"Munch, munch," said the locust.

After Lynn left, Craig and I decided to take a couple days visiting Cambridge and London, returning to Ann and Geoff's each night. We could pretty much see most of Cambridge in one day, but with London we'd have to be choosy.

As we're not great planners or decision-makers when it comes to travel, we decided to put off being choosy for a day-- so Cambridge came first.

We saw King's College, and spent most of our time in the Chapel. It's a beautiful thing, of course, with a fabulous fan-vaulted ceiling.

Outside Trinity College, we saw a tree that is supposedly descended from Newton's famous apple tree-- it was planted below the room Newton studied in.

And we dropped by St. John's College, where one of my heroes, Mr. Paul Dirac studied. You can find my interview with Dirac's biographer, Graham Farmelo, here.

This is the Bridge of Sighs, at St. John's College. Wikipedia says it was built by Henry Hutchinson, but word on the Cambridge streets was that Sir Christopher Wren is the real architect. Who knows? Anyway, it's beautiful and named after a Venetian bridge that is also covered.

Since students actually live in these colleges (they are essentially student halls, as well as being architectural historical wonders), there were signs all over the place asking non-residents not to go past this point or that point. There were cordons and various other devices set up. But, they hadn't managed to block off every path to the Bridge of Sighs, so Craig and I actually managed to sneak on and walk through. When we got to the other side, though, an stuffy-looking old guy in a really nice suit looked at us sternly as we left the building. You could tell he was British, though, because even though he didn't like us, he made way for us before he stepped into the building that he probably actually has a right to be in...

This is apparently a super-famous new clock. Have you heard about it? It's called the Corpus Clock. There are no numbers on it; blue LEDs indicate the time. Oh, and a giant ghastly mechanical locust crawls atop it, munching up time. It reminded me of the They Might Be Giants song.

"You're older than you've ever been, and now you're even older, and now you're even older, and now you're older still," John Linnell sings.

"Munch, munch," says the locust.

And my heart grows cold.
---
An apparently super-popular thing to do in Cambridge is to go "punting." I'd never heard of it before, and I'm afraid I rather let the sails out of the tourist information official when I told him that. He was like, "Well, it is a very famous thing to do in Cambridge, but apparently it's not that famous in... where are you from?"

Canada. Definitely Canada.

Anyway, "punting" is actually just taking a boat down the river that runs through Cambridge-- but there's a catch. You can't row the boat. You have to stand on the end of it and use a stick to guide yourself along. Until you're capable of that, you have to fall in the river and capsize your boat, taking all your friends with you. Former friends, possibly.

Given Craig's history of (eerily, almost willfully) falling into just about any nearby body of water, I wasn't about to get in a boat with just him and a stick. But I took a picture of the very famous activity for you, at least.

Craig was intrigued that some of the people doing the actual punting were total hipsters. They were clearly hired to punt for less-courageous tourists (like me), and they served as guides, as well, sort of telling folks what buildings they were passing by, etc. But they were wearing hip sunglasses and skinny jeans and flip-flops, sporting extra cute haircuts. For some reason, it interested him.

But Craig and I didn't have the time (or the money) to hire one of these obliging hipsters, and honestly, we've had enough boat-time in this year, considering Thailand and Cambodia, so we let it slide.

The last thing on our list was to see the Cavendish Laboratory, where Rutherford and Maxwell and other geniuses did their pioneering fancy-pants genius work. It is, oddly, on an unnamed alley with rubbish bins out the front.

Pretty exciting stuff-- or so we thought until we learned about Manchester's scientific history (see this post for more on that).

Well, I can hear my own locust munching my last night of freedom from lectures away, so I better leave London, and my Manchester adventures of this weekend, for later. Until then, dear readers...

Vantage Points

I arrived back in Sydney on Wednesday to find a city in bloom, puffy with colour in the grips of early springtime. Plants that just a few weeks ago were lanky army-green things are now sagging with flowers. The bok choi I have in pots in the back garden had bolted and are on the brink of dropping their seeds. I'm coming up on my third spring here and it's become obvious that springtime hits Sydney like a brick. Wintertime consists of a few months of rainy dreariness with some off days of cool clarity, but then a week comes around that changes everything, and the plants respond like they've been chomping at the bit to get going since May.
















