The Pigdog Diaries

I don't like Starbucks. Call me a snob, I just don’t like the idea of going to a cafe that’s just one unit of a huge chain of hundreds of exactly similar cafes around the world. And, as for many other trends, I just don’t see what the big fuss is about. Starbucks is unoriginal. Starbucks is boring. I’m not saying they’re all bad. They do serve their purpose - serving coffee and food - and when you don’t really know where to go or don’t know anything good in the area, they can come in handy.

Which is why, standing alone in the middle of Shibuya, a mere 18 hours after I landed in Japan, I was tempted to buy a sandwich at Starbucks. Very weak of me, isn’t it? Well, you know, those 18 hours had been extremely confusing. Man, I was confusée as hell.

I arrived in Tokyo after a long trip around the world which included a stop over in Osaka and a previous one in Doha, Qatar. Qatar? That’s not really on the way from Paris to Tokyo - you may say. Well, when you don’t have much money, suddenly it is. Anyway, the point is, travelling halfway around the world alone, with a stop in an Arabic country before landing in an Asian country, is confusing in itself. Not that I have any moral issues with the Arabic elevator music during take off and landing (and if you’ve been paying attention, we’re talking 3 take offs and 3 landings in a row - more than enough to get sick of this little tune and to start drafting a petition to end the misery of Qatar Airways flight attendants) - it’s just a lot of disorientation for one single day.

Another argument in my favour is that this trip was particularly disorganised. What could have been the first trip that I actually planned and thought through before spontaneously jumping on a train or a plane as I usually do (this time I even bought a guide book long beforehand AND read it!) has been slightly disrupted by a clusterfuck of disasters. I cancelled my tickets and monitored the situation in Japan from the comfort of my Parisian home until I just couldn’t contain my impatience anymore and booked new tickets. No plans made, just tickets. Some plans were made for me, but there had been a LOT of last minute changes. Like “So, you’ll land in Tokyo Narita, and take a night bus from there.” then, “no, wait, take a train.” until it was “forget about the train. You’ll spend the night in Tokyo, is that ok?” Sure, whatever. Just make sure you tell me the final version *before* I take off and have no means of communication with anybody (oh, yes, to add to the confusion, I don’t have one of those fancy phones that work in faraway countries. So, once I left my home in Paris, I was completely on my own.)

When I landed, I followed as much as I could the instructions I was given to go to the hostel that had been booked for me. In all the confusion I took the wrong train - I was going to the right direction, but I forgot that Narita is very, very far from Tokyo (Let’s say Narita is to Tokyo what Beauvais is to Paris) and sat in this commuter train for what seemed like an eternity, during which I felt I had all eyes on me. Is something wrong with my shirt? Is my fly open? Is my make up all messed up? Oh wait. I am the only blonde in the train. Maybe the only one in Tokyo, for that matter. I tried as I could to blend in. It just wouldn’t work. So I did the next thing I could do: try to be oblivious to the stares.

I miraculously arrived at my hostel before closing time and was very warmly welcomed by both staff and the very few guests. This is another confusing thing. In a country that has recently been badly shaken (forget the pun) by a series of disasters, there aren’t that many tourists. Which is why, I guess, the stares may have been more thorough than usual. Now, those were not judgemental stares. If anything, the few Japanese people I talked to seemed rather thankful to the few tourists who didn’t cancel their plans to visit Japan. But most people were definitely surprised. Some of the usually reserved and non English speaking Japanese ventured a question or a warning. Like the man who checked my luggage in Narita and saw on my paperwork that my final destination was Sendai. “Do you know, Sendai, big earthquake !”. My dear man, we do have television in France, as well as newspapers and the Internet, and you guys have been all over them for the past 5 weeks. So yes, I am aware. Please don’t comment.

In the hostel, I felt a bit like a curiosity too, even though I wasn’t the only tourist around there. The other ones, however, had been travelling around Japan for quite some time and had learned to master the language, or at least the basics. So they were quite intrigued when they saw that funny French girl arriving alone late at night and who didn’t seem to react to Japanese people greeting her. But Gareth the Welshman and What’s His Face the Aussie took me under their wings, taught me how to say “good morning” and encouraged me in my long battle against chopsticks (it wasn’t easy, but I won the day).

The hostel, which looked exactly like the kind of Japanese house I was picturing that time when I read Memoirs of a Geisha, was very, very cosy. But the 1st rule of dorms applies everywhere, and in Japan too. Cécile, what is this rule? You don’t know the dorm rule? That’s probably because I made it up. But I dare you to prove it wrong. Here goes. No matter how many people sleep in a dormitory, one of them will snore.

I had the delight of sleeping next to a snorer who was also a mumbler. After I woke up several times to his Japanese mumbling, I decided it would be a great idea to go visit that world famous fish market, which apparently is better visited at dawn.

This is how I started walking, before 5am, to the other side of Tokyo, and taking an empty metro, only to arrive in front of a huge fish market which was just as empty as the metro, with a sign warning that there will be no fishmarket “by earthquake generation”. I thought to myself that this could be a cool title for a rock song, and then wondered what the hell I could do in Tokyo at 5 in the morning. My guide book suggested a few places of interest in the area, but after checking, none were open at this ungodly hour. The few living souls that I passed only gave me deeper stares than all the ones I had had before.

