A little less conversation

I started this blog in order to record and reflect upon my experiences with American culture, so it may surprise you how much I have been thinking about England. Occasionally people from home will try to fill me in on what public service the Conservatives have most recently done away with, since they personally can afford to go private and it's just tough luck for the rest of us. (We still have the NHS, right?) Or inform me that Prince William is now engaged to his girlfriend of an “ordinary middle-class family” who are worth millions. (I am sad to miss out on the bank holiday though.) As you can probably tell, I am a bit of a sensationalist media junkie, and though America may be in some ways a self-interested bubble, they have yet to block BBC News and the Guardian so I'm still keeping up! I especially enjoyed the news cycle of the Pope's visit – did he borrow George Bush's speechwriter for those comments? Anyway, aside from Have Your Say and Skype conversations, I have been thinking about English culture in general.

I think there is a lot that you can't know about your own country until you have lived elsewhere. Only once you have experienced an alternative culture can you make comparisons and draw (tentative) conclusions about what it means to be “British”. I know that there is a lot that I have picked up on about American culture that locals probably never question; there are also things about me which are strange here but perfectly normal at home. Obviously this is what my blog is all about: different expectations and customs that come from being raised with different values. I'd like to make some comparisons between my home and host countries regarding social attitudes, keeping in mind that a) this is based on personal experience alone and therefore somewhat anecdotal and b) I am really only talking about North Carolina vs. South East England. As Dumbledore would say, sometimes we have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy. He was probably talking about taking down Voldemort, but I think it works for not making generalisations as well.

Along with religion, racism and deep fried food, the South is commonly thought of as having a friendly community spirit. At a glance, people here are more friendly than in England. Cashiers smile and ask you how you're doing, people standing in line (queuing) behind you will ask what you're cooking tonight. Sometimes I can find this overwhelming because I'm not used to be talked to by strangers so much. Other times, it is a nice pick-me-up in my day; for instance, the baristas at my local Caribou know my name and like to ask me questions about England when I go in. So why are we not like this at home? Are English people just grumpy? Well, some of us probably are but I don't think that's the whole truth. I worked at Starbucks for a year, and part of the company's appeal is its customer service; we are instructed to smile, make conversation and generally take an interest in the customers. I know that this is something I have always liked about Starbucks, and part of why I enjoyed working there so much. But some people just do not like to be bothered. English people are incredibly reserved and private in comparison to other cultures I've experienced, and I'd be interested to know how this compares across countries. My quick Googling tells me conflicting information about how culture relates to shyness, so maybe I'll dig into that another time.

We may be reserved, but I don't think Britain is commonly perceived as being an unfriendly place. We just express ourselves differently due to different values. Since we like to respect others' privacy, we won't start badgering people we don't know in public. We will talk in quieter voices on the bus or in restaurants because we don't wish to be overheard by strangers. There is also, I think, an aversion to superficiality. Of course this depends massively on you as an individual, but I personally despise fake behaviour and will avoid dishonest people. As you can imagine, in a culture where it is polite to be friendly to everyone regardless of whether you know or care about them, it is much more difficult to decipher what is genuine and what is not. Of course people are superficial at home, too, but it is not such a way of life, so it tends to be done with more deliberation and even malice. I am definitely an upfront person – in fact, I've often been told I'm blunt. To me, dishonesty breeds dishonesty, and the most comfortable way to form relationships is to at least know that there's something real. I don't put on a show or play games, and I know that this is something those who are close to me appreciate. Unfortunately, it's not such a revered quality here.

I mentioned community spirit, and together with all the friendliness, it stands to reason that another stereotype of people here is that they are always helping each other. Actually, I haven't entirely found that to be the case. Like at home, it's not something you can make a sweeping statement about. Personally, I think I am a helpful person; I like to take care of other people and make them happy. I've always been taught to think of others and I try hard to be a good friend, but admittedly I have been frustrated many times by people who are self-centred. There isn't a great discrepancy that I notice between home and here on that front, it just depends on the person. However, I do find that people at UNC keep to themselves more. People are happy to study by themselves, work out by themselves, eat by themselves – things I considered group activities. Perhaps students here are more independent than at UEA, but I find with that comes a “not my problem” mentality. I see less evidence of people taking the initiative to help one another, which for me, being alone in a foreign country, has been extraordinarily hard.