Still loopy from my 1.5-day journey from Manchester's Piccadilly Station, showing up in this natural carnival was intensely confusing. I had left a winter-weary Sydney to find an infernal, sun-blasted Atlanta, then a pleasant London. Early fall in Manchester reminded me of nothing more than the depths of the antipodean wintertime, with its blustery rain. Then I got off the plane to find this. Can you blame me for being a bit mixed up? I'm glad I only came away with a scratchy throat and slight jetlag.

That, and a wounded heart. Leaving Nija behind me was really tough, and I've been walking around here in a bit of a daze since I got back. Partly, it's due to jetlag and the general space-time displacement that goes along with circumnavigating the globe. Particularly hard has been the early mornings: daylight savings starts next weekend, so until that merciful day gets here, the sun comes up at something like 5:15 AM. Mostly, though, it's just thinking about how hard things will be for the next year, maybe more, without this person that I rely on being close at hand.

To put it lightly, I haven't landed on my feet here. Nothing feels right at the moment, and I'm not motivated to do anything in particular. I went to uni on Thursday and Friday but mostly read my book, looked online and chatted with friends. Yesterday (Saturday) I got some shopping done and got a run in, but then I took two naps. Anyone will tell you that this is not the usual me.

But today I wasn't about to stay in and take naps. The weather was gorgeous, so I figured I'd take myself up on one of my favourite hobbies: wandering aimlessly through the city.

Walking down the hill from our place takes you to Blackwattle/Rozelle Bay, which has been heavily featured on this blog before. If you walk around the bay to the west (or cross the Anzac Bridge via Pyrmont, to the east) you can follow Victoria Rd up into one of inner Sydney's most interesting sections of town, Rozelle and Balmain. These are old working-class neighbourhoods situated on a peninsula that sticks like a thumb out into the western harbour. Now, of course, these places have been mostly gentrified, but they're lively and make for nice walking and people-watching. Or monster-watching, it seems:
















So out I set, shuffling along with my legs and right knee surprisingly sore from yesterday's run. Springtime continued around me, as I watched male pigeons fluff themselves up and prance after the girls. Shameless.

Balmain (pronounced so that "Bal" rhymes with "Pal", not "Paul") illustrates perfectly what I think is one of Sydney's most charming aspects, that is, it's possible to get great views of the city and landmarks from almost any angle thanks to the topology of the harbour. Infinite vantage points!





























The walk was pleasant and Balmain was abuzz when I arrived. On the way I stopped at the Rozelle Markets, a popular weekend attraction, and ended my journey at a nice cafe called The Little Marionette, then did some reading in Gladstone Park right next door. This spring day even started to feel a bit like summer: the sun was hot if you sat in it for a minute, and people were out in their shorts and thongs (flip-flops).

On the way back I got a glimpse of the harbour through some trees off a side street and decided to descend, and found one of Sydney's multitude of harbourside parks. This one, Elkington Park, had a dead-on view of Cockatoo Island:
















Then I stumbled on one of Adriano Zumbo's bakeries, which have become famous recently, not least for Zumbo's appearances on MasterChef Australia. Two seasons ago he made a huge croquembouche, and last season he made a croquembouche out of macarons. We're in something of a Macaron Moment (tm) here in Sydney, and Zumbo's have the reputation of being the best. His certainly are some of the most exotic: today he had oatmeal liang-liang, Earl Grey and milk chocolate, and the ones I bought to take to Vix and Ruby, pear pistachio fennel (green), mango black pepper with tonka (yellow) and coconut pandan (white).




















Despite its new glitzy sheen, Balmain thankfully holds on to a few relics of its industrial past. I suppose in a few years this will be something useful and attractive, but for now there's something satisfying about the presence of such an epic derelict factory:
















All in all a fine walk on a brilliant day, capped off later with a visit to our old Alexandria neighbours Vix and Ruby: a fellow could ask for little more. And still I'm looking for something to grab onto to settle myself back into this life in Sydney. At the moment it doesn't feel like my home, and I think I might go on feeling adrift, unsure and upside-down for a while. What's missing from this picture?

We sometimes forget Americans are real people.

The funny thing about British road trips is how much shorter they are than American road trips. You barely have time to get hungry in between stops. But like all road trips around the world, there is beauty to be found on the way.

The first stop on our Norfolk region road trip was to Bury St. Edmunds, where a certain King Edmund was killed by the Danes in 903. He was also, as the name might suggest, buried there, and supposedly miracles began happening soon after. So then he was made a saint.

