Lovelies, lovelies, hello. If you make it to this blog post, that’s because you went and read a little further than whatever blog I published (or will publish, really) after this, as I’m not publicizing this one. When I post blogs on Facebook, my readership goes up…let’s see, I’m not very good with math, but I believe somewhere around…3,500% (mind you, that’s going up from 2 readers). So only those who are really, really dedicated will make it here.
The reason I’m doing it this way is because this is where I will mention that blind “date” (hangout?), and I’m not sure what shape that’s going to take, and it’s probably best if no innocent bystanders are here to witness it. Quite a few people I have met recently, or who I haven’t really talked to in years, have told me they read this–which I’m absolutely happy about, and all are welcome–but I do tend to get a bit ramble-y, and on occasion, hangry. Oh my, I feel a rant coming on; I’ll suppress it (i.e. the opposite of what I do to my appetite)(or my ramblings).
The truth is I don’t have much to say about the event. Like all the dates I’ve been on (hahahahahahahahahaha), it was fairly nice and friendly. He was well-groomed, polite, a bit short; too beardy for my tastes (i.e. he had a beard in general. I can’t take beards). However, I’m not sure if I can call it a date. Here is why:
1.) I don’t really want to.*
2.) It was coffee. He didn’t pay, or even offer to pay.**
3.) I have to know something about a person to make it a date. Otherwise it’s just a meet and greet.
*Why don’t I want to? Because one of the people who “set us up” hasn’t talked to me in two years (due to distance, not falling out), and wasn’t really that great of friends with me at the time. The other didn’t know anything about the guy. So basically, the fact that we both live in Bristol and had a connection to this one guy was apparently enough for us to maybe fall in love. I feel like that’s similar to saying, “Hey, I know you probably wear underpants, so even though I haven’t seen you in two years, and have no idea what size you are, or what style you like, I think this pair is probably good for you, because it is sold in the city you live in.” I realized this is a terrible analogy, but take it or leave it. Also, if they are the only underpants available to you, please take them.
I hope this doesn’t make me sound like I’m anti-dating.
**This is really tricky territory. I don’t necessarily advocate for the guy always paying, but doing so the first time at least clears the air about what is going on. Because if just going Dutch on coffee qualifies as a date, then I had a six-month relationship a few years back that I should have capitalized on.*** I recently read something by a guy who was all like, “I don’t believe in paying on a first date, because why should I shell out for someone I’m not even sure I’m interested in?” (that is not a direct quote; do not google it). I’ll tell you why, dude: because almost every single lady I’ve talked to nixes the idea of a second date with a guy who didn’t offer to pay for the first (unless she asked him out)(jeez, dating is ridiculous).
***No, seriously; what was that about?
Speaking of underpants, I apparently don’t know what lady briefs are, because I bought some thinking they were like boy shorts, and they are actually better described as pants/sleeping bag combo. Also, here is some fun Brit-US differences: women’s clothing goes up 2 sizes (that was fun to find out), while shoe size goes 2 sizes down (or something). So while the number in the hanger makes me want to slightly cry myself to sleep, on the plus side*, for the first time in my adult years, I can trick myself into thinking I have almost lady-like feet proportions.
*See what I did thar?
Holy guacamole**. I have no idea what I was actually going on about, or where the exact point of divergence was. It was probably about that coffee occasion I had. In the fear of being redundant, I really have very little to say about it. I’m not a love at first sight (site? for blind date occasions?) kind of gal, and it takes me a long time to warm up to a guy, so it was unlikely for anything promising to happen. Sorry for all of you who were hoping I would stop being single***. But not wanting to be single anymore doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to not be single anymore. Call me old-fashioned, but I think you should go into a relationship because you really like the other person, not just because you like the idea of love. I know this will shock a lot of people, but if it happens that I am single for the rest of my life, I could be happy with that. And that’s not to say that I couldn’t be happy in a relationship; I could–but the truth is, none of us know what is going to happen tomorrow, so let’s not rest our happiness on conditionals.
**According to Kristina Germany (when I saw her last week), this was something I said a lot when she lived in CA. JZ hadn’t heard me say it, but confirms “it sounds like the stupid sort of thing [I’d] say.”
***Also, there were a few people who found out about the BD solely from this blog, and yet were anxious to hear about how it went–which I find particularly strange, since I prefaced it last blog by saying I thought BDs were the worst things in the world. Were you actually hoping for some kind gruesome story?? Now I’m sorry now I didn’t fulfill that end.
I bet you’re thinking, “J-Nel, you’re blogging again! So what are you putting off this time?”, to which I will reply, “How rude!” The answer is sleep, and also essays. But the joke is on you, because the essays aren’t due for another month, so I’m not even procrastinating! Except everyone knows that once I go home on Dec. 22nd* (mark your calendars, mon freres), I will be doing nothing but playing with my dogs and eating sushi (except for the brief respite on Dec. 25th, when I will spend some time opening presents), so this is definitely a firm procrastination in action. Your next question is probably: “Jillsef, which do you prefer, American sushi or Japanese sushi?”, to which I will reply, “I really don’t have time for these questions, I’m in the middle of writing a blog in order to put off writing an essay.”
*If you know who said this, you’re the winner of the Speciale del Dia.
**Christmas Adam is the big picnic day! If you don’t know when Christmas Adam is, well; that’s a Christmas riddle to stick in your stocking!
You have really pushed your luck with all the questions, but I see your lips pursing with another “Wh-” about to spill out, so I will just anticipate your thought, and give you a list of what I am most looking forward to in the States (and let’s just pretend I said family and friends already and move on from there):
1. Luke
He’s not what you would call “conventionally handsome”, but I love him and his jowly smile.
2. Jack (also, since it’s in the picture anyway, a real bed)
Gratuitous Selfie
Jack is the looker of the two (by two, I mean Luke and Jack; not the two of us in the above picture. Though that’s probably true as well). He’s a little shit, but I like him anyway.
Also, I think it’s time we look into calling them by their continental names; Luc and Jacques.
3. Real deodorant
The UK is doing pretty well in a lot of areas–jay-walking, cool Islamic fashion, old folk production, dry shampoos–but they just don’t seem to know how to properly handle an armpit. The common deodorant types I’ve found are either aerosol or roll-on. This is a problem because A. Aerosol deodorant is pretty much equivalent to blowing wishes at your armpit and B. Roll-on deodorant gives you the feeling that an Italian Mastiff (see #1) has slathered your armpit with well-intentioned kisses.
