Waffles, Trump, and a Spot of rain.

Disclaimer: Truth be told,  I started writing this post about 2 weeks ago and I keep adding to it. Today I figured I should just post the dang thing as my posts seem to be getting increasingly more lengthy. (Something tells me you all don't mind).

Who has 1.5 thumbs and will be returning home in just 3 1/2 weeks? THIS CHAP. That feels both close and far away, but it hasn't stopped me from already loosing sleep over how the heck I'm going to pack up all of my crap that I have acquired here and bring it all home. I suppose I will have to abide by the motto, Leave the gun, take the canoli. (from the Godfather but more importantly, You've Got Mail).

Since you last heard from me I have been in two different countries (I'm using the term country lightly) and have taken two trips to Londontown! Those passport stamps are racking up and every customs man I encounter I feel the urge to ask them to stamp my passport in order, just so it looks pretty. But then I think about being deported and I think, nahh, bettah not. Belgium with the grandparents was just fantastical, as we ate our weight in waffles and Belgian chocolate, and enjoyed some mussels in Brussels. (Dr. Seuss missed a good one never using that as a title for his book). I braved one taxi, three train connections (each way) and two missed trains back, all on my own. I wanted to feel empowered but all it took was getting kicked out of my accidental seat in first class to remind me that I'm just a peasant. I suppose the stuffed animal monkeh hanging out of my backpack may have contributed.

Then a few weeks ago I spent some time in Scotland! We had heard woes from others about how miserable and rainy it would be, so we shopped a bit around Canterbury in search of some rain protection attire. I found the cheapest and most non-repulsive rain boots I could find because, oh yeah, I DIDN'T BRING MY RAIN BOOTS TO ENGLAND. Granted, everyone warned me against how heavy they are, how bulky they fit in a suitcase, how just an umbrella will suffice...yadda yadda. But what they didn't tell me was that eventually, the leather riding boots you bought 6 years ago and have worn every day since you arrived in England would eventually get a hole in the sole. (Another rhyme, for the win.) A hole that loves to fill up with rain water, rocks, woodland creatures and mud. So off I went to purchase some real boots, only to find that the largest shoe size the UK carries is two sizes below me. I was warned there would be culture shock moments like these... And off I went, me with my hole-y boots, and my friend David with a 20 pound poncho that, he realized once we stepped foot off the plane, didn't have arm holes in it. Yes, we were quite the bunch, roaming around the streets of Edinburgh.

We had a flight booked on RyanAir that was, wait for it, 30 pounds round-trip from London to Scotland. I knew RyanAir was legitimate, but I was understandably nervous for a plane ride that cost me that little. Sure, the seats didn't recline and the flight attendants didn't care if you lived or died, but the moment I stepped on the plane and saw the most beautiful male pilot smiling at me...I knew it would all be okay. 

Once there, we participated in a local pub quiz, and attempting to come up with an American name I suggested "Team Trump for President". We got a kick out of it but the Scottish, not so much. When the mc announced our name a loud, "Trump is the devil!!!" erupted from the far corner of the bar...a warm welcome to Scotland. We explored the Edinburgh castle, ate amazing food, hiked up Arthur's Seat (a massive hill with beautiful views), were blessed with yet another hot hostel roommate (this one from South Carolina), toured Camera Obscura, and perhaps my favorite event of the trip; attended a Ceilidh (pronounced "Kay-Lee") style dance night. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into when someone from our hostel invited us to come. Once we arrived, I quickly discovered it was the Scottish version of line dancing, a pastime that I am just mildly addicted to. And this was even. better. There was a live band playing Scottish jigs the whole night, and an instructor teaching each dance. All you had to do was grab a partner and have a go at it!

As for the two trips to London... lets just say I'm kiiiinda an expert at Tubing--a verb that I have very likely just made up in this moment to act like I'm a cool Brit but don't actually know if they say it. Taking the tube, people. In fact, I just got home from a day trip where I met up with my beloved Eden family, the kids I nannied for many a year. It just so happens they were in London for the week and it felt so nice to see a familiar face! After gaining experience braving the underground a few weekends back with friends, this time around I felt like hot stuff strutting through tunnels and may I add, walking on the left side of the escalator if you know what I mean. (Yet another British reference in attempts to make me appear more cultured than I actually am. I can't even pretend with all of you).

I also celebrated my first UK Holiday, Guy Fawkes Day! (Funny, the way that Brits pronounce it for weeks I thought they were saying an expletive at me). Guy Fawkes was supposedly a man who attempted to blow up parliament and when he failed, was burned at the stake. So, what better way to celebrate than fireworks and bonfires!? God Save the Queen. Cities all over England have firework shows and bonfires on the streets on this particular Thursday in November. My friends and I found a firework show at a local cricket stadium; and while it was no Disneyland, I had quite possibly the best hot dog of my life and that makes any moment magical. Of course, I forgot that British mustard is extremely spicy as I proceeded to drown my sausage in a pool of what I assumed was Heinz. And surprise of the century, it was also raining and while we were worried the fireworks wouldn't happen everyone else didn't seem to care as they stood in the grass field under the downpour. We realized its probably unlikely that events in England ever get rained-out.