More importantly, it's the home of Greene King Brewery, famous label of Old Speckled Hen. We got there too late for the brewery tour, but lucky for us, the "museum" was still open. Oh, it was rather a sad museum, with an entire section devoted to what kind of food people have eaten with beer.

At least Craig got to dress up like a beer-brewing monk.

Then we noticed the cutout behind him, and Lynn and I made him get in that, too!

Look at him in those woolen swim shorts! After checking out the brewery gift shop, we decided to have a pint at the local pub. And here some of our troubles began. First off, most British beers, like the rest of the English-speaking world, are not very flavourful. They might look a nice red or dark brown, but put some in your mouth and you'll find a watery ale. Worse, it seems the British truly love serving beer just about warm. Not in that enjoyable Brick Store way, where everything is just warm enough to taste it. No, in England, it's more like taking a mild beer, warming it just above where it would taste good, and then serving it with no head at all.

It's a little bit disgusting. We soon learned to buy bottles, as those are at least refrigerated. We also went to the Bury St. Edmunds Cathedral, which has an amazing huge garden and old Roman walls, but I forgot to take pictures.

Then we thought we'd hit Southwold for the night, a little seaside town, but when we got there, we couldn't get any accommodation for the night. We called some places in Wells-by-the-Sea also, but no joy. So we decided to just jump onto to Norwich. We did find a place there, and decided to check the town out the next day. Finding dinner wasn't easy, as it was around 10pm, but we ended up at an Indian place that was less-than-mediocre.

Norwich by day, however, was a very different experience. It's an adorable little city, with cobblestone laneways and weavers' windows on lots of buildings. There was a printmakers' fair going on, so we stopped in to see the cool arty stuff.

Then we found some cool arty stuff on the street.

This just weirded us out.

And as we did a little Norwich lanes walking tour, we came across a lovely fat little bird. If we collected Craig's pictures into a book, it might most easily be titled "Birds of the World, with Particular Emphasis on Ducks."

One of the coolest things we saw in Norwich was this bookshop window display. The store is called The Book Hive; can you believe the intricacy of this... I don't know what to call it. Hanging paper castle?

After we'd seen pretty much all Norwich had to offer, we headed to a little town called King's Lynn, mostly because it had the word Lynn in it. It's a really small town, and after putting our stuff down at the B&B, we walked into town, looking for somewhere to eat. But we had no idea what to look for. We wandered for a bit until we saw three girls walking down the street; we asked them where we could find a bite.

"Are you American?" they asked.
Yes, we said.
"Well, there's a McDonald's around the corner," Girl 1 said.
Girl 2 said, "Shut up, they don't want to eat at McDonald's!"
We agreed with her. We did not want to eat at McDonald's.
Then Girl 2, she was very talkative, she said, "But what are you doing here, in King's Lynn?"
Girl 1: We only see Americans on television, so sometimes we forget that you actually exist, that you're like real people."
Girl 2: But what are you doing here? (and you would be right to imagine a sense of loathing in her reference to King's Lynn)
We tried to explain. We were travelling, you see, and we thought seeing some little English villages might be nice. That Lynn and I had already seen London, and Craig and I would be seeing Manchester soon, so for now, we were just going around, seeing what we could. England's full of history, right, so everywhere has something vaguely historically interesting.

Girl 2: (with immense confusion, with an almost willful inability to comprehend) But why are you here?

We found we couldn't really answer her to satisfaction, but Lynn got in a conversation with Girl 1 about Las Vegas and the States in general.
At this point, Girl 3 was quiet and embarrassed by Girl 2 and was nearly tugging her out of the laneway. They directed us down the street and around the corner, where we found a Prezzo, a rather upscale British chain restaurant that served us an excellent meal. Well, Craig's minestrone beans were undercooked and it had no pasta in it, but Lynn and I had a delicious pesto ravioli dish which I wouldn't turn down a second time.

The next morning, we walked around King's Lynn. The water looked cold and dirty and gray.

 But we still had a nice time walking around, seeing the old things. It's a pretty little village.

The old gaol had this outstanding facade of black and white checkered stones. It's beautiful and breathtaking and a little weird to think about people putting this much work into something that's meant to house prisoners.

