Epilogue.

11:20 PM nutella on toast. Walking down Homefield Rd heading towards the flat on a sunny day. Dragging my trombone onto the consistently inconsistent 53 to campus. Kevin lounging around facebooking in the basement. Ryan's frequent excusals to leave dinner early for ninja practice. A late night walk to The Lion for real ale and conversation. A frenetic bike ride through the rain to baseball practice. 96 Trent FM on the kitchen radio. Carol's lamb burgers. Mark's strangely funny sense of humor. Friday afternoon coffee at Starbucks on Clumber St., sitting at my table. Wine Wednesdays. Sonny at Thirsty Boozers explaining why we should go to Dubai. Walking along the canal towards Nottingham city centre. Riding lazily in the front seat of the top deck of the 77. My victorious attempt at chocolate cake. Blogging. Yorkshire Gold tea. My new collection of glassware and mugs. All nine of us standing in the kitchen, laughing and talking at who knows what...

I could go on and on and list little things like this. I could rattle off things like the Eiffel Tower, Hagia Sophia, St. Peter's, etc, etc, etc. And they would be very memorable things to list, to be sure. But for me, the essence of my year spent in England is in the little things. The things I did every day. Because when you do things every day, when you have things that are so routine and comfortable, when you're surrounded by people that you care about, that means that you have found a home.

I promised the readers of this blog and myself that I would write an epilogue, a final statement of sorts on my time spent abroad. After thinking hard these past three months or whatever since I returned, I've realized that is harder than it sounds. I had expected to try and distill a year's worth of experiences and adventures into a convenient little statement of what it all "meant." That, as I have learned, is impossible. It's simply too much.

I left Minnesota last September as a nervous college student who had never "taken the plunge," so to speak. Going to Luther was the extent of my independence. I returned on June 5th as an individual that had traveled continents, entirely by his own doing and responsibility (and a little financial help from mom and pop). I think that's the only tangible thing I can say right now. If I can travel from London to Istanbul and back, I can do whatever I want to and go wherever I please. I've proven to myself that I'm capable of navigating the challenges of life. But I really don't want to sit here and yak about how I've become a better person, because that's something that I think I'll still be trying to determine 10 years from now.

I think the greatest phenomena that happened in England was the fact that by January, I was no longer on a trip. Rather, it had become my home. That was something I had never expected when I arrived, somewhat scared shitless on September 11th. The cold flat that seemed like some sort of a prison full of strange people was transformed into a zone of safety and comfort. A culture that I had previously thought to be boring and dowdy had suddenly become something I was immersed in. It turned out to be something I embraced, from the conversation at the pub to afternoon tea. I got into a football riot, and my heart sank as Yeovil refused Forest promotion. And how dare those bloody European nationalists try to bring England into their socialist super state...

I have to say, as much as I love France, I think it has to take a backseat to my island home. Of course we all know I love my country as well, for many reasons. But I can see myself returning to live in England once more. Not permanently I don't think, but I'd like to go back for a while. Anyways, that's beside the point. The point is, England is a wonderful little place, and everyone should go there at least once.

But of course, the final key to Nottingham wasn't the fact it was in England or any other place. Rather, it were the people that came together to make 67 Homefield Rd something very special. I've talked about it before, but I guess I just can't verbalize how amazing it was to be privileged enough to share these 9 months with such a group. I have surely made friends that I will have for the rest of my life, and that is something that doesn't come along every day. From 2 jocks, one "granola," another art freak, a science nerd, a history geek, theater girl, and a cheese stealer came 9 of my favorite people. Funny how that works.

Anyways, the long and winding road of this blog has finally come to an end. I started it to tell people back home about what was going on in England, and I think it has accomplished that. I've enjoyed so much writing in it and sharing experiences, and I thank everyone for reading it. But the fact is its purpose was to provide "a collection of thoughts, experiences, and photos related to living and learning in England." And seeing I am no longer in England, its purpose has been fulfilled. It will stay up as a record of what I did, and I hope to print it out and maybe put it in a book. But this is going to be the last post. Go out on top, just like "Seinfeld."



