A Stirling Diary: An Intercultural Story of Communication, Connection, and Coming-Of-Age

By Shelley D. Lane

She peered into the steaming crater of Mt. Aetna, slid up an icy mountain in Bavaria, and was marched to a shabby police station in Tunisia. She also had some important decisions to make while she spent her junior year abroad as an exchange student at the University of Stirling in Scotland. Should she remain dependent on her noncommittal boyfriend or should she risk loneliness and abandon her dreams of their future? Should she focus on marriage, attend graduate school, or should she begin a career? What should she do with her life?

The rousing narrative in A Stirling Diary chronicles humorous encounters with Brit-speak, rollicking adventures in Europe and Africa, and the appreciation of and affection for the Scottish people. Shelley shares honest and occasionally raw descriptions of her struggles to adapt not only to various cultures but also to discover her own self-worth in the process.

A Stirling Diary is not just a fascinating travel journal; its also an inspiring personal story that illustrates the transformation of an insecure young girl to an empowered young woman who looks inward to survive betrayal and depression.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450240529

Shelley D. Lane

Shelley D. Lane believes that the ten months she lived in Scotland were the best of her life. Her interest in intercultural communication influences her work as an author, teacher, and public speaker. She is a professor of communications and Associate Dean at the University of Texas at Dallas.

Book preview

Preface

The three journals that chronicled the year I studied abroad were well worn and faded. I thought about the journals for approximately 25 years before I could bring myself to look at them. The journals survived a move to Wisconsin and then a move to Texas (and three moves within the Lone Star State); a breakup, a marriage, a breakup, and another marriage; and three children; six cats, and three dogs. I had last read the journals in 1979 and subsequently threw them in a memory trunk. But they were always there, in the back of my mind, just waiting to be read for a second time.

I participated in a workshop about life goals and it was there that reading the journals became more than just something to do when I grew old and retired. The workshop taught me that my passions were Britain and writing, which of course I had known for decades. It was only when another participant asked how I might combine these passions that the journals immediately came to mind. Soon thereafter fate provided me with two reasons why I should read them again: a new president at the community college where I worked who made Attila the Hun appear weak and timid, and foot surgery that had me in crutches for four months. I finally returned to the journals to keep my mind away from the workplace bully and to forget that I wasn’t easily mobile. I remembered that I was embarrassed about my immaturity when I read the journals at 22 years of age, but I thought that at age 43, I would focus on Shelley’s adventures in Scotland and beyond and enjoy a light-hearted travelogue. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

Instead of a story that merely provided descriptions of location after location, I read entries written by a young woman who was in the midst of a personal transformation. She was opinionated yet tolerant, open to new experiences yet set in her ways, and ethnocentric yet fascinated with other cultures. She began her year abroad with little self-esteem but returned home empowered and confident. I also learned why she descended into a debilitating depression upon her return to the States, and how the same people who loved and cared for her almost 25 years earlier still loved and cared for her today. I could hardly believe this young woman was me. I answered a number of questions that had haunted me for years, such as why I felt such an intense sense of betrayal after my arrival back in California and why I was so motivated to become independent and successful. I realized why I experienced overwhelming feelings of helplessness and hopelessness, and why I was driven to receive both a M.A. and Ph.D. in only three years, at the age of 25.

After reading the journals, I began to slowly but steadily use the computer to record those handwritten thoughts and experiences from long ago. The editing process was painstaking - I sometimes wrote in the journals about the same incident in two separate entries, and at other times I read, I forgot to mention in the entry I wrote three days ago that . . . Because of my young children and busy teaching schedule, I concentrated on editing the journals during holidays and summer breaks. I worked on recording the entries on and off for about eight years, and in between I wrote a textbook, numerous academic and popular press articles, and I gave presentations to community organizations and at academic conferences. And then I finished. I gave myself three years to find an agent or publisher, and in the end, realized I could paper my entire study with rejection notices. The last notice included the following: You demonstrate a clear sense of purpose in your writing and we enjoyed reading your work. While your project exhibits potential, we’re afraid it doesn’t have the trade crossover element that we are seeking for our lists. Translation: Your book won’t make us money. I therefore decided to self-publish.

I could not have put in the time and effort needed to record, edit and publish A Stirling Diary without the support and help from the people I love most. To my best friend Helene Gilbert; my mother and father, Rita A. Lane and Dr. Simon M. Lane; my husband, Loren Miller, Ph.D.; and to my children, Ethan, Elizabeth, and Ariana, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I thank you, the reader, for your interest in the three tattered journals that became A Stirling Diary. Feel free to contact me by accessing my website, http://www.AStirlingDiary.com, my Facebook page, and by following me on Twitter. Please recommend A Stirling Diary to your friends and colleagues!

Shelley D. Lane, Ph.D.

Associate Dean for Undergraduate Education

School of Arts and Humanities

The University of Texas at Dallas

Contents

Preface

PROLOGUE

(On the plane, or how it all began)

CHAPTER 1

(Or how I survived a 24 hour trip from L.A. to London, hugged a boulder at Stonehenge, and talked about reincarnation and sex in Dracula’s favorite town)

CHAPTER 2

(Or how I met new friends, taught myself to cook,

and discovered British English)

CHAPTER 3

(Or how I struggled with cultural differences, kissed a gorgeous Greek, and learned to like myself)

CHAPTER 4

(Or how I sailed across Loch Lomond, explored my host family’s castle, and missed the boy left behind)

CHAPTER 5

(Or how I braved home-sickness, spent Christmas in London,

and met my college roommate in Paris)

CHAPTER 6

(Or how I slid up a mountain in Bavaria, waltzed in a ballroom in Austria, and spent an odiferous night in Zurich)

CHAPTER 7

(Or how I became seasick on the way to Capri, peered into a steaming volcano in Sicily, and ate my way across Italy)

CHAPTER 8

(Or how I was hauled to a police station in Tunisia, appreciated my return to Stirling, and finally met my blonde-haired, blue-eyed Englishman who sings when he speaks)

CHAPTER 9

(Or how I fell ill with the flu, flirted with my philosophy tutor,

and was forced to ponder decisions about the future)

CHAPTER 10

(Or how, along with my parents, I blew a fuse in Edinburgh, received a puzzling message from a spiritualist, and faced the inevitability of returning home)

CHAPTER 11

(Or how I lived in a manor house during a philosophy reading party, zoomed through fields of daffodils in an MG, and found myself on a 747 heading west across the pond)

EPILOGUE

(Or how it all ended)

PROLOGUE

(On the plane, or how it all began)

September 2, 1977, 12:55 a.m., USA

Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout, Doo-Doo Bird? I wince as an elbow jabs my ribs. The question comes from my dear roommate and friend, Vanessa, who is sitting to my right.

