Things I (still) can't find

• Tape.
• Small lamp (to put near my bed - it's endlessly irritating to have to get up out of bed to turn off the lights when one is finished reading and ready for sleep)

        I know it's only two items, but they're two items the lack of which is driving me crazy. I keep needing tape for little things, and it keeps not being there. This is difficult for me, being the kind of person who constantly carries both tape and scissors on her person at all times. You never know when you'll need them.
        I was, however, successful in getting my bathroom drain to unclog. It drained terribly slowly. I purchased a cheap bottle of drain cleaner, dumped it in, and fifteen minutes later - hey presto! - my sink now functions like normal sinks should.
        Being domestic can at times be utterly satisfying.


        Amersham, yesterday, was lovely. John met me at the station and we drove around, absorbing the countryside. There are a lot of trees, large and unabashed stripes of woodland along the roadsides. It reminded me of Michigan. All that old growth, grey and tangled, but still shot through with greeny gold.
        The whole day was that way, particularly at the park at St Alban's, with its wide open green spaces and scruffy trees and jungle gyms (complete with small children in brightly colored galoshes).
        It was remarkably light, sun on my face, but shadows everywhere else. The sky was dark, with brooding clouds hanging opaquely overhead. But all around the horizons, suffused throughout, was a sense of soft gold illumination. Not that the senses reported any of this - the wind was chill and my skin prickled, my eyes registered the dull iron sky; nonetheless, there was an unshakable texture of warmth in the air. It felt like the air at sunset after a long summer day. But it was chilly, unquestionably autumn. It felt like fall, but it tasted like summer. Silver and gold all laced in the atmosphere under those dark heavy clouds.

Amersham

Crispy

        Last night, I made dinner for my flat (tortilla soup). There were no black beans anywhere at the grocery store, so I substituted red kidney beans. And, apparently in England, they don't have tortilla chips. Doritos, yes, but no plain old tortilla chips, flour or corn, anywhere. So, in a fit of inspiration, I bought a pack of eight large tortillas and some olive oil, with which to experiment in the making of chips. Or, I suppose I should call them, crisps.
        The first batch, while definitely crunchy, were also black. I was afraid I was going to set off the smoke alarm. I ran around the kitchen with a pink towel, flapping about. The rest of them were slightly browned, and not as crispy. But still tasty, paprika-ed and salted.
        Everyone helped clean up. Dishes and glasses passed from hand to hand, things stacked neatly, wrapped, stowed in the two small fridges.

        So now I have bottles of rosemary, paprika, cumin, and allspice, olive oil, and rice in my cupboard.
        It's really incredible how much it takes to fill out a kitchen. I feel like I'm going to be spending money every day, accumulating ingredients meal by meal, until I finally have a fully stocked arsenal of cooking necessities. Fortunately, my flatmates are the sharing types, and we cheerfully swap pans and silverware.


        The weather here is like the best days of fall at home. It's almost always blustery (the kind of round bubbles of wind that send coats flapping and hats flying along in sine waves), with high flying, fast moving clouds way up in the blue, and sun. Three layers are requisite. All the girls wear tights. That wind. It's wonderful. It's the kind of weather that pinks your cheeks a little, sends your hair cowlicking all over, and quickens your blood with all that movement.
        I've been wearing jackets every day. And scarves. That fall weather! Those fall clothes! My friend Dave wrote in an email, from home, that the weather at school is finally "getting brisk. Flannel and jeans now...splendid." The tree outside my window is reddening on the tips, going gold from the trunk out, with hints of orange along the undersides of branches.



        One advantage of having no roommate (one of many), is that I've been sleeping with my window open, allowing the temperature to drop as far as I like without regard for another's mammalian needs. I sit reading for a while until the cold sends me into bed, under the covers, grinning. I wake up stuffy-nosed with twin bubbles of cold in my chest; I breathe in, the bubbles expand, and hemoglobin pick up a dot of sparkling cool oxygen.
        Yeah. That crisp bite. I live for it.


        I can't wait for classes to begin. I really do thrive in the academic environment. It's not nearly as exhausting as being sociable. Books! Writing! Studying! I do these things.


        Today: going to check out a local dance studio, browsing the Deptford Market.

