Hostel Life, or How I woke up to a strange man in my bed…

    1:30 a.m. and I was still awake, seething over the drunk who had burst through our door and casually turned on all of the lights. I presume just for the hell of it; he left after only 30 seconds, taking nothing with him. Now so tired that dreams blended with reality, I finally managed to close my eyes. Even my dreams weren’t free from the hostel’s dominion – I remember taking my blanket downstairs and trying to sleep in the cafeteria. I wish it had been real because the next moment, something really heavy fell onto me. Someone had climbed into my bed.

    We arrived in Bath, England at about 3 p.m. the day before. The five of us were on a three-day road to Oxford, Bath, and Stonehenge. For about $25 each, we had a clean, warm, beds, hot showers, and breakfast. Upfront, it’s a deal that’s hard to beat. As the first guests to check-in, we had our pick of the beds in the room. Most hostels don’t make the beds for guests. You have to do it yourself. It cuts down costs and, now this is the most important part, it shows that the bed has already been claimed by someone. So, us three guys (the girls, Jana and Helen, were in a separate room) cobbled our beds together and were ready to go explore the town.

    It was already late in the afternoon, and we had the next morning to tour the museums and Roman baths, so we meandered through the city and saw a few minor sights. For dinner, we went to Hall & Woodhouse, the most eclectic pub I’ve ever seen. The front entrance was like a backyard patio, with white, wrought iron garden chairs and tables, with glass table-tops and flowers in vases, all on a tiled floor. The center was filled with massive, sturdy benches and tables, straight out of a beer-hall, or Valhalla perhaps, not so much built as hewn straight from fallen tree trunks— the type of place you could go to with mates from a soccer team after a light scrimmage, so no matter how rowdy you get no one can knock over a table. In the back, where we sat, there was a fireplace with leather, Victorian sofas and candles for ambiance...along with a mounted cow’s head, electric guitar, bagpipes, and alpine skis; as I said, eclectic. Tying it all together was a bar straight out of a steam-punk fantasy, plated in riveted copper like an abandoned piece of ocean liner. Knowing I had to drive 180 miles the next day I had only a pint of Hofbräu and a dinner of chicken curry. We played Scrabble and Risk! until closing time— the pub had a decent collection of board games as well. We caught a quick cab up the hill, and were in the hostel foyer before 11:30. That’s when the fun began.

    Us three guys furtively opened the bedroom door— some people were already sleeping— and blindly ambled to our beds. Bart and Adel had no problem climbing into the bottom bunks, but I looked up at my bunk and was greeted by a pair of wide-open eyes and, strangely, a Cheshire grin.

    Some jag stole my bed, the one I had staked my claim on by laying out the duvet cover, pillow, and mattress sheet. Adel, seeing my uninvited guest, shared a knowing stare. Pissed, I chose the open bunk above Bart and went into the hallway to put my duvet cover on— a Gordian process if you’ve used quilts and blankets your entire life. Showering, I remember thinking, that sucked, but at least I’ll get a good night’s sleep—should’ve knocked on wood.

    Our slumber was immediately interrupted by an Asian student, who came into the room. I could tell he had intended to take Bart’s bed. You could see it in his face. He too made his bed in the dark. He went through the night sans pillow. Bart had taken a second one from an empty bed earlier in the day; honestly, I didn’t blame him. Then, the snoring began.

    One “guest” started sawing logs at about 12:30, and never stopped. I’ve had roommates who snored, it’s not difficult to sleep through a person snoring, but this guy was sawing with a gas-powered chainsaw rather than handtools. Changing metaphors, you know how most people have a distinctive snore? Their own melody? Well, this fella was his own symphony. Every five minutes, he’d begin playing a new tune in a different key with a different instrument. Sometimes it sounded like an entire orchestra, other times a solo act from first violin. I even heard a few a few duets in there. We even enjoyed some opera; the guy beneath him started talking in his sleep, but in a high-pitched, almost falsetto voice. By this time, I think the drunk had turned the lights on and off. Probably at 1:30, I went to the bathroom to grab some tissues to stuff in my ears, later discovering that they didn’t work. As I cracked open the bedroom door, quieter than a church-mouse, the “music man” sprang up from his bed screaming, Ahhhhhh! What the fuck is goin’ on! Where the hell am I! What’s happenin’! Everyone’s eyes turned to this guy, and then, slowly, to me. I still have no idea what that guy thought was going on, other than a bunch of people trying to catch some Zzzz’s. Maybe he thought he was being incepted.

