I imagine you’ve all been dying for reassurance that I haven’t died in a drive-by shooting for cutting off an east coast driver while swerving into the nearest Dunkin Doughnuts. Fear not, my friends, I am alive and well. I am, however, embarrassed to report that this is not due to any inspirational overcoming of my fears. It is due to the fact that I am still refusing to drive. Fortunately, Taylor has obliged this refusal so far, but has recently begun making evasive comments about me getting a car in the near future. I generally ignore these comments by pretending that I’m extremely focused on whatever I happen to be doing at the moment, but he is right, I can’t go on like this forever. So far, I’ve come up with some excellent excuses for why whatever car he shows me just won’t work (“I can’t drive a stick shift in this traffic” or “Green?? Do you even know me?!). I suggested to him that I get a bike and just ride that to school, but he told me that was a bad idea because I’m “skittish around semi trucks”, whatever that means, I was laughing too hard to ask. I also tried telling him that since I haven’t driven a car in over a month, it’s plausible that I’ve forgotten how to drive altogether, and so why risk it? He didn’t appear to see the reason in this argument.
Driving anywhere around here (meaning, of course, when Taylor drives me anywhere) is a confusing affair. It’s not like you can just take first street from your house, go straight through the stop sign on Ammon road, the light on Hitt road, and then take a right at the light on Woodruff (the exact route to Walgreens from my house, FYI). If you want to go somewhere here, expect an on-ramp or at least a highway to get up in your business. The time it took me to drive from one end of Idaho Falls to the other is the minimum amount of time you need to budget to get from one light to the next around here. It’s a travesty. Also, it’s possible that I’m exaggerating about that, but if you factor in the humidity and a Freon issue with the truck (translation: we are currently sans air conditioning while driving), my time estimates are legit. How can I be expected to deal with all that on my own? Taylor, who knows his way around everything already, has little sympathy to offer me in this regard, as evidenced by his responding to my complaints by showing me another car he found on Craigslist. I was done complaining and very busy reading, so I couldn’t tell you if I liked the car or not.
I’ve got a pronoun problem over here which I believe, once vanquished, will help me accept the fact that I do actually live in Delaware now. Everything new I see is something “they” have over here, whereas “we” have______ (insert some opposite) at home. I find myself starting out a lot of sentences with “you” guys have/are/do/don’t/etc. followed by the opposing “we” have/are/do/don’t/etc. This needs to stop immediately, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll be going back home any day now, like this is just some extended vacation where we stay in an apartment rather than a hotel…and have jobs…and a power bill. Some part of me is currently refusing to accept that “I” am one of “them” now, and “they” are now “we”. It is a somewhat painful state of existence, feeling like nothing belongs to you and you belong to nothing…except of course when you see signs at restaurants claiming that their potatoes come exclusively from Idaho. For whatever reason, you have an urge (which you always resist) to let them know that you, like their potatoes, were also made in Idaho. Pride is an ugly emotion, people, especially when it comes to vegetables.
On the homesick side of things: it isn’t exactly what I expected. I am generally okay throughout the days and aware that my family and friends still exist and that I will, in fact, see them again. So, it’s not a daily, constant kind of thing. It’s an unexpected, triggered by small things, kind of thing. And when it hits me, I am often paralyzed by the sheer force of it. For example, one day I was strolling around a flea market looking for an office chair, when I saw a dark haired little boy with bright brown eyes looking straight at me. All I could see was my nephew, who is quite possibly my favorite, under three-foot person on earth, and all I could do was stand there with my mouth half open and try not to cry. I don’t have to tell you that standing in a public venue with your eyes fixated on a lone child does not get you any points with nearby adults.
Other random, heart-wrenching moments are inspired by more subtle events, like the inability to find the brand of peanut butter you need in the grocery store. When such a thing happens, say, on a Sunday morning when you’re feeling so heart heavy that it’s difficult to walk, you end up stumbling down the aisles with tears running down your face, damning Delaware straight to hell between sobs. (As you picture such a scenario, feel some pity for Taylor, who endured several dirty looks from other shoppers who were likely imagining that he was the source of my distress.)
