The Prague Chronicles: Chapter 5

Feelin' groovy ...

My last day in Prague. Jemma and I eat breakfast at a cafe she recommends by her apartment in Wenceslas Square. At breakfast we ate crepes and drank hot chocolate and talked about books again, travel, university, death and taxes. After breakfast, there is an awkward goodbye and mutual wishes of ‘best of luck.’

I leave the cafe and start walking back toward my hostel. As I pass through Wenceslas Square, I see city workers taking down the shops and stalls of the Christmas market that sets up shop over the winter holidays. Then, I reach Old Town Square and see the usual group of tourists at a standstill outside the astronomical clock. ‘It must be close to the hour,’ I think as I walk on past disinterested. As is true when I return to my hostel from anywhere in Prague, I reach Charles Bridge, the iconic symbol of ancient Prague and the great ruler of the Czechs.

As is true with any other day, the bridge is teeming with tourist photograhpers, artists selling caricatures and musical acts. But, as I’ve been here a week, I’m all used to this now. As I cross the bridge, my hand does not reach for my camera, nor do I stop to listen to the Bridge Band. Rather, I walk, drifting past the tourists and local peddlers, intent on reaching, and subsequently leaving, what has been my home for the past week.

Along this walk the 59^th Street Bridge song bounces into my head. Always up for some Simon & Garfunkel, I submit to its catchy tune and begin humming it in my head. I’m not exactly sure, but I may have been singing it softly, “Slow down, you move too fast, you’ve gotta make the morning last.” As I was quite literally, “kicking down the cobblestones,” I paused on the bridge and looked out on to the river, and began to reflect on this week that I was now to conclude.

I started by assessing my immediate circumstances: ‘what was I doing?’ I was walking back home from meeting a friend that lives in Prague. The more I thought about it, I liked it. And, by the end of the week, I had several friends that lived in Prague. Furthermore, I met many people touring Prague for a couple days, and I had watched them go, only to meet new travellers and get to know them.

As I thought more about my week, it all seemed fitting that it was now to come to a close. I was not a local, but I knew local things like street names and bar staff. I knew where New Town and Old Town were, and what separated them. I knew where the Jewish Quarter was and I yet I also knew the history that I learned on a walking tour of Prague. I had just finished reading my Kafka novel, bought from a local used book store. Some other native of Prague had read it first. I knew that I was not a local, that I was inescapably a tourist. But, I didn’t feel like one.

I stopped staring out onto the river like an idiot and picked back up, heading lazily in the direction of my hostel. As I am walking, Paul Simon’s lyrics bounced back in my head. “I’ve got no deeds to do, no promises to keep. I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep, let the morning time drop all its petals on me. Life, I love you, all is groovy.”

My residence in Prague was over. I grabbed my bag from my hostel and checked out. A short tram ride, a fifteen minute bus and I was back at Prague airport, this time looking different and less ominous in the daytime.

At the airport, after check in with Wizz Air, I grabbed a seat, opened my journal, clicked my pen and began to write. A usual entry of mine, consists of 3-4 pages, but as I sat, waiting for my plane, pages came pouring out of me. I had written almost daily throughout the week, but, as I was reaching for these culminating thoughts, I needed more time and more space. If I looked odd staring out into nothing on the bridge, I was pretty sure I was equally suspicious in the airport. My face was pressed inches from my journal, which was rested on my lap. Either I looked as if I was writing the next great American novel or I had severe back spasms.

I wrote about it all. I wrote about Jamie and Dylan and their dreams. I wrote about mine to come. I wrote about Jemma, and I wrote down ‘Read ‘On the Road.’ (I’m now halfway through it). I wrote about drinking beer, getting high and I wrote about thinking. For, as Prague was such a new place, thinking became a pastime all in itself. It was its own recreational drug. Prague changed the way I thought, Europeanized it, and, while it lasted, I thought: ‘Wow, this is pretty cool.’ My high was over, but it had begun to give me the cravings and I wrote about plans of getting my fix. I wrote that I knew what Europe was now, the Europe that doesn't span the shores of the English Channel, and that I knew absolutely nothing about the place. I wrote that became wiser by learning of my ignorance. I wrote about my travels when I was younger, but how the first time I really went to Europe was about a week ago.

All of this I wrote down, line after line, page after page. As I was just about to close up my journal with my usual sign off, used for both journal and blog (... LW), I get a text from Jemma. It was a quote from (you guessed it) On the Road, I begin to laugh, but read it, curiously:

But why think about that when all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?