I went back to the hostel, where the lovely staff made a little too much drama about my little mishap before they kindly served me breakfast. And I must admit, although I was expecting to eat a lot of rice during my trip, I did not think I would have rice for breakfast. It was good, just... strange. But then I was ready to go explore the city again, this time with people in it, and open doors.

After a while, either the stares became rarer or I no longer paid much attention to them. I was only surprised by the occasional stranger walking up to me and asking me in broken English where I am from or what my name is or what I am doing in Japan before walking away into the crowd.

Solitary sightseeing is also a bit unsettling to me. I find it weird to visit places without being able to talk about what I see. Or talk about anything. Just being there, alone, watching, taking a picture or two, then walking to the next place that is recommended by my precious guide book, getting there, watching, and starting the whole process over again. You know Charlotte, aka Scarlett Johansson, and the beautiful piece of music that is Alone in Kyoto. This is exactly what it felt like.

And there I was standing, at Shibuya crossing, in the middle of a huge, indifferent crowd of Japanese people, still being very aware that my hair colour was making me stick out whether I wanted it or not, and having no idea where to go for a decent but affordable meal. The unknown was overwhelming. The idea of eating something familiar in a place that looked familiar suddenly felt very comforting. I made a few steps towards Starbucks.

No.

No way.

I turned around, ventured into a small street, and entered the first little diner that I found, and had a ramen that I ordered from a machine with some help from a very patient hostess.

Hello blog, we meet again! I am sorry I have been so distant lately and I beg you to believe that this is in no means a sign of lack of interest or weakening of feelings for you, I still wuv u. I have only gone through a long non-writing period which I can't really explain. Among the many random things I blame for my unproductivity, I will name three to you here; One, I have been travelling a lot, no great distances, it is true, but a lot of exploring still. Two, in between those many wanderings, I was busy doing what I do best: procrastinating. (I mean if there were championships, I'd have a shot at a national prize, if not international). And three, I have been introduced to and fallen completely and utterly in love with John Donne, which gave me the strange idea that anything not as good as His work is not worth writing at all. Yeah. But now that my writing skills have improved to be of such quality that if Shakespeare could read my work he would cry like a little girl, I figure I can write on my blog again, and maybe start flooding my beloved friends and relatives with my never-ending emails and letters again. (OK I might have some doubts about that quality thing. But I do feel like writing again.)

I shall start with the traditional "previously, in the Pigdog's life". I have recently come back from my year abroad in Northern Ireland, where I have learned, among many things, to check the waterproofness of a pair of shoes before buying them, to be careful who I am talking to when I mention Derry/Londonderry as well as being careful of how I pronounce the letter H depending on what part of Belfast I am in when pronouncing it; to almost understand the unique accent of the Shankill kids, at least those who came til my class (yes, "til"); to just accept the fact that I will never understand a bus driver, ever; to overuse the words "like" and "wee" (which is a word in NI); to know that in an Irish name, "aoi" is pronounced "ee" except when it's pronounced "a" or "o" or "u" or, why not, "xwf"; to know that bomb scares are to Northern Ireland what public transportation strikes are to France, a common annoyance; and to pretend that I HATE "P.S. I love you" with a passion, because, as I was brought to understand, this book stands for all that is wrong in the universe, and the film is even bigger shite. And I could go on and on about how much I love this country and those people even if most of the time I don't understand their ways, but I have left about a month ago, which means  that the scarring process is currently at its most painful stage, and if I talk too much about this, tears might come to my eyes and then it will get awkward and then there'll be a most unappreciated silence and that would all be quite unpleasant so it would.

So let us focus on the now. I have taken up my new position in a fancy Parisian office last week, and there is already oh so much to write about. Let's start with the fact that my office is located on an American campus, so I am constantly surrounded by Americans, yet everybody, every single soul, speaks French all the time, some with the most "aaaaw" accents (which, as you would have understood, are accents that make me go "aaaaaaaw", the same kind of "aaaaaaaw" I let go when my Belfast students handed me their goodbye cards full of 'I wuv u's and unsuccessful but touching attempts at writing in French, an "aaaaw" of tenderness but of less amusement than when Nevin told me not to listen to Andrew because "he's just talking off his derrière").

Where I work there are only three of us: the director, the director's assistant, and the photocopy gal. I  am the latter. But after googling my boss' name and finding out that he's kinda famous in his field and even has his own wikipedia page (this means fame, right?), I felt a new found sense of pride knowing that I'm the one who makes his photocopies. August being a very quiet time where I work, I have spent a great deal of my first week getting acquainted with the workplace and understanding what's expected of me (and thank goodness for that, it's actually a lot more than making photocopies. I also buy post stamps.)(just kidding, I do a lot more, even things that are important, yay)(though one should not think that buying stamps isn't important). And so during my research, which was mostly rummaging the computer files, because, well, I do love computers, I have learned a lot about my predecessors. People, be careful what you leave on a computer, it says a lot about you.