4. Sushi. It’s too damn expensive here, and the grocery store versions look like used erasers. Also, California Rolls are only good in America. I know I mentioned playing with dogs and eating sushi earlier; you might think I’m being redundant, but I just love them that much.
5. Everything being cheaper. When the girls in “West Side Story” sang, “Everything free in America”, they weren’t far off. I want to go to there.
I’ll tell you what I’m not looking forward to: the flight that will lead me to all these joyous wonders. I lost the last two Xanax that I had been preciously hoarding for this very trip, and that is so depressing. Someone’s going to have a hard time on this flight, and I’m mainly referring to the person who will be in the seat next to me.
On to brighter and happier things!
On Friday the 13th, I happened to have an extra number added to my age. I’m now the ripe old age of 24 (JK; though I did have some German girls who guessed that this was the age I was turning, which made me tear up a little in sheer joy). But then I think, “Wait, how can I be 27? What have I even done?” And then I remembered: I studied abroad in Rome, I graduated from one of the top universities in the world (in one of the most impacted majors at the school), I’ve lived on 3 continents (fulfilling my dreams of working in Japan and going to school in the UK), been to 22 countries (with friends and alone; including traveling solo for 3 weeks through Vietnam), gone back to school to get my Masters (let’s hope that one works out), and have met a ton of amazing people along the way. I’m pretty happy with what’s happened so far.
Speaking of, you know, living in the UK, I’d like to share some more tidbits about what I do here (not study-wise, as obviously no one cares about that). I told you last time that I would go into more detail about differences between the UK and the US, and I’m making good on that covenant. At good ol’ U of B, they have English seminars about once every two weeks, which I typically like to go to because I know hardly anything about English Literature, and I also feel like I’m participating by going. Now, a few weeks ago, there was a visiting professor giving a lecture on something I thought I might enjoy. I didn’t. One thing they do differently here (and it really confuses me) is they tend to read these sorts of lectures straight from their notes (though apparently this is not done in every department, as my flatmate assured me). Now, as I am not the strongest aural learner, I either have to be writing constantly as the person is talking or staring intently at the speaker so that I can focus on what they’re saying, and this is not easy to do when the speaker is disengaged the entire time. Also, I’m pretty sure that even if I could focus, I wouldn’t have known what he was talking about.
However, after talking to other attendees, I realized the main thing that happened at the event was that the lecturer and the presenter were batting eyelashes at each other the whole time (apparently, they have a history…of some kind), while the presenter’s husband sat nearby bearing witness to the scene. My flatmate, who happened to be sitting across the room and next to the husband (who is also a higher-up in the department), told me that the professor was not taking the cuckoldry passively–apparently, he leaned back in his chair at one point and just belched; no pretense or anything as he let it rip. I guess that’s one way to mark your territory.
Anyway, the lecture finishes, and here comes the difference between the two nations: after the lectures, everyone goes out to the pub to discuss what we’ve learned (pretty sure that part has never happened while I’ve been around); this includes lecturers. I get a bit thrown off by this, because I get nervous enough talking in class, and then they also go and call lecturers by their first names here (and refer to them as tutors at times), just to make things a bit more unsettling. Anyway, I like going to pubs, so I convinced my classmate (who I had really talked to for the first time at the previous lecture) to go again, and we set off. I also like to play a game called, “Let’s see how much I can embarrass myself”, but that will come a little later.
When we got to the place, it soon became clear that we might be the only postgrads in attendance, and definitely the only female students. Because we were the first to arrive, we got stuck at the very end of the table–and to my horror, the visiting lecturer sat down beside me. Fortunately, he was talking to his colleagues, and I was able to talk to my friend and the lecturer we had earlier that day. But as it usually happens, some people eventually got up to get seats, shuffling the attentions being paid, and I soon found myself being asked questions by the guest lecturer. I knew he couldn’t possibly care about what I had to say, and he had come all this way to give a talk, so it was painfully obvious that I was going to have to bring this up in the conversation. But I had nothing. I figured I would work with that, so I basically said something along the lines of, “That was a really interesting talk; I didn’t really understand it, but I’m sure those who did probably enjoyed it more.” (When I told this to my flatmate later, I’m pretty sure he actually slapped his hand to his head in disgust.) I somehow managed to waddle out of dangerous territory and into patchy neutral ground after that, but it left me sweaty and jumpy (but so does telling my hairdresser what kind of haircut I want). Thankfully, he left very soon after (strangely in tow of the husband and wife- I guess everything worked out well in the end; perhaps it was a burp of unity that the professor produced). The rest of the night seemed to have gone pretty well (from my point, hilariously)–but again, it is a bit weird having lecturers who are around the same age while in these situations–you feel like you are amongst friends, but then every once in awhile you remember they are paid to pass judgment on you. And then you spill wine all over the table and trip over a row of stools.
A few more meaty morsel before you go:
Living in my international style apartment, I get to have a lot of intercultural communication. For example, while talking about having children, I told my Japanese flatmate I didn’t want sons, before changing my mind. This is the conversation that followed:
Me: If I had sons, I could help shape them for the better.
Him: Boys can make money.
Me:…So can girls!
Him: (laughs)
Him: Oh. Yes.
Also, this:
I recently read this statement on a link posted in my newsfeed:
You might be desperate to get home for Crimbo, but these gert lush pics of Briz will have you pining for the West Country by Boxing Day.
And I was like…Good Lord, is that English? I thought maybe I had accidentally taken Xanax before reading it; I got the point, but the journey there felt really weird (but it would at least explain where the Xanax went). And I looked up “gert” on my Mac, and what I got was this:
First one to explain this gets a juicy pinch on the cheek (you choose the cheek).
Also, for Hera Potter’s sake, I have cut down on the StarNotes, but only so that when she gets to this spot, it will serve as a reminder that she has a story she needs to finish telling me.
Oh boy! I’ve decided to blog again and there’s just so many things to say; I don’t know where to begin! First, here’s a picture of a really sad box that I met in London!
Stuck in the middle.
Really, so many interesting things that have been happening lately, but that’s not what I’m going to talk about. I’m going to talk about all the random things in my life because those are the most amusing things to me. I have a feeling this is going to be a long post, so I think I will give the sections titles. If a section looks boring; you’re probably right, and by all means, you should skip it. If you’ve never read my blog before, you picked a weird day to start. If I don’t stop the “if’s”, you’ll probably stop reading, so let’s jump in!