As I boarded a Wizz Air plane for the second time, with utmost caution, (as a younger man, I might have crossed myself) I thought more about the quote. Prague may have been just a week, and I may have remembered all of it, but as the plane took off and I left Czech ground, I was glad it happened. It was the small surprises of everything along the way that made this trip and assured me that until Europe has sunk into the sea or been wiped out by a nuclear holocaust, there will indeed by more surprises on this continent to come my way. And, when they do, I’ll be glad I’m alive to see them ... LW

The Prague Chronicles: Chapter 3

Two expats ...

Jemma had been living in Prague for six months, teaching English and working for the Prague Pub Crawl, her duties entailing instructing correct usage and getting drunk with Prague’s tourists. Before this, Jemma spent some months travelling Europe, and before that had a similar stint in Edinburgh where she took up residence for a little under a year, working and saving up funds for more travel. Jemma, an Australian native, had left her home of Melbourne over two years ago and has been travelling or working in Europe ever since. It was on the pub crawl over a couple joints that I learned all of this from her.

“So what’s it like, living in Prague?” I ask, taking another sip from my frothy mug of black beer.

“Well, the first few weeks were kind of crazy”, Jemma says, “but I just moved into my new apartment last month, and it’s starting to feel like home.” We are at Propaganda, a communist-themed bar located in New Town, Prague. Jemma sips from her glass of red wine, eyeing suspiciously the murals of Stalin and Marx surrounding our booth.

Jemma had sandy-brown hair, the colour of which would make you think of Australia if you pictured it. She was tall, with blue eyes and a smile of assurance. “What about you? How long has it been since you’ve been back in the states?”

“I left at the end of August, spent four weeks studying in London, and from then on I’ve been at the University of East Anglia in Norwich. So ... damn, that’s five months now I guess.” Though the time of five months seemed to so puny compared to multiple years, the act of having to calculate it caught me off guard.

“And you said you’re in Prague over your Christmas break? Didn’t you want to go home for Christmas?” she asks.

“You know, it might sound weird, but no. I mean, I’m in England for a year, so right now, this experience is only half over. And, I don’t know, but I just don’t view America as being a part of that experience. Prague is far more relevant for me right now than the states. Plus, I had a great time spending Christmas in England. What about you? Do you miss Australia?”

“Yeah, of course I do” she readily assented. “At first I didn’t, but I think it’s a growing thing. As I’ve learned so much about life in general from Europe, now I really want to start it. I want to start my adult life and I know that has to happen for me in Australia. I know I’m not going to be leading pub crawls and getting drunk with tourists every night for the rest of my life. So it’s not like I miss Australia so much as I need some growth and development in my life. What about you? Do you miss the States?”

Such an obvious question, but one I have never really been asked, my mind stands still at her question of discerning simplicity. I think hard and gather my thoughts. “Ok ... my first thought is yes, of course I do. But ... for the fact that I’m in England for a definite, specific amount of time, the feeling doesn’t quite sink in. I know for certain that on June 18 my term will be done, my exams will be taken and papers handed in, my student visa will expire and I’ll be flying back to the States. I’m not here open-ended, so when that day comes, who knows if I’ll be ready or if I’ll want to leave yet. Do you know when you’ll be returning to Australia?” I ask as I bring my mug to my lips, taking in another delicious gulp of Kozel.

“I think relatively soon. In the next six months for sure, but after Prague, I still want to do a bit more travelling. But, suppose I wake up tomorrow and want to leave, at that very moment, I don’t have enough money for the flight home” she laughs. “It’s kind of surreal, but if I think about it, at the moment I’m stranded here. I need to work, and a lot, for just to get myself home even if I wanted to.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been in Australia?”

“Two years.”

“Damn.”

“It just seems so long ago. I don’t understand it.” A sip of red wine. A gulp of black beer.

“No, I know what you mean. I think our perceptions of time are very dependent on our location. They kind of move with us from place to place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alright, so I before I left for Prague, like a week or two ago, one of my mates turned 21. Now, this guy was my best mate when I lived in Norwich and we were 7; and, after chatting for a few minutes and a couple beers, it seems as if we’ve stayed as inseparable over the years as we were when we were 7. And I think back to those days, and it doesn’t seem too long ago, but it was fifteen years. And then if I think back to July and try to picture my buddies and I sipping beers by the pool, it’s harder to place. It seems so far back. Living in England, I am reminded daily of the times I have spent here. And then on the other side, whether I’m in London, or Norwich or Prague, nothing visual reminds me of America. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah” she laughs, “there’s not too many parts of Prague that remind me of Melbourne.”