The young ladies who have filled in my position before me are rather messy, at least as far as computer files are concerned, to my greatest displeasure. I can live with a messy room, not with a messy computer. I just can't abide it. What is "accounting March 2007.xls" doing right next to "Flight departure Jan2009.doc"? And how has it never occurred to you to make one file per semester, in which you make one file per university? AAAAAAARGH. (transformation)

My predecessors are also at war with grammar, which would not be such a problem to me if I weren't counting on the instruction package they left me. One should never underestimate the importance of good grammar. When, in French, the infinitive sounds so much like the past participle, one should be careful what one's writing down as instructions, as someone, say me, can find themselves puzzled at a phrase of instruction that just isn't clear whether this is about something that *has been* dealt with or that *has to be* dealt with.

But, to be fair, I must also point out that my predecessors have decent taste in music. Yes I felt slightly bored one day as I was alone in the office and checked if by any chance my computer was equipped with iTunes, and that's how I found out. Now I fear that next week, when I'm alone, in charge of the place for three entire days, I might find myself very unproductive as I'll be too busy swinging my head to the Fleet Foxes.

I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the I was following the pack, All swallowed in their coats With scarves of red tied 'round their throats To keep their little heads From fallin' in the snow And I turned 'round and THERE YOU GO AND MICHAEL YOU WOULD FALL AND TURN THE WHITE SNOW RED AS STRAWBERRIES IN THE SUMMERTIME

I just came home from the pub tonight, checked my mailbox and read my first ever email written entirely in Irish. Lads, I'm glad to hear from you, but, well ... I understood about 5 words, and tried to guess the meaning of the sentences around them. There's something going on tomorrow at 7:30 (thank goodness you used digits), it involves Colm, Daìrin and Cillian. There'll be a Ceilì soon, probably around St Patrick's day. And there'll be a trip ... somewhere ... some time.
HURRAY.
That's about one fifth of the email. No clue what the rest is about.

And that memory suddenly pops into my mind. I'm six years old, coming home from school for lunch break, but the door is locked. It shouldn't be locked, my mother is supposed to be here, if she weren't, she would have told me before I left for school that I should go to my grandma's or my aunt's at lunchtime.
But she left a note stuck on the door. To 6-year-old me, it read :

Cécile,

word word word word word word, word word word word.
word word word word, word word word word.
word,

Mummy.

And there was a potato cellotaped to the note.
So what do you do when you're 6, go home, find the door shut and a mysterious note with a potato stuck on it? My reaction was to sit on the floor and cry. Until my mother came home and found me there.

"Cécile what are you doing here? You're supposed to have lunch at your grandma's! I wrote it here, on that note! I left home to help your grandpa harvest the potatoes! I even cellotaped a potato for you to understand!"
All in sobs, I said something like "Mummy SOB it's my second week SOB of school SOB all I was able to read SOB was SOB "Cécile" and SOB "Mummy" and SOB I had no clue why you would SOB cellotape a potato to the door!" (explosion of tears)

Seriously, what was I supposed to get from that cellotaped potato?

...

I love my mum.

I was sitting in the bus to Belfast city airport when it struck me. Flip! I took my pencil case with me. The pencil case contains my scissors, the ones I have owned since my early childhood and that have never let me down. The ones with the round purple handles, so comfortable to use, and one of the very few pairs of scissors in the world that were specially made for the exceptional people that we lefties are. "I'm sure airport security will take them from me" I thought. But I was lucky. Belfast City is a small airport and security there is a mere formality (Terrorists, if you read me, hello). They didn't notice my scissors, or thought that their round edges could hardly hurt a man made out of paper.

But this was only the first of several moments of stress that night. If the flight to Stansted went without any trouble, the trip from Stansted to Oxford at nighttime would prove rather more difficult. As I asked the good man at the bus station for a ticket to Oxford, at about 10pm, he told me the next bus was to leave Stansted at 00:45 and to arrive in Oxford at 3:50 am. Whatever happened to all those buses that were listed on the national express website? And how am I going to break the news gently to my good friends Cat and Charlie who were to pick me up at such an ungodly hour? I think "Well that's bollocks" were my first words to them. So much for my promise to myself not to let out a single swear word whilst with my Oxford friends. I thought I should try and see if I couldn't catch a train, and ran with my heavy bag to the train station. As I arrived there, I got a call from Cat who suggested I take a bus to London, then a bus to Oxford from there, and arrive at a more reasonable time. OF COURSE! Why didn't the man in the bus station tell me so? Oh England, are you playing with my nerves? So I ran again, from the train station to the bus station, to catch the earliest bus to London.

"Get out of the bus at London Marble Arch", said Cat, "it's easier from there; you'll just have to cross the street to take the green bus to Oxford." Well that sounds easy. It did anyway. Before I arrived in Marble Arch. That's a bloody big street! That's actually a massive boulevard and the only way to cross it is through that maze of an underground passage! After looking carefully at the map of the underground passage (there was a map, I kid you not), I figured I should, I guess, take exit #4? It was around midnight by then, and I was all alone in a city I barely know, where I don't know anyone. Everything's alright. I took exit #4, and there I found a young man who greeted me. "Are you going to Oxford?" "YES! Is this the right stop? Great, thank you." What a nice young lad.