I smile weakly and say, I’m thinking about being left alone so I can write in my journal. Unfortunately, this is only a half-truth. I am thinking about tears. I am thinking about Kyle Markowitz.

Tears. The kind that are warm and salty and slowly trickle down my cheek. These are the tears that surprised me when I ran to greet Kyle after a three week absence. He scooped me up and twirled me around and around. His shirt was moist after I rested my head on his shoulder.

Tears. The kind that gush with an intense fury like a bursting dam. These are the tears that flowed from my eyes when Kyle said he’d never keep me from living in Britain.

Watcha’ doin,’ Nincumpoot? asks Vanessa, as I am elbowed in my ribs again.

I’m thinking that I can’t believe I’m really on my way to Scotland, I respond.

Here we go again! Vanessa says with mock exasperation, and she rolls her eyes for emphasis. I know my comment will shut her up.

Vanessa calls me silly names like Nincumpoot, Skell and Doo-Doo Bird. She has almond shaped eyes and is the color of cinnamon coffee made rich with sweet cream. I am on my way to spend my junior year of college at the University of Stirling, Scotland, and Vanessa will study at the University of Poitiers, France. Most people in this stuffy chartered flight will attend French universities; only twelve of us will study at the University of Stirling. But I am not thinking about studying or about Scotland.

Tears. The kind that never leave your eyes and are visible to others. These are the tears that reveal deep sorrow and communicate more than words. These are the tears that filled Kyle’s eyes as we said our good-byes at the airport.

Hey Skell, do ya think Tony and Kyle are thinking about us? asks Vanessa.

I hope Tony is thinking about you, and Kyle better be thinking about me! I answer. At that moment, we lurch forward and back.

Damn! Turbulence! Vanessa hisses. The plane is packed, smelly, and hotter than hell. The three seat—three seat arrangement makes the middle aisle very narrow, yet people manage to squeeze around each other and talk to strangers who might attend their universities. The door of the overhead rack across from us is partially open and I see two huge stuffed iguanas whose tails and tushies provide an interesting view. The people in the aisle make me nervous; I turn my head and my nose touches an armpit. I wish I could sleep, but I cannot. So I’ll close my eyes and think about tears. More later.

September 3, 5:00 a.m. USA time, somewhere over the Atlantic

I’m still on the airplane, still on my way to France. What a trip this has been. Thank goodness the graduate student sitting to my left has finally gone to sleep. For some reason he has decided to enlighten me about his intellect. On and on he drones … and after I conducted my field research in Guam, my advisor insisted that I publish. Of course, being a doctoral student, it was a great honor. Yawn.

Kyle, what will become of us? Will this year bring us closer or will it tear us apart? Will I be included in your future? I am afraid of loving you because I have bared my soul to you and am vulnerable. On the other hand, I am afraid of not loving you and finding myself alone. I am afraid of the important choices I will be forced to make once I return to California. Do I apply to graduate schools? Do I look for a job when I graduate? Do I give you an ultimatum and force you to marry me? Ahh, but these decisions are not of immediate importance. The truth is I am afraid of being alone and taking care of myself once I arrive in Stirling.

… and I’m probably going to do post-doctoral work at UW Madison. No doubt I’ll be the youngest Ph.D. in the department, and of course, I’ll already have publications under my belt. Blah-blah-blah. This pseudo-intellectual has awakened and is full of hot air, as is this airplane.

I think I’ve had a maximum of three hours of sleep during the past twenty-four. I am excited, terrified, ecstatic, anxious, and … exhausted. I haven’t the foggiest idea how the next 10 months will play out. I have decided to keep my eyes open, listen intently, and record it all in this journal. I hope I can stick with it. I’ll try my best.

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER: TRAVELS & TRIBULATIONS

(Or how I survived a 24 hour trip from L.A. to London, hugged a boulder at Stonehenge, and talked about reincarnation and sex in Dracula’s favorite town)

September 4, 2:20 p.m., London

I’m exhausted, but I must force myself to write in my journal. To make a long story short, after a stop in Maine for refueling, our two hour layover turned into a nine hour test of endurance. An assistant air traffic controller strike and a mechanical breakdown caused the delay. We were finally able to take off after we traded time slots with a cargo jet, but the new route took us close to the North Pole. The result—a seven hour flight from Maine to Paris.

I deplaned at Orly airport feeling bedraggled but with a surprising sense of self-reliance. Vanessa and I went to the crowded baggage claim area and I noticed that many ladies wore spiked heels and loose, pajama-like clothing. One little boy sat on a pile of luggage on a cart and pretended to be a police car. He made a baa-boh, baa-boh! noise as his dad pushed him past us. How funny; in America, the little boy probably would have imitated a police siren with a Whrrrrrrrrr! Poor Vanessa, her luggage carrier wouldn’t work and she was worn out. She attempted to place an elastic rope over her baggage at least three times and cried as it continued to break. Finally, in her suit, nylons and high heels, Vanessa tottered unsteadily away, pathetically dragging her luggage outside of the claim area. I couldn’t help with her bags because I was struggling with my own. I kissed Vanessa good-bye in the cold outside air and watched her stumble toward the bus that would take her to her French university. I was the last one to join the group of Stirling students waiting for a bus. Dr. Aaron Pearson, the Assistant Director of the University of California, Education Abroad Program (EAP) in Britain, smiled happily and said, There you are! as I approached the crowd. We were wondering what happened to you! All of us looked beat. Unfortunately, we discovered that there were still a few travel surprises awaiting us. Dr. Pearson told us that we had missed our connecting flight to Heathrow because of our late arrival at Orly. Therefore, he made different flight arrangements for us to go to England. However, we would leave Paris from De Gaulle airport and arrive at London’s Gatwick airport. So the disheveled Stirling group boarded a bus to go to a different airport to catch a flight to England.