So my friends, I hope you've enjoyed everything. I sure have.




Cheers.

Work, work, work

It's been more than a week since returning from England. Life has quickly settled back into its comfortable dips and swells. I drive my car, have frozen pizza, watch ballgames, reluctantly go into work, etc, etc, etc. Although my reluctance to work is a bit of a falsehood. For 9 months, I had the privilige of not having to work. Sure, I had to make dinner, clean bathrooms, do homework, etc, etc, etc, but I didn't actually have to work to earn money. It was glorious. However, now that my English dreamworld has given way to the reality of the poor American college student, work has taken on a newfound priority. But the wonderful computer scheduling system of the pharmacy America trusts has prohibited me from actually being scheduled for another week, which has left me both strapped for cash and somewhat bored during the day. Additionally, budget cuts have recently cut back 26 of our pharmacy's weekly allotted hours. Suck. But nonetheless, opportunity came knocking, in the form of the store being short one cashier this morning. So after an early morning phone call, I dutifully made my way to Walgreens store #5634 to spend 6 hours in my white vest, CPhT name tag, and "Je Parle Francais" sticker earning way more than the other storefront employees putting away candy and ringing people out. It was comforting to know my nearly complete college education and international awareness was put to such good use dispensing Marlboro lights to unsuspecting suburbanites. After they pointed out where they were, I don't know where the hell all the cigarettes are. The American tobacco industry gives you a great variety of ways to acquire lung cancer, you have to give them that. I also spent a very satisfying 20 minutes in the refrigerator stocking all manner of Arizona iced teas. Thank you Luther College. Thank you University of Nottingham.



As a result of this, my lack of work opportunities, I did something extraordinary the other day: I applied for a second job. Acting on impulse, I attended a STARBUCKS HIRING FAIR, and interviewed for a position as a barista somewhere in the south-metro area. It was sort of strange, interviewing along with a gaggle of high school girls obsessing over their makeup and middle aged women attempting to be coffeehouse-chic, but I persevered. I think I gave a solid interview. Nothing flashy, but whatever. I mentioned my weekly patronage of the Clumber St. Starbucks in Notts, my historical relationship with their company, and made good note of my position as a Certified Pharmacy Technician. I've always sort of wanted to work at Starbucks, ever since I visited the FIRST STORE EVER in Seattle. I like the atmosphere, like coffee, like to think I'm an urban-hipster, and just think it would be a fun job. Make coffee all day? Yeah, I can deal with that. Plus it's one of Fortune's 100 best companies to work for.

Speaking of Starbucks, I went there tonight with a friend of mine from Luther. A girl I know works there and she hooked us up with some chocolate chip cookies to go along with our frappuccinos. A sweet girl, she might come swing dancing on Thursday. Anyways, it was really nice to be able to have some time to talk with my friend. He was one of the people who really inspired me to go to Luther. He also studied abroad, in Muenster, Germany. It was fun to share stories from the Hofbrauhaus and other smatterings of European travel. And I don't know, it was just nice to be able to relate a bit to another person who has experienced what I have.

England seems so far away, but also at times very near. I don't know, the sea of American life has definitely swept me up, moreso than a few of my fellow English friends. But then again, I live in a dynamic environment, close to a large city and with friends and family all around. Coming back to the States has been easy for me. I haven't really been struck too much with blatant missage for England the country. I have missed the people though. I miss going to baseball practice with Adam and Lynn. I was watching The Office today (I bought seasons 1 and 2) and was sort of disappointed that Kevin wasn't watching as well, making some sort of witty remark. Sort of miss seeing people walk around in their flat clothes, be it Luther running gear, Edina socks, UNott sweatshirt, or fuzzy Bath-bathrobe. Maybe not the fuzzy Bath-bathrobe. But you get the picture.