London and the Ja Ja Ja’s
The first thing I must, must, must discuss is the Scandinavian music show I went to in London a few weeks ago; the Ja Ja Ja Festival. Now, unless you’ve been to this brand new festival or perhaps Roskilde Festival, then I’m guessing you haven’t been to a show crammed-full of Nordic musicians. Which, let me assure you, means you are missing out. Except for Mew, my beautiful Danes, all the bands were fronted by women (and if you know Mew, then you will know that all of them sound like they are fronted by women). To be a Scandinavian woman musician, I’ve determined you need to adhere to the following guidelines:
1. Have long, unkempt hair.
2. Go on stage barefoot, or at least find yourself barefoot at some point in the show.
3. As long as your feet are free, so should you upper lady bits be as well.
4. Dance like you are slowly having a stroke.
5. Play at least 7 different instruments, or at least hold something that could either be a handmade maraca or a dead pigeon.
6. Every once in awhile, swap singing with whispering, cooing, or whistling.
To be fair, #4 may be the only way to dance with that type of music; music that I would describe as a cross between what the Aurora Borealis would sound like if it made noise, and fairies laughing as they dance upon water. The second act, múm, tending to get a bit darker in some of their songs, and at one point, the lead singer did this interpretive dance-y thing where she swung her arms around in jerky movements until they were wrapped around her neck, then jumped in the air as she pretended to break her neck, followed by her collapsing on the floor. This in itself would be pretty unusual–now compound that with the knowledge that she did it EIGHT times in a row…on two separate occasions. That’s a lot of interpretive suicidal dance moves.
^That is not the suicide dance. That’s just regular stroke-y type dance done by Husky Rescue’s frontwoman.
Also, my favorite band ever played! They were gorgeous, as always (this being the eighth time or so time I’ve seen them). I was just a bit disappointed that they didn’t play much from their last album.
If you don’t know them, here’s a really crappy video to get you started–it’s one of their slower songs, which I’m mainly posting because it has the least amount of feedback.
I love that it ends on, “Into your…”. Guess you’ll always be wondering…
Dying to be Blonde
Moving on! This next bit comes with a bit of background info about yours truly. I have two social fears (well, that are relevant to this story, at least) that I don’t usually go bragging about–one is my fear of making appointments; the other is going to places where I have to ask for something (particularly when I’m not sure what the answer is–i.e. going to McDonald’s and asking, “Can I have a Big Mac?” is not a fear, because the likelihood that I know the answer will be “yes” is about…oh, 99.8%). In Japan, the fear was so strong that I ended up dying my own hair, which meant that my roots were bright orange followed with patches of white blonde. You may be wondering, “Jill,* are you really that afraid of rejection?” And the answer is I don’t know, probably…yes. The next thing you’re probably wondering is, “Jill, did you forget where you were going this?” See last answer. Okay; I’m back on track. In the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, my Japanese flatmate asked me if I was going to be blonde again because I looked like プリン (pudding). It was then that I decided I could no longer put off making a hair appointment.
Pudding: Sadly, I knew immediately what he was talking about
かわいいプリン
Now for all you men out there (I don’t actually know of any guys who read my blog, now that I think about it…probably because I try to lure you in with stories of floor feces, and then trick you into reading about hair coloring): if you don’t know about the hair shaming that goes on at a salon, just imagine how embarrassed you feel when your dentist asks, “Are you flossing regularly?” and then you turn bright red and say (in false indignity, if you’re anything like me), “Uh…yeah, of course,” and they’re like, “Regularly?” And you’re like, “Define regularly.” And then they’re like, “More than once a month?” And you’re like, “Lunar month or calendar month?” And then they just sigh and shake their head, which is pretty terrifying since they are usually wearing horrible green masks and caps (as well as those wonky goggles), so that they appear to be disappointed, tutting aliens.
Anyway. I walk into the styling area, which was very intimidating because (as I am cheap and went to a city college school of beauty–here, Erin smugly nods) all the girls who work there have about 10 pounds of make-up on their face and perfectly coiffed hair, while I was wearing a shirt that looked slept in. The receptionist brings around the girl who has been assigned to me; her gasp and heart-clutch gave me the impression that I may have waited a bit too long to redo my roots.**
After she sits me down in the chair, she asks me what I want done. Now, an an attempt to rise above my social anxiety, I had practiced this bit in my head; that I want the roots bleached; preferably not too light, with a bit of toning to take out the brassiness. What I say is, “Well…you know…I want the roots done.” She asks me if I usually have toning done, and I said I DIDN’T KNOW. There is absolutely no legitimate reason for saying this, except for the fact that I am an inexcusable coward. The girl disappears after muttering something about having to wait for the head hair teacher (head of hair teacher?), giving me plenty of time to stare at my reflection in indignation.
15 or so minutes had passed when I saw her across the room out of the corner of my eye, talking with another student. I can tell from their body language that they are talking in hushed, horrified tones that clearly were a direct result of my being there. The other hairdresser walked across the room, as if she is going to get something from another work station–but then she just kind of stopped about 5 feet behind me, hovering in an almost subtle attempt to get a handle on what her classmate has been cursed with, before slinking back to her friend to commiserate. Now, I’m just going to fast-forward through all the dying bits and get to the point where she toned and washed my hair. I want to describe this experience to you as accurately as possible…so…imagine that instead of a hairdresser, you had a griffin with a blood vengeance against you washing your hair (hopefully moving his hands like this in your imagination), and every once in awhile the aggrieved griffin would turn the water temperature to boil before aiming it in a continuous stream at one point on your head. I usually am quite stoic (lie), but there was one point where I cried out three times in progressively louder exclamations, and I think that surprised her into being a little less talon-ish. But when she was finished, and I was back in my chair, I saw that the work of the claw-hair wash was I had developed dreadlocks. As she struggled to rake a comb through the mess, she asked (in what I think she thought was a nonchalant tone), “So, does your hair normally get pretty tangled?” I hadn’t seen hair like that since the last time I saw my stepbrother****, so I just said, “Not like this.”
Moral: Would I go back again? Heck yeah; it was 14 pounds. Now, on to some observations!