Another difficulty is simply that I am from somewhere else, which is sometimes intimidating to Americans who have never left the US or even the South. I grew up close to London, am half-Irish, and as far as I am aware always had friends of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. I think in England we also tend to be exposed to other cultures more due to the fact that other European countries are so accessible. (So I guess I am also saying that English people have even less of an excuse for being racist morons, but that doesn't stop some.) I have found that some people have no idea about England beyond stereotypes, and aren't keen to have a conversation with me; whether this is due to disinterest or a fear of causing offence I couldn't say. On the other hand, there are people who have travelled or lived elsewhere, or at least have an interest in other places, who are absolutely fine and just want to ask questions. Most people ask if I am enjoying my time at Carolina. There is a tremendous pride in being a “Tar Heel” (which deserves an entry in itself, so I won't talk about the crazy amount of merchandise available just yet), which is obviously fun to be a part of... Except, I'm not really. A community isn't a community without exclusivity, after all, and here, I am definitely an outsider. So whilst that community spirit does exist, you have to be part of the community in order to benefit.

Another aspect of the “community spirit” mentality is popularity. Some highly unscientific poking around on Facebook leads me to believe that most other British people I'm friends with have around 400-500 Facebook friends, whereas the Americans have 800-1000. Again, might be a privacy issue. Since I am unpopular, with only 350 or so friends, we should move swiftly on... Popularity is one of those concepts that we are all endlessly hooked on; you can tell by our TV shows. I like to go against the grain, but I don't particularly believe in having as many friends as possible. Unless I know everyone or have one other person to stick with me, I am uncomfortable in a large group of people. I prefer to socialise in smalls groups, and I'm not friends with anyone I would hate to be alone with. I don't think this is as much of a consideration here. I've met people who hate to go out unless they're with a large group of people looking to get equally crazy, and others who strictly classify themselves as people who don't party. There must be plenty of people who sit, like me, somewhere in the middle, but the dichotomy feels sharper than at home.

So what does it mean to socialise in a “British” way? Many things, of course, but the most noticeable difference to here is the role of conversation. If I had to nail it down, I would say that Americans like to be perceived as fun, whereas British people like to be perceived as clever. We discuss, debate, explain and commiserate. You can engage almost anyone if you pick the right subject (to those who visit the UK, start complaining about the weather and you'll fit right in). Our social activities are geared towards talking to each other, whether it's over a cup of tea at home or clustered together in a pub. Even in large clubs, for instance the Waterfront or Mercy in Norwich, there are places you can sit and talk to each other if you're not dancing or watching a band. In the American bars I've experienced so far, there are some places to sit but that's not exactly the point of going out; you could conceive of going to the pub with someone for a chat but probably not to a bar. I definitely prefer socialisation that centres around talking since I am so well-practiced at it (!), and I know I am unusual for here in that respect. People have pointed out that when I am asked an off-hand question, I will actually think about it and give a proper answer. It's automatic to me, but unusual for here.

Obviously the lack of conversation here has made my chatterbox nature come out in my writing instead... As always, let me know if you have any suggestions for topics I should write about here. I'm intending to conduct a couple of interviews and get some material to discuss the North/South divide, Greek life on campus, and also about the very different attitude to fashion. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am going to my friend Kristina's for dinner. Sadly I am spending the rest of the holiday preparing for midterms and finals, but the semester is almost over and I'm so glad. It's been a difficult few months, and I will probably refer to this term as “the disaster show” forever after – for reasons I will share in due course! I've got some good things coming up over winter break and some plans to make next semester more enjoyable, so for now it is just waiting it out. And passing my time playing Geography games on Sporcle. Do YOU know where Azerbaijan, Suriname or Swaziland are? I do. Good conversation starter, no?

Welcome to “the land of big trucks and expanding guts.” (Cody Jones.)

I'm sorry for the lack of regularity where this blog is concerned. I've never forgotten about it, of course, but as any university student can attest, sometimes your weeks are so busy they positively fly past. It's often like you're trying to write an essay whilst caught up in a tornado. Anyway, a lot has been going on and I have plenty to write about. I visited the mountains in a place called Asheville, went to the North Carolina State Fair in Raleigh, experienced my first UNC football game and today is Halloween.

