Hours after my fall semester exams ended, I hopped into a time machine, not to go back and re-take my finals, but to make my parents happy.
Say you spend a semester abroad. Every day, you walk the streets of Lyon, France or Valencia, Spain and bask in the rich culture and history of the people and environment around you; every day, you breathe in air sweetened by an unknown indigenous flower that doesn't exist in your hometown; every day, you learn something new about where you are, about the world, about yourself. And then you must return home. Culture shock often occurs upon arrival in a foreign land.
Like any guy at U.Va. bored during the first days back from Winter Break, I decided to go through sorority rush.
So I was perusing my local newspaper and noted that the forecast called for snow. (This was of course far in the past, as this publication requires that we submit our columns several months before printing). I began to think, "Maybe I ought to write about how snow isn't the same now that school never gets canceled here," but that didn't work, for two reasons: 1.
I did it! I'm finally in London! My excitement may seem a little overenthusiastic, but trust me, you would have jumped up and down like a six-year-old on Christmas morning when you arrived too -- not that I actually did that (looks down sheepishly). The trouble started when I began packing at home.
Has anyone heard about that fire in Newcomb that almost burnt all of U.Va. to a crisp? Did I tell you about how my friend almost dumped her fiancé, but now they are happily married with three children?
The night before I caught a plane to Dublin for the U.Va. in Ireland January-term program, a few friends and I went to see the movie "P.S.
London is really cold. The weather in London is terrible. London is so expensive. You will get mad cow disease if you eat the meat. These are just a few of the frankly horrifying stereotypes of London I heard before leaving for my semester abroad. While my other friends were hearing, "You'll love Valencia," or "Sienna is the most amazing place on earth," I was bid farewell with completely mixed reviews about a city I had never visited. Through my column this semester, I hope to dispel or confirm these stereotypes by relaying some of my personal experiences to my faithful audience (cough, Mom and Dad, cough). This week's stereotype is a more positive one: "British people are so nice." Upon hearing this statement, I was a little more uplifted before my departure to the Motherland, but one of my first encounters with a Brit was not so pleasant. After queuing up (the British version of getting in line) at a local pub, I was waiting to place my order for a nice cold Guinness when two bartenders simultaneously became available.
Normally I do not write advice columns, because whenever I do offer advice, I somehow instigate a world war ("Why yes, Archduke Ferdinand, I think going for a drive is a great idea") or some freak coal mining accident ("No, guys, I'm pretty sure the canary is just playing dead"). Recently, however, I've been receiving a lot of letters asking for advice.
Even as the bitter cold of winter is finally setting in, my mind cannot help but skip to the chaos to come.
Martin Luther King Jr. Day rarely intersects with the University's academic calendar because the third Monday of January is often during Winter Break.
After spending four years learning and living in Charlottesville, some alumni set out for other cities or distant countries.
My intention for this column was to relate how someone eats his eggs to his character. I always believed that people who only eat scrambled eggs are unadventurous -- they can't fathom eating something with various textures and colors.
Author's note: written on Wednesday, January 16th -- you'll see why it's relevant in just a minute. When the clock struck 12 on New Year's Eve a few weeks ago and the band struck up a chord, they were playing "Auld Lang Syne," not the "Good Ol' Song." It should have been evident right there that 2008 was not going to be kind to the Cavalier football team.
In case you haven't noticed why so many first-year girls are looking lost and self-conscious in the Rugby/Madison/Chancellor area in the past few days, it's because sorority rush has descended upon us.
The plaque outside informs passersby that on Oct. 6, 1817, the cornerstone of the University was laid on this very spot in the presence of James Madison, James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson.
It's not a pretty scene. "Weren't you looking?" the older woman bellows. She's cradling a bruised ankle in her left hand; her right is knotted up in a fist, thrust out like a promise to the erstwhile driver.
Thomas Jefferson is known as a Renaissance man. He was a lawyer, a political pundit and leader, an architect, a scientist, a farmer, an ambassador, the founder of our University and America's first wine connoisseur.
The football is hiked, thrown and caught in the end zone for a Wahoo touchdown. Immediately, fans in Scott Stadium are singing and swaying to another spirited rendition of the Good Ol' Song.
I am not one of those people who enjoy the variation of seasons. My ideal climate exists somewhere between 70 and 85 degrees -- Fahrenheit of course.