For the last leg of our trip, we dropped in to Hunstanton, pronounced "Hunstan," of course, a beach-side town with a low-tide so far out, we couldn't even see the water. But we had some beer and a nice lunch at a pub. We walked through a sensory garden, a garden designed for differently-abled people. They had a whole aromatic section, so blind people could enjoy the plants and stones with braille on them. Gentle hills for people in wheelchairs to amble around. You get the idea. It was very pleasant.

Along the beach, we also found a stand that was selling fresh hot donuts. Delicious!

After all that enjoyment, though, it was time to get Lynn back to town. Her flight was early the next morning, so we headed back to Hertford only to find she couldn't possibly get to Heathrow that evening. Ann and Geoff had a plan: wake at 3am, get Lynn to the coach station and on the express to Heathrow-- she would just barely catch her flight.

So that's what we did. It was a bit crazy, and I can't believe it actually went off without a single hitch. But it did. Lynn got on the bus, and we all went back to Ann and Geoff's, to get some more sleep.
-------
I also have updates from Manchester-town for you. First off, pictures of my room!


















It's actually a pretty big room, with a huge desk and lots of storage. I like it, except the green carpet. But hey, maybe I'll find a cheap nice-looking rug. At least a big window is over my desk, for what little sunshine I can find. And the duvet cover Craig helped me find has really nice colours.

This tiny thing is apparently a kitchen for four people.

We have an open plan, so the kitchen leads right into the common room. It also has a nice big window, but no couch. That TV is my flatmate Despina's, but it doesn't work.

I have my own bathroom, which is very nice. But it's the tiniest bathroom I've ever had. The shower is right over the toilet, the shower curtain provides the only barrier. There is a floor drain, but the floor doesn't quite slope toward it, so the whole floor gets and stays wet for a very long time.

 But it's only for a year, right? A year in which, hopefully, I'll be studying and making friends and generally too busy to worry about my tiny, wet bathroom.

This week is called Welcome Week, which means apart from a few short inductions and meetings, we don't really have any classes or anything. It's been a long week. I've been trying to fill my time reading and getting errands done, and planning out stuff to do. Example: this weekend, I'm going to the Manchester Farmer's Market, a women's history guided walking tour called "Up then, Brave Women!" and a pub crawl with the Burlington society, which is a society for postgrads and mature students.

One of the errands I had to run was seeing the Alan Turing Memorial. Turing is one of Britain's great scientific minds-- he helped break the Nazi enigma code, he developed early computing machines. A genius. But after all his service to his country, he was persecuted for being gay, or rather for "gross indecency," which is the same thing Oscar Wilde was charged with 50 years prior.

Alan Turing died of cyanide poisoning, with a half-eaten apple by his bed. People reckon it was suicide, and that he'd dosed the apple. But the apple was never tested for cyanide, and his mom forever believed that he had merely been careless with lab chemicals, that he would never intentionally kill himself.

The memorial to him is in Manchester's Gay Village, and it's a really beautiful thing. My new pal Sara took this picture for me. The apple in his hand stands not only for the one that he may have killed himself with, but also for forbidden love, and it's a reference to that hero of scientific heroes-- Newton.

The board beside the memorial said that one of Turing's first computers is buried under the bench, as well. I wish Craig could have seen it with me. Manchester has such an amazing scientific history. Did you know the atom was first split here by Rutherford and that the first computer was built at the University of Manchester itself??! You definitely want to click that link-- an amazing photo awaits you.

I also spent some time up in the Northern Quarter the other day; I enjoyed some tea and a bagel at CUP. And then, as I wandered down Oldham Street to get back into town, I happened upon...


















The Grace Kelly is a lemon cake with white chocolate frosting. Perfect for lifting a lonely mood, along with one of my all-time favourite books.

I Heartford

One of our last nights in Atlanta was spent with my family, at a Thai restaurant, where the kids showed me and Craig their newest game. It only works at restaurants with paper tablecoverings-- unless you're very antisocial and don't mind being kicked out of fancier linen-type restaurants, that is. Anyway, using the place settings, they outline their forks, knives, spoons, bowls and plates onto the paper. Then they remove the actual thing, let's say, the fork, and they turn the outline into a character. Plate, of course, usually becomes a big moon face, and the whole thing ends up looking like an illustration of "Hey diddle, diddle."

Regardless, my point is that Craig really wowed them when he took the game to new levels.

 Lynn, Craig and I met up at the airport, with Mama and Papa Dalal and Wayne in tow. Lynn and Craig only had one suitcase each, so I intended to buy a second bag for all three of us at $50 a pop, so that I could get all my crap to Manchester. There I stood, credit card in hand, as the service attendant informed me that they had already been paid for.