I also found out that, with my combination of modules, it will never be possible to complete all of my assigned reading. In that spirit of things, I got a D on a midterm and my grades started to slip all round. It's been hard to deal with; at home I was often top of my class and it's hard to cope, self-esteem wise, with struggling so much. The one thing I've realised is that a year out here is completely different to a year at home, in terms of what I'm trying to get out of it. Here, I don't have to like everything I learn, but being exposed to so many new teaching styles is invaluable experience if I ever become a lecturer myself. It's not to say that I'm not getting anything out of the classes here – they're excellent. I just can't give them the focus they need, and the style is so different. I excel at long essays with room for creativity and originality, but short answer questions and exams, not so much. The majority of what I'm learning is out of the classroom, and that's how it should be.

On the upside, I feel more confident about my writing than I have done in years. I've never wavered from wanting to become a writer. But being out here has made me doubt myself in all kinds of ways – that I can probably explain in more detail when I have hindsight on my side – just not about writing. If anything, being so isolated has reinforced that need to write, to find escapism, that was probably the reason I began in the first place. I have found other forms of escapism over the years, typical ones which are followed by apologies and de-tagging photos on Facebook. I have found more healthy ones, too, like working out and cooking. Yet writing is still the most central, most fundamental part of who I am and how I live. What's difficult about being an artist at this age, is when we have to transition from escaping to crafting. We write for others, not just ourselves. When I reached the end of my teenage years, I became shy of my writing, constantly comparing myself to others, from friends in the Creative Writing Society to Hemingway. I've reached more of a happy medium now. Writing is like any other art: very little about natural talent, and largely about practice and diligence. Whilst I have given more energy to crafting and improving, I'm happy that it still remains my escape, and if I like, it can still be something that is just for me.

I feel that the title I've given this entry is relevant because it references several topics I've gone over: Cody Jones is a former member of the CWS, an American, and was commenting on a Facebook status I wrote about all the American food I've enjoyed. Which brings me – finally! - around to the subject I was originally intending to write about. Food, not so glorious food. As anyone who has ever been alive for more than two years is probably aware, food is a large part of American culture. The more grease, the better. For a girl whose diet is comprised mainly of wholegrain, fresh produce and hippy stuff like tofu and beans, this was intimidating. It was probably one of the debilitating parts of the experience, but I seem to have found some solutions at last.

At the international orientation back in August, our advisor told us that Southern food was amazing, but to be careful how much we had. Someone also referenced food when talking to us about homesickness, along the lines of: “Sometimes when a student is sad they just sit in their room eating lots of chips and pizza... or they don't eat anything at all.” I did both. In the early days, sometimes I would eat practically nothing at all, because it was so stressful trying to find something to eat that I knew I would like. When every day is filled with unfamiliarity, you just want to have a meal that you know you will like the taste of. Even things that seemed the same, like cereal, often had added sugar or used spices we don't have at home. Then sometimes, I would just eat anything because I was too disorientated to care. Fast food places are everywhere, even on campus. We may criticise Americans for the obesity crisis, but I can say from experience, we have it a lot easier at home. In Norwich for example, I could have lunch at Pizza Hut or Nando's, but I know it would be wiser to go to Tesco and buy salad and some fruit. In Chapel Hill, take Tesco out of the equation and what do you do? There is the odd shop that sells fresh apples and bananas, but not many, and that is literally all that they have.

I decided against getting a meal plan on campus because they are jaw-droppingly expensive and don't have a large variety of healthy options. Besides, I love to cook and I have a decent kitchen in my house. The only problem was getting food. Now, the thing to explain here is that people here rely very little on public transport or walking, so it follows that a lot of things aren't accessible that way. Two of my housemates have cars, and will kindly drive me to get groceries when I need to. However, this still wasn't entirely a solution for me because I'm used to being able to go weekly in order to eat fresh fruit every day, and besides I will admit that I am stubbornly independent. American supermarkets have yet to start doing home delivery, and as much as I asked around, no one was too confident I would be able to walk to get fresh produce regularly like I wanted to. So I had occasional healthy days when I had been shopping recently, but mostly watched in horror as my body proceeded to show me how unhappy it was. My skin was pubescent and painful. My hair was dry and not as shiny. I had sore eyes, couldn't sleep properly and always felt sluggish. I gained weight. I tried making the best of things: walking a lot, drinking plenty of water, having a vigilant skin care regime. But the fact of the matter is, what we eat is so so important. I suspect I have a particularly sensitive system, because you can tell within a couple of days whether I've been eating right or not.