We stay in Propaganda for over three hours, talking. The usual suspects showed up in conversation: sex, drugs, rock & roll, but we mainly talked about books. Both of us loved to read. She talked almost without end about Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and I might have minded had I not felt the same way about countless other books. She talked about the vagrancy of Kerouac’s text and how she has never really had a home for the last two years. This idea struck me hard, for though I had indeed been away from America for months, England has always given me the feeling of home.

Jemma had yet to attend university; rather, her studies were of the Italian alps and Belgian beer. She majored in staying in a 180-bed, one room former warehouse-turned hostel and where not to leave your bags before getting on a bus. When I think about the two years spent in America of formal education and being force fed theories and political governance and literary schools of thought, Jemma’s two years of study seem to stack up fairly evenly. In the abundance of minutes we spent talking about Jack Kerouac, I was out English-majored. She knew far more about it than me, she had lived it.

The Prague Chronicles: Chapter 1

Getting there ...

No matter where I go, I always forget something when I pack. In the constant loops of “passport: check. Train tickets: check. Plane tickets: check” etc. I find it suspicious that none of the vital members of my travel plans are absent from their spot at check in. Having a few minutes until my train leaves Norwich; I throw off my pack and slump down on a bench with intent to read for a couple minutes before the 14:00 to London Liverpool St. is ready to board. ‘Now, to get out my book ... my book ... shit.’ With blind fingers fumbling through every pocket and zipper, nook and crany of my pack, the result, yielding no books found each time, was now definite. I had forgotten it.

Still with a handful of minutes at my disposal, I stroll across the station to WHSmith to peruse their selection of literature, and here my use of the word literature is very liberal. Amongst the literary riff-raff of Dan Brown and his flavour of the month imitators, and autobiographies of every damn English celebrity one could think of, there appeared to be little hope of finding a decent read for my week in Prague. It is an interesting phenomenon in England, the amount of B-list celebrities that are handed book deals. It is as if someone said, “Hey you know who shouldn’t write a book?” and after hundreds of valid answers are given, that person then said, “Yeah, well let’s give them all book deals anyway.” I guess there is a market for these books because English people read; whereas, in America, we don’t have that problem.

After a two hour train ride consisting of iPod based Bob Dylan listening sessions, a lengthy entry in my journal and a short tube ride and a shuttle bus, I arrived at London Luton airport, the forgotten member of London’s air transit, and checked in for my flight on the Hungary-based Wizz Air.

Now there is something you should know about this mysterious airline Wizz Air. My round-trip flight to Prague, booked through this airline previously unbeknownst to me, cost me roughly £45, including a voluntary fee for carbon-offset. Believe me, I had my doubts. I had my doubts over safety, over service, but primarily, it was ‘does this airline even exist?!’ After I successfully checked in, it turns out that Wizz Air does in fact exist. But as for the other concerns ...

I board the plane. There is no first class, no business class, but only one section with the capacity of accommodating about one hundred fifty people maximum. I give my boarding pass to the flight attendant; she gives it back and says, “middle.” ‘Well, that’s helpful’ I think, as my concerns regarding the plane’s service come to fruition. I edge my way down the aisle, frequently looking down at my boarding pass, attempting to locate my seat. After a couple minutes and looks of sheer cluelessness, a fellow passenger relays to me that there is in fact no assigned seating. With this helpful information, I stow my pack in the overhead and take a seat. ‘This plane is going down’ I think to myself, half joking, ‘I guess that’s what you get for £35.’

But, I wish I had been fully joking. The plane pulls out onto the runway and I hear a loud, screeching cacophony of some sort of machine starting and dying, starting and dying. It sounded like an incredibly amplified saw hacking at something metallic over and over. This went on for about ten minutes, until the captain’s broken English became audible over the PA: “Ah, sorry for the delay ... the engine ... ah, it does not start.” ‘Damn,’ I said, as I estimated the growing number of hours it would take to get off the plane and find a new one to take me to Prague. ‘It could be hours,’ I thought; and, it being already 21:00 GMT, ‘I just hope I won’t be staying at the airport tonight.’ But the captain continued: “Yes ... so, sorry again, but this will be 10, 15 minutes and we will take off.” I was dumbfounded. ‘What?! Oh, hell no! If the engine doesn’t start, you don’t just wait 15 minutes, you get a new fucking plane!’ I started to panic and glanced nervously around the cabin at the other passengers to see if they were as concerned with the airworthiness of this jet as I was. There seemed to be a dull look of apathy from the passengers, but no alarm whatsoever. Perhaps they were seasoned travellers of Wizz Air. I started to seriously regret only paying £25 for a round trip ticket. But, what was worse, I knew I would be flying again with the majestic airline of Wizz Air back to London. ‘Shit.’