Zang!

Sometimes even miserable places, like airports, can throw little $150 packets of joy your way. But it's rare, so savour it. Mmmm.

On the plane, Lynn quickly got to work becoming the new best friend of the girl sitting next to her. Remember Abby, guys? She was nice. She sat with us in the Toronto airport and ate Indian snacks and trail mix with us.

We got to London's Heathrow airport at, I don't know, 5.30 in the morning or something heinous like that. Lynn had boarded the plane well-prepared, with melatonin tablets and little less-than-three ounce bottles of various liquors, so she slept fine. Craig and I didn't think to partake of that goody-bag until long after she was passed out, so we didn't fare quite so well...

Then, from London's Paddington station, we had to get to Liverpool station. On the tube. In the middle of the morning commute. With six suitcases, packed to the very hilt of their 50-pound limit. No lifts. And definitely no sympathy from London travelers.

Not very clever. Craig was sweating and aching, I was doing my best to help lift the bags on and off the trains. And my best is pretty poor. And Lynn was just trying to keep everyone from hating us. Maybe we should have offered them the little bottles??

Anyway, we did finally make it to the Hertford (pronounced "Hartford," naturally, or as the title of this post punningly suggests, "Heartford") station, only to have a cabbie let us know that for three people and six suitcases, it literally would have been cheaper to just take a cab from Heathrow directly to Hertford.

Oh, very clever. We didn't even think of that option. Ahem.

Ann and Geoff are basically Craig's great-aunt and great-uncle. Geoff is Wayne's mom's brother. Ann and Geoff are wonderful wonderful people. They bicker hilariously with each other, they clearly love each other, they have a beautiful house and an amazing garden, and they have simply got things figured out. They know how to spend a day. I have great respect for that. Old souls, I tell you. These two know how and why to have fun. I simply can't explain it. I first met Ann and Geoff about four years ago, and I had really enjoyed their company.

Our first day, well, I was sort of useless. I took a nap and ate and just barely managed a few incoherent thoughts, but I know I had a stupid grin on my face. I was very happy to be at their place again.

But on our second day, we went on a field trip! Like, a trip to a field. I mean it--

A place called Wimpole Farm, it's a real working farm that's managed by the National Trust. It was beautiful, and we took a nice long walk up to the folley.

What's a folley, you ask?

Or, as Ann defined it for me, "It's just an old useless building that doesn't do anything."

Hmm.

Wimpole Farm also has a very nice little cafe and courtyard, wherein we ate some homemade fudge. That's my kind of farm. Ann and Geoff pictured below, with their grand-daughter Ruby in the foreground.

 We spent a few days at Ann and Geoff's, enjoying leisurely mornings, light breakfasts with plenty of coffee, and delicious lunches of cheese, bread, chutney and olives. We went out to the Raj, a surprisingly good Indian restaurant in Hertford, and we went to the weekend farmer's markets. Hertford is a quaint town, with a village sort of feel. We walked along the river and found a HUGE community garden.

Some people even had little sheds set up next to their plots! Very cool.

While we were there, Ann and Geoff had all their kids and their kids' kids around for a little afternoon tea and get-together. A good wholesome family day, with some requisite parent-child wrestling and some forced-grass-feeding. What? You never stuffed grass in your dad's mouth? Man, what kind of sad childhood did you have?

This is Tim (Ann and Geoff's youngest) with his son Stanley. For some unclear reason, Stanley is trying to tear Tim's arm off, but Tim doesn't seem to mind, does he?

And it seems Nicole did manage to feed her dad Nick (Ann and Geoff's eldest) some tasty tasty grass.

I really can't thank Ann and Geogg enough for their hospitality, kindness and generosity; they've already invited me down for Christmas and invited me to visit during the year. I'm really looking forward to it, actually. I love being around Ann and Geoff, and I really like Hertford. It's a small town, but it has a really nice pace. And it's pretty, with cobblestone streets and all. Those few days with Ann and Geoff were so nice, comfortable and fun, we had to make a real effort to leave.

But Lynn only had a week in England, and Craig and I wanted to make sure she saw more  of it than Hertford with us. Where to go? Wales? Scotland? At the bar one night, Nick, Rachel and Tim laid out one option each. Nick and Rachel both suggested heading West, but not going nearly so far as Wales-- too much driving. Tim suggested a radically different route: East. Well, north-east, really. Then Nick spilled his beer on Rachel. Then he told her to stop whinging about it. Oh, it was a fun time.