I knew where a couple of supermarkets were from driving there, so one day I decided to go ahead and walk, just to see if it was doable or not. And this is where my two months of struggling becomes very funny. I walked down the road for, oh, fifteen minutes, and immediately came across a wonderland. Weaver Street Market sells mostly organic and local produce, has hardly any frozen food, and everything is free-range. I'll make my point this way: there was about five different varieties of tofu. I think you see what I'm getting at. I thought it would be drastically expensive, but it was actually quite reasonable. I eat very little meat – which helps the budget – but I did buy fresh chicken. I've eaten nothing but frozen chicken for two months and the difference is staggering. I know which I prefer! It has been goodbye peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, hello potato salads. Anyway, having good food again has made me so much happier. Cooking is a kind of therapy for me, and eating is a social activity; my housemates and I are trying to make time for a group meal once a week. I also feel even more qualified to write healthy eating articles for Concrete next year, an idea that's been bouncing around in my head whilst I panic about my lack of work experience.

There is probably a lot more to say about North Carolina food that will crop up in due course: corndogs, Southern barbecues, Krispy Kreme burgers, frozen yoghurt and ice cream places, (savoury) biscuits and sweet tea. Despite what may seem like a negative angle in this entry, some of their food is really good. Or I'll put it this way: their “bad” food, is really, really good. Just so long as it's not my entire diet I'm happy eating it occasionally. And to answer another question that I am asked a lot: I don't see a lot of fat people. Why? Exercise. UNC is a sports-oriented university, all the exercise facilities are totally free, and people here take pride in looking good. They don't gorge on food all day every day just because it's there. If you think about it, a lot of British university students are incredibly unhealthy but not necessarily fat, so it should come as no surprise that I'm not seeing a lot of large people in a college town. On the one hand I am, as ever, jealous that I am someone who gains weight immediately after a bad week. On the other, if I didn't freak out about diet and exercise so much, I would probably never have taken such an interest in it, and y'all would not have had this entry to read.

And now, I shall leave you with the very best part of American cuisine. If you are ever in the states, go there immediately. I first had it back in 2007 during mine and Katharine's Amtrak trail, and it has remained my favourite restaurant ever since. Behold:

The Cheesecake Factory in Durham, NC.

http://www.thecheesecakefactory.com/

He was so learned that he could name a horse in nine languages; so ignorant that he bought a cow to ride on.

So... Wow. It's been almost a month since I wrote my last post. Please accept my apologies, but the explanation can be easily found within this post – because I am going to be writing about UNC, the classes, and the avalanche of a workload.

But first, a little update on the homesickness situation. Moving abroad to somewhere as beautiful, interesting and friendly as Chapel Hill is comparable to an ill-advised rebound. You know, logically, that you have upgraded. Your days together are filled with sunshine, everything is new and exciting, and you know that this is an experience you will never forget. But it is also hard to forget your ex, who helped you become the person you are today. You try to focus on the bad stuff: that time it snowed constantly and you had to wait outside for 45 minutes because the stupid 22 bus apparently had more pressing things to do than show up. The fact that you never know where you stand, like when your timetables are held back until the first day of term. (What am I supposed to do, be up and ready at 8.30am just in case there's a seminar at 9?) Anything to do with Prince of Wales road. Despite all this, your rebound isn't your ex, and Chapel Hill isn't Norwich. There are an infinite number of things that, objectively speaking, make UNC a better university than UEA. But UEA had me first, and it has my heart. With all that said, Chapel Hill is shaping up to be a good second home. We don't have a history together, sure, but I think we have a good chance at a future.

I have many things that I want to write about – and if there's anything you'd like to hear about too, I'm open to suggestions! – but for now... Academia. Wait, don't stop reading! There's weird stuff ahead. I promise.

Firstly, I suppose I should give some background to the American college system in comparison to England's. (Or to cover myself, I should point out that there are probably many discrepancies from university-to-university in both countries, so really my comparison is just between UEA and UNC.) At UEA, we are told how many modules we are allowed to take per semester, and our choices are usually limited to subjects relevant to our degrees. In America, the system is much wider. You don't go in necessarily knowing what you want to specialise (Major) in, and have until the end of your second year to decide. (NB: American degrees are typically 4 years in duration as opposed to the average 3 years in England.) I have to say, I think this is a great system; you get a wider education for longer and it means there's less hassle if you don't end up liking your subject as much as you thought. You can also choose how many credits to take per semester, so you are more in control of how you structure your degree. At the beginning of each semester, you can sign up for many classes and attend the first ones, then drop whatever doesn't suit you. How much do I wish we had this at home? It would definitely have saved me from Shakespeare.