You can call it a miracle, or just modern science, but the metal shit wagon of Wizz Air’s destined to Prague made it there, and I stepped out on to the cold streets outside Praha airport at 00:35, looking for the 119 bus. This bus would take me almost directly to my hostel, as I had read on the hostel website. As I stood there waiting for the bus, desperately cold, I could not help but smile. I was in Prague. Here I was, freezing my ass off, in Prague. I was freezing my ass off, waiting for a bus; one that would take me from the airport to central Prague. It was a bit of an obvious, surface revelation, but it was the stark truth of being in Eastern Europe that struck me first as I stepped out of the Airport and stood at the bus stop.

Unfortunately, the fine manor of Little Town Budget Hotel, neglected to mention on its website that the 119 bus stops its service at the airport at midnight, making me, standing at the bus stop at 00:35, fucked. I scan the bus timetable. In addition to the 119, there is a second bus, the 510 that also stops at the airport, but, more importantly, it runs all night. Unsure of where this bus goes to, but not having any other options, I decide that the 510 is the one I should go with.

I step on to the bus, take a seat; and, after a few stops, I start to seriously reconsider whether this was a wise move. Every stop is announced in Czech (well, duh!), but, more importantly, even if I knew what or where these stops were in relation to Prague, the location of my hostel itself is a mystery now that the 119 bus is out of service. I look aimlessly around the bus for some sort of help in this situation. The woman sitting across from me seems to be able to help; or, to phrase it more correctly, can easily tell that I am a traveller with no fucking clue where he is going. I tell her the name of the hostel (no use) and the few fragments I know about its location. One crucial element that I picked up, from reading reviews and so forth, is that its convenient location is close to Charles Bridge and that the stop I was supposed to depart with the 119 at is called Malonstranske Namesti. She knows the area, but the 510 does not stop there. Instead she gives me a different stop, close to Malonstranske Namesti, where it would be a short walk. I thank her endlessly until her stop arrives, then a few stops later, I exit the bus too.

At the stop, I ask around for the general direction that would lead me to my destination. The first, a man dressed in a city labourers uniform, makes a grand gesture with his arm to his right and says something inaudibly Czech. I pretend to understand and walk in the general direction in which he pointed. After a few paces, I ask a second man, who speaks English. He points out the same direction as the former, but then adds, “it’s about 3 or 4 miles.”

‘Well, fuck that noise!’ I say to myself as I had off in the indicated direction, pretending not to mind walking that far. And normally I wouldn’t, but my knee had been riding me ever since I stepped out of the cramped leg room shack of discomfort that is the Wizz Air cabin. I make a decision: ‘If my legs can’t get me to my hostel, it looks like my thumb might have to.’ I stick out my black and white, wool-gloved hand and point my left thumb upward as I carry along the right side of Prague’s cobble stoned road.

On this venture, geographical factors were against me. The area, or more closely, as I would realize later, the side of the river that I was on, was not a hotbed of nightlife, meaning that it being now 1:45, the streets were deserted. No cabs, no friendly passing drivers. However, I was lucky that the man I consulted with (the one who gave me the figure of 3-4 miles) had the most skewed perception of distance (perhaps he was more accustomed to kilometres) for after fifteen minutes of limping and a third of a mile I reached Malonstranske Namesti. From there I followed the rest of my directions and checked into my hotel at 2:10 in the bloody morning.

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast at a crepe cafe, I found a nice used bookstore around the corner from my hostel. There I found a great selection of classical literature, and in particular the work of Franz Kafka, who spent all but 3 years of his life in Prague, caught my eye. I bought a collection of short stories of his including his epic “The Metamorphosis.” After a shaky start, I was now in Prague. Safe, contented, and rested.

The Stud grows a moustache ...

