Grad School, Day 2

The first week of graduate school has arrived. Last week I sat through a lot of lectures on what things were going to be like and who to contact for what. It was like the introduction paragraph at the beginning of a really long essay. The next year is going to be a busy one, I think.

I’ve registered for a full load of classes. I’ve signed up for a French course beginning two weeks from now. I joined the society of the Red Cross on campus. I joined the International society. I’m going to an Insanity workout group a couple times a week. And now I get to look for a part time job. No big deal. I got this. 

In the meantime, I have to remember to make space for things that arise that are out of my control, but that do have an impact on my life. Such as this:

Yesterday was supposedly my day one of classes.  I didn’t get the e-mail that the morning class had been postponed until the following Monday, and neither did my new Kenyan friend Sasha. She arrived, saw me sitting at a desk surrounded by 50 empty seats, and suggested that maybe we had the wrong room. So began a 30 minute, sweat inducing power-walk through what can only be described a labrynth of the south side of campus. We were told by the front office that the class we were looking for wasn’t housed in the Samuel Alexander building, but instead it was in the Ellen Wilkinson. They told us the two buildings were connected. What they didn’t say was that it would be fastest accessed by going outside.  The way we went led us up a couple of stairwells, through a wing, down some more stairs, through a long glass hallway, and up three more flights of stairs.

Two days earlier I had done my first ever Insanity workout. It left me more sore than anything has ever left me in the history of my many years on this planet. Every time I wanted to sit or stand I needed to hold onto something on either side of me to keep myself from falling. I keep imagining what observers must have seen while I was trying to make my way from the wrong classroom to the right one. I’m guessing it looked like this:

 

Thing is--there was no right classroom. The teacher had decided last minute to change the date and time. This meant I had about an hour to kill before my next class. I went to the library and did some reading to get a head start. 

Interesting way to start the day :) 

This morning I got to the right place at the right time and everything worked out well. It feels validating to be so interested in the content and actually look forward to doing the assignments to learn more about something that fascinates me so much. 

More later fam! x

Day 2 Bruges

"Are you under 26?" the man at the ticket window asked me. After fumbling with a self-automated machine at the train station for 10 minutes, deciding I needed help, and standing in line for another 20, I had finally reached the front.
Under 26? Yup I am. I affirmed. Then I started laughing. I tried biting my lower lip because I have heard that helps you control yourself. It's never actually worked the many, many times I've had inopportune laughter, but it's never stopped me from trying. Still, this time it also did not work and I kept giggling.
No. I'm not under 26. Sorry. I--I don't know why I said that.
"Ok. So you aren't under 26?" The poor guy looked half amused, half concerned (most likely for my sanity.)
I shook my head. He rang up my total.
"That's 28 Euro please."
I handed him my card. When he handed it back to me he said, "If you were under 26 that would have cost you 12 Euro. So, if you're going to travel again around here--you should probably get better at that."
Damn it. Why am I such a bad liar.

I would like to tell you that the train ride to Bruges was spectacular: full of little farming villages, quaint towns, and rolling hills. But vehicular motion has always had a way of putting me straight to sleep.

Bruges = gorgeous. It's like a storybook. Cobblestone streets. Canals with lush vegetation hanging over them. You stare at the water while seated on stone bridges, feet dangling, eating the chocolate Belgium is famous for.
If you feel like getting up and walking around you will dodge more bicycles than vehicles.

My day was very food centric. I had chocolates from a shop you where you could watch people make them. I had a fresh Belgian waffle with strawberries and homemade whipped cream while people watching at the plaza and looking up at the gothic and  neo-gothic architecture the city is known for.
  

 

Even though I don't remember the train ride home, I think I may remember the bus ride back to my hostel from the train station for a very long time. On my way home I felt a wet sensation on my leg. I had felt it a few times throughout the day and feared that my water bottle might be leaking.
Every time I went to check I found that I had been worrying about nothing. Although, in retrospect, it well may have been a premonition.