"You say you're going to Oxford?" "Yes, indeed I am." "Well I have news for you. God loves you."

Oh bloody hell. Of course he couldn't just be a nice young man helping out a lost Frenchie in London. He had to be a Christian fundamentalist. I won't tell you about the whole conversation we had, and my numerous but vain attempts to get him to leave me alone. And he was taking the same bus as me. Brilliant. "Would you like to pray with me, to save you? I would like to save you." "No thanks, I feel pretty safe." I finally arrived in Oxford at 2am, woohoo! I had never been so happy to see Catriona and Charlie's pigdog faces. Charlie hardly blamed me for keeping him up that late on a week night.

After a reasonably long night of sleep, I had a late breakfast with Cat, then she took out two bicycles and we started riding together through the little streets of Oxford. "See that church? This is where JRR Tolkien is burried!" "Really? Well, I'm not a fan, but I'm sure some of my friends are. I should take some photos to make them jealous." As we started posing for photos, I noticed several limousines parked around the church. There must be some kind of event, I thought, and told Cat. Wait a second. Friday afternoon, big black cars, a church... probably not a happy event. "It's a funeral apparently." We had no idea who this was, and how were we supposed to know anyway. But when you're having a good time and pass people grieving, you can't help feeling a bit guilty. So we took our pictures very quickly before anyone left the church and could see us, and went on.

What followed was a lovely ride through the green lands surrounding Oxford. It must have rained a lot before I came, because everything was flooded. And I am telling you, riding a bicycle in the mud is tricky. You try to keep control over the bike, but it just won't let you. Must - not - set - feet - down - must - stay - on - SPLASH!

Muddy shoes.

Cat wouldn't stop apologising. She can't help it, she's a lady. Unlike me. It's been ages since I rode a bicycle in the country and got my boots full of mud. I felt like a child again. I was jubilating. We passed the ruins of what used to be a convent. Catriona, who used to be a tour guide, explained everything to me. "This was the first female convent in Britain. But King Henry 8th decided to destroy it and burnt it down, with all the nuns inside. About 230 nuns died in the fire, it was all pretty nasty." "Oh." "That's not true, no one was inside. When I was a tour guide, I loved it at first, then after a while I got bored and started making up those stories. Tourists just believe everything you tell them, it's brilliant." Thanks Cat, now I won't ever be able to trust a tour guide again, you've just ruined all my future trips! 

Cat took me to many wonderful places; a nice country pub where they served us tea in the cutest china cups, a market where I bought loads of smelly French cheese, which I miss so much up here in Belfast, the old centre of Oxford with all its colleges and churches and towers, and a museum that had skeletons of dinosaurs and mounted animals that you were allowed to touch. This was the weirdest thing. You find yourself stroking a mounted pony, thinking oh that's so sweet, that's so soft, until you realise it's a dead animal that you're stroking, and feel eeeew. We stroked them all anyway. Even the snake, though I must confess, it took me a few seconds to get my hand to touch it. I was scared by a dead snake. Lame. But I'm sure you would be too. So all in all, it was a wonderful afternoon. Cat is one of those people who are so calm and peaceful that just being around them makes you feel a lot calmer too. You feel good in their presence, good and relaxed. And Oxford is pretty, and it was cold but sunny; it was bliss. We went home for a Chinese feast with Charlie (the poor man was at work while we were cycling around) and hours of chatting.

The next day we drove to London for lunch and more long chats with our now-Londoner friend Sophie and two more Frenchies, Simon and Alice. Nothing particularly exceptional to write about here; I was of course delighted to see my old friends again and, again, we spent hours chatting, and promised each other that we won't, ever again, let that much time pass before we meet again. Now let's see if we can all keep this promise.

I then happily hopped alone on yet another national express bus and headed to Canterbury, where my good old friend Phil was waiting for me and welcomed me in his house of standard geeks (no offense here Phil). Again, I was glad to see a friend I hadn't seen in a very long time, and I got to see the university where he used to study and now works as a researcher, no less. Phil also gave me a taste of the Kent nightlife, which was entertaining, and the next day we explored Canterbury, the Cathedral (which is massive, and pretty pretty, go there) and a small seaside town where we pretended not to be freezing and walked on the beach for a while. Phil, unlike Cat, has obviously never been a tour guide, and he just punctuated our long walks with comments such as "So that's Canterbury.", or "So that's Kent." or even "So that's the sea." Well, it's good to be sure, so thank you Phil for confirming it to me.

We then headed home and curled in the sofas to watch movies while one of Phil's housemates was making dinner for everyone. While we were watching a movie, a bell suddenly rang, someone paused the movie and all the boys rushed to the kitchen. "Dinner's ready, that's what the bell's for" explained Phil. Oh, that's how it works in an all Computer-lads house! Dinner was lovely (Phil, if you're reading this, you can tell your mate) and well, I enjoyed Kent. Phil also promised we'll see each other again as soon as possible.

"I'll visit you when you're back in Paris.", he said.

"You can come and see me in Belfast too!"

