Lessons from Longbowmen

Well, I've been in Britain for a full two days now, and I've been shockingly productive. I secured a flat, walked around the entire city, got a British mobile, and made four friends in my first 24 hours. My feet are aching from walking on cobblestones, I got caught in a rain shower while traipsing between the Thames and a cow field with the most robust bovines I have ever seen, had cream tea with two lovely families of Scots, witnessed the degree ceremony I will be partaking in two years from now (conducted entirely in Latin, for "graduannes"), and had a few pints of cider at a variety of local pubs. All in all, a pretty successful start. I have thousands of more details that are delightful, but I thought I would first share 25 knowledgeable tidbits I've acquired over the past couple days, translating American to British English:

Your physical representation of the number two insults my history!

1. What we in the US call "private school," the Brits call "public school."
2. It's called the "pavement" in England, not a "sidewalk."
3. Raising your index and middle finger (so as to signify the number 2) is actually an insult, dating back to the wars between the French and the English when the French used to cut off the index and middle fingers of British longbowmen when captured in battle (so they could no longer shoot a bow and arrow). I learned this the hard way when a couple of Brits asked me how many days I had been in Oxford. Oops? 
4. It's a "mobile," not a "cell phone."
5. A "toilet" is a restroom outside of the home; a "bathroom" is what you call your lavatory at home.
6. "How do you do?" is a rhetorical question; it also signifies that you've gone to boarding school (i.e. are a member of the upper class).
7. Titled members of British aristocracy are generally "asset rich, but cash poor."
8. You can meet Prince Harry, if you go to the right parties in London.
9. You can also meet "the other Harry" (Harry Styles of One Direction), if you go to an East London bar called Birthdays during the week.
10. Chips = french fries; crisps = potato chips.
11. It's pronounced "toh-maw-toe," not "tum-eight-toh."
12. Cream tea is high tea but without the sandwiches (as Andrew's mom put it, "with only the good stuff!")
13. "Pudding" doesn't refer to actual pudding, but rather to the general category of "desserts."

    

    Wrong pudding, Bill Cosby.

Silence + A Week

Greetings Gentlefolk!!

I have returned, and just in time. First, I must apologize for being MIA. I promised you all a blog dedicated to the ins and outs of moving abroad, and I only gave you two posts - TWO - over six-or-so months. I know, I know, I've let you down - or have I?

Quentin (aka the soon-to-be renamed Sir Quigglesworth) has been busy summering with his grandparents in Washington, practicing his laziness, getting acclimated to British-like weather patterns, and eating everything in sight.

Sir Quigglesworth, conducting an important meeting with Grandpa-pa

Meanwhile, I have not taken a deep breath since May. I will now provide the usual excuses - I meant to write! I put it down in my calendar but kept getting distracted! I fell asleep! I was too busy exercising (hahahaha, that's a funny one!) - but the honest truth is I have been more busy and more stressed in these past few months than I ever could have imagined, and the silence of this blog over many moons is actually the most adequate proof I could ever provide of what it's like to plan a move as big as this - one, big, fat, blurb of SILENCE.

Now, I sit here, finally in the same house as Sir Q, one week away from departure, and a different type of silence has hit me. The past few months have been filled with an almost static silence, a period of time so filled with so much, with no time to think or talk or analyze or breathe, that it just becomes muddled together and...silent. With all that I've done since May, I barely recall a single day, a single event, a single accomplishment. I have memories, of course, but it all feels blurred together, like one huge movie on fast-forward xx8 (you know, the level where everyone looks like they're robots on crack). In essence, three months that feel like they never even happened.

Q, patiently waiting for his rabies vaccine so he can become British.

Countless lists have been created, haphazardly typed in a 3am insomnia-ridden frenzy, crossed off, consolidated on iPhones and MacBooks, transposed in actual notebooks, sticky notes, and special "list-making" paper (ya, that's right, I bought special list paper). Suitcases have been purchased, returned or exchanged, packed, re-packed, unpacked, only to be packed again and weighed on Monday (or Sunday if I'm feeling really restless, which might very well happen). Visa applications have been groaned over, filled out, priority-mailed, and finally delivered to my gleeful digits this morning by two very confused UPS delivery people, wondering why I, in my pajamas at 11:45am, was doing a jig while providing my (wobbly) electronic signature. Over 500 "letting" inquiries have been sent, and the difference in time and currency have failed me more times than I'd care to recall. So, the good news is I have my Visa, the bad news is I'm homeless. Makeshift hobo tent out of my sub fusc cape, anyone?!

"Hey, jaundiced Lego-man, can I borrow that cape to live under?"

And now, one week away from my departure, I'm a mess. I've sat down, taken a breath or two, and suddenly all of the emotions I compressed and compartmentalized are bubbling out. The stress and anxiety have morphed into sentimentality, and I find my eyes burning with tears multiple times a day. Who knew moving across the world would make you have PMS (Pre-Moving-Syndrome?!). No, but seriously, my mood swings and stress levels have been all over the board, and if excitement exists at this point, it's hiding itself in a constant, lingering nausea. I went into this whole thing ready for an adventure, and it sure seems like I've got one. As of, well, now, I have six-and-a-half days to decide what I'm going to be wearing for the next nine months, cross my fingers, break down at the airport, take one final deep breath, and board British Airways flight 48, direct from Seattle to London, Heathrow.

And the truth is, I can tell myself I'll use the nine hour flight as a way to catch up on my chick flick quota for the year, but in reality, I know I'm going to be that girl, who just packed whatever she could of her whole life into a couple of suitcases, choked back tears while fumbling through security, and is bat-shit terrified of the adventure she is about to embark on, no matter how magical it may turn out to be. In the end, I'll just be a girl, who is moving far away, trying to carry with her memories and places and people who she will desperately miss and love, despite a deep fear that more than a physical distance will grow between them over these next few years - scared that this might be the move that changes everything.

Coping with PMS

...but first, I need to stop crying from that Parenthood season premiere I just watched (really, Parenthood, the season premiere had to be about Haddie leaving for college?!?! Goddamn PMS...)




Until England, or maybe before...