A Series of Coincidences of Ridiculousness(probably the most skippable part)
For those of you who don’t know (and in case I haven’t mentioned it before), I have two classes a week; same as everyone else in my program. Everyone meets at the same time on Tuesdays for the core class (though there are two different, simultaneous classes), and then everyone meets on Thursday at the same time for their pathways class–my class has about 7 people in it, which just makes it loads of fun (read: terrifyingly intimidating). One of my Thursday classmates and I went to the tutor’s room, as she wrote in the syllabus that she would put the articles for the class outside her door. We got there and discovered there were no articles and no papers. So we decided to email her later, and headed to the library. On the way there, my classmate, B, mentioned the buildings are connected by a rooftop walkway, which I hadn’t known about. Fast-forward to the library interior. As I walk in, I noticed my other Thursday classmate, J1, walking towards the back of the library, but didn’t think much of it. At this point, B and I split, as I needed to get some books, and he needed to see a librarian. After I checked out my books, I ran into my other Thursday classmate, J2. She informed me that the professor only left one copy of one article outside her room, and that she had taken it to make a copy. She then ran into J1 (apparently right before I had seen him) and had passed it along to him. Pleased, I asked if he was still there, but J2 said she had just seen him leave. I decided to not procrastinate on getting the article, and headed back towards the tutor’s office. Along the way, I found the rooftop path that B had mentioned, and made use of it; thinking how nice and pleasant it was that day.
The rooftop path didn’t go all the way to the building I needed, so I took the last staircase down–but when I tried to get into the building, the door was locked. Just as I was struggling to open it, J1 happened to walk by at the same time–talk about killing two birds with one stone! So he walked over and tried to open the door–but it wouldn’t budge. We struggled for a both seconds on both sides of the glass door, and then he shrugged and walked away. Honestly, that must be some kind of metaphor–the exact thing you need is right on the other side, but you are powerless to open it the door; therefore you must learn to overcome obstacles/learn how to break into buildings. In annoyance, I had to walk all the way back and around the buildings to get to office. There was a table at the bottom of the stairs, so I went back down to place the article on the flat surface so that I could take pictures–and just as I opened my iPad, my internet turned on and I got a message from J2 saying that J1 had emailed everyone a copy of the article. Haha.
After Thursday’s class, B told me that the door used a card reader to open, so clearly, I’m a dummy.
We’re Not Living in America
When I announced to people that I was going to graduate school in the UK, the most common response I got was, “What! I’m going to come visit you!”*****
When I announced that I was going to work in Japan (the first time), most people said, “Have fun!” ******
I was talking to a classmate recently, and she basically asked if people (specifically guys) treated me like a stereotypical idiot from America/tried to take advantage of my assumed idiocy. I laughed for a good solid 5 minutes after hearing that (which was much too long; let me assure you), before telling her that no; no guys ever try to take advantage of my blonde Californian situation. But maybe that’s because I don’t think of myself as blonde or typically Californian.
Anyway, here’s the situation that usually happens when I meet someone who is British.
Brit: Where are you from?
Me: California. Specifically, Orange County.
Brit: The O.C.! Is it like the TV show?
Me: Uhhh…I don’t know. I never watched it. Maybe though.
Brit: You must really hate this weather.***
Just for comparison, here’s the situation that usually happened when I met Japanese people:
Japanese: Excuse me, where are you from?
Me: The United States. California.
Japanese: Ohhhhh! California is very nice! You are from Los Angeles?
Me: No, Orange County.
Japanese: Oh. Sorry, I do not know Orange County.
Me: It’s where Disneyland is.
Japanese: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! So, what do you think of Japanese men?
::or:: Can you eat Japanese food?
There are so many other things I want to say about this topic, but I think I’m going to save it for another time, because there is one more thing I wanted to mention in this incredibly long post…
Halloween!
Some of you saw on Facebook that I dressed as Kyary Pamyu Pamyu for Halloween. The reasons for this are severalfold.
1. The last weekend before I left Japan, I went to karaoke two nights in a row. Both sessions featured American guys who had huge Kyary karaoke repertoires. Therefore, despite never really hearing her music before that weekend (but knowing who she was, of course–you don’t spend 3 months with 18-year-old Japanese girls without finding out who she is), I had her (or rather, them) stuck in my head for the rest of my Japanese days. I hadn’t really cared for her before, because I’m not the biggest fan of J-Pop, mainly because of the tendency for young girls to be both infantilized and sexualized before being just downright objectified (see: AKB48). Also, the music’s not very good. But the thing about Kyary is that she does embody “kawaii” (that ideal cuteness), but she does not try to be sexy at all. Frankly, she’s flat-out weird. That’s what I love, and I can accept the idea of “entertainer” trumping “singer” in her case.
2. I love Halloween, but I am the absolute worst at coming up with costumes. I don’t know if this is because I put too much pressure on myself, or if it’s because Halloween is when girls are supposed to get out the finest in their whore-drobe (and my whore-drobe is, well, pretty much non-existent), but I’m crap at it. But then I remembered this time my old roommate K and I went to West Hollywood for a Halloween parade, where we ran into her freshman friends. The girls were dressed as sister-wives, which was, as they put it, “the least sexiest thing” they could think of. I thought that was brilliant, and I combined it with my feelings about Kyary Pamyu Pamyu being the least sexy pop star.
Actually, surprisingly sexy for sister-wives.
3. It seemed like a pretty easy/cheap costume to make.
4. One of my building managers told me that only 1 person had entered the building costume contest, so I knew if I did something unique like this, I would definitely win.
And I did. Now I am the proud owner of “Zombie Apocalypse.”
Ummm…Creepy factor? Wasn’t going for that…
A Final Note
Not that it has anything to do with anything (as this is accurate for most of what I write in relation to other things I write), but a Facebook ad recently showed me a picture of a woman struggling to hold on to a cat, titled with the questions, “Own a cat? Still single?” It seemed to me like it was saying, “Wait, even after owning a cat, you’re STILL single?” So my first reaction was, “No, I don’t, and yes I am,” and my second thought was, “My God! Are cats supposed to be the keys for getting boyfriends?” Then I remembered all of those cat ladies with their loads of boyfriends, and it dawned on me, truly: cats are the answer. And then the phrase “Curiosity killed the cat” came to my mind, and I realized “Curiosity” must have been the name of some jealous cat-lady’s boyfriend who decided he didn’t need anymore competition. And that, my friends, is science.
StarNotes! And yes, they are definitely out of order.