Although tired, I enjoyed the one-hour bus ride to De Gaulle. Paris scenery is unusual. I saw familiar-looking stone houses with windowsill flower boxes, painted shutters, and slanted tile roofs. However, right next door there were modern buildings made of glass. De Gaulle airport looked like something right out of Star Wars. It is sleek and futuristic with shiny steel beams and silver escalators that shoot into the sky. I became excited when our scheduled 7:30 p.m. departure time drew near, but once again, the plane was delayed. By this time I was so exhausted I could hardly think straight. Along with two other Stirling-bound students, Lynda and Meg, I dragged myself out of my chair to search for food. We eventually found a bar where we could obtain a meal. I was shocked when I discovered that a ham omelet cost 25 francs, or $5.00. Lucky for us, the waiter accepted dollars and we didn’t have to search the airport for an exchange kiosk. My next shock was the beverage. I ordered an expensive, one dollar cup of coffee to go with my dinner and I was served a teeny-tiny cup of the most bitter-tasting stuff I have ever put into my mouth! Dr. Pearson explained, You automatically receive ‘espresso’ when you order coffee in France. You’re supposed to stir in a cube or two of sugar and then drink it. All I can say is, Yechhh!

Finally our British Caledonian flight departed one and a half hours late. I barely had time to catch my breath and pinch myself before we deplaned, retrieved our luggage, and passed through customs. We then boarded another bus for the one-and-a-half hour ride to our dorms in London. How I wanted to stay awake to enjoy the sights of London at night. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep myself from dozing off while sitting upright, and my jaw constantly dropped with a loud pop! that awakened me. In addition, pains that felt like electric shocks jolted me from the bottom of my spine to the base of my neck. In all, it took approximately twenty-four hours to get from Los Angeles to London. If I factor in the time zones, I can say that I left California on Sunday and arrived in England on Tuesday.

So here I am in the Astor College dorms, my home for the three-day orientation in London. Once I entered my assigned room, I discovered that there were no curtains on my window. In fact, I could look directly into a window in a building across the street! Unfortunately, I realized that someone from that building could also do the same. Since there was no furniture I could hide behind while I dressed and undressed, I walked into the hall to see if any of the male students would switch rooms with me. I spied Lynda, who was complaining up a storm. The toilets smell, she groused. She also griped that the boxes for female products were overflowing. I was beyond exhausted and didn’t respond to her angry complaints, but asked if she knew of a guy who might trade rooms with me. Lynda gave me the room number of a student named Mike. I tentatively knocked on Mike’s door and I was greeted by an extremely tall fellow with black wavy hair and a slight moustache, freckles, sparkling eyes, and a friendly gaze.

Uh, hi, I stammered. My room doesn’t have any curtains, and Lynda said that maybe you’d switch with me. I was so tired that I couldn’t tell if I was making any sense.

Mike smiled and responded, Sure. I’ll trade with you. Let me help you with your stuff. Hurray! I could now undress without worry. The next hurdle was to take a shower and wash my hair. Although I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, I couldn’t stand the way I smelled and I didn’t want to subject my new Stirling buddies to my odor the next day. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled off to the showers to find them plugged with stagnant, murky water. Again, I was too tired to care. The shower bottoms were in the shape of squares, and the outer perimeters were raised with small tiles. There I stood, legs spread apart and my feet resting on opposite sides of the raised tiles. I breathed through my mouth to avoid the stench of the filthy bathroom and prayed that I wouldn’t slip into the muck below. Finally, I practically sleep-walked back to my room and don’t remember turning off the light or falling into bed. I do remember feeling ravenously hungry at 3:00 a.m. and devouring an entire carton of cookies!

I awakened this morning feeling surprisingly good, considering my lack of sleep and jet lag. After a dorm breakfast, the Stirling EAP students set off for Hampton Court, Henry VIII’s Tudor palace. We met Dr. Craig Gilbert, the other UC Britain Study Director, and along with Dr. Pearson, hired rowboats to take us to Hampton Court. The rowboats held four, and I shared a boat with Lynda and two other students, Bob and Maggie. We experienced beautiful weather while taking turns rowing up the Thames. I could hardly believe that I was in London and using transport that was common during Tudor times.

Hampton Court was built in the early 1500s by Thomas, Cardinal Wolsey. Wolsey received many royal posts when Henry VIII ascended the throne and he eventually was named Lord Chancellor of England. However, Wolsey was unable to persuade the Pope to annul Henry’s marriage to first wife Catherine of Aragon, and he fell out of favor with the King. Wolsey gave his home, Hampton Court, to Henry VIII in an attempt to salvage his political power and royal favor. King Henry brought most of his wives to Hampton Court, and his only son, Edward VI was born there. The history of the Palace is awe inspiring. I remember watching The Six Wives of Henry VIII on television when I was about fourteen or fifteen and I cried when the series ended because I was overwhelmed with the larger-than-life figure of Henry VIII. As I walked through the Palace, I felt the same way that I did while watching the series on television. Every now and then, I touched a wall or a wooden doorway and relished the sensation of the rough boards against my fingers. However, there was something more than the feel of the dark-hued wood that thrilled me. I kept saying to myself, King Henry could have touched this very spot!