Gosh, I'm exhausted, are you exhausted? I think I should quit while I'm ahead with this post. Look forward to hearing what I end up doing for Thanksgiving along with drowning my tears in a cup of tea...I'm kidding, but I will deeply miss the food. Save me some leftovers?

A few bits and bobs.

Hello humans. Here we are, Week 6.5 of my time in England town and its hard to believe that in less than 2 months I'll be rocking around the Christmas tree! Funny how being around actual season-appropriate weather can put you in the holiday mood. I have always abided by my strict no Christmas music until after Thanksgiving rule, but if they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in England then am I exempt from this limitation? ;) *sprints to computer and blasts Harry Connick's Christmas album.

These past few weeks I have been spending trying to intentionally pursue my newest love affair--the city of Canterbury. Oh, how it was love at first sight the second I stepped foot on her cobblestone street. But my love has only grown the more time I spend with her and--yeah, okay, this is getting creepy. What I thought I would do is give you more of the scoop on what daily life is like around these parts because yes, contrary to popular belief, I do go to class.

For the most part, my life looks like a normal Uni student who gets herself into the typical shenanigans that one encounters whilst studying in a different country. My friends and I had our first UK concert experience, buying last minute tickets to a band that was playing on campus. What we learned is that despite the open bar that seems to accompany every student-run event here at Kent (and you would think would elicit some form of loose movement), the Brits don't like to dance. I swear I was the only one who so much as clapped my hands the entire time. Have no fear, in typical Cameron fashion I had gotten a few people to at least stand up near the front and look like they were enjoying themselves by the end of the show. Those Brits. Gotta love that enthusiastic demeanor.

It was lovely to have a break from uni students when my wonderful grandparents came to town! It was quite a surreal feeling to feel like I actually know this city well. So much so that I knew where to direct them and already had ideas in mind of places to eat and things to do. Of course, in true Omi and Grandpa form, though they were visiting my territory they had to make sure I had one, somewhat-odd, random, cultural, "teachable moment" to expose me to. And that is how I found myself in the crypt of the Canterbury cathedral on a Friday night with a bunch of 80+ers, listening to a singing and story telling performance. Their mission to outsmart me in my own city was a successful one. Well played, Grandparents, well played.

Also not unlike Omi and Gramps; as they were dropping me off at the bus station I was telling them about this particular bus driver who is always so mean and my friends, and we do anything we can to avoid her. Well, I get on 2nd level of the bus and am waving them goodbye. Next thing I know I look out the window and Evil Bus Driver has gotten out of the bus and begins to have a friendly, 5-minute conversation with Omi and Gramps. They're laughing and carrying on, all the while everyone in the bus is getting annoyed that the bus still hasn't left. I was in disbelief. Only my Omi and Gramps could charm the bus driver who hates everyone else. As Grandpa later texted me, "She affectionately patted me on the arm, and with a 'toot-toot', there you went into the darkness with that lovely bus driver..."

Omi and Gramps, and said butch bus driver.

This week is reading week, which means everyone travels or goes home and no one actually reads. I had flirted with the idea of taking a few day trips but with my multiple upcoming trips I decided to revert to my over-achieving ways and actually use this time to get ahead in coursework. Well when I got sick of doing that, I did what anyone would do, and accepted an invitation to go on a Zombie Bar Crawl on a Tuesday night.

Never being one to half-ass a costume, my friend and I loaded up on all of the Halloween makeup kits we could find and went to town. Just as I was putting the finishing touches on my dead and decaying face, it was time for the fake blood. And wouldn't you know, with the grace and poise that I always posses, I tried to take the lid off the blood the entire bottle exploded and squirted all over me and...my white walls. There were no shortage of "what'd you do, murder someone?" jokes, but if you saw it you would say the same. A complete murder scene all over my bed sheets and my walls of flake blood. One week later and I can report that no, not even a magic eraser can get it off and yes, I will get charged for maintenance re-painting after I leave. I may need to leave a note to the painters assuring them that is not real blood (or an unfortunate Aunt Flow incident...) before they think they have another Amanda Knox situation on their hands. I swear this stuff only happens to me.

Deciding to put that fiasco on hold for the night, we went on to have a mind-blowing (get it? because brains?) good time. The best part was getting to meet other Brits who will automatically assume the position of your best friend the instant they hear that you're from California. Not America, California. Though I was sad to see Halloween come and go without dressing up for the first time in 21 years, I'm counting this zombie experience as my costume for 2015.

I will end this post with another everyday occurrence in the city of Canterbury, and that is that it is always hosting some sort of festival or fair. Honestly, I'll walk into town on a normal Tuesday afternoon and theres a random Ferris wheel or food truck just hanging out. The other day I noticed an international food fair in the middle of the street. As I walked past, I saw scrumptious baklava, potent curry, danish pastries...it was a dream! Then I got to the United States booth. Behold. An obese, redneck woman (A US stereotype come to life) surrounded by Kit Kats, Sun Chips, and Oreo cookies. In other words, the world only knows us for our junk food. It made me chuckle.

One more note about food; a few weeks back I had my first traditional, English Sunday roast (kinda a big deal in these parts). It was the most magical experience in my existence and I would willingly bathe in a tub filled with dat gravy. Feast yer eyes: