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“Mamma, che ne dici di un romantico a Milano?”
Dio Mio! Look at you! You’re so grown up since I saw you last!
I can’t believe everything that has happened since I saw you last. First off, let’s discuss once more how I went to Italy, because boy, that was something. I will try to make this blog more entertaining by peppering in some random Italian pictures of Genova, because I know that’s what you’ve really come for, you lazy bum. Before this trip, I had no desire to go to Genova, mainly because I had never heard of it before, and I’ve been to a lot of places in Italy. Rome, Sorrento, Capri, Pisa, Milan, Florence, Assisi, Venice, Bologna, San Gimignano…and a couple of more here and there that I’ve forgotten about. Even after I received my assignment, I wasn’t thrilled, especially once JZ (who had taught in the same area) told me it was a fairly industrial town. But Genova is awesome; it’s gorgeous, it’s fancy. It’s a seaside stretch of town that spoons some lovely hills, which makes for some pretty delicious scenery.
If you read my last post, which I will assume you did not, you will know that I was staying with a host family, and that I had a host cousin, Selena, of the same age in the apartment across the hall. This was great, because Selena would often take me (or us, if the other teachers weren’t being lazy) to places I normally wouldn’t have the opportunity to go. But it was also a bit unnerving, because they were often things I wouldn’t normally want to do as well. For example, she left me a note to meet her at the train station after work around 9; in my mind (silly me), I expected drinks.
She picks me up, and we walk along the lovely Italian street talking about our days, when suddenly she says, “Now, I will take you dancing.” These are words that do not generally thrill my ears, especially when she informs me we will be dancing outside, in plain view of the public. The idea was lovely; we were doing some kind of mountain folk dance (I heard the talk of “dancing in the mountains” quite a bit from my host family, and I’m still a bit unclear about what this refers to, so I guess we are speaking very literally here) next to the port, with lights from the hills glittering peacefully off the water, accordion music playing jauntily in the background. I, however, was full of unease and nervous laughter, which I need not explain to anyone who has seen me dance/danced with me. There was a lot of that kind of dance where you grab hands and make circles, which I felt confident enough with. But then they would break off into couples, with the outer line of women rotating with the inner line of men every 30 seconds or so. Every new partner that approached had that look in their eye, like, “I shall be the one to tame this wild stallion!” The first 5 seconds or so, they seemed so cocksure with their firm grips and their confident directions. But 15 seconds of sweaty hand fumbling and shuffled missteps, you could see the frustration set in, and by the second overly forced twirl, they were only too happy to spin me off to the next unsuspecting chap with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. For one partner only dances, men would come up to ask me to dance, and I would try and spare them the pain by saying, “I’m really not good at dancing.” They would laugh off my fears, but by the end, the sweat above their brows and the confusion in their eyes said, “You weren’t kidding, were you?”
Things like this would happen every time I met Selena. One night, when we had actually planned to get drinks, the rest of the group cancelled, so Selena offered to take me on a small walk around the neighborhood. Two hours later, at midnight (after a day of teaching wild Italian children), I collapsed into bed. Another night, we hitch-hiked up 3/4ths of the way up a mountain, then hiked in the dark the rest of the way to get to a “party”, which turned out to be more of a fair with an 80s cover band, followed by a ska band (not sure how they picked the music). After a rousing mosh pit got started, one guy grabbed my hand and pulled me in. There was a brave moment where I thought, “I can do this!” Almost immediately after, someone smashed into me, and I thought, “I can’t do this.” After slightly crashing into a planter, I crawled my way out of the heaving mass of men back to the slightly calmer feminine circle I had been a part of originally. Every adventure with Selena had me stumbling into bed late at night and waking up completely sore the next morning.
Now, you might be thinking, “But Juliana Maria” (of course I would choose another country where they can’t say my name), “What did you think about the work?” Well, it was alright. 16 Italian children are, as you can imagine, fairly unpredictable, except when it comes to volume, which will always be horrifically and predictably at full blast. One of my favorite students was this very camp 8 year old named Luca, who could usually be seen linking arms with Michele; together, they made up the tiniest little couple I’ve ever seen. Luca would usually come up to me, very seriously, and say, “Teachers.” And I would say, “Yes, Luca?” And he would tell me a very long and animated story in Italian. When he finished, I usually gasped and said, “REALLY?” And maintaining his serious composure, he would nod and say, “YES” before swiftly turning away, Michele in tow, off to swing on some palm fronds (I…I feel like this last bit sounds made up, but I assure you, it happened). If you would like any stories about how I would terrify the children, go ahead and ask me in person, because these stories will be best told with actions and sound effects.
Now, there are some non-Italian things worth mentioning. Recently, you heard that my older sister Jenni got engaged to that Bostonian, Brian (who is really a lovely fellow, even if he has the slightest hint of what is probably the worst accent in America). But what you might not know, and what I might not know, is that my older brother Rory also got engaged. You might have seen on Facebook that my uncertainty about this situation stemmed from time zone differences (also, FACEBOOK, we are going to have words about you showing statuses to people who I have continuously tried to hide status updates from), but when I emailed my mother to confirm the actuality of the occasion of engagement (i.e. “Did Rory and Ashley get engaged?!?!?), she replied back, “Sounds like it,” so apparently, we are all just placing bets right now. I still haven’t been able to Skype my mom since it happened, which, if our roles were reversed, means that it would be time to start posting pictures on milk cartons to locate a missing person. I just find this whole lack of information as strange, because everyone knows that Rory is the biggest gossip in our family. I did at least know slightly more than my younger sister Tara, who told me, “I didn’t even know they had gotten back together until she posted that ring picture on Facebook.”
Speaking of Tara not knowing things, here is a conversation we had on Skype (with my Aunt Kelly present as well).
Me: Well, I’ll be finished with school in September, but I won’t get my master’s degree until January.
Tara: OHHHHH! You’re getting your master’s!
Me:…What did you think I was doing over here?
Tara: I thought you were still in school.
Me: What do you think a master’s program is?
Tara: Well, I guess I never realized what you were doing there. Nobody ever tells me anything.
Aunt Kelly: Nobody ever tells Tara anything.
Me: I’ve definitely told you multiple times what I’m doing here.
Then, a little while later…
Tara: Do they celebrate Christmas over there?
I tried to hint a little later that I think she should stop smoking so much pot. On a related note, whenever I want to experience amusement and depression at the same time, I read my little sister’s Twitter feed.
On a closing note, if you REALLY want to be amused, watch this routine by John Mulaney. I’m pretty certain John Mulaney is my dream man, but shucks; he’s taken. I’m also pretty certain that if I was born a man, it would be John Mulaney (those are two disturbing statements to put back to back). So I spend my days watching his bits on repeat to console me.
Italian Children and 6 meals a day
Ciao, fratelli! Perhaps I have forgotten to tell you, but I have gone to Italy. Or from my perspective, I have come to Italy. I often forget to tell people that I’m doing these things, so now I am telling you; don’t be angry because I have neglected you. I am here because I’m teaching at an English summer camp for two weeks. That’s right; I convinced someone to pay for me to come to Italy; flight and food and all (and all the food! Dio Mio!). I will walk you through a typical day here for me, mainly because I need the exercise after all the carb consumption.
7:20- Wake-up. This is a very vital step in starting the day.
7:50- Eat breakfast prepared by host mother, which I know is ready when I hear her call out, “There is the breakfast!” The entree is usually a large cappucino, which is surrounded by a carton of yogurt, some kind of fruit (cherries, baby strawberries, etc.), a plate of perhaps 20-30 cookies, and a plate of 4 melba toast slices; 2 covered in butter and marmalade, and 2 slathered with Nutella. I usually eat one of each of the toasts, the yogurt, the fruit, and no cookies. I described the full English breakfast to my host mom, and she said it would hurt her stomach; that this kind of Italian breakfast was big enough for her. I would certainly hope so; I imagine it would be the perfect meal for Buddy the Elf.
8:20- Leave for the school. Sometimes I am met along the way by an 8-year-old named Gianluca, whose mother promptly passes him on to me. I then struggle to make awkward small talk about the weather with a young boy who does not really speak or care about English.
8:30- Arrive at school, hoping to get things done in a leisurely manner so I’m prepared for when the students arrive at 9. I try to set up the boardwork, arrange the desks, etc., so that the classroom is in order.
8:50- An Italian school employee comes in to tell me I need to switch rooms, because they need the room I’m in for some particular reason; perhaps to set up the “We don’t want you here” flag (and remember…this is an average day).
8:52- Race to another classroom (Gianluca in tow) and scramble to imitate the classroom whose set-up I just tore-down.
9:00- Bring class 2 students (10-13 y.o.) to the classroom, take registration. Get them to sing and dance to Pharrell’s “Happy”.
9:30- Start English class with the same group.
10:45- 30 minute break with students. The breaks are a nice advantage.
11:15- Art, Drama, or Sport with Class 1 (usually the 7-10 y.o.–there is an overlap in age between the groups). If you think this sounds fun, imagine a group of 15 Italian children screaming as they grab paper, scissors and glitter flying in all directions.
12:30- Lunch. Sit with kids in the villa next to the school and eat packed lunch that my host mother made. This usually consists of 2-3 sandwiches, 2 bottled waters, 1 juice, 1 piece/container of fruit, 5 cookies in tinfoil, 1 package of cookies, and sometimes chocolate milk. During this time, a student usually gets hurt in the most non-injurious way, but with the most melodramatic performance. One girl scraped up her knees last week, and she had 5 students surrounding her, gesturing wildly with voices reaching all levels of alarm. Now imagine 5 Italian children of various heights with the arms around each other’s shoulders trying to walk while one wails in the middle. Then, one inevitably calls the kid’s parents (without telling us teachers), wildly exaggerating the incident with tales of gushing blood and shattered bones.
1:30- Prep time (or as I call it, Facebook time*), followed by half hour break.
3:15- Last English class. Since it is the youngest group, I pray silently that if something must be thrown by a student, that it might at least have dull angles. Most of the class is spent telling the kids to shut up.
4:30- Children go home (finally). Spend the next two hours on what is supposed to be a 15-20 minute end of the day meeting. This used to bother me until we started adding beer to the mix.
Sometime between 8-10- Dinner. Imagine the amount of food usually eaten in one day, then double it: this would probably be just under the course and portion sizes served. And the food is amazing, so every day I’m torn between the threat of not eating dinner or not fitting into my pants. Let’s just say I’m thankful I wear a lot of dresses.
Sometimes, I will go out with my host cousin Selena after dinner, as she is the same age and full of joie de vivre. (What’s the Italian equivalent? Gioia di vita?) Usually, these adventures turn out to be a bit more…exciting than expected, but I think I’ll save that for another post.
Now, for those of you who are anxiously awaiting my return to England (all 2 of you), I will be back to Bristol on Sunday. I may even have snacks. (Who am I kidding; I always have snacks)
*I felt guilty about this, until I realized that since all our “breaks” are spent watching children, we really weren’t getting what legally could be termed rest periods.
A Routine Malaise
Warning: This post features a blatant and egregious abuse of parentheses. It was also meant to be posted a few weeks ago, but let’s not sit around crying over that.
Hello, mon freres. Have you ever had one of those days where things are happening and you’re sitting there thinking, “I have no idea what is going on, but I’m pretty sure I need to pretend I do”? That’s been my week. I’ve been a bit mentally and emotionally exhausted, so I apologize (as per usual) for any boring/ungrammatical turns this post takes.
Let’s start with my usual array of excuses about why I haven’t updated recently. I’m going to blame it on the mass amounts of Skype calls I’ve been getting recently. Of course the real reason is that I’m incredibly lazy, but just go with my excuse for a bit. This past weekend saw 3 calls in a row, which made me feel extremely popular (as well as exhausted), and over the last few weeks, the gamut of huge topics has been gone over–engagements, pregnancies, break-ups. While these things are great (well, obviously not the break-up after 10 years; that sucks), this kind of falls under the topic of “Things that are kind of a bummer that you experience when you are an ex-pat” (again, I know I need to work on these titles. One day, maybe I will)(No, I won’t).
In these events, it’s impossible to really be there for the people you care about, in good times or bad times, and the limited view of the screen makes you aware of the separation. There is something about Skype that makes information that you receive during it feel second hand (or maybe it’s just me; perhaps I shouldn’t generalize). Things you took for granted that you would be a part of are suddenly happening without you. The biggest event was my sister’s engagement (my older sister Jenni’s, obviously; if Tara was getting married at 17, that would be a major problem worth an entire post)(also, saying things like that make me awkwardly aware of the fact that my sisters are 15 years apart). Last weekend, she bought her dress at a wedding expo; I had always kind of imagined being a part of that kind of thing, and it made me a bit sad not to be there for it and just see the picture through email (Even though I would probably hate going to a wedding expo, because I hate going to expos in general, but also because I know next to nothing about weddings. However, if a woman in her late 20s admits something like this, it’s outright blasphemy, and the said-woman faces excommunication in the mental collective of all those present).
Now, this will seem like a random segue, but in my mind it makes sense, which means that in real life it is actually random and strange. Anyways. The topic of what I’m going to do next (geographically speaking) has been coming up a lot; mostly by my mom, or from people trying to figure out how long they have to sneak into my apartment for a free place to stay (Erin, I’m looking at you. And will soon be looking at you not via computer screen). People innocently ask, “When are you coming home?”- this is one of my least favorite questions I get asked as an ex-pat. Unless it’s my mother, I know the person asking is usually just making casual conversation, but for whatever reason, it feels like an accusation, and I always give a horribly inept answer like, “Mmmmidunno, maybe sometime?” It makes it sound like I haven’t really thought about it, when in reality, I THINK ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME. The combination of 1. getting easily attached to places and 2. hating saying goodbye to anyone/place/thing makes me feel crazy anxious about leaving places (Seriously, I could make a photo album titled, “Pictures of Jillian crying because she’s leaving somewhere”).
I kept extending my contract at AEON because I couldn’t face leaving, and it really was just so much easier to stay. But then people started leaving, and the job started getting monotonous, and I had hardly seen (and in some cases, talked) to my family/friends for almost 2 years. (Also, Japanese is difficult. This will come up later). So overall, I don’t really want to leave places. Now, the case “do I stay or do I go” in England is more of a sticky wicket than the usual one because of the visa issue. For Japan, it was easy – get a job, get a free visa, live in Japan for as long as 3 years without thinking of it again. Not so in England.
Let me lay it on straight for you (or at least as straight as possible for a weird and windy situation). For those who don’t remember the fun process I went through last time to get a visa, here’s a reminder; the short story is that with $650 and the University of Bristol behind me, I was awarded a Tier 4 student visa. This expires next January. On this visa, I am allowed to work up to 20 hours during term time. I’m not sure what kind of restrictions this puts on me when I technically finish my term in September, but even if I can work full time on this visa, I can only do so until January unless I switch to a Tier 2 visa. Visas in the UK work on a point system; you need to have certain qualifications to get the points required for a visa. Apparently, it is a bit easier to switch from a Tier 4 to a Tier 2 than it is to get a Tier 2 out of nothing (which really isn’t saying much). The basic point is that I would have to be offered a job with a salary of £20,300 to be able to get visa sponsorship. Now the basic problem is that to get a job, most companies require you to have a visa already (do you see the catch-22 here?).
If it was completely up to me, I would stay in the UK longer (especially considering I’m basically doing a master’s so I can live in the UK), which is what I’m trying to do. I can’t apply to work for a community college until I physically get my degree anyway, which puts that option on the back-burner until Fall 2015. Awhile back, when I first learned of these complications, I just thought, “Screw it, I’ll just take do another short-term contract in Japan with my old company Westgate so I can start paying off my loans.” I re-applied; they were happy; easy peasy. But then my sister got engaged, and chose to have her wedding in November. Westgate is upfront with their no time off policy, and even if I wasn’t a co-Maid of Honor, I wouldn’t want to make a four day trip from Japan to California (again). So I’ve turned down that offer, and will stay in the UK until January at least. However, you Californians can rejoice over that 10 day or so interlude I am making in November. To my friends in Japan…本当にごめんなさい。も一度会うまでさみしいですね。(And I apologize for how horrible my Japanese has become. And also my English.)
INTERMISSION, or Pictures of Jillian crying because she’s leaving somewhere.
Here are pictures from three different trips to Japan (ages 18, 22, and 25):
[First picture is with my host family, and even if you can’t see it, my host mom was definitely shedding stoic tears. The middle picture shows Yuki Danza crying way more than I am, which is really not surprising. The last picture is with one of my favorite students from AEON. This is probably horrible, but I think one of the most gratifying feelings is when someone cries because I am leaving.]
ON TO HAPPIER THINGS! otherwise known as Tales of Chantry Court
This week has been a Gravitron of emotions (people like to say rollercoaster of emotions, which I guess would be accurate if describing going through happy and sad feelings. I’m making the bold claim that a Gravitron of emotions is when all your feelings are negative and whirling about in such an intense way the emotional centrifugal force pulls them to your stomach and makes you want to throw up). But today, I awoke to something that made the grey skies of England just a little bit sunnier (not literally, though that would be a great machine that we should capitalize on). But first, some back story.