*Even though I dislike pretty much all forms of abbreviations of my name (Jill is super boring; Jilli is infantile [but allowed by family/friends who really love it]), I know must people really don’t want to start calling me Jillian. Therefore in my imagined dialogue of my friend-reader, I will allow the nickname.
**Of course I’m exaggerating, but she definitely looked displeased to have gotten me.
***** Followed by, “I’m so jealous/I wish I was as adventurous as you/You’re leaving again?”
******Usually followed by, “When are you coming back?” Japan is so undervalued.
***If more people watched “Arrested Development,” then I could say that the O.C. (don’t call it that) is in fact very similar to its TV portrayal.
**** Not me. Stepbrother. “Gotta lock it up!” Fortunately, I did not lock mine up.
Again, if you’ve made it this far, remember: I love you best.
And hide yo’ husbands, cuz I’m writing all my blogs about them (no, jk; but I was trying to fit in a way that you could still sing it. This blog is still all about me).
Ohhhhh my. Hello friends. It’s been awhile. I see you’ve been growing out your beard. It doesn’t suit you; get rid of it. Also, some of you might have forgotten that I exist, as I tend to go in and out of people’s existence (obviously I don’t mean in single instances; I’m not a ghost. Clearly this is in reference to the multiple times I enter and leave countries).
Now that that’s done with, let’s talk Bristol!
Here’s an unrelated shot of my street for all those who are bored with words.
As some of you know, I’ve been places. A lot of places. This year. Last year. Possibly the year before, but my memory has started to fade, and checking my passport would require me to move my arm two inches to open my drawer, and I am actually that lazy. The point is, I have been a lot of places, and yet Bristol was by far the hardest one to get to in all of my experiences.
Let me give you a little insight into my timeline from the past few months.
Aug. 9: (In Vietnam, prior to returning to Japan) Find out student accommodation filled up, and thanks to an acknowledged system glitch on the university’s end, I must begin searching in panic for private housing.
Aug. 20: Return to America!
Aug. 21: Find out the visa application is a bit more complicated then I expected, and $500 more expensive than I expected (okay, maybe $300 more than I reasonably expected).
Aug. 23: Told by the school that I need the loan letter from the university to prove that I have enough funds to attend school, and once I finish the credit checks, it will take 4-5 days to arrive. When it does, I can send in my visa application. No problem, I do the checks, and e-mail the representative back to let her know I’ve finished, and to e-mail in the case that there was something else that needed to be done.
Aug. 29: There was something else that needed to be done. After a (loud) audible groan, I finish these as well and prepare to wait another 4-5 days to send off my visa application.
Sept. THIRTEEN: Get letter. Immediately send application off. Since it is Friday, and the consulate is closed on the weekends, I arrange for the app to get there Monday morning. Pay $150 to get a response within 48 hours. Double check that nothing is forgotten, as everything has to be done just so for me to leave by the following Saturday. Also, would hate to pay $650 to be rejected.
Sept. 16: Get e-mail saying application has arrived and is being processed, but is missing a prepaid, printed return slip (I had included a prepaid written one for next day delivery), and while they will continue processing, they will not be able to conclude until after they receive an electronic return slip. Immediately send email with slip.
Sept. 17: Approved! Hurrah! My heart leaps for joy as I read, “If you included a return shipping waybill when you sent your application to us, your package will normally be shipped within 24 hours.” Then it sinks as I read, “If you provided a return shipping waybill after sending in your application, your package may take up to 72 hours to ship from receipt of this e-mail.” Which would mean that my visa could arrive anytime at the latest…on Saturday. Day I want to leave.
Sept. 19: Receive email that visa has been shipped. With tears of relief, I book a plane ticket for Saturday.
Sept. 19: Confirmation email that I have booked flight through Faregeek. See this in email: “Although your reservation is confirmed, it will need to be verified before ticketed and sent out, at which point they may request a credit card authorization form. In an unlikely event, if your tickets cannot be processed for any reason you will be notified via email or by telephone and your payment will NOT be processed.” Errr…what? Check credit statement. No sudden $1,300 charge. Read horrible reviews about Faregeek. Freak out. Use confirmation number on email to check airline website for confirmation; can’t confirm. Call airline; no record of my booking. Email website, they promise to send an e-ticket soon.
Sept. 20: Still no e-ticket, but credit payment has been made. Call airline again; told the numbers on confirmation are never used by airline. Try calling company; direct to voicemail. E-mail company again. They swear everything is fine. I beg for them to confirm somehow. Try to call airlines, but can’t get through.
Sept. 21: No e-ticket, but e-mail from Faregeek tells me to use a different number to check with airlines. I do, and they confirm I am scheduled for flight that day. Sigh in relief. Take a bunch of Xanax, get on plane. Relatively less stressed after that.
Sept. 22: Arrive in UK; find out airlines lost both of my checked bags. Arrive at hostel. Live in capsule-style bed until Thursday.
Sept. 26: Finally get university housing (after going in to the accommodation office everyday since arriving). Move in.
Sept. 27: Get sick. Haha.
Oh yeah; did I mention that all the women’s toilets broke one day at the hostel?
Looking back on all that, I feel some phantom stress. And this is the condensed version (though my regular readers, i.e. real friends, are probably thinking, “There is no such thing as a condensed version when it comes to you, J-dawg,” which I concede. Also, don’t call me J-dawg in your thoughts; that’s weird). I feel like I need nap after writing that. So I might just leave you with this nice story of the time I was still staying in the hostel, and thus spending a lot of time on buses.
My bed.
What my hostel space looked like. Cute, but cramped.
There was this woman next to me at the bus stop who asked me if I smoked; I replied in the negative as I sat down. I happened to be quite hungry, so I pulled out the rest of my onion and cheese sandwich, or as I like to call it, the “I’m confident I’m going home alone” sandwich. The woman said, “Oh, a sandwich; that’s what I’d really fancy now. Got any more of that?” I looked down on my snack; I’d already torn the crust off (because I like to get the less than savory bits over with first), and since it was the least nutritious white bread stuff, my fingerprints were already leaving deep imprints in the bread, so I felt a bit weird offering it.
A middle aged couple came up to check the bus times; the woman asked the same “do you smoke” question, to which the woman-half of the couple replied, “no, sorry; I don’t have any vices,” to which I replied in my head, “Now that’s just an outright lie.” I also thought it was pretty faux noble of the lady to act like she was all high and mighty and non-smoky. Just say, “Sorry love,” like all the rest of the British do; pretending they have love for strangers when clearly; they all hate public (or private) displays of affection. Actually, now that I think of it, I haven’t seen a single bit of public affection besides a hug, which is quite wonderful, really. The last thing you want is to see strangers making out and picturing all their horrifying British teeth hiding behind their lips.