The minimum amount of classes I'm required to take per semester is 4, but I tried out 5. The first of these was the History of Southern Music, which was situated in a place called the Love House & Hutchins Forum, right on the edge of campus. It really was like a little house, with a table and chairs on the porch, and books stacked up around the room. The professor, William Ferris, is originally from Mississippi; I had trouble concentrating because I was entranced for awhile by his accent. Am I the only foreigner who loves Southern accents? Probably. At the end of the class, he got out his guitar and sang, amongst other things, 'Baby Please Don't Go' and something by Elvis Presley. This was actually the class that I decided to drop. I didn't feel that it was designed for someone without prior knowledge, and I knew I would spend the entire semester struggling. I was sad, of course, as I love Southern Music.

The next class that I had was Intermediate Fiction Writing, for which I had to submit prior work in order to get into. (There's nothing more fun than trying to write a short story whilst moving house.) According to my personal journal, it was in this class that I laughed and smiled more than I had done since arriving. The instructor, Randall Kenan, was just nuts. We didn't have to do much in the way of writing. We wrote a short bio and listed our favourite movies, books, authors and food. Then, one by one, we had to go up to the blackboard, hand our bio to him, and draw a picture of a horse whilst he questioned us on something in our bio. I'm not kidding. When someone asked why we were drawing horses, he would respond, "You're such an inquisitive bunch. Because I say so." At the end of the class, he told us it was a tradition started by Jessie Rehder, and that each class he had made to do it had been a good class.

For this class, we are all to write three short stories. We went in reverse alphabetical order, so I only just handed in my own story. We have to both give a hard copy to Mr Kenan, and post a copy online for the entire class to read and critique. Then we talk about it in the next class. Needless to say, I occasionally think about what's coming for me Tuesday and feel ill. I've had some glorious fantasies about just not going, and not reading the comments online. But this, unfortunately, is a big part of being a writer: acknowledging the effect it has on your readers, whether good or bad. I am thoroughly enjoying this class: it might be my favourite class I have ever taken in my entire educational career. Critiquing other people's works has been almost as beneficial as the writing practice itself. The other project we have is to write several papers on a published author, and present our work to the class.

My two literature modules are the American Novel, and Nineteenth Century British Literature. Both have reading lists which are ready to kill me, but they are full of books I either love already or have always wanted to read. I make it sound like I am actually keeping up with the reading. I'm really not. SparkNotes is as much my best friend now as it has been since GCSE. In fact, I'm pretty sure if I ever went as far as a PhD – hell, if I became a lecturer myself – I would still check out SparkNotes and Wikipedia first. The main form of assessment for these classes is exams. This of course, has lead to a number of freak outs on my part, but midterms are actually nothing like our exams at home. You're sometimes given the questions beforehand and can use the book for clarification; the main stipulation is sticking to the time limit (an hour or an hour and a half usually). More than anything, the midterms encourage you to keep up with your reading (or in my case, be diligent when it comes to SparkNotes). They're a less pressurised form of testing than our short essays at home. Finals, on the other hand, may be another matter entirely, but I'll let you know come December.

My last class has caused me a decent amount of stress. Native American Activism, whilst coming under American Studies, is also a history and politics module. How much do I know about history and politics? I know to ask Tash about it. Which, actually, is what I've spent a lot of time doing. Anyway, there is a ton of reading for this class, as well as short assignments every week on top of the bigger assessments, such as short essays, presentations and a research project. I spent the first month convinced I was doomed to failure. But what I lack in general knowledge, I more than make up for in sheer stubbornness. And my fail-safe tactic of turning up, a little hysterical, to the teacher's office. It turns out I'm doing okay anyway, as the two assignments I got back were graded at 90 and 95, and my tutor, Dr. Cobb, thinks my presentation and contributions in class were promising. Plus, this is such an interesting experience that I could never get at home. The way we learn about American Indians (if, indeed, we ever learn about them at all) is so backward, and tied in with this idea that their issues – and they themselves – belong in the past. In some ways the class is intimidating for me: a good portion of the class has at least some Native heritage, and there is a large population in North Carolina anyway. It's been a purely academic interest to me at home, but now it is reshaping itself into something more real.