Last night, while sitting in the kitchen, a flatmate I’ll call Oil told me a story concerning a flatmate I’ll call Bosh. I think I can say confidently that I’ve chosen solid pseudonyms that will prove impossible to decode. So, Bosh was about to finish his finals, and was anticipating a well-deserved night out. Now, as the bodybuilder of the flat, Bosh has a reputation for being pretty successful with the ladies. So Oil, the intellectual of the group, was joking with him about it, asking if he was going to pick up a strumpet on his night out. This set Oil and our other flatmate Hannah into giggles, and Bosh laughed a bit, though the lights behind the eyes were a bit dim at this point. Oil could see the lack of comprehension, so he continued (hoping Bosh would work the meaning out for himself), saying he could imagine Bosh “coming down park street with a strumpet over [his] shoulder.”
Again more laughs, but this time less from Bosh, with him finally saying, “Yeah, but, like…what’s a strumpet?”
Oil says, “Surely you, of all people, must know what a strumpet is.”
“Yeah, but, no,” Bosh replies, a look of puzzlement over what some might refer to as a muscular face (if muscular faces are a thing).
“Come on. What would you be carrying down Park Street?”
Slowly, that little light of comprehension began to grow stronger in those baby blues, and in a moment of enlightenment, Bosh says, “Do you mean one of those cones?”
I don’t know what’s better; that Bosh thought a strumpet was a traffic cone, or that he thought Oil imagined him walking down Park Street at 4 in the morning with one over his shoulder. So I laughed at the story and tucked it into the corner of my heart for safe keeping. In the end, though, Bosh had the last laugh, as this was the sight that met everyone the next morning:
Next!
(Due to my inability to just sit down and commit to a post, my blog seem to talk about a perpetual yesterday that is in fact most likely spread out over a week. But really, the time when it happened doesn’t matter, so I’ll just stick to yesterday.)
So, yesterday I came home to find two roommates–let’s call one Bosh again, and the other Mincent–having a lively conversation in the kitchen. Due to my very quick deduction skills, I quickly ascertained that the convo, while lively, was perhaps not a good-natured one. Bosh had a vein throbbing in his forehead with that scary smile he saves for times not meant for smiles, accusing Mincent of getting huge tomato stains on his kitchen towl; Mincent was frozen in a shrugging “I have no idea what you’re referring to” posture, vehemently denying the accusations whilst standing in front of a heaping plate of cooked tomatoes. I decided to sneak out of the kitchen to let them solve this mystery for themselves, but when I got to my room, I realized I left my keys on the kitchen counter. I had to sneak back in, the argument seemingly unchanged from my last visit, before sneaking out again. The moral of this story is that I am not very good at sneaking, because I witch-laugh the entire time I’m doing it.
Japanese Lesson of the Week, or Why Japanese is Ridiculous to Learn:
I told my Japanese flatmate that he could have some free cupcakes, pointing to the foil wrapped package on the table. His reply:
“Yes, I know. I saw. OH! Free cupcakes?? I thought you said Furikake–do you know furikake?” (I say I did, but forgot). “Do you know furu? It means kind of…to swing. And Kake is from kakeru, to put in; yeah, yeah, you know. So it means ‘things you put on rice’.”
Oh, of course. I should have guessed.
(There are a lot of double parentheses in this post, which makes me wonder if I actually have multiple personalties(which is a great excuse for why my work has been so horrible lately; who can concentrate with all these voices interjecting?)(No, dummy, it’s a really sad excuse, go sit in the corner and feel ashamed.))
Just a note…
I’ve mentioned this before, but the name of this blog comes from the times when my mom panics if she hasn’t heard from me in a week, and starts writing “Where is Jillian?” on my facebook wall, or sends me emails with this subject line, etc. I’m mentioning it again because my mom often starts panicking without actually messaging me, so that I have no idea she is worried. Then, out of nowhere, I will get an email from her about how terrified she is that I haven’t called her, followed almost immediately by one from my brother which reiterates her words.
Candy, for those of you who don’t know my mom’s name, is a really kind person, but she can get a little caught up in certain ideas. So, if she calls you (this applies to Californian friends mostly) to ask where I am, all you need to do is reassure her that it is highly unlikely that I have been murdered, and that if she hasn’t heard from me, she should try skyping me at a time when I’m not likely to be sleeping. Also, it would be nice if you threw in the advice that she should stop watching shows like 48 hours, CSI, Law and Order, Cold Case, etc. That’s all; thaaanks!