Anyway, the faux-no (as I called her in my head) wandered to the side, and I continued to eat my sandwich next to the smoke hungry lady. Then, without any preamble, she ripped an incredibly juicy, unashamed fart right on the bench next to me. I’m not usually squeamish about this type of thing, but this one I felt infiltrated my very sandwich. Now every time I think of my Bristol hostel days, I can’t help but thinking of that lady and my polluted sandwich. I won’t ever be able to eat a cheese and onion sandwich again (actually, I really probably shouldn’t anyway).
Also, for those of you who are like, “Shouldn’t your blogs be a little better edited/written (or just mature) now that you’re in grad school, I will reply…with a smile on my lips and a wink in my eye.
So, it’s my last day in Japan. This thought has come up 4 times in my life, and this time is definitely the least emotionally taxing, but that’s probably because I’m already focused on my next destination. But that’s not to say this time around hasn’t been great; it’s been fabulous. Especially compared to when i left last year as an emotional wreck, I feel like this time was almost too easy. This time around, my job and my girls was/were so much fun, travel was great, and everyone has been so generous to me; this past week especially.
Now, some highlights!
I finally made it to Osaka (though not to Kobe…sigh). I actually flew into Osaka and had the intention of visiting there last year after my travels, but the family friend I was staying with had no intention of letting me. This year, I met up with my friend Haruka who I met last year while volunteering in Ishinomaki. I remembered she had told me she kind of lived near Osaka, but it turns out she was especially close because she was visiting her grandma for Obon. She brought her sister, a high school student who had also recently been to Vietnam, and we went to a pasture on Mt. Rokko. Apparently, their grandmother gave them money to treat me, and we did everything – made (and most certainly ate) ice cream, fashioned a toy sheep out of wool (or tried, as the lady leading the craft pretty much did the whole thing for us), which we named Debu-chan and Chubby (same meaning), and ate kakigori (Japanese shaved ice). Oh, and of course we looked at animals. This year I was briefly introduced to the horrifying noise goats make when they cry (thanks to Taylor Swift), but it was still very shocking to hear it in person. Also, it was a good opportunity for me to speak Japanese, as Haruka is patient and non-judgemental, and her sister didn’t want to speak English; though she told me she could understand most of what we said when we did.
On Friday, i met up with some former students for sweets and purikura pictures. I felt bad because Japanese girls always make such an effort to look cute, and considering I had taken the night bus that and had been living out of a backpack for nearly a month, lets just say I didn’t quite live up to those standards. But being sweet Japanese girls, they of course were very polite about it. That night, I stayed with Kayo, and we had a fantastic girls night that included abundant amounts of music, girl talk, and wine. Then, on Saturday, prior to all-night karaoke-ing, Kayo and I watched a japanese horror show featuring ghost story clips about 3 minutes long. From my observations, japanese scary stories seem to involve people staring over their shoulders as a ghost (usually a women with long hair concealing her face) slowly approaches them. There is plenty of sweating and groaning, but mostly it seems to be a big staring contest, with the losers being the living. Actually, it makes me think I’d be pretty confident if I met a ghost, because I know all they’re going to do is try and force eye contact with me. Which I guess is a little awkward, but hardly deadly.
Speaking of awkward, a secret fear of my finally took place the other day: I was trapped inside the train station without enough money on my IC train pass, as well as without money on my person. But I was in Shibuya, and i had my American debit and credit cards, so I just figured I would find a conbini* and Withdraw money. First part of the plan was successful when I came upon a Newdays. Second part? Not so much. Stuck my first card in. Rejected. Stuck it in a different direction. Rejected. Tried the other card. Rejected. Sweat starts to bead on my brow at this point. Tried the other side. Heart sinks as the card is spit out. I wandered around in search of another conbini, only to be disappointed.
I went back to the fare adjuster machine to check what my actual shortage was. The damage? 10 yen. I had 5. A shortage the equivalent of a nickel was leaving me stranded on the wrong side of the gate. I scanned the floors for some change, but luck was not to be on my side. I was going to have to ask for money. I stalked the fare adjuster machines, trying to build up my begging skills in Japanese. But as each commuter came up to correct their fare, I tried to imagine their reaction to this random white girl coming up and clutching at their sympathies to eek out 5 yen. I couldn’t do it. I found another white girl instead; she was bemused, but forthcoming with the change. Thus ended my trial beggarship. It was a bizarre and humbling experience; everyone should try it out sometime. I rewarded myself with 4 plates of aburi salmon at my new favorite kaitensushi place, uobei, that my coworker’s cousin introduced us to on a sushi Wednesday. And don’t even ask me how many favorite sushi places I have; it’s too ridiculous to count.
That evening, we celebrated Kelly’s birthday party with Reuben sandwiches and two rounds of karaoke. Okay, so dinner featured more than just those sandwiches, but I kept daring Alex’s friend Hide to go around to other tables and steal their Reuben’s (don’t worry, it was a private party at the restaurant). He would giggle and insist he couldnt, but i promised margarita compensation whenever he completed a challenge (of course, it being nomihodai,* that didn’t really matter). The evening as a whole was quite hilarious, though I felt bad when I told Carissa I was going away, to her surprise (though Kelly insists we talked about it, so maybe the surprise was more from being caught off guard by me coming and going so quickly).
My last full day I spent first having awesome shabu shabu with Rachael C, followed by a “mama’s meal” dinner with Nanako and her family. Hanging out with a friend without feeling the need to do anything special, or any last minute triumphant celebration, really was the best course of action for this period. I’ve gotten a bit emotionally exhausted by the going away shenanigans, and I’m glad this time was peaceful. Though if you are reading this and didn’t realize I was going away today, I apologize, and I promise you can be first on the list to hang out when I return. There were a lot of people that I didn’t get a chance to meet with, but it’s something to look forward to next time.
Anyway, as a last day treat, I have written down a collection of fantastic quotes I’ve heard this week (many from Kayo, who is hilarious because like the honey badger, she does what she wants).
Me: He’s gorgeous
Kayo: His character? His opinion?
Me: …His face.