Reach

The mail address:
        C4H
        Loring Hall
        St James's
        New Cross
        London
        SE14 6AH



Mobile# (cell phone):
        +007964449834


        These first few days at Goldsmiths have been filled with a lot of new faces, new names, and endless sessions on how not to fail (do my homework, attend my seminars, and don't plagiarize). My flatmates are an interesting bunch (six other girls and one boy), all quirks and generosity.
        The campus is wonderfully rambling. The college has, over the years, bought up a lot of the surrounding property, but instead of tearing it down and rebuilding, they simply move onto the premises. A row of apartments (brick and cobbles and flower boxes) is now a row of administration offices. There are stores and other things interspersed with the campus buildings. For example, my hall is cozied up to a private children's school. Kids in blazers and bright white knee-highs troop past me on the sidewalk in the mornings.
        My window overlooks the Loring Hall courtyard. The window of our kitchen also opens out that way, and we can see other flats sitting down to meals together.
        There's a definite feel of the arts here. (One of my flatmates is practicing her violin. It's lovely and sad, coming faintly through the wall to my left.) Every third person sports a mohawk or purple hair or striped tights or haphazardly deconstructed shirts. I imagine that this is what Columbia College in Chicago is like. There is a strong flavor (or rather, flavour) of artistic snobbery coupled with pseudo-intellectualism. However, everyone I've met is, one-on-one, very friendly. The trick is to get them away from the pack. Even at art school, people forget how to be individuals.

        I cut my hair last night. I'll wait to post pictures, A) I haven't taken any, and B) perhaps the suspense will keep you checking back. :-)

        Today I went shopping for some necessities. I found a few kitchen amenities, soap, shampoo/conditioner, and several other mundane necessaries, all for under twenty pounds (it doesn't sound as good when you convert it to dollars). Nonetheless, I don't feel too guilty. You can't beat ninety pence face wash.
        I was, however, unable to find hangers. So that's my mission for tomorrow. Find hangers, finish unpacking (I'm sick of living out of suitcases), take photos of my room and kitchen and campus.


        It's exciting, meeting new people, exploring a new place. You can see the London Eye from the student union building at night. This thin blue crescent, floating partially obscured on the horizon, surprisingly close. If I reach out, I could brush it, send it spinning, a silent whirl of lights.

The city

        I'm in London. It's completely, entirely, unshakeably surreal. An hour ago, I was on a plane flying from Chicago, then suddenly I was on a bus on my way to Kensington. Honestly, it feels like any other city, any other bus, heading to any other hotel. It could be New York, Seattle, Chicago, St Louis. But then I realized that the driver is sitting on the right side, the road signs are round, the police sirens are strange and round-throated.

        The plane ride was equally strange. Sure, they had English accents (oh bliss! oh joy!), but it was bland, it was like a show in a concert hall, all cardboard and brittle smiles and playacting. I almost felt like we were flying in circles, and we'd end up in a Hollywood backlot where we would wander, awestruck tourists, until we'd discover that Buckingham Palace is flat and Kensington Park a matte painting, that everything was run by hollowly grinning directors and harried stage crews.

        But I'm here. And it's real.

        Modern structures nestle companionably against crenelated near-ruins. It's oddly charming. There are pubs, some obviously run for tourists, some worn by regular patrons like an old tweed coat. On High Street, there's disappointingly familiar shops (McDonalds, H&M, the GAP). There are also excitingly, nauseatingly exotic ones, things you only see on streets where everyone wears coats made out of panthers and shoes of manta ray skin. Or something equally ridiculous and expensive.

        I've yet to make it to my college's campus, which, I'm told, is in a dodgy part of town. An guaranteed adventure, I'm sure. Reports to come, I promise.



p.s. If you leave me a comment and don't have a Blogger account, please sign your comment. I love to hear from you, but I have no idea who's doing the talking if you don't let me know who you are! Just sign it in the comment itself. Something like, "Boundless, indescribable love and admiration from Jane Doe." You know. The general praise and adulation.

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

        I found out that my dorm at Goldsmiths will have internet access. This is wonderful news. Well, I suppose I could just walk to the library, but this means I'll be able to update people of the events of my life at such sensible hours as four in the morning.

        I now have a Skype account. If you have one as well, we can communicate for free. Let me know.

        My username is "leta.l.keane" - so find me and we'll set up a time to talk. Excellent.

        There are times that I really like the internet.