watup

As soon as a camera is pulled out, I hit my go-to pose. Knees bent, head back, half smile while throwing down a backhanded peace sign. I also rock this pose when leaving and entering a room. Needless so say, it didn’t take me long to find out that this particular hand gesture means “fuck you” in the UK, like giving someone the finger back home. I learnt this the night I arrived in Manchester but completely forgot a few nights later when entering a house party. We were making our way to the kitchen and I popped my head in a side room where a group of people were sitting around talking. They all looked at me, I threw down the backhanded peace sign and continued on my way to the kitchen. When I realized what I did my jaw dropped and my hands grasped my head. I just did something really offensive to an entire room full of strangers. I ran back to the room and asked if they had seen what I just did. “Ya, that was kind of a bitch move.” I frantically apologized while trying to explain that it means something completely different where I come from. I was just trying to say “watup.” They invited me in to chat and we all became great friends. One of the guys told me the historical reasons why flashing those two fingers is considered offensive to Englishmen. During the 100 Years War the French would capture the English and cut off their middle and pointer fingers so that they couldn’t use their bow and arrow. Throughout the war, which didn’t actually last 100 years, Englishmen would drop the back handed peace sign to the French to show they still had their fingers, effectively saying “fuck you.” The more you know…

Someone send a runner

Before I left I was talking about being in a two week long daze. I felt dizzy all the time and no matter how much food or water I consumed, I felt like I was about to faint. It was like a never ending hangover… an emotional hangover… bad decision induced nausea followed by faint and vague memories of the last few months. That unsettling queasiness disappeared as soon as my plane flew over London. The surreal became my reality as I caught glimpses of Trafalgar Square and Tower Bridge through scattered clouds. Some more clouds gathered, then the clouds cleared again and I could see the Parliament Buildings and Big Ben. Nausea lifted as the plane lowered in London. It was real and it was right.

The plane was full of a variety of groups and people. One rowdy group of men were en route to a golfing trip through Scotland, taking full advantage of airplane alcohol. One old married couple was sitting in front of me. She had a British accent and he had a Canadian accent. I was imagining that they split their time between Vancouver and London, visiting grandchildren from all sides of the family. Joining this assemblage of transcontinental travelers was a sleep deprived and anxious exchange student. Do I belong in this group of global adventurers? By hopping on a plane to take a semester abroad have I joined some kind of exclusive club of people who carry about their business in various places around the world? It’s not that casual for me. I like to think that I appreciate this flight more than the group of men who have been afforded the opportunity to take golfing trips across the globe. Still, it’s a pretty cool group of people to be a part of.

London was a whirlwind tour of a city with lots to see. It was touristy and it was PG. I wandered around with my parents for 2 and a half days, eagerly anticipating the Manchester arrival. Things were huge and things were old. On a fast paced open top bus tour I took in the amazing architecture. Columns, sculptures and statues of men on horses EVERYWHERE. St. Paul’s Cathedral was breathtaking. It almost made me tear up and for those you know me, this is no small feat. Another highlight was the Tower of London. It holds so many cool stories from the medieval times to WWII. We went into the National Art Gallery and saw some jaw dropping art that I just wasn't expecting. I glansed at the map and was shocked to see I was about to wander amongst the art of Monet, Rembrandt, van Gogh, Michelangelo and da Vinci. When checking out a recreation of Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, we kind of stumbled onto another delightful surprise. Just down the road from the Globe, we were taken into the basement of a building where an excavation of the Rose Theatre was happening. The real Rose Theatre, pre-Globe Theatre. A layer of protective water was preserving the battered wood where Shakespeare the actor stood before becoming Shakespeare the writer. Dim red lights lit the stage. The atmosphere was quiet, damp and spooky.

I met a girl who was half Indian, half German and the daughter of a German ambassador. Think about it, this is crazy close to that day dream I had about meeting the son of an Indian ambassador and Polish actress and spending Christmas in a Palace in India. So they are out there, these hybrid children of ambassadors (like Spock?!), I just have to look for them.