Kayo, talking about Japanese girls who target foreign guys: Do you know this kind of woman? This bitch?
Ten she taught me this phrase:
Shirigaaru- kind of bitch (slutty for white people)
Kayo, showing me a picture: Don’t you like him?
Me: Naw, he’s not my type.
K: Oh, well, he’s completely gay.
Me: Then he’s definitely not my type.
K: I mean, in the face.
Kayo, about the teacher i replaced: Everyone says he is good looking in Japan.
Me: Everyone? Did you show his picture to people?
K: No, I mean in my head.
K, showing me another picture: He is playboy in Japan. This is bitch. She is korean. They are couple. They are my friends.
Uri: Oasis is the most British thing I can think of.
M: What about the monarchy?
U: Naw. But maybe the queen.
Ryan: I’m afraid of birds. (Is this a common fear? I feel like I’m hearing it a lot lately)
Alex: Who isn’t afraid of bears?(Then, after correction) Why are you afraid of birds?
Ryan: Because they don’t have arms.
Alex: Neither do paraplegics.
Ryan: Yeah, and they’re pretty scary too.
Alex: Did you know if you add sugar to drinks, it makes them sweeter?
Alex: I’m double-fisting right now.
Me: sings “Double fisting” to the tune of “Love Rollercoaster”
Alex: You make it sound weird.
Me: Yeah, cause double fisting doesn’t sound weird in the first place.
So for those of you who want to do your own wild and wacky travel in the future, a word of advice: check your itinerary carefully. I just realized tomorrow is my last day in Vietnam, as my plane for Japan leaves on Tuesday just before 2 am. So all the things I was saving for my return trip to Saigon…well, I’m going to have come back if I want to see them.
I think the majority of these things start out along the lines of, “well, I was planning to do this earlier, buuut…” And this time is no different, it would seem. Actually, the only reason I’m getting around to writing now is that there is some major flooding going on outside and I already spent the majority of the morning soaking wet.
I promised talk of Nha Trang last time, so I’ll start there. Nha Trang is like the Honolulu of Vietnam; pretty good beaches with an active atmosphere, some mountains in the background, and even A Marts in place of the ABC Marts. The first day started off great; it was beautiful and sunny, and I spent the day lounging around with some Dutch girls from my hostel.
But around the last afternoon dip of the day, I noticed the beach had become slightly more…disgusting. There were plastic bags floating around the water, trash left on the sand; even the weather turned ugly. So we decided it was a good time to say adios; but as I stood up with one of the Dutch girls, a group of Vietnamese men on nearby lounge chairs beckoned us over excitedly. We moseyed on over in cautious curiosity. As we approached, one man pointed at another and said, “it’s his birthday!” That man raised his beer and, motioning at himself with the same hand, said, “my birthday!” We wished him many happy returns, to which they responded by handing us some beers. After a round of cheers and singing, they offered us some meat. The lucky Dutch girl happened to be vegetarian, so she could in good conscience turn it down, but I felt obligated to take it. I think I can pretty accurately describe it as a bologna-flavored tire. When they weren’t looking, I hid the rest in my pocket before quickly finishing the beer and saying goodbye. Still, I was impressed by their generosity.
I spent the evening with some post-college Canadian girls traveling in a quartet (which sounds kind of awesome, but also like it might be crazy stressful), who encouraged me to try the mud baths nearby. So the next day, I suited up for a dirty submersion. The baths were more like tiny jacuzzis, and I got put in one with a French Canadian couple. This was a very exciting experience for me, because I think of French Canadians as one of those rare anomalies that you know exist, but you almost don’t believe it because you never see them. Like platypuses–French Canadians to me are like the platypus: real, but not quite right. Hearing them speak in English with a heavy French accent, but knowing they come from the Great North…it warmed the cockles of my heart. And my bath. Because three in a bath can get warm.
To round out the mud bath day, I returned with the English Canadians to the exact same Texan restaurant we had visited the night before– which might not have been as strange if we didn’t all sit down in the exact same seats – and if I hadn’t witnessed some tensions rising at one point– I’m telling you, a group of girls can be a dangerous thing.
The funny thing about hostels is how the people rotate. So the next morning, I woke up and said good-bye to the Dutch girls and the Canadians, and when I came back from snorkeling, I said hello to a group of Brits. Or more specifically, I said hello to a London-located Lithuanian who was traveling solo, and then the full-blooded Brits arrived, and their ambassador informally (read: accidentally) introduced himself to me as I was halfway through changing after a shower. So of course that lead to everyone walking over to the bar next to Texas and playing a rousing (read: debilitating) game of King’s Cup, and it goes without saying that the night ended in two robberies (that we know about, at least). But my favorite part of the night was when the waiter taking our orders suddenly looked across the table at the Lithuanian, pointed, and said, “Same same Harry Potter!” Because truth be told, I had definitely been thinking it (though of course it is not the same as being with the one true Hera Potter).
I spent two more days in Nha Trang; swimming, doing a mini-motorbike tour of some temples and giant Buddhas, and getting one of the best massages ever at a blind massage center. I went back for a repeat stress defeat the next day; and I’m sure you can imagine my surprise as I was getting ready and the masseuse walks in the room…clearly not blind.
Talk about an awkward situation. I mean, is it rude to be like, “Hey, you’re not blind!”? I’m not sure if I’ve encountered a situation where someone is criticized for not having a disability. So I just went with it– and I found that the old adage does ring true. Strong eyes, weak hands.* I decided that was all the time I needed in Nha Trang, so I hopped on a night bus and galloped off into the sunset for Hoi An, the Land of Tailors.
But that is for another blog post. If anyone has actually made it to this point, you deserve a pat on the back and a big kiss on the lips (not from me though; I don’t really feel up for it).
*not a real adage.**
**I was disqualified in a spelling bee in 5th grade over the word adage.
I’ve been the absolute worst at updating lately; my absolute sincere apologies to my 4 readers. 3 weeks ago, I was rushing to meet with everyone I could; two weeks ago, I was finishing up my last week of work and moving out of my apartment, and last week- well, I was just being lazy.
I left for adventure last Wednesday, knowing from Aeon textbooks that the flight would be a lot longer than expected (“I simply could not believe Japan was that far from Vietnam”), especially as I had a stopover in Shanghai. When I first purchased my tickets, I hadn’t gotten so far as the purchase confirmation page before having a slight heart attack as I realized my layover in Shanghai required an airport change, and it had to be done in 6 hours. Sure, maybe it’s a bit tricky, but my main cause for panic was that the visa to China costs $130. But, praise The Lord, a little research revealed that there is a sneaky way around this trick- the 72 hour transit visa.