I feel this blog is starting to run on fumes, which I sort of expected it would start to do. I promised to write a few posts on returning to America, which I have. I don't know what else I have to say. I would like to keep blogging, I enjoy it. I appreciate all the nice comments about how good my writing is, I really do. But I think extensive further blogging on England would be a redundancy. It was a beautiful year, and I'm so glad to have this record and to be able to share my thoughts. But I don't want to bastardize what I have done by dragging it out. I'd rather be like Seinfeld and go out while I'm still on top. So, fellow readers, expect perhaps one or two more posts on this particularly English blog sometime this summer. I'm okay to see it ride off into the sunset. Or more approriately to the subject matter, ramble off into the misty vale.

Walk Or Take the Train Down Memory Lane

It's Saturday. Aside from immense frustration at the Minnesota Twins, it's been a good day. I went to a few open houses and saw a lot of people that I haven't seen for a while, so that was nice. The other day I dropped by my high school and said hi to my high school band director. He told me to call him and he'd have me and my friend over for a beer at his house and tell us all the stories he couldn't tell us until we were 21. Score.

Re-acclimitation has been going well, but I've noticed some definite changes in how I think and act. Being abroad and seeing America in a new lens definitely liberalized my political standing. For many years I have been blind to politics in America, which is really a shame, since political action was one of the great founding principles of this country. I decided to become more political, and take more of a stand for those newfound ideals. In short, as a result of my liberal leaning political tendencies and general common sense, I've been trying to live more environmentally conscious. No, Al Gore did not turn me over to the dark side. It's just a more fulfilling way to live, I feel. Part of my personal campaign is going to try and utilize public transportation, as well as biking and walking more often. The car is a wonderful thing, it truly is. But do I need it to walk to my grandma's house, or to drive what would be 15 minutes on a bike? No. It's just stupid. One thing about England is the incredible walking culture. That's the one thing that I truly appreciate more. I love to drive, and I love America's driving culture as well. But that's a culture for the open road, for driving Route 66, for epic road trips. Not for driving downtown to a Twins game while there's a perfectly good light rail that will take me instead.



One little thing I loved about Nottingham was public transportation, which I utilized frequently. Took the 53 to campus, the 77, 78, 79, or tram downtown, and the 34 from uni to the city centre. It makes you feel like such an urban citizen, so street smart. Not only do you save on emissions, but you get to see the people who live where you do, and that's cool. Friday, as I was taking the light rail downtown, a service disruption forced us to take a bus service from Lake Street to the Metrodome. As I sat on the bus, I noticed the incredible diversity surrounding me. I sat next to a middle aged hispanic woman who happily chatted away at me about the overloaded bus. On the other side sat a pseudo-goth woman. A middle class white family stood in front of me. A few black teenagers stood a bit of a way down. An Indian-American talked on his mobile. I loved being a part of this, this wonderful diversity that our country features. I think riding the tram or bus helps you be a little bit closer to the "essence" of this place. Yes, it takes longer. Yes, it probably costs the same as the gas that would take me downtown. Yes, sometimes it's cramped with people. But it's the right thing to do, I like doing it, and dammit, I don't care.

Wasting some time this afternoon, I stopped into the Barnes and Noble near my house, which is sort of my hangout. Nerdy, yes I know, but something about Barnes and Noble is very soothing. It's got a certain mellowness to it that relaxes you, as well as makes your wallet scream "BUY BOOKS! SPEND MONEY!" Plus, I like to think that I'll finally get around to reading all the books I want to. But I found myself in the travel section, facing a shelf chocked with guidebooks to Britain and London. And for the first time, I had a gut-wrenching pang of desire for my English home. It's been great to be home in America, no doubt. And that is the honest truth. But a part of me is always going to be English now. Looking at books designed to guide green Americans through my second home was just very strange. I felt a certain satisfaction, knowing that I no longer need such literature. But also, a certain burst of uncomfortability and longing, knowing that it will be quite a while before I return. Ah, sadness.