    The symphony’s second act started about 15 minutes after that brief interlude. Most of the audience continued observing silently. But, by 2:30, another man snapped, jumping out of bed screaming, that’s it! I can’t take it anymore! I’ve been wearing these goddamn earplugs all goddamn night and they aren’t doing a goddamn thing! Stop the fucking snoring and shut the FUCK up! He stomped over to the musician and actually hit him. Just once, to make sure he was awake. The guy said he didn’t know he was snoring and couldn't help it. By this point I hated both of them and just wanted them to shut up. I’m still unsure what the angry guy was hoping to achieve by waking everyone up and yelling...I suppose we were lucky there wasn't a fistfight in the middle of the room.

    For the next twenty minutes, the room was a tomb, quieter than a catacomb. By this point, I think I managed to close my eyes and drift into sleep...

    ...and then someone was on top of me! Grasping that this wasn’t part of the dream, I pushed out, hit the guy’s chest with my open hands, and started shouting, What the!? Get the...

    I can’t include the rest of what I said, not because I’m afraid of offending virgin ears (or is it eyes?). Rather, I can’t remember what came next. I was so angry that I may have been cursing in tongues for all I know; considering how livid I was, the number and novelty of the swears would fill up a page of new entries in Webster’s.

    The guy mumbled something and staggered out of my bed and down the ladder. I didn’t see what happened next. It was 3:30 and we had to get up at 7am. I collapsed into my pillow.

    The next morning I woke up to Adel sitting at his bedside, already showered and dressed. He didn’t sleep well either. No one did.

    At breakfast, we spooned cornflakes from our bowls in silence. The girls had a pleasant night. They shared the room with a couple of old ladies— tame stuff. I envied how well-rested they looked— sweet dreams I suppose. Stomachs satisfied, we shared a laugh about the whole experience. Bart told me how he saw the guy walk through the door, look up at my bed, and then, without hesitating, climb up into it. Adel mentioned he considered yelling on several occasions, but thought in his semi-conscious state that it would come out in Russian instead of English. Thinking through my dreams, I’m half-certain that someone tried to climb into my bed not once, but twice. Maybe one instance was just a dream. That I’m unsure is the scary part.

    Bart has a saying about turning dreams into memories. He keeps a poster of it on his bedroom door. The girls walked out of that hostel with dreams, we left with memories.

-- D.

P.S.  If you doubt the veracity of my tale, this is how I looked that morning after checking-out:

The truth is written all over that face. Hope you liked the story.

Let me know if there's anything else you'd like to hear about. I think I'll write about driving in Britain next.

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated...

Hey there true believers!

    Rest assured I am fully and painfully aware of the neglect with which I have treated this blog; in its original purpose as a weekly account of events, it’s a failure. But, I’ve decided to retool it, bend it to a new purpose. In fact, don’t even think of this as the same blog as last year’s; I won’t. My past posts attempted to provide a chronological perspective of my time over here in merry old England, and needless to say, I lacked the diligence to maintain that routine. Basically, I caught a case of Faulenzia (laziness).

    So, my future posts (and I assure you there will be more!) will provide a topical and episodic account of my experiences in England. I think the style is more entertaining to read and easier to write; in other words, I don’t want to work hard. I already have several ready to roll-out over the next few days.

    I don’t expect you to continue following due to my renewed promise of regular posts (on that account my credibility evaporated last term when I only managed three updates!). Instead, I expect you to take the bait due to pure sensationalism! My next post (arriving tomorrow) is titled “Hostel Life, or How I woke up to a strange man in my bed”

-D.



P.S. If there is some aspect of living in England you'd like to hear about, just post in the comments section and I will do my best to indulge your curiosity.

Memento Mori: Saying Goodbye to my Old Friend Kohle

    I apologize to my readers (if I still have any) for the long delay between posts. I've been meaning to write this week, I just didn't think I'd be composing a eulogy...

   I received some difficult news this week; my dog, Kohle, died.