Anyway, Tim won, and we soon found ourselves driving toward Bury St. Edmonds. But that's for the next post--

You look beautiful.

I have not written anything on this blog in ages. A full 21 days, and even before that, I only posted snippets for about two months.

You will forgive me, though, I know, not only because you are my friends and family (and their friends and family), but also because you have been where I have been. I know it, dear reader, I am certain.

You too have thought of things, not pressing things or maybe only vaguely pressing things, and you have found yourself in a certain place. Known simply as "not in the mood."

And that is where I have been. I have not written any stories or tales, on the blog, or anywhere else, for the last few months, because I have been with many, though not all, of my loved ones. I have been crushing my heart in nostalgia and wonder at my hometown, I have been watching my nephew and niece grow literally by the day. I'm not joking. At the beginning of this summer, Nanu could run at me, take a little flying leap and land safely in my arms. On my last day in Atlanta, he jumped, and I tried, but I stumbled, and we failed. He is too tall for his short aunt to pick him up anymore and I will miss that more than he knows. My niece is nearly there herself, and it breaks me, it really breaks me to think that the next time I see her, she might not be able to jump up into my arms. The thing about kids, you know, is that they grow.

I have been falling in love again with Craig. I have been getting to know my new town.

I have generally just not been in the mood.
---
Craig's homecoming to Atlanta in August was joyful, but far too short. We rushed and rushed trying to see everyone and do everything we'd missed, one more time. We found so many old friends again, and found how heartsick we'd been without them. We usually forgot to take pictures, but on one occasion, we (happily, oh so happily) remembered

It was a hard summer. It was unbearably hot. Seeing everyone a bit older and post-GFC was unnerving. But the hardest part was feeling like I knew this place, when I really didn't anymore. New things had opened up, and everyone knew about them but me. Favourite haunts had closed down, buildings had gone up and others had been torn down. You see, despite the economics, things are good in Atlanta. In fact, leaving this time, only the second time I've truly left my hometown, I left what felt like a thriving city, a boundless city, a city with good food and such good beer (oh, my how I missed good beer in Sydney), a city with wild kudzu and a wild heart. This summer, I saw and did and ate all the things that I had missed for two years in Sydney. I felt wrecked on Atlanta this summer, I pushed and pushed to make it feel right again, but it wouldn't stop feeling just a little bit weird. Leaving this time was strange. A vacant ache, a stone in my shoe, the odd sense of leaving a home I haven't lived in.

Craig and I knew we only had a short time together in England. We visited relatives and road-tripped around Norfolk with Lynn. And when she went back home, Craig and I made our own way, roundabout and curving, up to Manchester. For the last week, he has walked with me around my new town, enjoyed lovely little hang-outs, found the best bus routes, sipped the finest beers and eaten what has been, I'll be honest, some rather mediocre food. He selflessly did it all. I know he wants me back in Sydney, but he did not once, in this whole week, allow himself the luxury of despair or anger or jealousy or even a mild petulance. He cheerfully walked with me in the flinging wind to the Northern Quarter, to Chinatown, to my new University. He found pots and pans with me and adapters, and when Manchester had something Sydney didn't, he just said it would make him happy to know that I would have this, whatever it was, for the next year, while he was away. He made conversation with total strangers at my residence hall's welcome night for me, and he thus introduced me to my own neighbours. Oh, he has been such a help. Oh, he is such a wonder.

I know, in my heart, a part of my reason for coming here is to prove something to myself, in some small way. That I can live by myself and not fall apart. That I can engage in difficult, graduate-level study and not fail. That I can live and deal with truly cold and gross weather, and not end up depressed and crying in my room.

But today, at 3:30pm, I waved goodbye to Craig and sent him on his way, first to London, then to Malaysia, and finally Sydney, and I won't be near him for a very long time. This whole morning, we looked at each other and held each other and admitted that we really didn't know how to do the last few hours right, how to say this kind of goodbye. We kissed, he boarded the train, and I stood on the platform, and we stared at each other, trying not to cry, trying to smile. The train pulled away, and Craig pressed a paper to the window. I ran alongside. "You look beautiful," he'd written. I stopped running and watched the train leave, and wondered what I've been wondering ever since I decided to come here. Maybe I've made a terrible mistake. I see things when he's around, things I don't notice otherwise. I feel beautiful when he's around...