What to do, what to do. Well, I got a new pair of shorts that actually fits me. I had a cup of tea. I swore violently at my new internet capable mobile as I learned the Twins lost again to a bad team. And now, I think I'll watch an episode of The Office (UK version) on good old TV links. Some things never change, no matter what continent you find yourself on.

God's Country

Call me lame, but I knew I was home when flying into Minneapolis, I looked out the window and instead of seeing endless fields of football pitches, I instead saw 4 immaculate baseball diamonds. And turning on ESPN to see baseball on Sportscenter without the smarmy commentary of Channel 4's resident American sports expert was quite fulfilling.



I've accomplished my twin goals of purchasing a new Twins hat, replacing the one that is currently roaming the Avignon-Uzes bus line in southern France, and purchasing a new mobile. So call me. Went into the pharmacy America trusts and got rehired, so my re-entry into the American workforce is imminent. Life has been flying by, all this returning home stuff. It's a very strange sensation, so different but yet comforting to be thrown right back into normalcy. Driving down Pilot Knob from the airport was exactly like it was 9 months ago. There's something sort of comforting about that, to finally be in a state of complete control over one's surroundings, or at least as much as one can be. So much freedom as well. No more searching NCT websites for bus schedules and connections, no trying to get cheap train fares, none of it. If I want to go somewhere, I just hop in my car. Ah, the car. Specifically, the 1985 Camaro. Yes, Americans drive way too much. Yes, we drive unpractical cars. Yes, we use up some 75% of the world's fossil fuels. But driving a 1985 Camaro almost, just almost, makes all those concerns null. Haven't driven down the left hand side of the road yet, but you never know.

In a way, the sudden normalcy has condensed my year. It feels as if I just left home for a week or so. It just deosn't completely register that I was gone for 9 months. It's a very strange sensation. I feel like I should be radically different, or that home should be radically different, as befits 9 months away. Maybe it's the fact that I'm seperated from the other Notters, which I think plays a big role. Periodic e-mails and facebook messages have already been streaming in, both from those of us now spread out over the Midwest, and those few who remain in Europe. For a long time, I wondered whether the bond we forged in England would last returning to America. Thrown back into comfortable surroundings and familiar people, would something like that continue to exist amongst such different people? I'm immensely happy to think that they will. I'm already looking forward to hanging out when I go to Decorah, others come to the Cities, or whatever else.

Damn this country is big. It is so damn big. I don't know if you've realized it, but that's the truth. Just driving around, I'm stunned by the seemingly endless tracts of land we have. The car parks are immense, the stores are immense, the parks are immense, the roads are huge. Coming from a small island, that hits you. And it's one of the things I appreciate. That sort of reckless bigness seems to sum up the classic American attitude. It's refreshing to hear friendly American accents from everyone. The guy who sold me my new cell phone would have wasted any British clerk in an employee of the month competition.

I need to go grab some food and get ready to go swing dancing. This has been sort of random, but I wanted to post some initial reactions to being back in the States. As time progresses, I hope to get some more insightful commentary up. Anyways, here's to big roads, baseball, good Mexican food, and 1985 Camaros. Cheers.

Last Minute Notice

Hey folks, I put up some more pictures that I've sort of been hoarding the past few days. There are a bunch under the "Nottingham" album of the university and city centre. I realized I didn't really document where I went to school ever, so check it out. Also, there's a new album entitled "Cricket." When cleaning the closet on Saturday, I discovered an unopened beginners cricket set. Somewhat bewildered by this game all year, me and Ryan decided to try our hand at it today, with Emily photographing and Kevin popping in. The pictures make us look a lot better than we actually are...

I'm surrounded by a battle zone of clothes, bags, garbage, and random crap. Thank God that I found a giant duffel bag in the closet, or I might have had some serious complications.

Conclusion.