On the weather: The humidity is finally dying down. I’ve been told that the humidity here is nothing compared to the south, and I’ll take their word for it since I do not intend on finding out for myself. In any case, it would appear that we have other weather related calamities to contend with. On one of our first mornings here, we were rudely awakened (at the ungodly hour of 6 am) by our phones blaring those emergency tones you usually hear from the television when a severe weather alert is being issued (or when they are just testing the tone for ten minutes during your favorite TV show). I glanced at my phone, one eye open, and read the following message: “Tornado warning. Imminent danger. Seek shelter immediately.” My other eye popped open as my heart started unevenly pumping what was sure to be my last few rounds of blood. I was on the top floor of a three story apartment building, in a city I had been living in for exactly four days, and the only soul I knew there was sitting next to me in bed – where were we going to seek shelter outside of our bathtub?? While I was thinking all this through, Taylor was getting dressed in a mad flurry and claiming that he was not, under any circumstances, going to die in his underwear. I decided that our best course of action was to do whatever the neighbors were doing. I figured that, in an unfamiliar situation outside of your own territory, if you should see a bunch of animals running in one direction, your best bet is to trust their judgment and run like hell in the same direction. So, to this end, I attempted to look out the window. I say attempted, because I was met with a white wall of fog and whipping rain, past which I could literally see nothing. This, compounded with Taylor yelling at me to get away from the window, had me more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life. I was going to die, and probably due to a swift kick in the head from the hoof of a cow the tornado would pick up on its way to my apartment. Excellent.The next fifteen minutes were passed with much hand wringing, uncertainty, and worry about whether I should call my family, who were likely still slumbering away in their two-hours-behind-me time zone. Then, suddenly, everything just stopped. The wind, the rain, the blaring phones, all finished. The now clear window showed me a parking lot full of cars and no people, suggesting that everyone else had silenced their phones and went back to bed. In conversations with a few Delawareans later in the day, this near-death experience was referred to as a “quite a little storm”, and whenever I’ve brought it up since then, I see eye rolls and dismissive hand waves. I remain indignant about this.
On apartment living: In Idaho, I wasn’t a fan of the neighbors living in the houses next to me, and I’m certainly not a fan of the ones living on the other side of the walls here. I subjected myself to moving couches and other items up several flights of stairs with the express purpose of not having pounding footsteps from above drown out the latest episode of Breaking Bad. It appears these efforts will be wasted since the neighbors to my left are either practicing for their next Olympic sprint or are seriously into Zumba. They also have a bangin’ sound system hooked up to their TV that they fully enjoy each evening around 9 pm and, lucky for us, they appear to exclusively watch movies that have serious bass undertones in every scene.
These sprint racers/Zumba aficionados spend a lot of time on their balcony, which generally doesn’t bother me since we can’t actually see each other through the wide planks that separate our balconies. However, since their dinnertime has started to coincide with my get home and read a book outside time, I’m starting to feel like we have beef. For the last few weeks, they have cooked their dinner on the grill outside, and they aren’t cooking it quietly. Every time the male sprinter is out there flipping the goods, he starts belting out some R&B, broken only by the sing-songy “oh yeeeaa-yeeeaa” he expresses when the meat starts to sizzle. For the last little while, this ritual has seen the occasional interruption due to the start of football season. So now, in the middle of the only non-school-related reading I partake of each day, I hear the R&B humming, the “oh yeeeaa-yeeaa”, and then the sound of the sliding door being cracked open, followed by “BLOCK HIS ASS!!”
On the school: Life at the University began with orientations. A lot of them. When you find yourself in a city 2400 miles from home, at a University that feels like it sprawls enough space to compete with the entire city you came from, with a campus that could really benefit from its own navigation app, some information on how to handle yourself is certainly beneficial. Fortunately, there is no lack of information for the newbies at University of Delaware. In fact, there are days worth of it. For an already overwhelmed individual such as myself, this ends up being more exhausting than informative. While I imagine I will look back fondly upon these first days, and maybe even miss them, for now I’m happy that the University is done scheduling entire days to orient me.
Each day started with a nametag. You stand in line for days, wondering why on earth you pre-registered in order to avoid the line, just to discover that you’re actually supposed to be standing in line according to your first name, not your last. So, you move lines and stand there for another few days, all to receive the little white sticker that they’ve so dutifully printed your name upon (the only apparent point of pre-registration).