"Yeah, no I'm not interested. I'll see you in Paris."

Geez. Why won't people believe that Belfast can be a cool place to spend the week end?

I got up way too early the next morning to catch another bus to London, then a bus to Stansted, I posted my four postcards (I managed to limit the number of postcards to four! To anyone who's ever been traveling with me: amazing isn't it?)(And now all the people who are reading this and didn't get a postcard will be jealous. Gosh.) and then I headed to the boarding area.

This wasn't Belfast City airport anymore. This was Stansted. And as small as it is, it is a London Airport. Which means my purple scissors didn't stand a chance. I still kept my hopes up; they are small round scissors for nursery school kids after all, how could I ever use them for any kind of terrorist attack? I couldn't even cut the hair of the stewardess. And how could a girl wearing a brown velvet skirt and Snoopy socks be a terrorist? But the lady at the security check didn't think that way. After she thoroughly searched my bag for other terrorist tools, scanned my phone and my iPod, she took the scissors and told me I'd have to leave them. I wanted to cry and to shout my lungs out to that heartless bitch who was going to throw away my precious pair of scissors I've had since I was 6. But I retained my dignity and repressed a tear as she carelessly threw my whole childhood in a plastic bin. London Airport Security, how I loathe thee!

I've been feeling quite homesick lately, and I figured a good way to warm my heart a wee bit would be to celebrate Nicolas day with some traditional Manele. And this is my very first attempt at baking Manele.

The result was not great - those are the driest Manele I have ever eaten. But they did cheer me up a bit, so that was a Saturday afternoon well spent!

Also, as I've brought some Manele to my landlady to thank her for lending me her baking brush, she gave me a piece of brownie, a piece of christmas cake, a piece of Irish soda bread, a piece of wheat bread and a cup of tea. I think that's a good bargain.

I have been dreaming of visiting Scotland since I can't remember when. Belfast being so close to the coasts of Scotland, it's no surprise that I took the first opportunity that presented itself to cross the Irish sea in order to see what it looks like out there. So on a Friday morning I took a bus from Belfast, then a ferry boat from Belfast to Stranraer and then finally a bus from Stranraer to Glasgow where my friend Louis was waiting for me (waiting two long hours because I got the timetable wrong and thought I would arrive at 2:30 when I actually arrived at 4:30... sorry!)

The trip in the ferry was very pleasant. I love boats. They're probably my favourite means of transport - I love being gently rocked, I love being able to walk around in the vehicle I'm travelling in, and for some reason, it seems that meeting people is a lot easier on boats. I haven't really talked to strangers on trains or planes or buses, but on boats, I have, most of the times. I was only disappointed that the only outdoors area of that very boat consisted in a small "balcony" on the rear side of the boat. Who built that boat? Don't they know that the best thing about travelling by boat is to stand outside, close your eyes and get your hair completely dishevelled by the strong winds? Best feeling ever! And as far as meeting people is concerned, I didn't really speak to anyone this time. However, as the boat was approaching Stranraer and people were proceeding to the exits, a man came to me while I was still sitting, handed me a folded piece of paper claiming I had dropped it earlier. I hadn't, but the man was gone before I could say anything. I unfolded the piece of paper and discovered a poem scribbled with a pencil, obviously written during the trip. I still don't know if the man genuinely thought I dropped it, in which case I am in possession of a poem someone wrote and lost and I feel sad for them, and I actually considered posting the poem here so that they might find it by googling some of the words, or if the man intended to give me that poem, in which case, hey that's romantic, COOL.

The rest of my trip wasn't all that pleasant. I sat in a bus thinking I'd be in Glasgow within half an hour (which is what the timetable I had found on the Internet was suggesting) and realised after a while that it would actually take more than 2 hours, which would not be that bad - I had music to listen to and gorgeous landscapes to look at - if it weren't for the two drunken Irishmen sitting in front of me who engaged in a farting contest. In a *stinky* farting contest. And who wanted to chat to everyone sitting around them, including me. Months after being here, I haven't caught the local accent, so people always ask me where I'm from. Of course the two men couldn't help reminding me that "Thierry Henry is a dirty cunt", as if I had some kind of responsibility in what happened on a football field in France while I was having dinner with my coworkers in Templepatrick.

Two hours of nauseating smells and insisting that no I will not give you my phone number, and I am not going out with you tonight, I am st aying at a friend's and he has a whole programme ready for me, and it doesn't include going out with obnoxious strangers later, I arrived in Glasgow! Hurray! I had rarely been that happy to leave a bus.

The first place Louis took me to, after we dropped my suitcase in his apartment, was, as he pointed it, "Glasgow's rue Mouffetard", to sit in a good ole pub and have a drink of cider (YES, Mat, we had CIDER. Not Beer, CIDER. Both of us.) We then ate dinner and had a wee nighttime walk in Glasgow, during which Louis explained to me that Glasgow is one of the most unsafe cities in Europe and that by the way, the street we're in right now is famous for armed assaults. Thanks Louis, that is good to know.