So, we've finally arrived at this, the last post to be created in England. After deciphering Blogger's confusing notion of writing dates the American way (mm/dd/yy) instead of the British version I'm so used to now (dd/mm/yy), I figured out I wrote my first post on August 7th of last year. 103 posts thus far, that's a pretty big number. But I've enjoyed writing every bit of it. Not only was this supposed to give folks back home an insight into my life in England, it's also become my own sort of personal journal. Blogging has been somewhat ubiquitous in the flat, with Kevin, Hilary, Brandon, Mary, and myself keeping blogs. I really hope you guys took some time to read some of their thoughts, because they all provide great wisdom and an alternate perspective to the propaganda I spew out. Hilary's is very to the point, and jam packed with information. Brandon's is very impetuous, full of vigor and enthusiasm. Mary's is beautifully poetic. And Kevin, who gets my vote as our blogging MVP, has caused many a chuckle with his witty comments and clever anecdotes, as well as impressing me with his technological prowess. All of them reflect their personalities so well, and that is awesome. I'm pretty pleased with what I've written and posted too though, and I hope I've spiced them up enough to make it obvious that I am writing them. Suffice to say, I hope everyone has enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing in it. Although this is my last post in England, I will most likely post a few more entries upon arrival in the States. A few on re-entering American life, little quirks and differences, reflections, etc, etc, etc.

I'm sitting here surrounded by all the shit I've accumulated over 9 months. And that's a lot. I think I've mentioned that before. My trusty messenger bag and backpack, a trombone, and a duffel bag that quite literally is large enough to ship Hilary home in (we tested it last night). Full of things and memories. It's funny, a lot of the things are so ordinary, yet contain memories as vivid and clear as the blue sky and red brick houses I see out my window right now. My cheap baseball glove reminds me of many hours spent running about the university sports ground, struggling to get in front of a ball as Lynn politely reminded us to "stop playing fucking cricket." The Forest jerseys remind me of football chants rising out of the City Ground on a perfect afternoon, seemingly following the trajectory of the ball as it rose over the pitch. A rather large Starbucks mug, deftly acquired from my favourite haunt reminds me of long Friday afternoons entrapped in conversation and thoughts, as well as countless mugs of tea while struggling to think of something witty to write in this blog. An empty pint glass tells the story of our weekly pilgramages to the Lion for laughs and conversation over genuine English Real Ale. What will all these things mean when I return to the States?

It's very hard to measure something as intense as a year abroad. All I can say is this. Last September, I nervously got on a plane, flew halfway around the world to a country I knew little about, and ended up in a flat in the middle of gritty English post industrial city with two people I knew from mock trial and 6 complete strangers. We had two quirky ass English professors leading us on what seemed like an endless parade of cathedrals, stately homes, and rambles through the green hills.

And here at the end, I find myself in a land that seems like home. I'm in a flat full not of strangers, but of dear friends. The quirky ass directors have become what can only be described as not only teachers, but also our surrogate parental figures. This city that at first seemed so cold and dangerous has become pleasant and comfortable.

Going out for a game of catch last week in the park, Brandon and I started talking about the year and going home. He used a metaphor that I loved, so I'm just going to pirate it. This year is like an alternate reality almost, a dreamworld. Back home, life has continued without me. Classes go on at Luther, people still pick up their prozac at Walgreens, PK still sermonizes every Sunday, the Twins keep playing, and people still go swing dancing every Thursday. But for 9 months, I have stepped out of that life. In England, it has felt like there are seemingly no consequences. Instead, we've been given this time to do all the things that normally would not be possible. I'm bored this weekend. Why not fly to Vienna? Take the train to London and see a show? Go rambling in the Peak district? Check, check, check. For one year, nearly every opportunity has been seized, every wildest dream fulfilled. I don't have to go to work, class has been undemanding compared to Luther, debts are for the future.