The tram made an abrupt and premature stop. Something had happened and we were all instructed this would be out last stop. I got up and immediately felt the uncomfortable sensation of wet denim stuck to my skin. Given that my bag had been on my lap, there was a perfectly (crotch) placed wet streak down my leg. It couldn't have looked more like I had peed myself than if I had, well, peed myself.

I was about half a mile from the hostel, and had to walk home trying to use my handbag to cover the spill. It was a leeeeetle bit funny. 

Day 1 Brussels

The morning I started out for Belgium I was not in the most coherent of mind states. I had set the alarm for 3:45am to catch a bus that would take me to the airport.

When I got on the bus it occurred to me that I had no idea what terminal I was supposed to get off at. I didn't know if there would be signage. I did a quick scan of the bus for people my age or younger with big bulging backpacks, or at least big bulging beards. Good strategy as any to follow them, I figured. Alas, there were no other people on the bus except exhausted looking airport workers, or people who had wheeling suitcases so large they'd get laughed out of any hostel they attempted to check into. Right, I thought, no travelers.

I attempted sleep, because one thing my almost 30 years have taught me is that's as good a solution as any when presented with a problem. When I couldn't catch a moment's rest due to the incessant and high-pitched gossip being exchanged by the two women in front of me (yes, yes I was grumpy) I tapped one of them on the shoulder.
"Excuse me. Do either of you know where to get off for Ryan Air?"
"Yes. Terminal 3." One of the women said.
"Great, thank you." I said. Hoping that I sounded genuine and not sarcastic. I have a tendency to sound sarcastic when tired.

We arrived at Manchester Airport and the sleep-ruiners stood up. I at once felt grateful I'd chosen the seat I had. They were both wearing jackets that were labeled, "Ryan Air." I bet on them to know what they were doing and ended up following them all the way to the gates.

When I actually got to Brussels I, as usual, had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. Sometimes that works out really well for me. Sometimes it means that I pay as much for a round trip airport-city-airport bus ticket as I've paid for my return flight instead of the 5 euro it would have cost me had I booked it online. Whoopsies.

Friend from Heaven, Flight from Hell

I often love people after only a few seconds. From Seattle to Frankfurt I was seated next to a woman who I was convinced would be a good friend of mine if we were from the same town and spoke the same language. I spent the 10 1/2 hour flight laughing and gesturing with her, both of us equally unafraid of looking idiotic as the other. Our friendship blossomed, as many often do, over a meal. 
A couple of hours into the flight our attendant wheeled her cart by and asked if I wanted the pasta or meat dish. After handing me the pasta, she focused her gaze on my isle mate. 
"Pasta or beef?"
The woman--who I'm guessing was in her late 60s, looked at the flight attendant blankly. The flight attendant smiled and switched to speaking German, asking the same question (I'm assuming.)
The woman sitting next to me was still obviously not understanding.
"What language does she speak?"
I don't know, I admitted. I turned to her "English? Español? Deutsch?"
"Ukraine. I'm from Ukraine." my friend-in-the-making answered in hard earned English.
I gently placed my hand on her arm, uncovered my food and pointed to it. Then I motioned to the man in the isle across from us who was busy scarfing down the beef. She chose beef. That seemed to be the only thing we disagreed on the entire flight. She flipped through her in-flight magazine pointing out funny pictures, and I made a little makeshift foot rest out of our bags, blankets, and pillows. When I was trying to go to sleep, she leaned over me and closed my window shade. Instant travel buddies. 

I wish I could say that my flight from Frankfurt to Manchester had endeared itself to me as much but, in fact, it was one of two or three flights in my life that I could blame reality (and not anxiety) for my racing thoughts about whether or not the plane was going to crash. About half way through the 90 minute flight, the turbulence became so persistent and intense that I am pretty sure I either personally let go of, or heard other people half yell, half cry every expletive in every language any of us knew. And, as we were on our way to Europe, there were definitely some polyglots on that flight, so it was interesting. At least it would have been if I hadn't been preoccupied thinking, I hope my parents know I love them and that when they think of me in the future they'll think how I had a full and happy life. 

When we landed there was a collective round of applause. I don't know if it really happened, or if I imagined it, but my memory recalls the captain came on and saying, "We made it!" (If he didn't, he really should have.)