   From chats with my family, I knew that Kohle's allergies had flared up, causing some rashes on his skin; still, this had happened in the past, and he always fully recovered. This time was different.

   The vet said that Kohle's autoimmune system was shutting down and that the only way to save him would have been chemotherapy, which has a very low chance of success. With Kohle already in terrible pain, and with things only getting worse, the only humane thing to do was have him put-down.

   For those I live with, I want to apologize if I seemed a little out-of-it or distracted during our Halloween festivities. So often, society calls for men to bury their emotions deep inside; sometimes it's impossible to keep them from welling-up and rising to the surface. I suppose I was wearing a mask in more ways than one yesterday.

   I loved that dog. I remember meeting him at the pound 10 years ago in December 2002. He was just a puppy at the time; so small that he actually slept in a DVD box. We adopted him while my Dad was on a business trip in Turino, Italy; he was a little Christmas surprise for when Dad got home!

   It's a wonderful thing being responsible for another life, teaching, feeding, and raising a pet. He was such a goofy, lovable dog. All he ever needed in life was food, bedding, and a family to love him. In return, he gave us a wonderful 10 years of unconditional loyalty, friendship, and love. I remember, when we first brought him home, Kohle was afraid to go outside for a walk; it seems he thought that we were going to take him away and not bring him back home. That's how quickly he became attached to our family and home. I actually had to carry him in my arms to the top of the street, so that we could walk back home! Eventually, he learned that we would always return home.

   Like any dog, Kohle had a ton of lovable quirks that made him such a wonderful companion. Every Christmas, after we opened our gifts, Kohle would attack the wrapping paper that was left on the floor. It always made for a good laugh; by the end, the paper had been turned into confetti! One of the things I loved most about Kohle was his reactions to ambulance sirens. Whenever an ambulance went down the street, Kohle would lift his head in the air, ears perked, and start howling with the siren! Sometimes, he'd go on for
several minutes, long after the sirens faded away; it must have been that wolf-instinct in him. He was unfailingly brave, unless he came across a garbage bag on the curb! To the very end, garbage bags always freaked him out.

    From the beginning, Kohle was our little, lovable accident. He wasn't even supposed to be a "he." We thought we were getting a female dog when we went to the pound; but, when we brought him home and he rolled over...surprise! It's a boy!

    I still remember giving him one, last, big hug before I left to England. He answered as usual, with a big, wet, slobbery, lick of my face! Kohle was always happy to see one of us walk in through the front door. I was really looking forward to seeing him when I return home for Christmas. He would have welcomed me back in the usual Kohle fashion, an awkward romp across the living room floor with a smile on his face, and then he'd bark and get so excited that he'd pee all over the floor! It's going to be difficult returning to a house without him. His passing will leave a great, big, labrador sized hole in our home; and things will feel empty without him.

    I taught Kohle a lot of things over the years, how to walk, shake hands, and even to sit patiently while I poured his food. But, that old dog had some new tricks to teach me. Kohle taught me to enjoy the simple joys in life, a long walk on a warm sunny day, the pleasure of sitting (rolling in his case) on a green, freshly-cut lawn, the comfort of curling-up in front of a warm fireplace. That dog taught me an awful, awful, lot. And, no matter how bad of a day I had, I could always count on him being at the front door, head cocked to the side, tail wagging, and panting happily, waiting to greet me.

   Besides his allergies, Kohle was a supremely healthy dog. We never fed him table-scraps, and he usually got a 2-mile walk everyday. I thought he'd live for a century...in doggie-years anyway! That's why hearing that he was put-to-sleep hit me so hard. I know though that it would have been selfish to ask Kohle to continue to live in pain, to prolong and worsen his suffering just to enjoy his company a little longer. I would rather suffer the feeling of his loss than to have seen him continue to suffer silently and deteriorate. I've seen how hard chemo drugs affect humans, I can barely imagine what it would do to a smaller animal like a dog. I know Dad made the decsion quickly, but he also made the right one. I would have done the exact same thing. I only wish I was there to say goodbye; I think it would've been important to be there. For those who've seen it, I cannot think of a sadder, or more profound line about a man and his dog than in "Old Yeller" when the boy says,

                                                   "He was my dog. I'll do it."