That paragraph makes it sound like the year was some sort of Dionysian celebration of desires. Not true. It's been hard, stressful at times, confusing, and frightening. Leaving home is always hard, especially when you don't have another home to go to. And for a while, that was the case. There's always a period of adjustment. And even when that adjustment and comfortability came, there were papers to write, trips to plan, relationships to figure out, things to do, and dinner to cook. And of course, the pangs for home home that periodically come up. But I've gotten through all of them, and as a result, am better for it. Not only have we been given this time to go places and experience new things, we've also been given the opportunity to grow and mature. Of course, I will always look back with fondness at the thousands of photos I have from my travels. I have a baseball uniform to remind me of my days in British amateur baseball. I have a very nice Turkish carpet for my room. But in the end, this year has been above all things the time where I have finally reached some point of honest maturity. I still own a (ahem) Jedi robe (ahem), still talk in a sort of half sarcastic/pseudo-intellectual/supergeek lilt, and will continue to do a lot of stupid things. But underneath all of that, I think I've reached a point of adulthood. I hope that is more evident than the pretentiousness I fear.

Have I changed? Assuredly, which I am confident is for the better. Is that change obvious to the outside observer? I have no idea. Crazy stuff happens when people go abroad and experience new things. A very dear friend of mine from high school studied in Ecuador for the spring and came back and decided she had to call off her wedding scheduled for this summer and break it off with her fiancee. Now, I don't expect anything that drastic to happen in my case. No fiancee. My life will most likely continue along the same path it was when I left, but with a new perspective, maturity, and fondness for tea and acoustic rock (thank you Brandon and Kevin). Perhaps the greatest question of all, can I do a proper British accent? Kevin, Ryan, Brandon and myself have been practicing lately, but I would still characterize it as marginal at best. A pint of ale or two typically helps. I guess people can judge for themselves.

So yes, it is almost time to become fully American once more. To don traditional summertime apparel consisting of a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and moccassins. To drink unlimited refills of Coca-Cola with as much damn ice as I want. To watch a ballgame and eat a real hot dog. To drive a gas guzzling sports car on the right hand side of the road. Time to return to the land of the free.

And that is good. The US is a wonderful country, full of friendly people and huge roads. Even though we're run by possibly the worst President ever, it's a very nice place. Ask people over here, it is a very pleasant place indeed, paved with a favorable exchange rate. So I hope you all don't think I have some sort of vendetta when I yearn for someone to ask if if I'm "alright love," or respond to a pleasantry with "cheers," or cause highway carnage when I get behind the wheel for the first time in months and promptly drive down the wrong side of the street. Because I love the US as much as anyone, and I'm looking forward to seeing family and friends. And the dog. I can't wait to go to Twins games with Scott, coffee with Laura and Heather, talk trombone with Benjamin, eat grilled chicken with mom, go to more ballgames with dad, and play some catch with Corey.

But Britain is a wonderful little island, full of rain, dry stone walls, and green fields. It's full of grand cities, Nike-clad chavs, friendly policemen, and copious litter on the streets. There is a unique and beautiful history here, and I love it. Seeing the real England, not the Hugh Grant "Love Actually" version only endears it more. Surprisingly enough, this land is not full of charmingy foppish travel bookshop owners and old men in tweed coats walking quaint country lanes. It is a modern place, full of all the fruits and failures of modern society. But it's real. Like Minnesota, this place is home. And that is the truth.

Funny that of all the grand sights London has to offer, my very favorite place is a brown flat attached to a dying Lutheran church on the north side of a completely normal East Midlands city. Nottingham has no great sites, we only boast what is possibly England's oldest pub, an extremely cheesy Robin Hood attraction, and a very nice market square. Our flat is in an area populated mostly by Indian immigrants and the sort of people who have lived here forever. Very undistinguished. But this has been a very special place. Here is where 9 strangers became dear friends. We lived here, learned here, watched entirely too much TV here, fought here, talked here, and got to know each other here. It was our base for exploring England and our home to return to from Europe. It's just a simple flat, really nothing special. The people who have come to Nottingham, who have sacrificed a year at Luther, being with their family for Christmas, and Mountain Dew for this crazy idea of trying to become English, they are the ones who have made it special. Goodbyes to my flatmates will be as bitter as saying goodbye to my family and friends back in September. But I can tell you right now, the most prestigious address in all of England is not No. 10 Downing Street, but rather 67 Homefield Rd.