Lynda, Mark and I stayed at Hampton Court later than the rest of our group and we had dinner at the snack shop on the Palace grounds. While lapping up my yogurt, Mark commented, I had the strangest thing happen to me during the night. I got up at about 3:00 in the morning and was so hungry that I ate a whole box of granola that I brought with me from home. I burst out laughing; I guess both our stomachs are still on California time. We decided to take a train back to the dorms after drinking our tea. We walked to the station and boarded an old compartment train to return to Astor. A family from Scotland shared the compartment with us and they gave us directions to easily find our way back to the dorms. One little Scottish girl looked at me and asked, Have you ever been to Disneyland?

Lots of times, I cheerfully answered. My family lives only twenty minutes away and I usually go there for my birthday.

Is it very dear? the little girl continued. I replied to her question with a blank stare. In unison, her parents said, Expensive! I felt so stupid. I thought I wouldn’t experience any communication problems since Britain and America share the same language.

We caught the tube (the underground train) after our train ride and made it back to the Astor dorms. The tube is clean and efficient, and it’s strange how my hair seems to stand on end right before a train whooshes up to the platform. And oh, the names of the tube stops! There’s Clapham Common, Tooting Bec, Hammersmith, and Elephant and Castle. I think I recall reading that Elephant and Castle were the nicknames of two of George I’s mistresses. How different from the blandly-named Valley View exit on the Santa Ana Freeway back home in California.

I am very pleased with my independence. I’ve never used public transportation by myself or figured out transfers and routes, but it’s not that difficult to do. In fact, I’ve never done anything by myself. I am only child with doting parents who have always taken care of my needs. And I admit I am frightened and doubt my ability to take care of myself once I reach Stirling. Mom cooks, cleans, and washes clothes for me and Dad, and I don’t know how to cook, hate to clean, and don’t know how to wash my clothes. How will I survive?

September 5, 4:45 p.m.

I woke up this morning with a severe headache and a case of jet lag. Sometimes I felt dizzy or thought that I listed over to one side, but I refused to let it stop me. The Stirling group met our Directors at the Charing Cross Pier to take a boat up the Thames to Greenwich. While waiting for the boat, Joe and Sara, Dr. Gilbert’s children, and Jennifer and Christopher, Dr. Pearson’s kids, fell in love with my puke-green wool coat. I told them that it was a hand-me-down twice over, but it would be nice and toasty for the cold Scottish winter. I believe they also fell in love with me because they kept fighting over who got to sit with me on the boat. I wound up with Christopher across from me, Joe on my left, Jennifer on my right, and Sara on my lap. It was a typical bleak London day: cloudy and misty. The warehouses along the docks were old and dirty, and they fascinated me. I wondered what had been manufactured within them in the Victorian days and if little children like those sitting next to me had to work long, hard hours. We traveled on and passed one of Charles Dickens’ favorite pubs, the Double Diamond. We also passed a place named Butler’s Wharf, which was called Jacob’s Island by Dickens in his novel, Oliver Twist. In fact, Butler’s Wharf is the place where the movie Oliver! was actually filmed.

The Stirling group climbed on board the clipper ship Cutty Sark after we docked in Greenwich and then Lynda, an EAP student named Chris, another student named Sylvia, and I decided to skip the Maritime museum and go shopping instead. This is the year of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, which is a tribute to her twenty-five years on the throne. London is draped with Union Jacks, and portraits of Her Majesty gaze out from storefront windows. It seems that there is Jubilee red, white, and blue bunting that decorates most buildings and streetlamps everywhere you look. The truth is that London is decorated because of our visit! It has nothing to do with the Queen! I told everyone. Lynda, Chris and I walked through Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, and the Haymarket. We found that the West End area of London includes lots of sex cinemas as well as legit movies and theaters. Along the way, we saw proper English gentlemen in three piece suits and skinny, jean-clad punkers with spiked green hair. Lynda, Chris, Sylvia, and I got lost but eventually made it to a post office and the American Express Office. We found a number of shops, and I bought a Jubilee poster of the Queen and Prince Philip, a small Jubilee china dish, and a Jubilee tea towel. Soon Lynda and I became tired, so we took the tube back to Astor for a quick rest. Tonight we’ll see a play in the theatre district.

September 6, 1:25 a.m.

About one-half of the Stirling group (including me) ate dinner at an Italian restaurant and then walked to the Globe Theater to see the play Donkey’s Ears. We found our Study Director, Dr. Pearson, in the lobby. He turned to me and said Oh, Shelley, here’s Rick and Mary! Dr. Pearson quickly told me that Rick had gotten married while studying at Stirling and then snidely whispered, Can you imagine bringing someone like him home to your mom and dad? I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept quiet.

One day last April I received a letter from someone named Rick, who was studying at Stirling during his junior year abroad. Rick is also from UCLA and he congratulated me on my acceptance to Stirling. Rick and I wrote a few letters to each other and established a nice relationship via air mail. When I turned to greet him at the theatre, I saw a large man with long, wavy brown hair, thick glasses, a round pleasant face, and one earring in his ear. His wife, Mary, has tight, curly brown hair and is very tall and thin. I hugged Rick and Mary and I told Rick, I feel as if I know you! We talked for a bit and as we walked to our seats, Rick emphatically stated, I had no idea how pretty you are!

What a nice compliment. When I look in the mirror, I see a chubby, round-faced, fair skinned girl with long mousy light brown hair. I see a girl who is short (5’2"), who has small breasts, and whose excess fifteen pounds show in a double chin and a derrière shaped like a bubble. But with make-up and a few hair curlers, this rather average-looking girl can make herself look attractive. Even though I know I don’t look terribly great at the moment with jet-lag and all, I don’t think Rick was trying to flatter me. I truly believe and appreciate his compliment.

September 6, 3:30 p.m.