“Hers is reachable only by an old drawbridge, and is guarded by a troll who asks you a riddle.”
Just for kicks, here are some videos I think best represent American’s views of Brits:
Cheeky.
Just a little magic
On the flip side, here’s how the Brits seem to view Americans:
Gimme gimme moar
Mmm, sexy.
Oh, stereotypes!
“I thought you’d ask me not to leave”
Warning: fairly depressing topic at hand today (written after a goodbye party that did involve vodka). This is something I feel like I’ve written over and over again, and yet I can’t find anything about this. If I have written on it before, I apologize, and hope this version is more coherent than the last.
I got an e-mail today from my aunt to remind us that today (Sunday; I’m slightly behind because it’s after midnight now, but let’s pretend that the day we woke up for is the day we’re still in) is the 2nd year anniversary of the day my grandma died. While I can appreciate the sentiment–that we remember the life of our grandma–the day itself is nothing beyond a horrible memory of a really shitty day.
Let me give you some back story. When I worked for AEON, my last day was scheduled for April 20th, 2014. Usually, when foreign teachers leave in Japan, they announce a month ahead of time about their departure date. That gives them one month to say goodbye to students; since we usually saw students once a week, that gave the students time to prepare to say goodbye and adjust to the idea for a new teacher (as well as ample time to sign up for the goodbye party). All of our contracts are originally for one year, but after six months of a contract end date, you go in for assessment, and they can either offer you 1 year, 6 months, 3 months, or no contract renewal. The first time I went in, I was offered a year, and took 6 months. The next time, I was again offered a year, but took 3 months (though it turned out to be slightly longer). I was the first foreign teacher in awhile to renew, so many students had grown attached to me, and of course I felt similarly. Accordingly, I knew the last month would be a little difficult. That being said, I had time to prepare, and I often imagined what it would be like. The last week of work is dedicated to saying goodbye to students, and training your replacement. When I had first started with AEON, I really disliked the company, and I imagined with great satisfaction that last month. As the time drew nearer, I approached it with more of a morbid curiosity, because I had grown to know my students in such surprising ways–and the closer I got to saying goodbye, the more I felt the heaviness of it–but I couldn’t help but think of the reactions I would get as well.
One of my favorites (terrible to say) came the week after I made my announcement. I was teaching a Saturday Discovery class (for those who’ve worked at AEON, the picture is easily developed; for those who haven’t, here’s a quick-style assessment: Discovery is a middle/upper beginner level conversation class, and Saturday classes are usually full of business-people, compared to perhaps a Tuesday Morning Discovery class with 5 housewives). This particular class was one I had had my entire tenure at AEON, and it had almost always been overflowing with students (10 was usually the limit, and it forced capacity so often that it had split into two classes after about a year of teaching it). So the week after I announced that I would be leaving, I entered class and asked people about their weeks. One of the only women in the class, a middle-aged business woman, told the class, “It was okay- but…BUT…I had trouble sleeping.” When I asked her why, she told me, “Because YOUUUU said you were leaving.” I thought she was joking, and I started to laugh, but when I looked at her, tears were streaming down her face. I calmed her down a bit, but after class, she came up to me to ask about my future plans, and as soon as I opened my mouth, she started crying again.
Needless to say, emotions were running way higher than I expected them to–and combine that with the fact that AEON usually requires teachers to move out of their apartments a week before their contracts end, with the provision of a hotel for the final days of teaching. For me, that meant a final day of 4/20 (a Saturday), though I had to move out at noon on 4/15 (a Sunday–and don’t forget that I worked on Saturdays). I had been trying to pack a little every day the week before, but I found myself less successful at it than I needed to be (it’s hard to pack up almost 2 years of stuff, especially when you aren’t actually leaving the country for 2 months). So I finished work around 9:30 p.m. or so on Friday, then went home and tried to pack a bit. I was being a bit unsuccessful at it when I got a Skype call for my dad a little before midnight. This in itself was very rare; I hardly ever got Skype calls from my dad (I mean, I’ve lived in the UK since September, and I’ve yet to receive a call from my dad. In case you are wondering, this doesn’t upset me; that might seem more messed up to some people, but he’s not really the type to call, and neither am I). Looking back, I always think that should have been a warning sign, but I honestly felt no trepidation concerning the call. I just thought he remembered that it was my last week of work, and was calling to chat about it. The voice on the other end, however, was distracted.