Remember that challenge I was talking about? And making an active effort to challenge myself? Well, my first challenge was successfully met in Pizza form on the last night in London. We sat down in the pizza place and were greeted by an Italian hostess and served by a large and intimidating Italian waiter. When we asked if the pizzas were individual sized or for sharing we got the snarky reply “Well, I think they are individual but people *clears throat* not from around here seem to think you can share them.” Then, when asking about the toppings on one of the pizzas, he warned me that this particular pizza was quite spicy. A challenge has never been more perfectly presented in front of me. He let the toothpick limbs deceive him and underestimated my eating capabilities. I ordered the pizza, along with his largest Italian beer to wash it down. It was delicious, spicy and huge. Within minutes the large Italian man was clearing my clean plate as I coughed to hide my watering eyes and burning lips. I drank the last few drops beer and didn’t dare ask for a water. Challenge met, and exceeded.

Captain's log, stardate 1334.1

I leave tomorrow and it still doesn’t feel real. I feel ready…I’ve said the big goodbyes, packed, got a hair cut and bought a four month supply of my favorite chap stick. I feel adventurous…I want to do everything, go everywhere and meet everybody. I feel confident…I want to establish myself there and make my presence known. I feel restless…I’ve been on idle all summer, just killing time, and am stoked for a new adventure. But it doesn’t feel real, not my reality at least. I keep talking about weekends in France or Eastern Europe and I have to shake my head and ask “who’s life is this?!” Not MY life!

I’ve watched a lot of Star Trek this summer. It’s consumed my late nights and taken over the PVR. When thinking about the exchange I like to pretend that I’m the young and agile Captain Kirk, embarking on a new set of adventures. Set course for Manchester, maximum warp. My four month mission: to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and civilizations, to boldy go where no Lesley has gone before. I guess that makes this my Captain’s Log. Kirk is brave, passionate, risky, forthright, sexy. I want to be all these things.

I’ve been idling, and I don’t want to be idle anymore. I feel well equipped for this adventure, sure in my options and confident in my choices. I also feel terrified, though I’ve found that since I’ve started saying “I’m terrified” out loud I feel less terrified. So, yes, I’m terrified. But it's late and I have a flight to catch tomorrow. Engage.

Slow show

I liken love to fireworks. I’ve never been in love or anything close to it. I rarely get past initial infatuation with guys. But I HAVE been to a fair share of fireworks shows in my time and I am going to take that analogy and run with it. After all, I think I want this whole blog thing to be some kind of record of my unjaded enthusiasm for love, life, people and events… an outlet for optimism… a written record of a late bloomer in regards to love. Anyways, fireworks. After 21 years of countless fireworks shows in various places, these choreographed lights and explosions finally did something for me in February of this year. I doubt that these particular fireworks were any more exceptional than fireworks I have seen in the past, there was just something about that day, the music, the time, the place and the company I kept. All these factors came together to evoke an unbridled enthusiasm on the entire audience… or maybe just me. I like to imagine that love will have this same effect. The factors come together and, BAM, Lesley falls in love. Suddenly, it all means something. I look at him and see those fireworks and feel that bright-eyed enthusiasm. There’s the element of danger. Someone could get burnt, but we’re brave and stand steadfast. My love life as it stands now is a series of sloppy fireworks shows. It’s a compilation of good stories. It's trivial or anecdotal at best, like neighbourhood street toughs playing with firecrackers on Halloween.

I want it all. The love, the passion, the romance, the heartbreak. I want it all so badly. I listen to people talk about relationships and even at the mention of hurt or heartache I get jealous. Jealous?! That’s crazy right? I would love to care enough about someone for them to break my heart. Ya, that’s crazy.

So who, or what, is siphoning the gas from my fireworks show? Has the fuse even been lit? Maybe it’s just yet to reach the gunpowder.