The Stories that Really Matter

Two more days left in Nottingham. I'm sort of awestruck, that after nearly nine months, it's come down to this. I mean, crap, nine months is a long long time. It's not supposed to come to an end like this. Nine months seems to last forever, doesn't it? It's supposed to always have four months remaining, or three weeks, or whatever. But two days? This sort of limitation is never supposed to rear its ugly head.

With my return to America drawing ever nearer, the past few days have taken on a decidedly nostalgic tone. But not nostalgic like the end of summer camp nostalgic. Nine months of experiences can't be distilled into a 2 hour "sharing" time with other campers. Instead, what could best be described as a subdued hysteria has enveloped 67 Homefield Rd. People are almost fearful of uttering the words "Tuesday," "America," or "going home." Last night, we all presented our "I, Traveler" papers, which were about how we grew as travelers throughout the year. I sort of dreaded what looked to be one last drawn out class period, but it actually turned out to be incredibly fascinating and fun to hear everyone's various stories of travel and growth. My paper was about the differences between traveling England and Europe, and how England becoming my home affected that. So cool to hear all of these insights into people that hadn't really made it out before.

After 8 hours spent cleaning the flat, we all got dressed up and went out to a fancy dinner at Ben Bowers, a pretty schnazzy Notts restaurant, courtesy of Mark and Carol. Following our return to the flat, we had what is probably the closest we'll get to a "sharing" session. Mark and Carol shared some remarks on the year, which were at times both extremely funny and tear-jerkingly (literally) poignant. Mark wrote a limerick for everyone of us, while Carol gave out "awards." I was named the "hardcore traveller," the "dreamer with le mot just," and the "intense historian." I also had my baseball playing and tromboning mentioned. Much as Mark and Carol have frustrated me this year in terms of trip planning and vague essay assignments, let's face it. Not only have they directed the program, taught the classes, and led us around England, they've also been our surrogate parents. I will genuinely miss their educated wit, fresh perspective, and general good naturedness. This year would have not been the same without them, no doubt. And I thank them so much.



Anyways, Kate is leaving early this morning to head to France for a month in Grenoble, so tonight is our last night as "the Nine." Being a geek, I always equated us nine travelers with the nine members of the Fellowship in Lord of the Rings. Nine companions on an epic journey in a foreign land, unsure of what the future held. We came from different backgrounds, we came with different interests and talents. Nine people who could not be more different, people I would never have dreamt of associating with at Luther. But like the Fellowship, our travels and adventures bonded us. Over coffee at Starbucks, innumerable bottles of cheap wine in overwhelming European cities, pints of ale at the Lion, and the common fate of being stuck as travelers in a land other than our own, we became family. We even had semi-serious discussions about getting the word "nine" or Roman numeral tattooed on our feet. So, it's a pretty emotional night, the Fellowship being broken, so to speak. Kevin and Mary made a movie consisting of music, video, and photos from the year which we sat down and watched. It was so cool to reminisce as a group, to see from the present the many adventures and experiences we've had together throughout the year. Nine of us, plus two directors. Missing even a single one would have lessened all that has happened. It is always sad to say goodbye to people you love, and it will be very difficult to confront that when we finally part ways on Tuesday for good. Actually, difficult cannot even begin to describe it. I've always been an only child, but I now feel like I'm going to be torn away from brothers and sisters. From good friends. Not the friends that you see once or twice a month, or have a class with, or sometimes stop over to chat. No, these eight other people are the friends that really matter.

Bottom of the Ninth

This afternoon was my last practice as a Nottingham Thief. It turned out to only be a 20 minute game of catch, but you know, that's alright. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect for a ballgame. I was sort of sad that my friend Lynn wasn't there. She's our resident girl/Chicagoan/second basewoman who I sort of clung to, being a sympathetic American. But alas, she was off in town. After throwing the ball a bit (I threw really well), we retired to the campus bar for a pint (or two... or three) and some baseball talk. Since a lot of the guys are either Yankees or Red Sox fans, there was a lot of ribbing about the spectacular failure that has been the Yankees' season thus far. I proudly mentioned the Twins' recent sweep of the ChiSox, their beautiful new outdoor ballpark being built, and their two World Series championships. I also brought up the prospect of them retiring my number. I at least have the satisfaction that it will be retired for a year. Then I dramatically said my adieus and biked off into the sunset.