Hopefully, I'm just feeling a bit vulnerable right now.

I am, after all, a little bit depressed and crying in my room.

And suddenly, I have found myself achingly, desperately in the mood to write this blog again. To reach out to you. To write and write. Tomorrow I'll begin to show what we have been up to, and I will do my best to keep my spirits (and the tone of this blog) up, or at least higher than this particular post.

I know I will miss my family and friends even more now, in my third year of expatriation, in my first year of Craig-less-ness in nearly a decade. I will need care packages. Send me an email, and I'll send you my postal address. Some of you have written me emails that have gone unanswered for an unforgivable length of time, and you'll be receiving apologetic responses from me soon. For now, please know that I am fairly settled in my room, it is fairly nice, and I like Manchester a fair bit thus far. Details later.


Already, I am sifting through pictures of our time in England and Atlanta, looking for something to cheer me up. Ah, here's one. Let's end this post on a happy note, hey?

Consider this my train window.

You look beautiful. And a little silly. Get home safely, my dear.

Definitely an odd city--

But we're going to miss it. This is our last morning in Atlanta; you'll hear from us after the jump, over the pond-- in a day or so. Goodbye, Atlanta, and Atlanta friends.

Fare thee well.

Wild Place

Ever since I got here, back in June (it's already been two months??!), I have noticed a few really bizarre phenomena going on not just in Atlanta, but in the whole US.

Item the first: Silly Bandz.

These are rubber bands that have various shapes. You wear them on your wrist, and they look like they're just wavey bands, but then you take them off your wrist and it pops back into its original shape-- such as "I Heart Justin Bieber!" See the photos.

These things are freaking everywhere. They got Toy Story ones, music ones, animal ones. I first heard about them from the niece and nephew. As in, just after an 18-hour flight, I'm at my mother's house, the chickens walk in, give me a hug, and say, "Look, I have a Buzz Lightyear silly band, and Nanki has Princess ones!"

What?

It's all so strange, I ended up buying a package of my own, just to show people. Then, I found that everyone NOT JUST KIDS but everyone is already onto this. My pal Lem, who is like a cool guy who plays drums with the likes of Cindy Wilson, wears them.

Nuts.

Item the second: Frozen Yogurt.

That's right, friends, your low-fat frozen friend from the 80's is back, but her hair is less frumpy and she's definitely not wearing those hammer pants anymore.

There are so many different Frozen Yogurt stores in Atlanta, it's a little bewildering. You sort of can't drive more than a few blocks without finding one. In fact, the other night my sister randomly said she'd like to have some frozen yogurt, and that way I could actually see what all the fuss was about, but she didn't know where one was nearby– we were in East Cobb, at my parents' house. We drove for about two minutes and found the Yogli Mogli. There are already 6 locations in the Atlanta area. And that doesn't count the Yogurt Tap in Decatur, or the various locations of Yogurt Land spread across the nation.

Super weird.

But sort of tasty. Not as good as the popsicles... but still pretty good. One interesting thing is that these places offer plain frozen yogurt, with no sweeteners or flavouring, if you want. I tried it– and it tasted like very cold yogurt. Like someone took some plain yogurt and froze it. I know. Unexpected.

Item the third: Pimento Cheese.

It's like a huge scoop of Pimento Cheese has fallen on the city. What used to be a sort of gross packaged food-stuff, boasting ingredients like guar gum and "thickeners" is now a gourmet thing to eat. Every restaurant with respectable food in town has homemade pimento cheese sandwiches on their menu. Friends have suggested explanations ranging from "Pimento cheese is good!" to "Maybe with the economy being so bad, people are turning to the comfort food they ate as kids, but they want it to be homemade, like their mom did it."

Foodies have long been taking some low-culture or plebeian food, doing it up right with quality ingredients, and proving that low-culture food can be damn good. It's happened with mac and cheese, and with mashed potatoes. The King of Pops could even be described that way. It's a movement I really appreciate, in fact. Who could complain about valuing ordinary people's food this way?

But pimento cheese? It's bizarre.

Seriously, those of you in Australia, Ireland, and wherever else you're reading this blog– are any of these mass hysterias taking over your town?

Or what is the crazy thing everyone's obsessed with where you are?