You then make your way into the conference room where the first question you are sure to be asked is what your name is. After checking that your much anticipated, pre-printed nametag is fully visible on your shirt, you respond and then stupidly ask them the same thing. You shake hands and then they ask you what program you’re in (also on your name tag). Repeat this process around ten times as you attempt to find your assigned table. Once you’ve accomplished this, there is more small talk to be made with the people sitting there as you wait for the bagels and yogurt. The bagels and yogurt are always accompanied by plenty of coffee, which you guzzle, knowing full well that they aren’t going to give you a bathroom break once the onslaught of presentations begin.
Thus begins your eight-hour day, the majority of which is spent in a chair that can only be made of concrete. At first, it’s exciting to be surrounded by 600 other new graduate students, many of whom understand just what you’ve been through in order to be a part of what’s going on in that room. It’s exciting to hear the opening speeches that praise you for making the cut and get you excited about what this means for your future. It’s exciting when suddenly, in the middle of the opening speech, the speakers start blaring music and, after a few confusing seconds where everyone is wondering if the A/V guy fell asleep on the buttons, you realize there are various people throughout the audience standing up to dance and that you are actually witnessing your first flash mob that isn’t a YouTube recording. Seriously, that happened, I have video.
However, once you hit hour four or five of this eight hour barrage of PowerPoint information, your butt is fast asleep and if you hear the words “you are the future” or “this is your home” followed by a dramatic pause one more time, you’re going to chuck your Diet Pepsi can at the current speaker (which you regret drinking because you’re still waiting for a bathroom break). Other verbalizations that make you want to cause a scene, just so you can standup for a minute, include:
“If I have one piece of advice for you as a new graduate student…” (First of all, you’ve given us about fifty of those pieces in your half hour speech. Secondly, the person before you gave the exact same pieces. Away with you and your pieces!)
“If I could just take one more moment of your time…” (A) Is this an option you’re giving me or are you just being polite? We both know the answer to that question. B) Just be honest and say “If I could just take up your entire day as well as all blood circulation to your lower extremities…oh, and also, “one” more moment actually means I’ve got about 30 more minutes up here, so settle in, baby.”)
“And now I’d like to introduce…” (Wait. What? There’s someone left in Delaware that we haven’t had the honor of meeting yet? By all means, bring them on; I will not be convinced that UD is my home until every Delawarean declares it so!)
Seriously, I appreciate advice and I appreciate every bit of information (except, maybe, for the public safety officer’s dire warnings about jaywalking on campus), but can’t someone have mercy on our poor little souls and just print some pamphlets so we can go home after the first four hours? No one’s listening anymore after that anyway, we all have to pee too much to pay serious attention.
And just when you think it’s all over because the speaker says something like “And finally…” you realize this a cruel game they play because all of their sentences, after the first one, begin with these words. I thought perhaps we, as new graduate students, should make them a PowerPoint presentation on when it is appropriate to use the words “and finally” so as not to have the tired masses of now overly-oriented people poised on the edge of their seats so they can make it to the food table before it’s all gone, only to sink back in exhausted disbelief because the end appears to be no where in sight.
Outside of me adjusting to school and Taylor adjusting to his new job, we’ve had a few adventures, mostly related to hunting down items off Craigslist. One such adventure for barstools led us to a place called Northeast, Maryland. This caused some confusion in the beginning when I was trying to get directions from the owner of said barstools. I was annoyed that the location was listed as Northeast Maryland… I’m from Southeast Idaho, but that isn’t getting anybody anywhere. After an e-mail or two with this person, I was sufficiently educated on the fact that someone long ago decided to directionally name a city, and off we went. It was mostly uneventful. There was a live bait vending machine at a gas station there, which I couldn’t believe I’d never seen in Idaho, and the person selling the barstools kept saying “Idaho?? Whoo! All the way from Idaho!” and shaking his head as he shut the door behind us.
