Arriving

And, just like that, I have arrived.

I've stepped into the best of foreign lands where they say things like "chock-a-block" and "knackered" and "jolly good." More importantly I've landed at Bryanston, where one could walk around Dorset for hours, swinging a walking stick and smelling the wheat.



But first things first. I like nesting almost as much as I like handwritten letters, so I've got to get these suitcases unpacked. My flat, which is mine, all mine for the year, has two stories, all the basic furniture I need, and "heaps" of natural light. As I lug my worldly goods up the stairs, I can hear the fountain in our little courtyard sing and spill over the bricks, and it is a calming soundtrack.

I did ask my housemistress, in a fit of elation, "Don't you just love living with such a beautiful courtyard?" but judging from her, "Ah, yeah, well..." she has chosen to be joyful about more important things.

That was probably my biggest American Moment today, gushing about the courtyard. But give me time; it's only 2:30.



Sometime this afternoon, Julia and I are going to go for a walk to keep ourselves awake. Given that jet lag is real, and that Julia didn't sleep at all on her plane ride, it may be more languid saunter than brisk stroll. But, as if it's taken pity on us, the Dorset sky has brightened and the sun beams (in contrast to two weeks of solid rain before we got here).

As Julia says, this is the "Best. Life."

Oh, hell!

One of my favorite bands is playing in Chattanooga. In ten days. As in, ten days after I leave. Have a listen, feel my pain.

Pick Up, Ship Out

Well, the day has arrived. I am packing a year's worth of worldly goods into two suitcases, a mandolin case, and a backpack. I depart tomorrow.

Of course, there's squaring away the necessaries (clothes, travel-sized toothpaste, too many shoes), along with the safeguards against deportation (visa, british bank statement, police background check). Check, check, check.

Occupying my thoughts right now, however, is the non-essentials packing list. After all, I have a flat to decorate and homesickness to ward off. So I've decided to stuff the following items into reluctant nooks and crannies:

1) A color photograph of the Rotunda at sunset. Don't judge.

2) Pictures of friends and family. I will summon my minimal craft skills and wrangle these 30 prints into a tasteful collage when I arrive.

3) About a dozen books. You may think, "how excessive! Rick Steves would be ashamed." but if you'd seen my bookcase at Virginia, you'd applaud my economy. A few titles:

- To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee.
- Complete Stories, Flannery O'Connor.
- Pale Horse, Pale Rider: Three Short Novels, Katherine Anne Porter

4) Trail maps of the surrounding regions (Smokies, Appalachian Trail, Blue Ridge Parkway), to be tacked on the walls as posters, and to serve as helpful guides to the schoolchildren about Where Exactly It Is I'm From.

5) Stationery. I love snail mail; I think it reaffirms our value as individuals when we send and receive handwritten letters. Also, one of my grandmothers proudly sniffs that she "doesn't have an Internet," so packing envelopes is as much about utility as it is about my principles.

6) I had asked the housemistress of my dormitory if my flat would have a coffeepot. She replied that this must be an area where UK and US vocabulary differ, and that it's "usually it's just a kettle and instant" over there. My normal breathing pattern returned, I now have a small stash of that Starbucks Via stuff, which is reportedly the least like poison one can find in the instant-coffee aisle. It will have to do until I can get a french press and start making the real deal.

Clearly I'm procrastinating. But before I finish packing, I still plan to go on a hike with the Parents. It's a beautiful day, and I'm going to miss this kind of heat.