I’ve been fairly single for a long time now and have gotten pretty good at it. I can open my own doors and carry my own groceries. I can pick up at a bar, get a guy’s number and usually get a date. I am THE best wing-man and can get my FRIENDS laid, no problem. I’ve gotten comfortable in a certain degree of independence and self-sufficiency, which I like. I can zip up and down the most difficult of dress zippers on my own and I can look in the mirror and call myself beautiful. Though, there was that one night I was unzipping my red dress and the zipper got stuck in the waistband of my tights. I couldn’t pull the dress up or the tights down and I was stuck in both like a fucking onesie. See, there are some things I can’t always do by myself, or at least it would be nice to have a little help sometimes.

Manchester calling

In January of this year I got bored. I took two days, listened to “You Can Call me Al” on repeat, looked at my financials, and, in a Paul Simon inspired act of impulsivity, applied for an exchange. It all happened very quickly. I guess boredom, or my short little span of attention, was the original motivation but I have since realized the other challenges and opportunities this has presented. School became too cyclical for me this year. Class, work, weekend; midterm, paper, final. I’ve been here, I’ve done this and I know I can do it. I rocked school so hard this year, so I think it might be time for a new challenge. I don’t deny that I’ll meet these same cyclical problems in Manchester, but it will be a change of scenery.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my Vancouver life and what I have made of it. I love UBC, I love living with Sophia and I love working in my coffee shop. I feel comfortable in these cycles and genuinely happy being me and doing what I do. I’ve established myself here. I would have been perfectly content cruising through this forth and final year of school and been overwhelmingly proud of my accomplishments. But when was the last time I was really challenged, or made the effort to challenge myself? I also worry sometimes that I am mistaking contentment for happiness. If I’ve learnt anything from POLI 341 and Chris Erikson it is that I’ll believe anything a handsome man tells me… wait, I mean… If I’ve learnt anything from POLI 341 and its included literature it is the constant pursuit of something better. I’ve met a set of problems, or entered some kind of rut, and it is time to do something differently. This may lead to a new set of problems, but these new problems will require new solutions and present new challenges and thus, I begin my own constant pursuit of something better. Out of the cyclical or linear and into the rhizome. I don’t expect this to be a “be all, end all” trip and I don’t expect to “find myself.” I’m too young to find myself and I’d rather come back with more questions than answers.

I worry that now is a bad time for this, that I can’t afford it or that I’m not ready for a real life experience. I’ve learnt in the past little while that timing is never perfect. Things don’t always work, stars don’t always align. I have to work at it sometimes. If I wasn’t ready before, I’ve had all summer to prepare myself. I pulled a Lesley by doing some research and getting my hands on every Manchester related book and movie I could find. Mental preparation included talking to former, current and future exchange students, writing in this blog and adopting a “seize the day” mentality. I’m also trying to get in the right headspace to not base the success of this trip on guys, sex and romance, but rather on events, moments, travel, people and learning. Financial preparation didn’t go exactly as planned. I spent nothing, saved everything but I still see a loan from the Bank of Fordham in my future. Besides that, I’ve actively made myself ready and adopted the mantra “I am more than capable of being wildly successful.” I dig it… and believe it.

I’ve found myself saying “I don’t normally do things like this” a lot lately, referring to this exchange, certain drunken exploits and romantic pursuits. How many times do I have to say “I don’t normally do things like this” before it becomes a thing that I do? Have I become this bold girl I’ve been trying to be the last year? They don’t call me Forward Fordham for nothing… wait, or was it No-Shame Fordham? Either way, I like these bold moves, I feel like they’re getting me somewhere. And this one just happens to be getting me four months in England. Cool.

So why am I going on exchange and what do I expect to get out of it? I guess I want to challenge myself, embark on new adventures, miss something, be missed, fall in love, acquire new stories, try something different and ask questions. I probably could have done this all in Vancouver but leaving for a while might be a good push. I think that is why my uncharacteristic two-day Graceland-induced coma of restlessness and boredom turned out the way it did.

Specters of adulthood

I’ve recently started being able to appreciate Alanis Morrisette’s Jagged Little Pill albulm. What am I? Some kind of angsty young adult? Nah. This is a bizarre age for me. I have too much unjaded enthusiasm to feel like an adult, but enough awareness of my growing responsibilities to not feel like an adolescent. A strange in between. Specters of adulthood?