We also decided that checking out the beach was a good idea. It wasn’t. This may be due to the fact that we chose to check it out on Labor Day weekend, but either way, I’m never going back there again. This particular beach is 1.5 hours from our apartment and we were there for all of 20 minutes. Some quick math would have you thinking that this outing soaked up about 3.5 hours of our life. It took six. Where did the other 2.5 hours go? They went to sitting in the truck in a line of traffic that New York City would be proud of, watching the same traffic light turn green fifteen times while we sat in the same spot until it turned back to red, fifteen times. Repeat this process for the next several lights, add in pouring rain (which, of course, only started as we finally walked up to the beach) and humidity so thick you could choke, and that was our beach trip in a nutshell. The actual twenty minutes of beach consisted of us walking up to the sand, taking a picture, and then being trampled by the masses of people being shooed off the beach by the lifeguards. Why they were being shooed, I’m not sure, but apparently no one was allowed to be on the beach just then. I approached a large sign full of rules to see if that might clue me in, but it only served in adding to my confusion. It would appear that, when you are even allowed to be on the actual beach, anything beyond sitting there and quietly making sand castles is strictly prohibited. Among other things, you may not feed the seagulls, you may not run or play any game that involves a moving object if the lifeguards are on duty (I’m assuming if they’re gone, all is fair game), if it is between the months of May and September, you may not ride your bicycle, use your skates or rollerblades (does anyone still have rollerblades?), or ride your scooter (well, damn). These months also exclude your dog’s presence at the beach. You may not step on or go near any dunes or beach grass, and while you are welcome to drink to your heart’s content at Whiskey Jack’s on the boardwalk, toss the alcohol before treading sand. (There went my Garth Brooks inspired dreams of setting sail with Captain Morgan…thanks a ton, Rehoboth Beach.)
While I didn’t get close enough to the Atlantic Ocean to see any of its finer qualities, I have been able to do so with other bodies of water around here, and it’s not pretty. In Idaho, all sources of water are blue and clean enough that I would bathe in them…I probably have bathed in one while camping…in fact, I’ve likely brushed my teeth with that water and felt pretty good about it. I would do that here like I’d do that in a foreign country.
Speaking of camping, it has come to my attention that we do things in Idaho that make people think we’re weird. Camping is not a concept people understand here. They have many questions, such as “Why would you sleep outside in the dirt if you have a perfectly good house?” or “What about bears?” (All perfectly reasonable questions that I didn’t actually have an answer for, by the way.) Another “Idahoans are weird” moment came up when another graduate student in my lab was telling me about the backwoods people in the state she comes from (Virginia). She informed me that these crazy backwoods people come out of their hollows to watch things like tractor pulls and demolition derbies. I, in turn, informed her that this was a normal practice in Idaho, even for the non-backwoods kind of people. It wasn’t a proud moment for me.
The bugs are still on a relentless campaign to infiltrate the apartment and, despite devoting the majority of my night luring them into lighted corners where I, reaper of death, await, I still wake up with at least one new bite everyday. Taylor claims that I’m exaggerating, but I think the problem lies in the fact that I smell much better than he does.
There are things to adjust to that I never considered before they happened. Like where to get groceries. At home I knew that serious grocery shopping was not to be done at Smith’s or Albertsons because they mark up the product like a mob boss. Here, however, I have no such street knowledge, so there’s been some trial and error. While at a Shop-Rite last week, I discovered some reasonable deals if I had a loyalty card. I didn’t have one but I was sure the cashier could just scan a store card or sign me up for my own at checkout. This particular cashier had other feelings on the matter, and informed me that unless someone in line wanted to hand over their card or phone number, I was out of luck until I applied for a card at the customer service desk. Since my groceries were already rung up and bagged, that wasn’t really an option; and since I wasn’t paying $6.99 for a brick of cheese, I mustered up some courage and asked the line of people behind me who had a card I could use. The first two people in line were feeling possessive about their little keychain cards (it’s not a VIP club, people, come on) and I ended up just standing there, staring down the line, eyebrows raised to indicate that as long as I was standing there waiting, so were they. Finally, the third person in line rambled off her phone number with a “Theya (there) ya go sweetie”. I thanked her as I left, to which she responded “Shuwa, shuwa (sure,sure). It was a satisfying experience.
So, beyond the Fiesta Ole withdrawals, the fact that we aren’t really into the tap water around here, and that missing all of you hasn't gotten any easier, we are alive and well.
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