The background

There is so much to write about, and it’s only at 7am on a Saturday morning that I’ve found time to sit down and write about it. That’s the thing with these Orientation thingy’s—the powers that be know that everyone is a bit sad and homesick for their former lives that they error on the side of over-scheduling. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to miss NYC and people too much. Plus settling into a new room, navigating foreign supermarkets with delicacies such as salmon paste on the shelves has been a bit overwhelming for me.

I mean, fucking salmon paste? Do I need to hop the Eurostar to Paris for some decent fucking food? It’s times like this that I miss my life as a media planner. But only because of the free awesome shit.

So I guess I’ll start at the beginning, as there is a bit to catch up on.

Part I Good-byes and the Flight:

I don’t know if most of you know, but I have a little sister. She’s not so little —she’s only eighteen months younger than me. And like most relationships, ours is quite complex. To be perfectly honest, if my sister and I weren’t related we wouldn’t be friends. Actually, there is a very good chance that we would even hate each other. She is neat organized and a tad anal and I am creative and preoccupied in my own world half the time. She can be a bit curt at times and I was cursed with the soul of a sensitive Artist. These personality differences often lead to “misunderstandings”.

And of course, right before I leave we get into this massive fight. Tears strewn outside apartments at 2am on several nights, cell phones angrily flipped shut in the middle of conversations, phone calls to our mom to help us mediate. I say this with the utmost confidence that it was the worst fight my sister and I ever had. Just to give you perspective, we were fighting in the taxi ride home from some bar and I am crying hysterically. After dropping us off on the street corner, the cabbie drives around the block looking for us, to make sure that we were ok and try to return the fare that we paid in order to brighten a dismal night.

Now imagine three days of that intense fighting.

And of course, the way life works, we manage to make up a few days later, forty-five minutes before the car service arrives to take me to the airport.

“Please let me take you to the airport?” she asks me.

In the back of the car we are having breakthroughs that I thought were only possible with Dr. Phil. We are both laughing and crying in the back seat, analyzing our relationship and ourselves—it’s fucking emotional. When I arrive at the Virgin Atlantic counter I start crying all over again because I realize how she is no longer across Central Park anymore and just how much I really am going to miss her.

It was quite nice that she came with me to the airport. And it wasn’t just because of the conversations we had to clear the air in the car but because I was in dire need of an extra set of hands. See, with the pound at record strength combined with my arrival into a culture that has no K-Mart, I had to bring as much shit as possible with me or else I really would not be able to eat—nevermind booze. I called Virgin Atlantic a few days before my departure trying to figure out baggage allowance. Evidently it’s 50 lbs per bag, with the option to pay an additional $35 for oversized luggage up to 70 lbs. There was no way that was going to happen. Guesstimating, one of my bags had to tip the scales at about 120 lbs and the other had to be about 80-90lbs. Theoretically, the airline could refuse to take my bags.

I had it all choreographed. I was going to cry, beg, even offer to buy an additional bag at one of the overpriced airport shops in order to get all my shit onto the plane with me. There was no way I was going to leave my shoes and books in NYC (btw, heels and cobblestones do not work).

On the check-in line, I became one of “those people”. My sister and I wouldn’t stop saying how much we were going to miss each other, crying in each other’s arms, it was just pitiful. I’m next and the check-in counter guy motions for me to go to him. My sis is helping me carry the other bag, I am wiping tears off of my face as I walk towards him.

We exchange the perfunctory pleasantries that usually act as a precursor to the asking of a very large favor. I put my bags on the conveyor belt, and brace for the worst. I tell myself, that I am not going to take no for an answer, I will beg, cry, and, if I have to, pay in order to get my shit onto that airplane.

I place the second bag onto the conveyor belt.

He is checking my passport against the computer.

“Here is your boarding pass and your gate is B28. Bring your bags to the screening machine over there. Have a nice flight!”

What the fuck??! Wait, no heavy baggage charge? No refusal to carry bags that weigh more than a rottweiler? He didn’t even put the sticker on that says if a bag is heavy or not.

Karma score 1.

And I looked down at my boarding pass, and saw that I didn’t get the additional screening xx’s either—despite my one way ticket. That means breeze through security.

Karma score 2.

When I arrived in the UK, I had to stand on the special visa/extended stay line—meaning that I was standing next to people like myself holding a student visa as well as people from African countries looking for political asylum. With my line they weren’t hesitating sending people into the big room.

Now, the thing with immigration officers I understand that it is their responsibility to be an asshole. It rests on them who is allowed to come into the country. And I am sure in order to maintain that air of authority they aren’t going to act as your best friend.

