In case you haven't noticed, I'm studying abroad this year. As a service to underclassmen who are curious about the possibilities for "expanding your horizons" and "being old enough to buy beer," I would like to share a few of my foreign experiences.
In many ways my life in England is similar to my life in the States. One difference is that my new university does not oblige me to support its monopolistic dining halls, so I decided in September to share a kitchen with five flatmates. This way I at least have the option — if I choose not to leave it in a pot of lukewarm water for six to eight hours — of eating my broccoli with a fork. I've come to enjoy cooking, although I'm currently involved in a tempestuous relationship with a cast iron pan. Also, my freezer is overachieving. Other-wise independent life is fine.
I have gained new insight into international politics. For example, I now know that Europe voted for Gore: George Dubious has few fans here. Furthermore, I have discovered that Holland and The Netherlands are the same place, and — you should probably sit down — "Dutch" people live there. How's that for an elegant synthesis of knowledge?
I've learned to appreciate snooker. And I've learned that it is okay to hate cricket because cricket is a ridiculous sport. Here is one example of its ridiculousness: If I were to be mysteriously teleported into a broadcasting booth, I could provide viewers with appropriate commentary — despite the fact that I have never watched more than three consecutive minutes of televised cricket — because everything in cricket, including the players and most of the legal maneuvers, is called a "wicket." And wicket can be used as a noun, verb or gerund. So I could say, for example, "I feel certain, Bob, that he will get a wicket," or "Yes, he's going to do it, he's going to wicket," or "Wi-cket."
I have learned other new words, like manky. It's sketchy with a touch of skank, and it's deliciously ambiguous. So if I say, "I don't want that manky English chocolate," you don't know exactly what I mean except that I don't mean to eat it.
Speaking of food: As a direct result of my contact with authentic English people, I have decided to join an Eating Place when I return to Princeton. Some of you may be surprised by that because in the past I have been ambivalent. The differences between drunk people and myself seemed irreconcilable. They vomit explosively. I walk upright. Et cetera. I remain leery of the mildly inebriated: alcohol in moderation amplifies the brutish qualities of adolescence like a hormonal megaphone. However, I now realize that the substantially overindulged — the pallid, the palsied, the catatonic — can be, well, fun. The turning point came when one of my flatmates had too much of a Saturday night. I entered the common room having just seen a touching Benetton commercial — I was primed to love my neighbor.
She sat flaccid in a steel-frame chair, teetering on the brink of consciousness. My other flatmates wanted to keep her awake, so they asked her questions. "Rachel, count. What comes after one? What comes after one?" I immediately recognized the real danger. I warned them, "If she doesn't pass out, then she's going to die of boredom. Rachel, let's count down from one hundred. Here, I'll start: one hundred, ninety-nine . . . what comes after ninety-nine?" No answer. "How about this: 'Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall . . . '" She groaned. I thought for a minute. "Rachel, the way I see it, this is your chance to shine. Never again will people have such low expectations of you. Your professors want to know why the Thirty Years War began the Habsburg's slow decline. But we only want to know what comes after one."
Still she didn't answer, and I began to suspect that she was simply embarrassed by her compromised dignity and that she might benefit from a bit of positive attention. I know that most girls like to feel pretty, so I got my camera and assumed the role of fashion photographer. I even adopted the appropriate comic accent. "Now saucy — let's see saucy, baby." She made a rather feeble attempt to look alluring. "Well, that's not exactly saucy . . . that's closer to 'gross', in fact. But gross can work. Give me gross. Revolt me." She waved me away and murmured (well, gurgled), "So . . . embarrassing." Still determined to boost her self-image, I stepped back to have a think. Suddenly I noticed her resemblance to the young girl in "Le Spectre de la Rose." Suspecting that she would love to be the centerpiece of a famous ballet, I began to dance, bending and extending limbs in a stylized, if graceless, way. It worked: I know she felt lovely as I leapt around her.
That's the news for now. Incidentally, I have not yet settled on a particular Eating Place. Those interested should send a one-page essay explaining your pastry chef's worldview. Proof of members prone to misjudge their tolerance for alcohol will be favorably considered.
(Charlie Wells is a philosophy major from Macon, GA. He can be reached at cgwells@princeton.edu)
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