It's really true that in order to get a better understanding of the country you're studying, you have to go and live there. I've learned so much in the space of 5.5 weeks here that I could never have learnt out of books at home. Like, for instance, about food – which incidentally will most likely be my next blog topic.

And now, entirely irrelevantly, I will leave you a song that regularly erupts in my head when I hear someone particularly Southern:

Y'all need to hide ya kids, hide ya wife...

Take note.

And every stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be, homeward bound...

It's taken me longer than expected to find the time to write in here, and consequently I will have to do two separate posts just to catch up. This first one will be comprised of what we who suffered through UEA's Shakespeare module came to know as tragicomedy. In Shakespeare, it is the mix of tragical and comical elements in a play. In life, it is when bad things happen to you but you're so confused and overwhelmed that though you may want to cry, you laugh instead. And then write about it in your blog.

The beginning of my time here was a little awkward, owing to my lack of mobile phone, internet access, house key, furniture and reasonable sleeping pattern. I had expected to feel homesick at some point of course; “some point” being months down the line when I was missing Guy Fawkes or being away for Christmas or whatever. I had not expected to feel homesick on the very first night. You see, I was never the one that cried on the first day of school or couldn't handle sleepovers. I was never that kid. I went on my travels at 18, then moved away from my hometown at 19 with relatively little angst. I had never really been homesick before. It is not this vague sadness where you miss hanging out with your friends, or really crave a packet of Maltesers. It's more like you have been abducted, and as much as you try to turn your thoughts around all you want to do is get on the next flight home.

Luckily for me, quitting my year abroad would mean no degree and a large amount of legal troubles. So I had no choice but to stay put in this strange land of fried chicken (or more accurately, fried everything) and Carolina blue. On my second day here, I had my first experience of Super Target, where I amused my housemate Rachel with my excitement over the food. I am already addicted to Pretzel M&Ms, and so happy to be reunited with Hi-C juice. That evening, my housemates had people over and I got to meet lots of their friends. Because I know people at home are curious: yes I drank from a Red Plastic Cup, yes I played Beer Pong, no they did not imitate my accent and no people here are not obnoxious, but incredibly hospitable.

One of my housemates asked me if we had mosquitoes in England. My response was, “Yes we do, and they all come looking for me.” This is more than simply irritating, as I am actually allergic to insect bites. You may have witnessed my thigh doubling in size on the last day at Beaumont, or seen me attempt to play golf when my knee was so swollen I couldn't bend down. A couple of times I have had to take antibiotics for my reactions, but generally I remember to wear repellent on summer nights and don't get bitten much. Anyway, it turns out that my blood is even more popular to the insects of North Carolina. During a campus tour, I sat down in the grass and myself and another exchange student Sarah felt ourselves being bitten by something. After we moved away, I proclaimed that it couldn't have been a mosquito as I am allergic to their bites, and mine hadn't reacted at all. I didn't seem to have too many either. Oh, famous last words.

 By the next day, the bites had fully shown up along both legs and arms, enough for me to realise that I had over forty. I went to campus to eat bagels, sort out my OneCard (like our campus cards at home, except you can use it to pay for stuff) and binge on internet usage in the library. I took some allergy pills and rubbed some cream on my rapidly swelling bites, but by the time I got home I was in pain and my skin was starting to heat up and blister. That weekend new students of UNC were moving into their dorms, including my housemate Bri's brother, so her family were over at our house. Her mom is a nurse, and she took one look at my bites and said I needed to see a doctor. Being in a foreign country, this wasn't too simple. Rachel was kind enough to drive me to two places, but neither would accept my insurance. Not having a spare $170 to hand just to get seen, we went home and my parents got in touch with the insurance company to get the number for a local agent, who would be able to confirm my insurance.

Once this was all sorted, Rachel and I got back in the car and drove to the clinic. It was now closed. (This is when I laughed. Seriously.) The last option was ER, but since it can take hours and is apparently an unpleasant side to healthcare here, we opted to buy antihistamines and aloe vera instead. To put it concisely, my third night here in the states was far from restful. The antihistamines fairly knocked me out, but I woke up once or twice every hour, reaching hurriedly for the aloe vera to try to stop the burning sensation. Now, I realise that this tale sounds a little far-fetched. So I took a photo to prove it!

"During the night, old Perkins got his leg bitten sort of... off."