So I was confident when I pulled up to the passport check counter…until they looked at my passport and my plane information, doing a few too many checks for my taste. Soon, the line behind me slowly disappeared and i was the only one left. my heart really started sinking when the man at the desk told me to have a seat on thesidelines as he took my passport to the man at the big counter behind him. Everyone else had been cleared, and to my surprise, all the clerks at the counters suddenly stood up, grabbed their locked metal boxes, and formed a line near the end of the desks. They stood still for a few moments before filing into a nearby office. Must when I started thinking this might not be a good sign, the man came back with my passport and granted me access into China.
Now, I had been a little stressed for time, but after I found the subway and my destination on the map, I thought, “Hey, how often do I get a free pass into China?” So I looked at the subway map and decided People’s Square looked like a good choice. After walking through what felt like endless pathways, I finally found an exit that lead outside. I stepped out, and in the amount of time it took my eyes to adjust to the sunshine, I was approached by a group of Chinese people wanting to chat. It turns out I’m a much hotter commodity in China than I am in Japan, or perhaps Chinese people are just a lot braver, because I was approached multiple times (but thankfully, no wine tried to touch my blonde hair, which is something I’ve heard of happening). After looking around (and getting a very delicious vanilla boba-y drink), I decided to finish my journey to the next airport by MagLev, the world’s only functioning magnet train. For the $4 it cost, I’d say it was a fun (and frighteningly fast) journey.
I made it to Vietnam without any difficulty (though I admit, I had my doubts about the whole “visa on arrival” thing). I was thankful for my foresight of hiring a ride beforehand, as I arrived in Ho Chi Minh around 2 am. Since I am returning to HCMC at the end of my trip, I’ll wait until then to talk about it.
After Saigon, I took a short ride to the beach town of Mui Ne, which returned out to be pleasant- but very tiny, with only guest houses available, which can be lonesome for a solo traveler. That evening, I got a FB message from my friend Rachel, and in it, she mentioned that Mui Ne wasn’t worth spending much time in. That was the final confirmation I needed to cut my time there short. I spent some time on the beach, ate some good seafood, did a tour of the sights on the back of a motorcycle (which included a 4 am wake up call), and then boarded a midnight train to Georgia (or rather, a very late 1 a.m. Bus for Nha Trang).
Duplicate from Instagram
I was my intention to write more about Nha Trang in this blog, but my iPad is autocorrecting every other word with the most absurd suggestion (for example, “that evening” became “Nathan even”). So I’m going to cut it short and hollaback when I get to Hoi An- which, if this bus arrives on time, should be in about 13 hours.
Apologies all around; I haven’t updated recently due to my time in Japan winding down; it is a known fact that when departure looms and things start winding down, time starts speeding up. I have just a few short hours before I have to be out of my apartment (and before which happens, I need to pass an inspection), so I have to keep this short. I figured the best way to do a moving out post was to show you the apartment that I am moving out of. So without further ado, here is Villa Seine:
It’s a bit gloomy looking, but only because my flash isn’t working.
The window is also my backdoor, which you have seen from previous posts.
My table and soft cream ad. Which reminds me; I have to take that down.
Another shot with my computer/TV combo. It was one or the other, folks; and it was always the computer.
Loft, ladder, and living room.
Also, my apartment is fairly big for a single person apartment. It actually feels much more spacious than my old place.The downstairs room is probably 6 tatami mat (there’s a fun conversion unit). My loft was actually very long; the length of my hallway/kitchen, and tall enough for me to sit up in.
I’m attempting to write a blog now, but I’m not sure how far it will progress. This is mainly due to the fact that I’m not seeing things quite as soberly as I normally would, which is strange, as I’ve only had 3 drinks in the past 5 hours.*
Tonight–and this week as a whole, really–have been fairly interesting. Yesterday, I played Truth or Dare during my English Challenge class, and the range of questions posed were between, “Can you speak Chinese?” to “Do you play the piano?” The most popular dare was definitely to sing and dance (with some dares being just singing; others just dancing). Today, we played “Two truths and a lie,” and let’s just leave it at that I one. However, one of my student’s “truths” was that her sister is “really old;” i.e. she is 26.
We went to a fascinating beer garden tonight that had dressed itself up as best it could to look like a South East Asian establishment (shame it didn’t dress up it’s prices to match). It was actually quite charming (I took a picture, but it basically looks like a building under construction), and my mayo-ebi salad(ish) was delicious. However, my stomach started to feel a bit weird later, and I’m pretty sure it’s because they don’t de-poop their shrimp in Japan, and we all know I have a weak stomach. So my co-worker M and I broke away before the others to head back early, but on the way to the station, M said, “”Shall we do purikura?” which I just can’t say no to.
We followed the suggested pose for…well, all of them.
Finally, I caught the train, and as luck would have it, I caught a seat as well. Since I knew the terminal station was Shiki, I put my headphones in and fell asleep. The next thing I know, I’m being roused by a security guard to let me know the train was empty, and I abruptly jumped up and ran off the train. Tonight was the first time I’ve ever fallen asleep like that; I may have been sleeping with my head tllted back and my mouth open; but who can tell?
I waited for the next train to come, and it seemed to take forever. As it pulled in, I began to wish it had–in the compartment of the oncoming train that I was in queue for was one of my students. I would hesitate to say she is my worst, so let’s just say she’s not my star student. Which is not to say I don’t like her–she makes an effort and all, but in today’s two person class…well, I was glad when it ended. But she is so fashionable; she’s probably my best dressed student.
In my head I was thinking, “Now what is she up to so late at night?” Then I checked my watch and discovered it was only 10:30, which made me feel pretty old. As the doors opened and she got off, I wasn’t sure if she would see me; and for a moment, it looked like I might be in the clear, but then she suddenly looked to her side and said, “Jillian!” (because who am I kidding? I must be the only blonde in a mile radius). Now, my mind went through a panic about which language to go with, and in the end, I pointed down the tracks and said, “Tsuruse!” (my station), followed by, “Have a good niiiiight!” I have no idea if she replied or not, but I imagine Monday should be interesting.
*Not saying I had those drinks spread out over 5 hours…
whereisjillian 