The entire Stirling EAP group traveled to the University of California (UC) Center near Westminster to attend the formal part of our orientation after breakfast today. The UC building is a hole in the wall in an area of open-air markets where thickly accented Londoners hawk their wares. To enter the office, we rang a buzzer and someone arrived to unlock the heavy but narrow iron gate between two buildings. After walking down a narrow alley, we entered a dirty brick building and ascended a steep flight of narrow, circular stairs. Only two rooms comprise the UC—EAP Study Center in London, and even though there are only twelve of us, we felt somewhat cramped in the tiny, two-room office.

Rick and Mary were in attendance at the formal orientation, as were Dr. Gilbert and Dr. Pearson. Dr. Gilbert and Dr. Pearson began by explaining classes, grades, and transfers. We were told that we’d have to get to Stirling on our own and that there were many ways to reach our destination (train, air, etc.). Dr. Pearson warned us about engaging in any illegal activities such as using drugs and told us not to get involved in local politics. Rick quickly interrupted and challenged Dr. Pearson. Are you saying that they should ignore their own interests? he asked in a tone that suggested he was looking for a fight. Now I understand why Dr. Pearson made the negative comment at the theater about bringing Rick home to Mom and Dad. Rick was just showing off and trying to impress all of us; I later discovered that Mary would do the same. Rick and Mary told us about the social life at Stirling and Mary’s thick accent caused us to believe she was a native Scot. We eventually learned that she’s a Californian from UC Santa Cruz. What a fake!

As the orientation progressed, I realized that one student was increasingly getting on my nerves. Sylvia! She didn’t stop complaining when we went shopping the other day. The tubes are too crowded and the people smell! These shirts aren’t made well; I’m not going to spend my money in this store! This food tastes horrible! I chalked it up to jet lag and lack of sleep. Today she seemed to have a negative remark in response to almost everything that was said at the orientation. Why shouldn’t we buy a car while we’re here? I don’t want to cook for myself! Are you sure there’s maid service in the dorms? she asked. I think Sylvia is extremely wealthy and is not used to roughing it, although this certainly isn’t roughing it in my book. Sylvia wears a beige-colored A-line cashmere coat and carries a matching clutch bag. She appears to walk feet first and the rest of her body follows on a fifteen-degree angle; she stands like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Additionally, Sylvia’s face looks like her skin is pulled up tightly and clamped behind her ears. She perpetually frowns; her pointy nose tilts upwards; her cheeks are hollow; her cheekbones are high; and her light blond hair is severely brushed up and back from her forehead. I don’t think Sylvia will last in Stirling; I give her one month.

Unlike Sylvia, I vow that I’ll be friendly to everyone. Sylvia, Lynda, a girl named Meg and I took the tube to Oxford Circus and ate lunch after orientation. I am rapidly learning what it is like to eat in a British restaurant. Waiters and waitresses seem annoyed when asked for coffee or bread, the service isn’t very efficient (e.g., no napkins, dirty tables), and terminology is different. I’ve learned that I can’t get USA black coffee in Britain. If I ask for black coffee, I receive espresso. If I ask for white coffee, I get coffee with cream. I have made the black coffee mistake many times and each time I’ve been served espresso. Once I tried to explain what I wanted, plain black coffee, but again I was presented with plain black espresso.

One final note, on the way back to Astor we saw more punk rockers. These guys wore safety pins, black leather and chains. I wonder when punk will come to the US.

September 7, 1:00 a.m.

Bernie, the woman who is the secretary at the UC Study Center, met us at our dorms and we took the tube to the northern part of London. We had a difficult walk up Highgate Hill and around the corner to the Grove, where the Gilberts live, but I enjoyed the scenery. All the houses and buildings in the neighborhood appeared to be made of old, red bricks. In addition, the sidewalks weren’t paved and some of the Victorian-looking markets had bay windows. Mark wondered aloud about a huge, Dickensian-looking building that we passed, and I guessed that it was a school. The bricks were caked with grime and a chilling black iron spiked gate encircled the building. It turned out that I was correct; the building was a school dating from the 1800s.

We reached the Gilbert’s home, built in 1703, and went upstairs for cheese and sherry. I had a drink comprised of lemonade and beer; I think it’s called a Shandy. Joe and Sara were there and I gave them each a candy bar. They were both dressed in party clothes and looked like little angels. I told Sara, You look just like a princess, and she smiled at me with delight. Mrs. Gilbert saw me talking to her children and came over for a chat. She said, Joe’s newly acquired English accent is driving me crazy; everything he says ends with an upward inflection. She is grateful that Sara still sounds like an American. After a while, Dr. Gilbert took some of us upstairs to look at the view from his window. It was gorgeous! The window overlooks a green area called the Heath and Dr. Gilbert told us that this scenery hasn’t changed for centuries. I peered out into the green meadow and lush forest and imagined men in top hats and women in long bustle dresses strolling arm-in-arm.

We set out for our restaurant, the Jack Straw Castle, after a tour of the Gilberts’ home. Jenny and Christopher, Dr. Pearson’s children, ran to greet me as we approached the restaurant and our group rushed upstairs in anticipation of a delicious meal. The upstairs room was dark and comfortable and there was a roaring fire in the huge, stone fireplace. Jenny and Joe Gilbert sat on either side of me and kept me occupied all night with jokes, riddles, and small hugs. The liquor poured freely and our group became rowdy and loud. Before I knew it, Dr. Gilbert had thrown his napkin across the table right into Joe’s face! A British man walked up to Dr. Gilbert in the middle of this brouhaha and politely asked, Is this your group? Dr. Gilbert answered affirmatively. In a very proper accent, the British man responded pity and simply walked away, leaving Dr. Gilbert with a dazed look on his face. This, I was later told by the good, rather drunk doctor, is called the British cut. It’s a sarcastic put-down that leaves one speechless. When you finally recover, it’s too late to respond!

