Letter to a Georgian Town
Dear Bath,
To begin my tale with the beginning of my tale I record that I left the United States (as I have been informed and believe) on the 1st of February 2004. It was remarked that the plane took off and I began to gain weight from drinking, simultaneously. Thus my adventure abroad began with an eight hour flight in which I could not sleep but kept looking at a bright light hovering near the wing of the plane, thinking, “God, that other plane is awfully close to us.” (I later realized this light was, in fact, on the wing of my OWN plane).
I then arrived, one train ride and two buses later, starving and unbearably cranky. Being in this my present state of mind, I met my FOUR other roommates of which I was to spend the following months. What they made of me then, disheveled, bespectacled, and uncharacteristically mad at humanity in those crucial moments of first impression, God only knows. But here I am, again, disheveled (but clean), bespectacled, and only annoyed with humanity, nearing the end of my time abroad. To say it went by too fast is cliché. To say I am coming back a new person is a lie. This statement is ludicrous for two reasons; firstly, one would hope, if I were to come back a ‘brand new person’ I would bear a remarkably strong resemblance to Beyonce. More importantly, saying I have come back a better person implies that there was something inherently weak or middling about my person before my time here, and I am not ‘OK’ with making that statement. Whether or not this experience has changed me remains to be seen in a little unfolding story I like to call, the Rest of My Life.
In my time here I have established that I am quite the cynic, regardless of geography. I have seen castles, abbeys, ruins, volcanoes, masterpieces of Western art, the Royal Shakespeare Company; I have discovered the wonders of the Duty-Free, drunk karaoke, bastard-salsa on a table in a Sicilian bar, been quasi-robbed in London, repeatedly informed the Brits to ‘wait until the beat is dropped’ and watched hours of v. bad British TV. I have established that my drunken fuckwittage knows no bounds, nor language barriers. I am more than ever convinced of the importance of history in understanding the world and people around me. I have learned, in the process of a prolonged and painful nose piercing, that one in fifty people have cartilage as thick as mine. I realized that being far from your family and your best friends isn’t so hard when you find a new family in 14 North Parade (Holla).
How can you measure all of these experiences I am taking back with me as somehow creating a ‘better’ person? That, in every sense of the word, is Bollocks. I am the same person I was four months ago, who is still growing (horizontally it would seem) and changing regardless of the continent she is on, who is still looking for her niche, who is just coming home with a lot of good stories and even more pictures. I have not reached Nirvana; I am not utterly convinced of the good or evil of mankind; I have not met anyone of any nationality that will be my future husband (so none of those questions, please).
Leaving is bittersweet, because I already miss you and the wonderful people I have met here. I know I will be back, but it is still difficult to leave all the same. Regardless of my sentiments however, Virgin Atlantic Airways in collaboration with the cost of living in Britain has dictated that I am to return on May 23.
Until then, please know, you will always find a most constant, devoted friend in,
MB
(circa late May 2004)
To begin my tale with the beginning of my tale I record that I left the United States (as I have been informed and believe) on the 1st of February 2004. It was remarked that the plane took off and I began to gain weight from drinking, simultaneously. Thus my adventure abroad began with an eight hour flight in which I could not sleep but kept looking at a bright light hovering near the wing of the plane, thinking, “God, that other plane is awfully close to us.” (I later realized this light was, in fact, on the wing of my OWN plane).
I then arrived, one train ride and two buses later, starving and unbearably cranky. Being in this my present state of mind, I met my FOUR other roommates of which I was to spend the following months. What they made of me then, disheveled, bespectacled, and uncharacteristically mad at humanity in those crucial moments of first impression, God only knows. But here I am, again, disheveled (but clean), bespectacled, and only annoyed with humanity, nearing the end of my time abroad. To say it went by too fast is cliché. To say I am coming back a new person is a lie. This statement is ludicrous for two reasons; firstly, one would hope, if I were to come back a ‘brand new person’ I would bear a remarkably strong resemblance to Beyonce. More importantly, saying I have come back a better person implies that there was something inherently weak or middling about my person before my time here, and I am not ‘OK’ with making that statement. Whether or not this experience has changed me remains to be seen in a little unfolding story I like to call, the Rest of My Life.
In my time here I have established that I am quite the cynic, regardless of geography. I have seen castles, abbeys, ruins, volcanoes, masterpieces of Western art, the Royal Shakespeare Company; I have discovered the wonders of the Duty-Free, drunk karaoke, bastard-salsa on a table in a Sicilian bar, been quasi-robbed in London, repeatedly informed the Brits to ‘wait until the beat is dropped’ and watched hours of v. bad British TV. I have established that my drunken fuckwittage knows no bounds, nor language barriers. I am more than ever convinced of the importance of history in understanding the world and people around me. I have learned, in the process of a prolonged and painful nose piercing, that one in fifty people have cartilage as thick as mine. I realized that being far from your family and your best friends isn’t so hard when you find a new family in 14 North Parade (Holla).
How can you measure all of these experiences I am taking back with me as somehow creating a ‘better’ person? That, in every sense of the word, is Bollocks. I am the same person I was four months ago, who is still growing (horizontally it would seem) and changing regardless of the continent she is on, who is still looking for her niche, who is just coming home with a lot of good stories and even more pictures. I have not reached Nirvana; I am not utterly convinced of the good or evil of mankind; I have not met anyone of any nationality that will be my future husband (so none of those questions, please).
Leaving is bittersweet, because I already miss you and the wonderful people I have met here. I know I will be back, but it is still difficult to leave all the same. Regardless of my sentiments however, Virgin Atlantic Airways in collaboration with the cost of living in Britain has dictated that I am to return on May 23.
Until then, please know, you will always find a most constant, devoted friend in,
MB
(circa late May 2004)
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