“I have some bad news.” Now, I hadn’t felt any foreshadowing before this moment, but as soon as he said this, I knew what it was.
“Grandma’s passed away.” There hadn’t been hints, or signs, or whatever usually precedes death. He went on for about 30 seconds to say that she had died very peacefully, but just as abruptly as he had called, he hung up. This is the part they don’t tell you about when you are imagining traveling or living abroad or whatever other exotic thing you think about doing when you’re grown-up; they don’t tell you about how shitty things happen in the middle of the night, and then you are left so aware of your alone-ness. They don’t tell you about the times when you’re independence becomes your isolation. I tried reaching other family members, but Skype provides only so much accessibility. When I tried to imagine who I could call in Japan, my mind went blank. The people I wanted to call were no longer there, and I think that was the hardest part for me–not having someone to go to.
I had to get up and teach 10 hours later–the busiest day of the week. Not only that, but I had made plans weeks before to have dinner and karaoke with one of my Saturday classes–I thought for sure I would walk in the class and explain why I needed to cancel, but when I got there, I couldn’t find the words. I thought maybe I could reschedule the party, but then I realized there weren’t going to be other opportunities, because my time was ticking to a close.
I ended up going out with my class, and then I had to stay up most of the night packing. Even that wasn’t good enough. My manager had to come help me, and it basically got to the point where I had to turn my back to him and let him do his thing, because he began to indiscriminately throw things away. That week, and the week (weeks?) that followed were some of the heaviest of my life.
So I think of this day, April 13th, and I don’t think of happy memories. Death dates are not happy memories; for me, at least, this particular day doesn’t spur on pleasant recollections of the good times. It is a pinpoint of a period of unshakeable solitude. I’m painting a picture that only spanned two days, mind you; when I look back at pictures from those days, I think, “For a 25-year-old holding herself together in a foreign country at the end of a long journey, you did alright.
Also, when people tell me they are jealous of my experiences, I usually think something along the lines of, “No, you’re jealous of some romanticized concept you very temporarily imagined to be my experience.” I’ve had a vast amount of experiences; some fantastic, some terrible, but you can’t pick and choose.
Another day, another destiny.
More random coincidences! On Sunday night, I had a dream that I was back in Japan for a visit, and I saw my old Frontiers class at the train station as they were on their way to a party. For non-Aeon, Frontiers is (perhaps was, at this point) a class of advanced speakers, usually people who had studied/worked/lived abroad. The particular class I dreamt about was one of my longest running classes, with many members having been in the class for years. As a result, they would have parties every 2-6 months or so; which I usually joined when I was there.
Fast-forward to the next day, Monday morning, when I received a friend request from one of my former Frontiers students. I sent him a message remarking upon the coincidence of the dream and friend request. The really weird part was that he replied saying that the Frontiers class had actually had a party the night before (bum bum BUMMMMM!). (Also, the student wrote that another student mentioned that she keeps in touch with me on Facebook, and recommended he do the same. So apparently he went home and started one right away. Awwww!)
Also, I saw this article on Buzzfeed; it seems to be a bit accurate. Not for me, of course, because I don’t really care as much about English Literature as my fellow students, but I do see connections.
P.S. I am pretty much through with the star-notes, as they mainly started in order to be super-ridiculous, but they have gotten a bit tiresome (if you get confused reading them, imagine how I feel writing them). A lot of you will be breathing (reading) easier, I believe.
I got this for you.
Bonjour, mon frere! I’ve been promising pics or it didn’t happen, so it’s happening! And since pictures are worth a thousand words, I’ve composed this 13,000 (and some) word essay. (Do you suppose Fine Arts students can get away with this defense when composing their dissertations?) These are supposedly unique from the ones I put up on Facebook, but who knows; I’ve been known to be crazy. There will be a captioning contest; winner gets a high AND low five.
And now, in reverse chronological order, for your viewing pleasure:
OXFORD
AMSTERDAM
Amsterdam reminds you…just say ‘nein’ to lust.
I tip my tiny car to you.
SUZY IN BATH AND WALES
(Awful, awful title; perhaps makes her sound scandalous and like a prophetess succeeding Jonah)
“I’m in bath, teeheehee!”
“Meh.”
And back to Oxford.
whereisjillian 