Please note that this was actually pre-allergic reaction, so you're not really getting the whole effect. I would have taken a photo of the swelling and blistering too, but I pretty much always had aloe vera on my hands. Anyway, that was over a week ago now so they have mostly healed and hopefully the scarring will be minimal. I'm still getting bites now and again (in fact my right arm has a wrong-sided bulging bicep) but it's nowhere near as bad, and I'm avoiding grassy areas. I'm looking into all kinds of repellent, but it's a little difficult when it's just a day to day thing.

I realise I have mostly just complained to (and/or disgusted) you in this entry, but I did warn you. Well, sort of. Maybe I was just complaining about Shakespeare again. There are lots of good and interesting things about Chapel Hill, which I will talk about in the next entry. For now, I will mention that due to the extreme humidity I have had to abandon all thought of having straight hair, and embrace a new style that looks something like this:

I should be thankful, though, that with the access to free gyms and pools, I should at least be prevented from looking like this:

I hope you're all well. Thank you very much to everyone who has comforted me through the horror, the horror that is moving abroad. (But still not as bad as reading the book I've just referenced.) I know that when more time has passed I will be able to enjoy this more fully. At least I know that thanks to the laws of tragicomedy, when I'm happy, I laugh, and when I'm sad I laugh too – so really, it's a win-win situation!

Where are you going, where have you been?

A suitcase, a British passport, and a sleepy American Studies student.

My original intention was to write a pre-departure entry about the various preparations to complete before I left - but said preparations were so overwhelming that I never found the time. Consequently, I'm writing at a half-way point: on the plane crossing the Atlantic, four hours from London and four to go until I reach New York.

I'm not sure where exactly my year abroad began. It may have been back in 2006, when I first started looking at university courses (and was probably inspired by my older brother's year abroad in Argentina). It may have been during my first year and a half at UEA, where my interests changed completely. Like 99% of American Studies students, it was only later that I learned to look past California and New York to see the other pieces of the jigsaw. Now, there is nowhere I would rather be headed than to the South. It is also interesting that I've not ended up at a liberal arts college like I expected, but I am grateful for this too; I've evolved from a purely academic focus to appreciate everything else that a university has to offer, so where better to go than somewhere as large and diverse as UNC?

The months in between finding out I'm going to Chapel Hill and this moment right now can be summed up easily in one word: forms. Between the visa application, university documents, student finance, housing lease and too many others to mention, I would be happy never to write my name, birthdate and nationality ever again. The only thing worse than filling in all those forms was packing. You would think that my (admittedly rather zealous at times) organisational side would kick in, make loads of lists and arrange items in the suitcases by category, but this was not so. It's not even that I have an unusual attachment to my clothes or stuff in general, but the act of actually packing and preparing to leave was one of the most emotionally draining things I had to do.

About a month ago someone said to me, "Soon it will really hit you that you're going." There is probably an image some people have of me getting on the plane and looking a little baffled. (Of if you are a Starbucks person, doing my Vanilla? face.) The truth is, it hit me that I was leaving much much earlier, and it followed me all through Spring. For something that I had wanted so badly and for so long, it caused me a lot of pain. I was questioning the choice I had made, worrying about all the oncoming changes, and feeling isolated by the whole experience. I loved my life in Norwich, and to leave such a wonderful situation seemed nothing short of crazy, and in turn made me feel crazy. (Milly, you wondered what I was doing every time I disappeared upstairs in the Waterfront - usually I was thinking about this. And befriending edgy girls in the bathroom.)

Of course, the negative feelings did pass, and I can say now that I'm finally on my way: this was definitely the right decision. I am a bit concerned that I have no furniture, no idea how to get around Chapel Hill - and no access to chocolate HobNobs. But aside from these obstacles, I'm excited to meet my new housemates at Raleigh/Durham airport in just 8 hours. I'm excited to be reunited with my favourite restaurant, The Cheesecake Factory. I'm excited to see my new home, new campus, new local Starbucks!

I'm sure it will be a crazy - and at times, stressful - ride, but I intend to make the most of it, and record as much as I can here. Before I finish this entry, I must say thank you to everyone for your encouragement and support. I had an amazing time prior to leaving, and I really appreciate the effort everyone made to see me and say goodbye. I must also thank those at UNC and my other American contacts for answering my never-ending questions - particularly Melissa, who recommended North Carolina to me in the first place.

Now that I have arrived in Chapel Hill, expect another blog post from me soon. Stay safe and stay in touch!