another successful interaction with the opposite sex

“I write this post crammed in a bus with an alarming number of people” was how this post was supposed to start off. I was going to paint you the most splendid of portraits of the hot, crowded, slightly smelly night megabus from London to Edinburgh. And then my seat mate started talking. At first I didn't mind, nothing wrong with a bit of conversation since we were going to spend 9ish hours next to each other. But you know the sensation of when a conversation is careening toward a steep, steep cliff? And you reach out to try and pull it back and just watch it slip past your outstretched finger tips, down into the dark, murky, and uncomfortable abyss? That pretty much sums up my bus buddy experience.

Things started off well enough, chatting with this man who was old enough to be my father - "where ya from? where ya going?" type deal. And then with an astonishing demonstration of how many wrong turns don't make a right I found myself flabbergasted on the receiving end of an invitation to be his date to a wedding in Spain that summer. This was before I had even told him my name. I had just listened to the lengthy list of “awesome” stag (bachelor) parties he had been to in Amsterdam – side effect of having been in The Netherlands and the conversation had trickled into weddings. I shouldn’t have even brought it up in the first place, but I was so very desperate to stop hearing about his wild times in Amsterdam, I made a joke about how everyone and their brother at home was getting married. Before I knew it he was telling me about the empty plus one that he had for this Spanish wedding and looking at me with expectant eyes.

At first I just laughed, thinking that there was no possible way he could be serious, and then realized that this man was indeed, desperate enough to invite a complete stranger to be his date to this event. I could practically see Liz Lemon walking through announcing: "shut it down".

I used every line in the book to deflect that one - some true, some un, whatever would get me out of that mess. Then I tried to steer the conversation away from all things marriage, prattling on about something like The Netherlands and teaching and whatnot, but as soon as I paused my filibuster to catch my breath, he switched us back to stag parties and all the good ones he barely remembers. Mercy. There was finally a long enough pause in conversation that I was able to shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep. Unfortunately, with my backpack jammed down at my feet, there wasn’t much room to comfortably “be asleep”. I shifted back and forth, trying to find a suitable position. Unable to situate myself, I opened my eyes to fold my coat into a good shape and found my seat buddy staring at me with earnest eyes, offering me a blow-up camping pillow. Still a little perturbed by our earlier interaction, I very politely refused, telling him that I couldn’t possibly take his pillow. And that is when he looked me square in the eye and said, “but I blew it up for you”

…

Nope, nope, nope. Nopenopenopenope. 

Again, I refused and went back to “sleeping” for the rest of our journey. I’m sure he was just trying to be kind, but a girl’s gotta look out for herself, especially when traveling alone. But oh, how talking to strangers can be fun. 

the post-internship adventure begins

I had a little less than 24 hours in London. Stepping off the plane, I found my giant suitcase and checked it for the remainder of the week then armed with just my backpack, took the long elevator ride down to catch the Piccadilly line. I watched crowded houses and compact gardens fade into the dark tunnels of the Underground. With a stupid grin, I disembarked at Gloucester Road and stepped off onto the flurry of people. Finally, something I recognized.

Two years ago I spent six weeks studying abroad in at Richmond University’s Kensington campus so knowing that I’d be on my own for the evening, I naturally selected a hostel in that area. It didn’t take long to find my hostel – an old brownstone around the block from where I lived during my study abroad. After dropping my bags, I retraced my steps from two years previous. It was a hollow happiness to be there without my study abroad friends, unreal to be walking along Queens Gate Terrace without a gaggle of girls laughing and chattering about our next big adventure. I made an early night, exhausted from the previous days and eager to start the following day. A friend of mine from Auburn happened to be studying abroad in London during this semester so when I awoke the next morning, I met her at the Tube station. We headed to Le Pain for breakfast – oh how I missed those scones – and then wandered into the Victoria and Albert. During my summer study abroad, I may have pushed myself a bit too hard. Trying to cram all of London (and Ireland) into six weeks took a pretty big toll on my immune system and England, in her fickle way, kicked me to the curb exhausted and sick with bronchitis. My point in this is, the last time I tried to visit the V & A, I made it about ten feet in the door before my little lungs started acting up. Trying to be subtle, I tried looking at the exhibits with my mouth pressed against the crook of my arm as my lungs seized and attempted to make a bid for freedom through the nearest orifice. By the third room I could feel people’s eyes on the back of my neck surely wondering, “dear goodness, this girl must have the plague”. Naturally, I took my leave before long. Back to the present, the V & A was at the top of my “things that I didn’t get to do list” – Rachel and I wandered for hours without anyone thinking I was a plague victim. Success.