Thursday, January 13, 2011 I took a flight from Prague airport and entered the United Kingdom’s borders for the eighth time in my life. Friday, January 14, 2011, I woke up in the land of Chaucer and Shakespeare and looked in the mirror. Now that I had left the mystical ancient netherworld of the Czech Republic and embarked upon the latter half of my Anglian-Studship, I felt the juxtaposition between Old World and New World was manifest in me somehow. But how? Being in front of a mirror, I naturally looked at my face and checked to see if the changes that Old World Europe had exerted upon me were at all noticeable. The only thing that was different about me than before I left for the continent was the beard that had taken up residence on my face during a week of not shaving.

Seeing both the visual and symbolic significance of these hairs on my face, I interpreted them as the summation of my Eastern Europe travels; but, I also felt an inexplicable, yet substantial renewed connection simultaneously with my current homeland. A newly reforged bond that I felt should be represented equally with my newfound European revelations. I felt the need to start fresh, but not abandon what I had learned. I felt the need to merge the Old World with the New. I felt the need to express outwardly this innate, hard to pin down, inner feeling in my life. I felt the need for a moustache.

So as the swift strokes of my Gillette removed the hairs from my neck, chin and cheeks, this inter-world reservoir of gained experience was planted firmly in the hairs between my nose and my upper lip.

It has not been an unusual occurrence, for me to grow a moustache. Nor has it been odd for me to grow a moustache with a specific goal or target in mind. And thirdly, it is not strange for this moustache to get results.

When I cast my thoughts back to the great moustaches of the past, my mind naturally makes its first stop at my Finals Moustache of December 2009. It was in the days leading up to finals week during the first semester of my sophomore year at Allegheny College, when I resolved to institute the first of my target-based moustaches. Those several days proved to be quite the interesting time for L.A.Wronski: budding scholar, for it seems to me that all I did during that week was smoke pot and watch A Few Good Men; but, against all odds, in the midst of those two great pastimes, I cranked out two A papers and did capably on and exam. When all was said and done, I was pleased with my 3.675 GPA. How can you explain that? Other than, of course, the power of the moustache.

So it was on the night following a full day filled with England and moustaches, when I decided to take it easy. I went downstairs to my mate’s flat to chill out, relax and grow my moustache. It was the nice, calm night of moustache-growing that I felt I really needed after a week of nights out until 6am, painting the Czech capital. There were a bunch of us there, hanging out, talking, hugging and reconnecting, back at UEA after a long winter break. Some were growing moustaches that night too.

It is a contagious thing to grow a moustache. Some people wanted my moustache. But not out of jealousy, nothing of the sort. Rather, my moustache took them back to their best, most cherished, possibly first moustache. Maybe this is actually the true aim of my moustache.

A moustache seems to enhance everything. Giving someone a hug is a great thing; but, if one or both of the people involved has a moustache, so much the better. Walking to catch a bus is nothing special; but, if the walk to the stop consisted of a couple well place strokes on the moustache, I’ll be damned if that doesn’t make the trip a bit more fulfilling. Or, how about going to a lame party? ‘Yeah, that party wasn’t the best, so I just kinda hung out and grew my moustache.’ You see? A moustache is not just facial hair, it is indeed a way of viewing life. A lens through which one sees the world.

As I ramble on, you may be asking yourself, ‘what the fuck is Luke on about?’ and rightly so, for as my brain searching for words to describe it, I invariably come up short each time. No other words beside 'moustache' seem to do it justice. I think this is why a moustache is a physical thing, and its experience can only really be related from one to another by means such as the foam stuck above your lip after your first sip out of a pint of Guinness. Or through the difficulties in eating an ice cream cone, or the stubbly touch of short hairs above someone’s upper lip. It things this is why a moustache is a physical thing and a tangible experience. Not something that appears instantaneously, but something that is grows in time. Not something given, something earned ... LW

2010 in Wreview ...

As you might have inferred (or most likely not) from the temporary deactivation of my facebook, I was not planning on writing anything until I got back from Prague, but fuck it. I have (more or less) reached the halfway point of my year abroad; so, being that everyone loves a recap, why not write one?

Top Ten moments/things/people/random shit/nostalgia/whatever the fuck I feel like ranking in England thus far:

10. Urban Munch: Explaining the joyous ecstasy that the Urban Munch Hog Roast baguette exerts upon the taste buds is an unsettling task; for, despite the numerous merits that I give the English language, I feel it may be outmatched in this particular duel. The Hog Roast baguette and countless other innovative sandwich-based masterpieces grants this Norwich based carvery an easy slot in the top ten. Local free-range meat and fresh baked bread, damn I’m hungry already.