September 8, 11:00 p.m., Isle of Wight

Yesterday was the day of resettling ourselves as orientation finally ended. All of the EAP students descended upon the UC Study Center building and it was a madhouse. It was difficult to move around or to find a place to sit because the cramped two-room Study Center was filled with our luggage. The rooms were also filled with excitement as we cackled about our travel plans. Some students decided to fly to Scotland to attend the Edinburgh Festival and Lynda went to stay with her relatives, Lord and Lady Whatz-itz. I decided to drive up to Scotland with fellow students Dana, Annie and Mike. Dana, Annie, and I dragged our luggage to a bed and breakfast called the Reese Hotel. Mrs. Reese is a Scottish woman who is full of fun, and she warned us that her hotel is a crazy house. The B & B is full of hustle and bustle; it’s filled with laughter and people speaking loudly in English, German, French, and Spanish. After finding our room and getting organized, we took the tube to the Strand and bought tickets to see a play called No Sex Please, We’re British. Dr. Pearson had warned us not to go because it was an awful British comedy with low-brow sex-oriented humor. Of course, that’s all we had to hear. The old gentleman at the box office asked in his cockney accent, Six together? ’Ow ’bout the first row? Needless to say, we grabbed them.

The play was about a young married couple who mistakenly receive pornographic material in the mail and the subsequent trouble they go through to get rid of it. Along with Donkey’s Years, this play is very wordy compared to most American plays I’ve seen. At the same time, it has a lot of slapstick comedy, unlike American plays. And the funny low-brow sexual humor was indeed, low-brow (think phallic-looking cucumbers).

The six EAP students went to what we thought was an average steak house after the play, but we quickly realized that we chose to eat at a ritzy restaurant. We were noticed for our informal attire (t-shirts, sweaters, and jeans) but we sat down and enjoyed our dinner in spite of disapproving looks. John ordered jellied eels, and with some trepidation, I asked if I could try a piece. I took one bite and realized that the giant sardines on a salad I had eaten during lunch a day or two earlier were really jellied eels. Yuk! I can’t believe I actually ate eel!

Something interesting happened while we had dinner at the steak house. John and I tried to converse with our young waiter, but he was very hesitant. He was about sixteen years old with very dark hair and a strong accent. John and I teased him a bit and he gave us a very shy and timid smile. Poor you, having to deal with us loud Americans, I joked. The boy seemed almost surprised that I talked to him. John later mused, I wonder why it’s difficult to talk to some English waiters? I responded, Because they are still entrenched in the class system and maybe they’re told not to speak to their ‘superiors.’ Letting my indignation get the better of me, I emphatically banged my fist on the table while speechifying on the stupidity of the class system. John chuckled and proclaimed, You’re a good American, Shelley, regardless of your class!

The next morning, Annie, Dana, and I took a cab from Mrs. Reese’s back to Cromwell Road and then took an airport bus to Heathrow. Once at the airport, we were driven to a place where Mike could pick up our rental car, a bright blue Vauxhall. We were off, but it took forever to get out of London; well, at least an entire hour. There was the problem of Mike getting oriented to driving on the opposite side of the road, and there were the usual problems of maps and directions. However, the biggest problem was the roundabouts. Roundabouts are traffic circles upon which cars speed without regard for anyone. To top it off, British highways aren’t named; they are identified by numbers. It’s easy to locate the freeways in California; there are signs that identify the Santa Ana Freeway, the Santa Monica Freeway, the San Diego Freeway, etc. In England, you see signs that identify the A208, A209, M114, etc. It’s almost impossible to find a highway number on an unfamiliar map when you’re zooming on a roundabout.

We eventually stopped at a place to eat that looked like truck stop. The big fellow behind the counter was friendly and jolly. In his heavy accent, he said that he could tell that we just got off the big old iron bird and he pantomimed a plane soaring in the air. This man had nicknames for the three of us and he used these nicknames when he called us to get our order. Dana was called frothy because of her tight, curly hair; Mike was named freckles; Annie was dubbed slender; and I jumped up and ran to get my lunch after I heard the name happy! A big, white pussycat with fat jowls walked over to our table and rubbed against our legs while we ate. Of course, I loved it.

We hopped into the car after lunch and proceeded to get lost a couple of more times. However, the wide meadows and open fields made it worth getting lost. We headed towards the Isle of Wight and bought a ferry ticket for the crossing to the tiny island off of southern England. The night air was so cold and damp that the windows of the ferry were covered in frost.

We drove around the Isle of Wight and found a B & B on a narrow road in Sandown. The house is called Frogmore. I love the names the British give their houses! Dana and Mike shared a room, and Annie and I shared a large room with a beautiful bay window that overlooked the street. The four of us were the only overnight guests.

Just as she did at the Reese Hotel, Annie asked if there was any particular time we had to return to the B & B. I felt like saying, For God’s sake, we’ve got the keys and we can come and go as we please! but I kept quiet. I don’t think Annie quite grasps the idea that we are being treated as adults. Anyway, after receiving the keys, we walked down the block in the eerie, damp fog to the local fish and chips shop named the Chip and Fishery. I think I suffered a starch overload before dinner because I desperately craved some non-starchy vegetables and fresh fruit. Alas, the only vegetable on the menu was peas, and I was so hungry that I ate the peas along with the chips (thick French fries). Dana and I wanted some dessert after our meal, and we were both overjoyed to see that pineapple was included on the menu. We knew that the pineapple wouldn’t be fresh, but even pineapple from a can would be a delightful change from all the starch. We ordered the pineapple, and guess what? The pineapple rings came to the table deep-fried with a cinnamon and sugar crust!

When we returned from the Chip and Fishery, Dana decided to visit Annie and me in our room. I spoke about Kyle and showed them the photo of him that I keep in my wallet. I love him, I said, but I don’t think he appreciates me. He’s self-centered and opinionated, but he’s also kind, generous, and playful. He drives me crazy!

What does he do? Annie asked.