The next day Louis took me to another tour of the city. It was very, very cold, but fortunately not rainy. We endured the cold and saw as much as we could within one day. We saw the university, which is oh so beautiful, like most British universities I have seen until now, then we walked in the botanic gardens which has beautiful (and more importantly, warm) greenhouses. In this very cold and humid weather, Louis and I became suddenly very interested in tropical plants... But at some point we had to leave the cosiness of the greenhouses and face the elements and explore the rest of what Glasgow has to offer to visitors. We took the underground train (which is so tiny it looks more like an attraction for young children in a theme park than an actual underground train) and saw the main shopping street, Buchanan street, then walked to Glasgow school of art, which, and I'm again quoting Louis, "is supposed to have a remarkable architecture, at least that's what my architecture student of a brother told me". We arrived there, stood for a while, trying to find out what was so remarkable about it. We failed. "But I'm going to take a few pictures anyway, it'll make my brother happy." Fair enough.

We then walked to Glasgow cathedral. We arrived in a small square with what looked like a small church and were slightly disappointed. Really? Is that Glasgow cathedral? It was. Only it is built uphill, in a way that when you arrive from the front it looks tiny, but when you walk around you realise it's actually Massive (with a capital M). We went in, then walked around, talking about our own opinions on religion and how it's like back home, and how we miss mirabelle plum pies. (mmmm mirabellekueche!). Then the sun started to set, at about half 3 (yes, half 3. The UK and Ireland are depressing places in winter), which was a perfect time to explore the necropolis.

(Photo by Louis)

(Photo by Louis)

Then we had tea at a friend of mine's whom I hadn't seen in about two years. And surprisingly, it didn't feel awkward. It felt like we had spoken just last week. And ironically enough, she happens to live in Cecil Street, which was an excuse for silly pictures. 

(Photo by Louis)

At the end of the day, we went home to Louis' hall of residence where there was a party which we attended. I felt like being back in Vienna, where I did my exchange year, attending a party in Simmering, except most people were Asians and I felt like an ethnic minority, which was a bit unusual, but not bad at all. Plus I got to taste Louis' flatmates' authentic Mumbai cuisine! (Well, just a bite, considering I can't handle spicy food. It was still tasty)

The next day we took a train to Edinburgh and went on a free guided tour of the city. The tour was great, the guide was a remarkable and entertaining young man and it would have all been a fantastic day if the weather had not been that bad. It was very, very cold, and windy, and rainy, and I found out that my big boots are not waterproof (despite the waterproof spray I applied before leaving Belfast). Hurray! But we did not get cold feet (at least not figuratively. My feet were very cold.) and followed the guide until the end, and did not regret it one second. Edinburgh is a fascinating place and all the stories we were told made it all the more captivating. It happened to be Saint Andrew's week end, which I didn't know, was just lucky to go to Scotland the right week end. As you may know, Saint Andrew is the protector of Scotland, so Saint Andrew's week end is an excuse for big celebrations where people wear kilts, play the bagpipes and parade in the streets.

The entrance to Edinburgh castle is also free on that week end, so after I bought myself a new pair of dry and warm socks, we went there but didn't stay very long because the weather was getting worse and worse and our valour has its limits. So when we couldn't take any more, we walked back to the city centre and tried to find the train station. Maybe I should tell you now that one particular feature of Edinburgh is that it is a two stories city. It's hard to explain, but there are somehow two levels of streets. So when you look at a map, streets that seem to cross each other actually don't, because they're not on the same level. Long story short, we walked around for a good half hour, googlemap in the hand, before we found the train station which is very well hidden.

We got home, watched a movie and went straight to bed - it was an exhausting day. The next morning I bid farewell to Louis and took the bus back to Belfast, noticing that the sun had come back. After I left. And I remember it was shining on my way in, up until I arrived in Glasgow. Scotland is kidding me.

I cannot thank Louis enough for a lovely week end - I hope I can return the favour and welcome you in Belfast!

Dear fans,

I have to apologise. I have neglected you lately. Not that I don't enjoy writing, not that I don't have anything to write about, mostly I don't have a lot of time to sit down and write. Now I am ill, in bed, what better time to bring this blog back to life?
This year again, I hoped for a while that I would bravely go through winter without being sick. How foolish of me. And again, this year, when my body started to show signs of weakness, I chose to ignore them. And so, for a week now, I've been waking up with headaches, each morning a little worse than the previous day, but always thinking "I'm going to be alright, I'll take some painkillers, eat healthy stuff, drink loads of tea to wake up and I'll make it through the day. In a few days I won't have to worry about a thing." And just as every winter, I was proven terribly wrong. I let the headaches get worse and worse until the pain spread to my ears and my throat, and until I woke up and just couldn't pretend I was fine anymore. I called in sick this morning and spent the rest of the morning lying in my bed in a nearly comatose state, trying to find the courage in me to get up. Some hours later I managed to get up and eat breakfast. A nap later I managed to reach the bathroom for my morning/afternoon shower. And the day went on like this, step by step, patiently, until I finally managed to get out of the house and go, as my friend and co-worker Leanne had advised, to the University health centre, where doctors would be more likely to treat me even though I'm a foreigner and I still don't have my national insurance card (I guess I should thank British administration? British post? Dunno.)