9. Take That/Re-acquaintance with English Popular Culture: Combine the popularity of Nsync and the Backstreet Boys and it will equal less than half of the popularity of Take That in early 90’s. After the departure of Robbie Williams and subsequent breakup of the band, it has been an incredibly nostalgic and insightful journey into the heart of English popular culture watching this band’s rise back to the top since 2005 and now Robbie’s return to group. It is not really their music (though it is pretty catchy) that has fascinated me with this group, but hysteria and narrative behind these five nationally cherished lads. Their performance of their latest single “The Flood” on the wildly popular X-Factor was pretty sweet. Again, not a great song by any means, but you’ll see what I mean if you watch it. The convergence of these two national hegemonies of popular culture was quite insightful for someone trying to grasp what the nation is all about.

8. Liverpool 2-0 Chelsea: A belated birthday present and easily Liverpool’s best result in the disastrous first half of their 2010-2011 campaign, I watched with attentive (slightly squinted) eyes this great day for Liverpool Football Club from a comfortable booth at the pub. Two goals from Fernando Torres, midfield domination from Steven Gerrard and (I feel obligated to mention, even though I hate this player) Lucas and great saves from Pepe Reina proved to be the difference between the two sides. Along with Liverpool’s ownership being resolved earlier in the month and their following match which I attended in person, this great result stands as representative of my growing relationship with the club, only enhanced by my new residence abroad.

7. Sunday Roast: Many Sundays have brought me over to the Muir’s home for a traditional Sunday roast. In addition to the fantastic food that is always present, these visits to my lifelong family friends in England present much welcomed genial evenings from my English foster-family. I think perhaps the reason that I call home so rarely may stem directly from these fantastic meals.

5. City of Norwich: Not only my current place of residence while attending the University of East Anglia, but my home, many years ago, ’95-97, this place has been the cornerstone of my Anglo-American upbringing and scholarship. Through its many pubs (one for everyday of the year) clubs etc. Norwich has proven to grow to become so much more than the English city of my youth. The nostalgia grips me every now and then, but mostly I see the city in a completely new light from when I was younger, cementing the its place in my list.

4. Beer: English ale has rekindled my love affair with beer (sorry to be repetitive, loyal readers), and easily marks as one of the top aspects of English life. Every pub has local ales on tap. The frothy, bitter taste of hops and malted barley kisses the lips and caresses the tongue as the ale quenches the thirst and replenishes the soul. Drinkers of Natural Light and other vile beverages should probably just admit to the fact that they do not like beer, or just visit England, for that is where I learned, finally, what beer is.

3. London: The four-week residency in London, as part of the Dickinson Humanities Program, easily ranks in the top ten. There, I lived with 26 other students in the academic capital of the word, with every resource necessary to the budding intellectual placed conveniently at my fingertips. The British Library, Royal Albert Hall, The British Museum, The National Gallery and countless other aspects of this city proved to be the perfect place to accommodate any budding scholar. If nothing else, these four-weeks cemented London’s place as my favourite city in the world. Reading Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway in Regent’s Park, damn, life is good. (This is to say that I greatly enjoyed reading the novel; not that Mrs. Dalloway convinced me that life is good ... Oh shit! Literary zing! Snap!).

2. Union Pub: Due to the excess of free time that being a student at UEA affords me, I have spent (and yes I actually calculated it) over twice the amount of time spent in a classroom or library in the Union Pub. Located in the centre of campus, the Union Pub is central to most (if not all) of my activities on campus. Football matches on the tele, friendly service, great location and £1.50 pints of local ale make this a mainstay of my student life abroad.

1. Notting Hill Carnival: Oh god, this was an event! Unfortunately, I had not started writing the blog yet or you all would have read about this in great detail ... up to a point. The Notting Hill Carnival is a celebration of England’s Afro-Caribbean population; and, in 2010 it brought-out an estimated 500,000 Londoners. Why it is called a ‘carnival’ I am still unsure; for, it is not so much a carnival as it is a collection of about 8 city blocks swarmed with people, reggae music, Caribbean food, Red Stripe beer, other alcohol and the sweet pleasant smell of kind bud burning in the streets. Occurring in the first weekend of my stay in England, the Notting Hill Carnival functioned as a gigantic welcome-to-England party, a good omen for things to come in the ensuing year, and so it has proven to be.

So if this is best of what has been, only better things can be ahead. At this point in my year, I would like to thank all my readers. Much more to come, I assure you ... LW