It's the saddest movie scene I can think of, and after hearing about Kohle and thinking about "Old Yeller"...I can't remember the last time I cried so hard or so long. Like Old Yeller, Kohle was the best doggone dog in the West.

    Dad was the right one to make the choice. That dog loved him, and he loved that dog. We probably walked Kohle over a 1000 miles together, just going around the block every night. In return for food, water, and the occasional belly rub, that dog looked up to Dad like a god. I know that making the decision to put Kohle down was tough for Dad too. But, in the end, that wonderful and affection, Kohle looked up to Dad like a god. But, in passing, that wonderful, lovable mutt had one final lesson to teach: sometimes being a man, and making the right choice, means doing things that hurt.

What do you call a Blog that never gets updated?....

....a Glob because it just sits there!

Hi everyone! Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated; I know it has been several weeks since I promised regular updates, but I have been far busier than I ever expected.

I don't want to skip the events of the last several weeks though, so I'll include a quick summary of a few things 

along with photos:

    I saw (briefly) just about everything in London: the British Museum, the British Library, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, the London Eye, Big Ben, etc. I was pleasantly surprised by how compact the 

city is; if you have a little patience, most sights are within easy walking distance from each other.

    I saw most of the typical sights (by the way, London Bridge is quite small, Tower Bridge is the famous bridge that everyone thinks of) but, the most unusual thing I ran into was this:

    This man is an official "falconer" for the city of London! I ran into him outside of Westminster Cathedral (the Catholic one, not the one where the Royal Wedding took place). Apparently, Londoners came up with a unique solution to their overpopulation of pigeons! The falcon hunts down pigeons that nest throughout the city; when the trainer gets a call from vector control, he just walks to the given location and lets the bird loose. After James Bond's, it's probably the coolest job in the British government!

    Also, orientation with the other UC students was amazing.The accommodation was very clean and comfortable. The showers seemed to be built for people under 6 feet though. They were VERY small (like 2.5x2.5 feet). I met a lot of other UC students from the various campuses, and most of them are all very friendly and excited about the program; everyone probably feels that way. I also got a "tracphone" cell-phone yesterday. It's pay-as-you-go. The phone cost 5 pounds and I bought 10 pounds in credits (quite the deal).

    We also saw Buckingham Palace from the inside. Unfortunately, no pictures are allowed; but, I will say that I envy the Queen. Seriously, I'd want to be friends with anyone who has several Rembrandts and Titians in their personal 

residence!

    Anyways, I'll leave you all with this:

    It's called the "Squander Bug." Apparently during the Blitz, this was a piece of propaganda meant to scare Londoners about the perils of being wasteful. The Imperial War Museum had typical displays (planes, tanks, etc.) but, I found the propaganda exhibits the most fascinating. What do you think? Does it make you want to conserve?

    I'll be sure to follow up rapidly with a quick post about campus life so far; hopefully that should bring my blogging up to the present day. I promise to be more diligent in the future!

Hello and Welcome

    Hello everyone! Welcome to my new blog: A Cali Yankee in Canterbury. I've started this blog as a way to journal my term abroad in Canterbury, England. One of the stipulations in my scholarships was that I must give a report of my time abroad upon returning; I figured that the easiest way to keep track of where I go, what I see, and who I meet, is to keep a journal. By the way, the blog's title is a vague homage to Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. I've never kept a journal of any kind before, so this should be quite the learning experience.


    
    My flight leaves in about 12 hours, and I'm packed and ready to go. I think some people might feel a little anxiety at the thought of moving 5,000 miles to a different country, but I'm feeling excited. Plus, I managed to pack everything into 1 suitcase and a carry-on; it should make getting around on public transportation much easier when my flight arrives in London. I've never felt really comfortable on plane flights; it probably has to do with the unfortunate combination of long legs and small economy seats. Hopefully, this flight will break the pattern; if not, I have an Ambien to take care of any restlessness. Funny thing is, I don't really feel any anxiety over traveling on September 11 for part of my flight; anyways, knock on wood and hope everything goes off without a hitch.

    My program orientation doesn't start until Thursday afternoon, so I'll have two-and-a-half days to myself, to check out the sights. I'm sure as the quarter unfolds I'll have a lot more to talk about, and maybe some insightful commentary (to appease the scholarship committees), but until then, stay classy. My next report will be from the UK!