I got there and saw all those signs and posters telling people to stay home and not see a doctor if they suspect they have swine flu. Even though I knew that my symptoms were those of tonsillitis and not any kind of flu (tonsillitis is an old friend of mine), I started to have doubts and wondered if I should go home before I got scolded by an angry doctor for ignoring the pandemic procedure in place. Those signs everywhere were very intimidating!
I decided to risk it anyway. I saw a secretary and asked to see a doctor, or a GP as they say here.
"I'm sorry Miss, our GPs are all fully booked today. (checking her computer)... And tomorrow as well. (more computing). There's nothing until next week. But listen, if you call the health centre tomorrow morning between 8:30 and 12, maybe they'll manage to give you an appointment or to examine you over the phone."
...
QUOI ? How can a general practitioner be "fully booked"? Is it too much to ask to go to a health centre when I'm ill, and expect to be seen by a doctor the same day? Because where I come from, that's how it works. You're sick, you go to the doctor. You sit in the waiting room. You wait, you wait, you wait, you may and you probably will spend several hours in the waiting room and read a dozen gossip magazines that you would otherwise never read, but in the end, you will see a doctor. And the doctor won't leave the practice until they have seen all the patients in the waiting room, no matter how late it gets. Does it not work like this in this country? Do you have to plan your illness in advance so that you can make an appointment to see a doctor? And what's the deal with phone examination? Should I skype a doctor and show them my tonsils through webcam? These are all the thoughts that were rushing in my mind as I politely thanked the secretary with a smile and walked away.
The hell with that. I need to see a doctor today, and I will find one!

Thinking that this is the kind of situation where an iPhone would be handy, I walked down the Lisburn road hoping I would see a doctor's practice somewhere. I didn't find any but found a pharmacy where a kind pharmacist pointed me to a big health centre on that same road. I went there, crossing my fingers hoping that my lack of national insurance card will not be a problem. They asked me if I was "registered".
If I am quoi ?
Ok that's the other local thing. When you move to a new place in the UK, you're supposed to "register" to a doctor, a process that can take several weeks. I learned about that yesterday. Many thanks to the British Council for mentioning it in one single sentence of our hundred page information booklet for teaching assistants but never mentioning it during all those information meetings where they went on and on about all the documents we needed to produce. The secretary there, I have to say, was a very kind lady, and said she'll try and arrange an appointment for me today if it is an emergency. Is it an emergency? I was going to say no, as a reflex, because to me, the word "emergency" is synonym of immediate life-threat, like an axe planted in the back of the head, or the heart that stopped beating, something like that. I *just* have terribly painful headaches and my tonsils so infected that I can barely swallow my own saliva.
But I figured out that if I said it wasn't an emergency I might not see a doctor in weeks, and that might actually threaten my life. So I said please those headaches are killing me can I see a doctor today please please please? She said ok, handed me the pile of documents to fill in for registration and said the doctor will see me at four.
Hallelujah!

I took a seat and answered a series of questions about my life, my consumption of cigarettes and alcohol, my job, my reasons for being in the UK, how long I'm planning to stay in the UK, my ethnic background and so on. And my national insurance number, which luckily I know even though I don't have my insurance card yet (many many many thanks to my friend Leanne for telling me that I would find this number on my pay slips or my tax documents. I am very grateful.)

And that's when I came to a terrifying realisation: there were no magazines in the waiting room. Not a single one. No newspaper either. Nothing.
QUOI ? A doctor's waiting room without anything to read? What are they thinking? Of course I could have brought one of my many readings I have to do for that literature class I'm taking, but I'm not the kind of person who remembers to take a book with them when they go places where they might have to be sitting and waiting at some point. But again I blame this on this country's crazy health system. No magazines in the waiting room? I never read magazines except in trains and doctors' waiting rooms. A waiting room without magazines is simply unacceptable.

I settled for my iPod's klondike game. A few games later, I noticed that fancy screen on the opposite wall that displayed information about the practice, and that sometimes rang, and the name of a patient appeared. "Mrs F Maguire - Dr Cassidy, room 7". Ha. That's fun. Maybe I should keep an eye on this and see when my name is displayed. And some more games of klondike later, it happened. "Miss CJ Ehrhart - Dr McMuffin, room 5". Oh yeah, CJ is back. Sorry. I've never been called "CJ" before moving here, it had never even crossed my mind that I could be called this, and now, well it amuses me every time. CJ. It sounds like the name of a teenage character in an American soap opera. CJ. CeeJay. I love it.

