps and tricks and maybe even improve before hitting some real slopes this winter (hopefully). It was just a little disheartening at first. But they go every week. That’s what’s good about uni, especially uni in the UK. There’s so many ways you can spend your time. And here I am writing this up for you guys. Aww.

Yes, a quarterpipe.

I got a cell phone today, or ‘mobile’ as they call them here. It sucks. But I expected that – I only paid twenty pounds for it. It works, that’s what matters. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Since I’m here for two years, I may at some point switch from pay-as-you-go to contract, and get an iPhone in the process. But for now I can call and I can text, and I can see the time, that’s enough.

The lecture today contained a brief conversation about the war in Iraq, and during that there were several moments where I imagined myself pounding the table, standing up, and declaring, “I’m Amerrrican and we do what we want!” The image was quite a source of amusement for me, but I have to remember that while the irony would be hilarious to me – the fact that I’m one of the most atypical Americans you’ll ever meet, and very much unpatriotic – everyone else would, in their minds, place me in the dead-center of their stereotypes, and I would spend the rest of the year, no, three years trying to escape those crosshairs. Not worth it. I’ll laugh inside. Though I could probably make that joke with people whom I get to know, and who get to know me. I think I just used ‘whom’ properly!

People always ask why I’m laughing. Well, honey, when you live a life such as mine, there’s just so much to find funny.

*   *   *

The British Brad is more social, I will say that. It is fun, shaping this new character.

*   *   *

I was looking for information about the various citing styles and found this on a custom-writing website (you know, where you pay people top dollar to write mediocre essays for you): “…You have another loyal customer. I just got 95 on the paper for my Bible studies that I ordered from you…” Jordan, USA

Screw you, Jordan from USA, screw you.

[Unless you’re someone I know. In that case, we’ll have words.]

*   *   *

[…]

I felt like I had a lot to write about today (it’s actually tomorrow; I was tired) but maybe that’s about it. I want to record what I see, experience, and think, but I don’t want to fall into thinking that not documenting is not living.

*   *   *

Our lecturer said “freedom from speech” haha.

Money spent on books is rarely wasted, that’s part of my doctrinal statement.

When I hear a loud blast in Japan I assume it to be fireworks – here, it seems more likely to really be a gunshot (is it? I don’t know about gun laws in the UK). I wait for sirens.

However I also found out that it’s legal here to shoot off fireworks at a wedding, so maybe that’s what the no-less-than six successive shot-sounds were this afternoon. That would explain why the two guys walking outside didn’t react at all. Either that or this is a far more dangerous neighborhood than I imagined, ehe.

*   *   *

I just had a good idea. What if I used one browser (Firefox) for work and one browser (Safari) for play, turned on Apple Spaces and allocated one to each? Then I’d have more room for bookmarks and I might not get sidetracked so easily. It’s worth a try, at least. Better than what I have now – a mess of unsynced bookmarks and bookmark folders. Unacceptable.

Today’s the first day of the best month of the year, by the way. What will it hold? In nine days it’ll be ten-ten-ten. Should be some significance in that.

*   *   *

I just went to the local Lloyds branch to deposit the cash I exchanged at Narita and have been hiding in my room. I’d been told that I could do this at any ATM, or Cashpoint, but so far had been unsuccessful. But I was hopeful.

Sure enough, there was a ‘Deposit’ option on the screen, so I pressed it and followed the instructions. I expected to be able to put my money in and be done with it, but instead an empty envelope slid out, which I was supposed to put my money into and reinsert into the machine. I felt pretty vulnerable transferring my block of bills (mm, I’m not as rich as the imagery) from my bag into the envelope, which I couldn’t figure out how to close securely.

Good thing the screen said “There is no need to write on the envelope” too, because there were a lot of suspicious markings that probably would’ve led me to fill something in otherwise. And all the while the machine was beeping, hurrying me along, and getting impatient, too, for the beeping went into double-time after not too long, as these annoying pathetic substitutes for human interaction are prone to do. The screen asked, “Would you like more time?”, which at least was nicer than the Japanese ones which just spit your card out and revert back to the main menu, causing users to exasperatedly start the whole process all over again. But at least they don’t beep at you there.

I of course did need more time and pushed yes. Still somewhat dubious as to whether I could trust the bulk of my wealth here in the UK to a half-open unmarked envelope slid into a slot in a brick wall, I dropped it in. The machine told me to wait for the receipt with instructions to print, I did, it came out, and it was blank. Huh.

Taking solace in the fact that I’ve never needed an ATM receipt for anything, I retrieved my card and left, marveling at our age in which we can slide money into a wall with complete peace of mind and access it electronically in stores just minutes later. I try to maintain a sense of wonderment at our present age, otherwise I risk taking things for granted and losing the awareness of me living at the head of thousands of years of cumulative events. Only I did not have complete peace of mind at that point.

Upon closer examination back in my room, I realized that it was not blank but rather looked like a sheet that had been printed out of a printer with no ink. I could faintly make out slight indentations of words. Either they’re really, really big on privacy or the machine was, indeed, out of ink.

Being a bit knowledgeable on matters of code decryption and mail interception (see previous note) I was not stymied. I pulled a pencil out of my top drawer and began shading. Yes, it really does work, that education literature for young spies is reliable (oh, really? you weren’t trained under any such literature as a child?). After a bit of work and much craning of the neck I was able to gather that it was, as I’d thought, unnecessary information. I checked online and it was already there, so that’s that.

Message decrypted.

Probably not even worth writing one paragraph about, much less eight. But I’m a master of doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing, which is structuring an essay on peace studies and international conflicts. The reading is great, don’t get me wrong. There’s just something about knowing you have to do something that makes you really not want to do it.

*   *   *

1:30 a.m. talking about favorite cheeses. Ha.

[Alright, thanks for reading, guys. Much love.]