Later we wove our way over to Portabello Market and on to Holland Park, grabbed a beer at her local pub, and after a couple hours of down time, returned there later for dinner. We said goodbye after dinner and I took to the Tube once more, headed to Victoria Bus Station.

Of all my misadventures with the opposite sex (and anyone who knows me well enough will know that I have quite a cache of stories) my midnight bus trip to Scotland might hit the top five on the Most Uncomfortable list. But that’s a story for another time. Stay tuned!

see you later, not goodbye. part two

Remember my friend, Caroline? The other girl from Auburn who did her internship in Ireland, who I spent the Parisian part of my spring break with? Well she came to visit for my last weekend. It worked out perfectly, almost. Saskia and I left Ester’s house on Friday night and went to the train station in Arnhem where we both would be able to catch the 52 bus back to our respective homes. We located Caroline and got on the bus.

So, the way that the buses are laid out, there are several rows of two-seaters facing forward but at the front of the bus, there are a set of seats on either side of the aisle with a two-seater facing backward so that, hypothetically, four people could sit together like they were sitting around a dinner table. As we got on the bus there was one young man sitting in one of those clusters, but we thought nothing of it as we popped into the three remaining seats – with me sitting next to the guy, facing Caroline and Saskia. The first part of the journey passed without issue, me prattling on trying to bridge the gap between my two stranger friends. Probably half way through the journey home was when things got interesting. Out of nowhere our quiet seat companion erupted. I wish I was talking about a verbal eruption, I really, really do. But oh no, homefry turned into a human fountain, spewing vomit out in front him. We leapt up with various screeches as he stumbled to the trashcan built into the side of the bus. Upon further inspection, my friends had only been hit with some sideline shrapnel, but still. It was hardly even 22:00. Get it together, man.

playing dress up at the cheese museum 

As the man knelt by the trashcan the bus driver pulled over and opened the door, but when he was finished with the trashcan, the man just returned to his seat and the bus drove on. Needless to say we strategically relocated for the rest of the ride. When we reached my stop, I said ‘see you later’ to Saskia, taking care to avoid her puke flecked pants, and headed home.

The next morning we made a lazy start toward Amsterdam. A brief coffee stopover in Utrecht and an hour by train later, we were making our way through the crowded streets. Dropping our stuff at our hostel we set about exploring the city. The next two days I did my best to be a good tour guide, showing Caroline the big landmarks and making sure she had a wide sampling of cheese. We took a tour along the canals and visited the Cheese Museum, had plenty of coffee, and wore a hole in the bottom of our shoes. On Saturday we stumbled upon the world’s largest pillow fight in Dom Square and

world's largest pillow fight 

naturally joined the fray. Snatching artillery from a couple of guys we proceeded to beat and be beaten in the fluffy frenzy. For the rest of the day every time we passed a window or mirror I found a new feather to pull out of my hair.  

I left her early Monday morning to catch the train back to Renkum and began the tedious process of packing. I had some quick errands to run and didn’t do nearly enough before my host family came home and I decided that packing was less important.