I was called up to the officer and she looks at my paperwork and the first question the woman asks me whether I have ever studied in the UK before. Very timidly I respond no. She then looks down at my card and sees I wrote I'm attending Oxford. She looks at me. I look back at her. Now, I could tell by her body language that she was ready to continue the line of questioning, and she looks back at me—almost incredulously—and asks, “Oxford?”

“Yes, Oxford,” I respond back nervously.

She asks me again, "Oxford?" and then hesitates and looks back at me.

"Yea, Oxford University."

I wait for her response and then add laughing, “You know, I still can’t believe it too.”

She laughs, stamps my passport and tells me to enjoy my time there.

Total conversation time: 3 minutes

Karma score 3.

When I get into the bus station at the university, I have no idea where I am going. All I know is that I am at a certain college but don't know where it is. I see a girl with a sweatshirt of a college that I know is nearby the place where I am staying so I ask her for directions. Turns out that the Christian group on campus is helping international students settle in, and she was playing ambassador for the day. Not only did she give me directions, but she also carried my bags to my room, and showed me around town.

I felt bad when I had to drop the Jew-bomb.

But, you know what, Jesus was a Jew too!

Karma score 4.

Uhm, I hope this is an indication of what there is to come for the rest of the year.

Part II: The mundane

And for the last three days I’ve been running around town trying to get settled into my room (which is much bigger than anything I’ve ever had before—I even have a window that allows sunlight in!), trying to figure out who is worth my time, and find where to snag my future ex-husband (evidently the Oxford Union and the Law society are hot!). Yesterday I saw Musharaf (the Pakistani President) speak at the Union—super charismatic by the way and was reminded that, holy fuck face, I really am at a world class university. And the kicker, he was fielding questions from the audience! I mean, how many journalists would love an opportunity in order to ask him a question?!

And last night I got wasted and befriend a cute blond gay boy and his boyfriend.

I should be studying the required stats reading, but…uhm. Yea. I still have to unpack.

As for the flatmates: MHC types. Quiet, sweet, and slightly dorky. Another reason why I guess I haven’t felt home sick yet. And I’ve decided that I am going to try to write for one of the newspapers here. Might as well try to assemble as many clips as possible.

So now that you are brought up to speed, the traditional format of self-deprecating humor and situations is going to resume. I’ve already offended a few Marshall Scholars, pissed off some sales clerks with my Americaness, and annoyed half the flat with my personality.

Chapter 1:

So, I’ve landed!

I have to admit, I’ve started this blog post about four times right now, it’s almost as if the hiatus that I took hindered my ability to write instead of acting as a source of renewal. Or maybe it’s just that I am so fucking hungover right now that I am sitting in my twin sized bed, feeling the hunger gnaw in my belly with a slowly intensifing headache as the alcohol oozes out of my pores. And I know the chain smoking didn’t help at all last night.

*Cough, cough*

When we last left the story, your not-so humble protagonist Shannon was going through some very mixed emotions. The further she descended into the mental fray, the less she wrote. Plus it is incredibly difficult to write when you are super happy with your life. I cannot convey this enough, but not working ROCKED!

The emotional crisis was a result of her acceptance into Oxford. On one hand she was excited for England and to play sociologist and find a relationship with a hetero-sexual man but on the other she was scared shitless because, despite her claims how she was ready to leave NYC since her life there got stale and unchallenging, she really was going to miss the place. You know, because it is the Center of the Universe and everything.

So, that brings us here. Me writing in my twin bed, sitting crossed legged, and having just gotten off of the phone with my mother—who called me at 6am her time. Actually, 5:45am to be exact. Jewish mothers. That is all I can write about them for now or else we're looking at a forty page post.

I thought I was going to be all culture shocked and what not, but surprisingly so far it feels normal. Actually, I am doing so well that I’m afraid that I’ll have an emotional crash. But maybe my psychological well being is aided by the bottle of little white xanax pills sitting in my nightstand and knowing there is a chemical parachute should my mind leap from sanity.

I want to write more, there is so much to say but I am exhausted. The conversation with my mother took the energy reserved for writing. Sorry. Instead I am going to shower and grab lunch and make my way for my errands this morning. Ugh. Fucking errands.

But yes readers, I’ve landed safe and sound. My room is littered with half unpacked suitcases and designer jeans, and an attempt at making it a bit more welcoming than the nicotine colored walls would suggest.

If any readers know where the rich sugar daddy types hang out at Oxford, with the pound so strong, I am in dire need to be taken care of. Or, it looks like I am going to have to freelance.

ADVERTISING, people.

Fuck, that reminds me. Purely accidental, after my going away party my friend Dorothee and I ended up at Smith and Wollensky’s at 1am, drinking a $300 bottle of wine and eating fillet mignon, courteousy of a “mentor”. If you know of any such “mentors” in the Oxford area, please let me know. Photo available upon request.

Hi

My new blog