Here’s a typical example; it occurred two days before I left for Scotland. We were visiting my parents’ friends, and Kyle was asked about debate. Once again, I felt the familiar pain of anger and resentment. He never once looked at me or made an effort to include me in the conversation. I was a member of the debate team during all four years of high school; just because I don’t debate in college doesn’t mean that I don’t know anything about it. Kyle literally stood in front of me and talked; it was if I didn’t even exist.

Maybe you’ll break up with him when you return to California, Dana suggested.

Maybe I will; maybe I won’t, I replied. We’ll just have to see what happens while I’m away. Dana and Annie nodded their heads in unison. Maybe these girls will help me make my decision.

September 9, 9:00 p.m., the Isle of Wight ferry

Dana, Annie, Mike and I awakened chilled-to-the-bone this morning. I think the British are more used to the cold than we thin-skinned Californians because they keep their homes many degrees cooler than we do. This cold little house is very quaint, with a tiny blue wrought iron gate in front and a red brick façade with the same blue grillwork running along the roof. There is even a British flag that can be seen on the window of the tiny entry room. Interestingly enough, the bathtub is in a separate room from the toilet and it costs extra to use; both are down the hall. Toilets in Britain are weird. Some are chain-pulled from the top of the ceiling and the toilet paper in most places feels like wax paper. Some bathrooms, or water closets as they are called here, don’t even have sinks.

We drove inland after saying goodbye to our host and then drove to the coast. The cliffs are white and chalky and they plunge down to the sea, yet they support a land of rolling hills and lush greenery. Every once in a while Mike shouted Oh God! as he sped down the country roads. My heart jumped to my throat each time he screamed and I was convinced that we were about to die in a car wreck. At the very next moment, Mike yelled, This scenery is fantastic! The meadows of different hues seem to stretch for miles and they are dotted with villages of stone cottages and thatched roofs. Simply gorgeous!

It was a warm sunny day when we arrived at the coastline. Mike and Dana decided to throw a frisbee on the beach, and Annie and I browsed in the little tourist shops along the boardwalk. Very soon however, Annie felt ill. We stopped at a hotel so she could go to the bathroom and rest for a bit. I don’t know what is wrong with Annie; she can be such a pain in the ass. She is very odd looking; her straight blond hair is parted down the middle and ends at her cheeks in a blunt cut. She has a long, pale, angular face with high cheekbones and wears black rimmed coke bottle glasses. Annie also has very full lips that seem to be set in a constant frown. She usually maintains a sour disposition and she doesn’t talk a lot except to whine. What a difference from Dana; you can’t shut her up. I get the impression that Dana’s favorite subject is Dana because somehow she always manages to turn the conversation to herself. Dana wears her dark brown hair in a bushy permanent, and she has a pug nose and eyes that shine with mischief. She’s boisterous and fun and often appears to snicker when she speaks. I discovered that Dana is the only girl among four brothers, and it shows in how she carries herself. She takes long masculine strides and has a macho air about her. She walks with a cocky swagger that communicates, Come get me world, I dare you!

I leisurely made my way through the little shops that lined the coast while Annie rested. I met her back at the hotel, and then Dana and Mike returned from the beach. We drove to Osborne House, designed by Prince Albert for Queen Victoria and their family. I was excited to visit Osborne because I had seen pictures and read about it in my Queen Victoria books. The house contains some royal portraits and memorabilia that I recognized from her several jubilees. I also saw marble replicas of the limbs of the infant royal children (hands, feet, arms, and legs). I learned that it was common for wealthy Victorians to make casts of their children’s limbs, but the stark white marble made me think of death. In a similar vein, the bed in which Queen Victoria died made an impression on me. Above the bed, from headboard to ceiling, the Queen’s children placed a huge bronze plaque that reads, Here Queen Victoria laid in state, awaiting burial, 1901. It gave me the shivers.

September 9, 11:00 p.m., Salisbury

Oh, how I love Britain! We are staying at a delightful B & B called the Huntsman Tavern, and we are planning to go to Stonehenge early tomorrow morning. We took the ferry to Yarmouth after leaving the Isle of Wight and then headed north. The sweeping plains and meadows changed into thick forests as we drove to Salisbury. Once we even had to slow down and pass on the other side of the street because three donkeys took their time ambling down the road in front of us. We turned the radio up to a deafening decibel when a Strauss waltz played on the BBC and we positively zoomed past the wide expanses of green. Mike continued to scare us to death with his unexpected outbursts of scenic appreciation and we all commented on the unspoiled natural beauty of England. The forests were trimmed with dark green ferns that line the road, and at times the forest changed to meadow trimmed with white wildflowers. I loved riding into the villages and seeing the old churches, the pub signs, and especially the rosy-cheeked children in their school uniforms.

Before we reached Salisbury, we passed a church founded by Thomas Becket. Becket was Archbishop of Canterbury in the middle ages. He argued with King Henry II, who is reputed to have said, Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest? The result was the murder of Becket in Canterbury Cathedral and his later canonization. We also saw the grand, medieval Salisbury Cathedral, which was built between 1219 and 1249. I am amazed at the age of the ancient churches and buildings I’ve been seeing. I remember thinking that the California Missions, founded by Father Junipero Serra in the mid 1700s, were old. However, they’re nothing compared to the age of Salisbury Cathedral.

Our room here in Salisbury is great. There’s a huge antique armoire (called a wardrobe), an antique wooden dressing table, and a tiny wooden table between the double beds. I hear loud accents from the outside of my window and the humming of car motors. I’m tired so I’m going to bed. Night.