A few things have happened in the last few months that have made me feel like an adult. One is that my Surrey buddies have started bringing wine to parties. I feel like I’ve learnt to drink beer by watching these guys. They elevated my feet in my first keg stand, held the bong in my first beer bong and now they are drinking wine. Cheese HAS made an appearance, but in a zip lock bag, not on a platter. This whole thing concerns me because growing up in Surrey consisted mainly of drinking beer with these guys while learning valuable life lessons and making irresponsible choices. Does moving from beer to wine mean that there are no more lessons to be learnt, no more poor choices to be made? Is wine some kind of symbolic shift from adolescence to adulthood? Does sitting around a table drinking wine make us adults? Nah. The other events that made me feel like an adult happened within a few days of each other last December. We had to put Purdy down, then my bike got stolen. We’ve had Purdy almost as long as we’ve lived in the Surrey house and it hasn’t really felt like home since the quieting of her footsteps. She chewed on my Cabbage Patch dolls, my Barbies, my school books and eventually on the edges of the boxes I was moving out with. I got to go home to Surrey when we did it, but returned to Sasamat to find my bike had been stolen. The same bike I rode to the candy store as a pre-teen and would later ride around UBC and Kits. I wondered if losing my childhood pet and bike in the same week made me an adult. Then Greg and I both came home for Christmas from our respective houses. I asked him if the fact that we both called other houses our homes made us adults. We concluded the answer was no… mainly because this conversation took place at the Mirage. Too old to be at the Mirage, but definitely not adults.

So if moving out, drinking wine and being both pet and bike-less doesn’t make me an adult what will? Alanis Morrisette went to India after Jagged Little Pill and moved from angsty young adult to adult contemporary/easy listening, but she lost that anguished edge in the process. That was HER symbolic change. Maybe her childhood dog died while she was over there. This all assumes that my adulthood will result from some dramatic, or not so dramatic, event. In reality, I’m sure it is more of a progressional development… a process… a series of events producing change. This is a development that I feel is effectively under way. However, I AM anticipating one symbolic event that will solidify my adulthood and represent my consent into maturity. That event is the purchase of a headboard. Bed and sex symbolism aside, I really do think that I will feel more like an adult when I replace the thirty dollar lopsided steel contraption on wheels that I rest my mattress on for a real adult bed frame with a headboard. There we go, a symbolic shift from squeaky, cheap and awkward adolescence into a self-assured, confident and mahogany adulthood. But for now, I am perfectly happy in my in between state of young adulthood and immaturity… I’m going to go beer bong a bottle of wine and eat cheese out of a zip-lock.

Still strugglin'

Okay. Entry #2 and I’m still hesitant about this blog thing. I havn’t decided if this should be like a portal into some of my unspoken thoughts and desires or a weekly record of my usual mishaps and misfortunes. Either way, I’m sure it will turn into “Lesley’s Misadventures Through Love and Romance.” (Editors note: too many ‘mis’ words here. What about just adventures? Fortunes? …Haps?) More importantly, the lack of personal communication that blogs bring about continues to unsettle me. I would rather tell you why I am going to England in September over a cup of coffee, I would rather share my ideals of love while lying in bed with a guy I could fall in love with, and I would rather exchange drunken exploits over a beer. Nevertheless, I don’t have many guys at my door asking me to discuss love in their beds so these are three topics that are likely to come up repeatedly on this blog.

I like this. Writing rants down on paper makes me feel good, like writing the letter I talked about in Entry #1. I also have more free time on my hands this summer than I thought I would, so this is probably going to continue. But just like I hated the way the letter made me sound like a crazy girl, I hate the idea of inaccurately portraying myself here in the cyber world. In real life, I'm pretty cool. I’ve been attacked by an ostrich, chased by an erect naked homeless man and have lived next door to BC’s 2nd most wanted. I’ve had a legit schizophrenic roommate and was asked not to sing in our elementary school production of Fiddler on the Roof by the music teacher. Ask me about it. I tell a good story.