I took the bus down to London again this weekend. I saw some amazing pieces of history, checked some things off the old bucket list, but, I would be lying if I didn’t say the highlight of the day was scoring a pair of bright red lace shorts off Primark’s sale rack.
I mean, I walked across Tower Bridge. I saw the Jack the Ripper murder sites. I touched a wall that was 800 years old. But, you should see how amazing my butt looks in these shorts. 3 pounds! Nutella costs more than these shorts! The bus costs more than these shorts! And I look good.
All hail Primark. God save Primark. Long live the bargain king.
You will be coping with uncertainty. Don’t panic. This is all part of the immersion process.
You will think unrefridgerated eggs are unsanitary and there are too many kinds of soap. Don’t panic. This is all part of the immersion process.
You will face physical exhaustion, consistent embarrassment, and your fascination will be forced to learn patience. Don’t Panic. You’re doing well. This is all part of the immersion process.
Classes started yesterday. You’ve yet to receive your schedule.
…this is all part of the immersion process.
If you go up to a total stranger and introduce yourself right before dinner, they are contractually obligated to eat with you.
Speculation: This works particularly well with Canadians.
1. Myth: you can’t buy peanut butter in England.
2. Truth: To get a feel for what this place is like, bathe in a claw-foot tub of cold tea while rubbing the pages of The Hobbit across your face. Lather, rinse, repeat.
This morning, I was on my way to England.
The sun was a distant giant, stone still in the darkness, hiding beneath the Earth’s outer rim as I grabbed for sleep, and let it slide away. Night rushed forward, faster than it ever had, a finger pressing hard onto the little hour hand, coaxing it down into morning. A metal bird unattached to the world chased the horizon, gaining on the sun, gaining on the sun, in a chase unnatural, jarring to the little humans who slumbered in this bird’s insides, and as this bird flew over Ireland, it finally caught the morning.
There was no inferno sunrise, just the cool blue of day patiently waiting for us to arrive. Beneath me London woke: pointillism, golden street lamps and morning cars, dotted under a haze of clouds and rain. We, in the bird’s belly, landed to a blur of grey and gold.
It was the shortest night I’ve ever known.
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
Before you quit, try.
I love to eat giraffes who love giraffes.
And i was here, too.
Nothing encourages creativity like the chance to fall flat on one’s face.
James D. Finley