September 11, 10:35 a.m., the road to Nottingham

I certainly have a lot of catching up to do! We had many adventures yesterday. We said good-bye to Bonnie the dog and Clyde the cat before leaving the Huntsman Tavern and headed for Stonehenge. When I first spied Stonehenge I was a bit disappointed because it looks a lot smaller than it appears in photographs. But I became humbled as I thought of its age. It was a blustery day and the grass moved in short ripples around the ancient stones. I closed my eyes, put my hand against a boulder, and tried to feel its vibrations. The wind was howling and whipping against the massive stones and I felt chills travel up and down my spine. I desperately tried to feel the energy of the ancients who may have once stood in my place and listened to the same melancholy sound of the cold, harsh wind. I stumbled up to Dana and we braced ourselves against a huge stone. We began to shout at each other and tried to hear each other above the noise of the whooshing wind. Dana screamed, You’ll probably think I’m weird, but I know I’ve been here before. She paused and then continued, In a past life. No, I didn’t think she was weird; I also believe in reincarnation. Me too! I shouted back at her. We both pressed our bodies against the large boulder to shield ourselves from the shrieking wind. It screamed in our ears as if to give voice to the souls who traveled to Stonehenge in centuries past. Dana yelled, I was alive during Medieval and Tudor times.

I was a British Victorian, I shouted. I think I’m really ‘home!’

I feel the same way! Dana added.

I told Dana that I wanted to find someone to take me through a past-life regression and she said that if I found someone, she’d like to go along with me. After shouting a bit longer, the cold, wet air became unbearable, and we reluctantly had to climb back into the warm Vauxhall and leave Stonehenge. I definitely plan to continue the reincarnation conversation with Dana.

We took off again and the scenery changed on and off from rolling green hills to fern lined forests. The cottages changed from thatched roofs and red brick to those of fitted stone that were more Romanesque. We stopped to take a photograph from a hill that overlooked the town as we approached Bath. The city looks like a Roman fortress that is dominated by a huge church. We drove into Bath, stopped at a bakery to buy some rolls and walked to Bath Abby. The Abby, built in 1060, is enormous. Outside is a plaque that commemorates the crowning of King Edgar in the year 940. It immediately hit us when Dana and I walked into the Abby—the organ music, the musty smell, and the sheer overwhelming age of the church. On the walls and on the floor there are stones that commemorate the people who lived in the middle ages. Very spooky.

We left Bath and once again hit the road towards Stratford-Upon-Avon. I love the colorful names of some of the towns we passed: Cold Ashton, Chipping Sodbury, Nailsworth, Birdip, Bishop’s Cleeve, and Sudgebarrow. We traveled through a beautiful area called the Cotswolds, and along the way we passed through many villages with tiny Shakespearian-looking plaster and wood cottages. We also saw ancient-looking churches in the middle of every village we passed. Obviously these churches were built to last, and they certainly have. Even though these towns are very modern in places with main shopping drags and industrial centers, medieval-looking churches dominate the center of the villages. The churches seem to be made of granite and they have huge steeples and many spires.

We arrived at Stratford at about 5:00 p.m. and went to Shakespeare’s birthplace. The cottage sags in places, even though the original walls have been re-plastered and patched. The original furniture is on display, which includes a bed, nightstand, cupboard, and cradle. We stopped at the wall displays and viewed some second editions of Shakespeare’s works. We also saw a guest book in which Charles Dickens signed his name.

We then went to the city’s Tourist Authority office to book a place to spend the night. We wanted a B & B for about £3.00 but the lady there said that the cheapest B & B she could find charged £3.50. We decided to drive to Coventry to find a cheaper place on our own. The ride to Coventry was nice enough; we passed over tiny stone bridges that spanned rivers that shimmered in the slowly setting sun, and we saw the countryside change from wide meadows to rows of red brick townhouses.

Coventry is an industrial town and is comprised of large factories and a giant Rolls Royce plant. We must have driven around Coventry for at least one hour trying to find a place to stay. I’m hungry! I lamented. I’m tired, Annie whined. I’m thirsty! Dana wailed. Mike said nothing, and in frustrated silence we watched the day turn into night without any success at finding a vacancy. At one B & B, we were told that a lorry (truck) race was to take place the next day and that every lodging was booked. After driving for another forty-five minutes, we became desperate. Gritting his teeth, Mike remarked, Let’s find a hotel or a motel for £5.00 a night just so we’ll have a place to stay. No luck! Even the Holiday Inn and other motels were booked solid. At this point, we made the decision to leave Coventry and drive to the nearest town, Leicester. And so we drove.

We arrived in Leicester in the dark of night and drove around looking for a vacant B & B for about an hour. Again, every place was booked, and Mike made some last ditch plans; we could either sleep in the car or sleep in a church. By this time Dana and I were punchy and started to make horrid jokes. I giggled, Leicester is completely booked because a donkey race is scheduled for the next day. Dana retorted, Let’s sleep on a donkey and ride our asses off! Not very funny, but at this time of night without food and rest, it was hysterical! Every B & B in Leicester seemed to be booked, so Mike decided to hit the M1 Motorway and drive north all night. Mike’s driving gives me heart failure at least three times a day, and he once forgot to drive on the wrong side of the road. However, I must admit that he’s a good driver on these crazy British highways. So off we headed out of the city.

We made a wrong turn almost immediately and found ourselves headed to a town called Coalville. At the spur of the moment, Dana shouted, Let’s check for a B & B! We stopped at the first B & B that we saw after getting directions at a gas station, and took two rooms with twin beds in each. We were exhausted and happy! It was around 9:30 pm and I told the proprietor, You’re a lifesaver! After settling in we headed to the nearest pub to drown our sorrows in booze. I had a screwdriver and a rum and Coke on an empty stomach (enough to put me into orbit) and Dana had a screwdriver plus two double rum and Cokes. Dana and I were feeling no pain and we started to giggle and flirt with the men at the bar. Mike has a high capacity and a high tolerance for liquor, and he drank like a fish. Poor Annie was so hungry that she ate every bar snack in sight. We left the pub around 10:30 and returned to the B & B where I took the first real, body-drenching bath that I’ve had in days.

Do you know the punch line to this entire story? Our B & B in Coalville cost £3.50; the same as the one we could have had in Stratford but gave up because we wanted something cheaper! Oh well, at least we’re that much closer to Scotland!

We awakened feeling refreshed this morning and had our usual truck driver breakfast. Mike told us that the B & B owner said that there are very few places