I finally got everything jammed into a suitcase or the absurdly expensive box that I sent home midmorning on Tuesday. Between all the presents and snacks that my students, friends, and family had given me there was a considerable amount of “oh sh…. this isn’t going to fit”. Marlene and I climbed in the car around midday so that she could drop me at the train station. We arrived with plenty of time before the train arrived and hoisted my giant suitcase down the steps. Stepping onto the platform, we checked the train schedule to find that everything was running behind, everything. Apparently, the train had hit a person that morning throwing all the trains off. Panic started to flood my stomach as we drove further on to try to get ahead of the accident, but to no avail. All the trains were crawling if they were moving at all. And I thought my biggest issue was going to be the construction at Amsterdam Centraal. Luckily, Marlene offered to drive me all the way to Schipol Airport. We arrived with plenty of time to spare but by the time we got there I was so ready to check that bag and just be securely on the plane. It was only when the plane started it’s ascent that the weight of leaving flooded my psyche and I burst into tears. Which, if you know me at all, crying over anything, especially in public, is a really big deal.

Trying to stem my leaking eyes, it was impossible to repress the rush of memories as I tried to remind myself that it was ‘see you later’, not ‘goodbye’.

not goodbye, just see you later

In the frenzy of exams it was easy to get swept up into having a week just like any other. With no classes to teach, I marked essays and caught up on my PWS and reflection letters. Halfway through the week one of the English teachers wanted a break from HAVO oral exams which meant that I got to tag in, helping proctor the exam for the students. In a fitting full circle, I did my first day of exams with Ester just like I had at the beginning of the semester. Sorry HAVO for being the most distracting test proctors of all time. Day two, I partnered up with Bert which meant that I proctored tests for some of the students that I had taught. One poor boy came in trembling like a leaf in hurricane.

Surely as a means to channel some of the excess nervous energy, he interspersed his apologies for his bad English with wild gesticulation and somewhere in the frenzy managed to scratch the skin off one of his fingers. As he spoke, his hands danced wildly, leaving a bright red trail of blood everywhere. On the desk, on the test, on him. Everywhere. But, so focused on the task at hand, the boy never once stopped and noticed the bodily fluids he was leaving behind. By the time the exam was over, it looked like a massacre had occurred in our classroom. Just setting the atmosphere for the next student to walk into, right? (just kidding, we cleaned it up after the student left)

My last day at Marnix passed like any other, save for the occasional “this isn’t goodbye, just see you laters” interspersed throughout the day. I had saved a bunch of grading so that I could keep busy and not obsess about it being “the final day” which was probably for the best. At the end of the day I was presented with the best of Dutch tradition: a pair of wooden shoes signed by everyone I worked with and the finest of Dutch cuisine, raw herring. In the spirit of cultural immersion I agreed weeks ago to try this traditional snack, thinking that we would talk about it and talk about it but that it would never actually happen. But there it was, Friday afternoon sitting on the staff room table: skinny slabs of raw fish, tail still attached. I watched in fascination as people grabbed them by the tail, held it above their head and lowered the slimy piece of raw fish into their mouth.

I had made Ester promise to try it with me since she hadn’t tried herring in years so when she was done giving her last oral exam we took the plunge together. Tentatively pinching the tail, we gave a fishy “cheers” and took a bite. For the first half second, as the fish sat on my tongue, it was merely a rice and seaweed-less sushi taste. And then it hit. Grease oozed out of the uncooked flesh as the taste of fish and salt overwhelmed my taste buds. It felt like I would never get the remnants of the sea and slick oils out of my mouth.

 “Nope, nope, nope, I’m done.”

Poor Ester looked like we were going to see her chunk of fish again. We quickly tried to flush out the tastes as our colleagues laughed at our green faces. [to see the video, click here: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=850506884975941&set=vb.100000499131104&type=2&theater ] 

I left the building that afternoon without fuss. Said “see you later” to the last of my friends and headed to the train station for the last time with Ester. After bragging for weeks about the Indonesian food that the Netherlands did so well, we had run out of time to go to a restaurant and decided that we would just cook some instead. Well, I say “we” would cook but what I really mean is that Ester would cook and I would try not to butcher chopping vegetables. That evening Ester, Saskia (who joined us later) and I stuffed ourselves silly on some delicious, make-your-mouth-burn-and-your-head-sweat Indonesian food – which was the perfect way to kill off that lingering herring taste.