In room 5, Dr McMuffin (thank goodness for him that's not his real name) was waiting for me. He first asked me if I could speak English, to which I said yes and started listing all my symptoms, telling him about my medical history and getting out all my occasional asthma medication that I had brought with me to show him, thus avoiding the intricate enterprise of explaining in English what I take and when. (I am absent-minded, but sometimes I'm impressed by how organised I can suddenly get. I had even spent some time on wikipedia and wordreference before leaving home to make sure I know crucial words about my medical history and medication, like "salbutamol", "tonsils", "corticosteroids" etc.). Dr McMuffin was so kind that he not only examined me (my guess was right, it's tonsillitis) but also did my registration, so that I wouldn't have to come back another day to do it. So I had to answer some more questions about my medical history and that of my family. That's always the tricky question. I never know what to answer. My family are fucked up when it comes to many things and health is one, but as far as I know, we seem to be immune to cancer and heart diseases. So I generally answer no to those questions about "family morbidity". (what a creepy word!). Dr McMuffin was so kind that I decided to give him a little treat.
"I don't know if this is relevant to your file, Doctor, but I had spinal surgery in 2002."
"Why was that?"
"Scoliosis."
"When was that again?"
"2002."
(doctor carefully writing this new piece of information down on the file)
"Does this cause you any trouble?"
"No, not really."
"Get up please and lift your shirt."
(executing myself. Doctor looking at my back and commenting:)
"Very clean. You can sit down."

Now you people probably don't get what happened here. Those were the words that were uttered, in a very neutral and professional way, but the subtext is far less matter-of-fact. So let me translate this to you.

"Hey Doctor I have something exciting for you! I am one of the rare patients of a big, massive, cutting-edge spinal surgery!"
"Really? What kind?"
"Scoliosis. Spine stabilisation."
"COOOOOL that's a good one! I had heard of it in med school but never actually met one in my career! And I bet you have a ginormous scar, can I see it?
"Sure! Go ahead!"
(lifting the shirt and taking a long hard look at the scar)
"WOAW THAT'S BADASS!"
"I KNOW!"
"MY COLLEAGUES WILL BE SO JEALOUS THEY'RE GONNA WET THEMSELVES, I CAN'T WAIT TO TELL THEM!"

I know how to make doctors happy. This is like giving a 5 year old a ticket to Disneyland or the Willy Wonka factory.

Then Dr McMuffin handed me the prescription and told me I can get the drugs in the pharmacy on the first floor, it would cost me £3 each, so a total of £6. I waited a while for him to tell me how much I owed him for the examination, but he didn't say anything and showed me to the door instead. I hesitated, started walking away, turned around to see if he was going to ask me for money, but he never did. Ha?

I walked down the flight of stairs thinking how handy it is that the pharmacy is in the same building, and how brilliant that I apparently don't need to advance medical costs. I stepped into the pharmacy, handed my prescription and took a seat. A minute or two later, a lady called my name, and there were all the drugs I need to get back on my feet and go back to work next week. I went home, went straight to bed and had a look at my two boxes of drugs. They both had a label stuck on them with my name, the date they were given to me, where they were given to me, and how and when to take each drug. The labels were typed, printed, and stuck to the boxes. Nothing like the messy handwriting of a pharmacist scribbling on the box. Then I noticed something very interesting: one of the boxes was initially supposed to contain 14 tablets. But the doctor prescribed 20 tablets. So they added 6 tablets in the box. In France, they would have given me 2 boxes of 14 tablets each and at the end of my treatment I'd be left with 8 extra tablets that I'd never use. But here apparently there is no such waste of medication.

So in the end, I have to say, there are some good things about the British health system. I was a bit taken aback by the whole "fully booked, see you in three weeks, when you're dead" thing, but everything turned out well in the end, and now I have the exact amount of medication I need with my name stuck on it! Brilliant.

But then something hit me. I had spent less than 5 minutes in that pharmacy, virtually nothing compared to the hours I had just spent walking from one health centre to another, praying to the gods I will be seen by a doctor, and then sitting in a waiting room playing a dozen games of klondike until my name was finally called. When I left the pharmacy, I saw something I didn't expect to see there.

A pile of magazines on a chair.

Miss, are you really French?

Miss, can't you speak English?

Miss! You lied! You can speak English!

Miss, what is France like?

Miss, are schools in France different than here?

Miss, if students don't wear uniforms, what do they wear?

Miss, is the weather in France better than here?

Miss, what do frogs' legs taste like?

Miss, are there many mimes in France?

Miss, have you ever seen anyone famous in Paris?

Miss, what kind of clothes do people wear in France?

Miss, what kind of music do you like?

Miss, do you know Marilyn Manson?

Miss, have you seen the Nightmare Before Christmas?

Did you like it?

I like you now.

Miss, do you want to see my tattoo? I have Jack Skellington tattooed on my chest.

Miss, how do you say "I have two brothers and three sisters" in French?

Miss, how do you say "my parents are divorced" in French?

Miss, how do you say "I have a snake"?

Miss, how do you say "I have black hair with ginger roots"?

J'ay m'appelle Stephen. J'ay duze anz. Jebite à Belfast. J'adore le foot. J'ay un soeur ett trou frèeurs.

NO MISS! I wasn't laughing! I mean, it's his fault, He made me laugh! I wasn't laughing at you! Sorry Miss. Sorry! Sorry. I'll be quiet Miss, I promise!

MERCI CECYILL!

OW REVOIRR CEYCILL!

Last week.

Wow. It's been a long long time. I've had an eventful summer, travelling from places to places in different countries and welcoming visitors in Paris, but there's too much to say for one blog. And I'm feeling lazy. And now summer is over, at least where I stand now, it is. So. Now.