Rob Goes International

As a friend recently told me, "going international is so hard." This is true. Aside from the emotionally destabilizing experience of being on "foreign" soil, there is a vast amount of nuances which separate life abroad from life in America. For example, I've never been in a situation before where I've had direct access to my power/electricity through a parking meter in my bedroom. Having to shove pound coins into it daily to keep my toaster working (especially considering that my diet consists mostly of breaden products) is unsettling. And using multiple appliances at once (i.e. toaster + kettle)? Forget it! I've never seen such a rapacious meter. What is this "power?" Who is putting it into this magical meter and why is it so expensive?

Perhaps of more concern is my inattention to these British subtleties, especially as they've affected my hygiene. I did not realize that there is a hot water switch in my kitchen which controls the flow throughout the flat. Until this point (and even still b/c of that damned meter) I figured that perhaps hot water didn't exist in my Victorian building and therefore didn't bother turning the shower on (I still can't figure out how to do that but the bath does work I imagine). Instead I adapted my bathing practice to standing in the shower and sponging my privates with a bowl of hot water boiled on the stove. I don't own a proper towel either so I'm usually quite cold even after I attempt to dry myself with a kitchen rag.

My British sup usually consists of sauteed potatoes and carrots, which I accompany with, you said it!: toast. And when I'm not trying to decipher mystery paintings from 16th century Flanders, I enjoy renting DVDs from the language center library. Although halfway through Kika I begin to have self-depricating thoughts about how poor my Spanish is and how lacking my academic interests are, only to feel worse from the bitter cold of my unheated tenement. I still cannot tell whether this condition is exacerbated or not by the tepid can of Tennent's lager in my clamy hands (I could be drinking piss and not know the difference).

I think perhaps what is most unsettling is that romanticized notion that going international is mystical in some way which, in me at least, remains unsatisfied. And what is the result of these international lessons, you may ask? I've still ended up at McDonalds after a night of drinking alone in a sad, sunken, overweight bar; just once though, just once.