Last summer, I got very excited about the prospect of playing softball in England. "Yes," I thought, "a chance to relive my glory years in a way that demands less physical skill and time commitment!" The baseball team seemed much too intense. Three training sessions a week? No way. Plus, I still had nightmares of 95 MPH fastballs screaming STRAIGHT TOWARDS MY FACE. As I realized that softball would not fit in my schedule, but still desiring to relive my youth, I meekly signed up for the upstart baseball team, practically convinced that I wouldn't stick with it. Although I had attempted to build up my arm the previous summer playing catch in the park, I realized upon going to the first practice that I was woefully inadequate in nearly every category. Throwing? No velocity, no accuracy, and I couldn't play catch for 15 minutes before my elbow felt like it got ran over by a bus. Fielding? Couldn't field a grounder to save my life. Hitting? Let's not even talk about it. Besides my freshman trombone experience at Luther, I don't know if I've ever felt so out of my league.

I was out of my league then, and probably still am. But I kept going to practice. I went in the sun, rain, sleet, and wind. We practiced sliding in the mud, stealing bases, and leaping for fly balls. I got hit in batting practice, had bruises all over my body from passed balls off the grass, and my right arm seemed to continually hover somewhere between falling off my body and exploding. God knows how much £££ I put into cleats, the uniform, practice clothes, and whatever else. It took up roughly 5 hours of my week, plus transport time. I probably have left a rut in the pavement where I biked to practice every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. But man, looking back, it was all worth it.

Baseball in England, it seems like such a bizarre concept. You can't think of anything much more American than a ballgame. But the people here who play, those who showed up to our sometimes sparse practices, they love this game. I was sort of amazed and mystified by this. Football, rugby, and cricket dominate the English sporting world. The only opportunity to watch baseball on TV is to stay up until 1 AM. The weather is completely not conducive to a ballgame. But still, the niche survives. Adam, our coach, stays up until 3 AM practically every night the Red Sox play to catch the game online. He studied for a year at the University of Virginia, saw a couple of games in Baltimore when the Sox played the Orioles, and was hooked. Returned to Nottingham and started a team.

Ever since my baseball career went on sabbatical at the tender age of 12, I've sort of shunned participatory sport. My focus turned to music, which it has pretty much stayed. But this year, the most gratifying thing I have done at university has been playing ball. It's really been one of the most essential elements of my year. It felt good to be a part of a team. It felt good to feel like I was in some tiny way representing this school that for the most part was large, distant, and disconnected. I actually met a fair amount of people, from all over the world. I learned how to wear my socks up high so that they wouldn't fall down. But most of all, it was just fun to play. I haven't played ball for so long, I sort of forgot how much I enjoyed it. Running out onto a field of green, feet anxiously waiting to spring forth to track down a long fly ball. It was like going back to 5th grade. When the uniform came, I sat around in the flat wearing it like an over-excited kid. When people weren't looking, I would practice my major league windup. It was fun.

I did improve as time went on. The powers that be were ever tolerant of my awkward throws and lame defence, and they slowly improved. I had the best attendance rate of anyone on the club. By spring, I had found my natural throwing motion to some extent, could put a good amount of speed on the ball, and made small strides in making better defense. I never was the best player on the team, nor was I the worst. But for whatever it was worth, I played as hard and as well as I could. A wise man who once played outfield for the Minnesota Twins (and who coincidentally also wore #34) taught me as a kid to always do that above all. Play the game the right way, and have fun. I think I at least did that.

So, a fond farewell to Adam, Lynn, Tats, Andy, Adam, Rowan, John, Khalil, Peter, Rod, and Matt. It was a blast.