In Which Kailey Does Some Traveling

And…life goes on. I’ve been marginally failing at updating this blog consistently. Those of you at home might say, “Why Kailey, I’m sure you’re busy, you must have some excuse.” Or maybe that's just me in my own brain. Some of you even went as far as saying that you expected you wouldn’t hear from me as often once the pace picked up here. Let me put this for you in four short words. I have no excuse.  Plain and simple. I’m pretty sure I could have scraped up plenty of time to give you some sort of update on Sunday these past two weeks. But I didn’t.  So now it is Thursday and I’m giving you a synopsis of my excapades in the week past.

This weekend I went to the Czech Republic to visit my friend Eliska. Because only those who love me really read this blog, I’m almost sure you’ve encountered her before. Maybe in the flesh. Maybe recently. Maybe you’ve never met her but you’ve heard me talk about her. Maybe you’ve only recently met me or don’t know me and certainly don’t know Eliska, and for some unknown reason you’ve stumbled upon this blog and are interested enough to have read all the way to the second paragraph. Good for you! She cropped up here and here on my blog (and in my life) previously. She’s a very important person to me, and I’ve known her since I was eight.

But, as I was saying. I visited my friend Eliska this weekend in the Czech Republic. Arriving on Thursday night, I was picked up by Eliska’s mother, Anna. Anna then proceeded to lose herself within the labyrinth that is the Prague interstate system. (Really it’s kind of a nightmare.) I wasn’t really sure what was going on since Anna doesn’t speak much English and I speak even less Czech, but given the fact that I spend a significant chunk of my life lost, I could tell that we weren’t found. Also, I started to get the idea that Anna thought that because I had known Eliska for almost twelve years and people are generally able to pick up language when they are surrounded by it for an extended period of time, I would at least understand what she was saying in Czech when her English vocabulary was insufficient. That would be intuitive in most circumstances, but Czech is a totally different ball game. There is no way that I will ever understand the Czech language without formal lessons. People often say that English is a hard language to learn. They have never attempted Czech. The effort required to comprehend even the idea of Czech makes English look like Kindergarten naptime. After vacantly smiling in Anna’s direction while she spoke to me in Czech for a while, I watched as Anna turned on the radio, skipped over the talk show channel, and settled for bad European pop, until she changed it to classical music, and then a folk station. Because everyone knows incomprehension when they see it and it was certainly written all over my face.  Needless to say, we did find our way home and then I thought it was bedtime so I got into footsie pajamas. Eliska laughed at me good-naturedly for wearing them, and Anna asked me whether I had a bear onesie also, and I tried to explain that no I didn’t but I did have a giraffe onesie, but I’m not really sure we communicated.

The next day I went with Eli to the school at which she teaches. She’s an English teacher at a high school and she asked if I would be her special guest and conversate with her kids. Given that last use of vernacular, I’m not really sure she chose the right person, but I did go. We sat around tables and they went in a circle and each asked me a question in English, which I answered in English. The first class asked basic questions like, “Why are you here?” “How long are you here?” “What’s your favorite Czech food?” “How do you know Eliska?”  Eliska’s favorite class asked questions like, “How do you feel about your U.S. government?” “What did you think about the shut-down?” “Do you have siblings? What are they like?” “What has your study abroad experience been like?” “What are you going to do with your life?” And my favorite question of the day, “Do you have any funny stories to tell us about you and Eliska?” I told them this one. (Gotta love vague hyperlinks.) The last class I talked to was given decks of cards with questions on them to generate discussion. They were very shy, and because the Czech school system cares just about as much about what teachers do with their students as the honey badger does, Eliska left me to my own devices and supervised a movie watching session in another room, returning at the end of class to wrap up. What twenty-year-old American woman gets to hang out alone in a classroom full of Czech teenagers just chatting for the sake of chatting? This one.

The last time I was in the Czech Republic, I met Petra, one of Eliska’s lifelong friends, while we were lodging in a communist era cabin in the mountains for several days along with several other people Eliska and Petra knew.  We planned to visit her and her children again while I was there and took a bus to Milín, sitting on the floor of the bus since there were no seats left. Petra and her husband, Vojta, have the coolest house decked out with wood everywhere in the little town of Milín, and I was very honored to be a guest there. Also I think I’m a little fatter because of it. Petra is a phenomenal cook. So without further ado, here are some extra noisy pictures of my time with Petra and her family. I'm pretty sure this was the sort of day where flash would have been advisable, but I am a stubborn person opposed to flash unless absolutely necessary. Mostly because I'm not really sure how to use it without making people's faces blindingly white. So. All that to say you'll have to endure the less than mediocre picture quality from this point forward. 

Ondra's friend Eliska spent the night the first night that we were there, and then spent the day. For the sake of this blogpost that contains two Eliska's, I'll call her "Little Eliska," and my Eliska, "Big Eliska." 

This is Ondra. He has a the best squinty smile when he's really amused, but I failed to capture it due to being present for the smiles, but not with camera in hand.

We took a nature walk around the premises of a castle near Petra's house. There are so many castles in the Czech Republic. It's not even funny. Big Eliska offered to take my picture. So I climbed on top of something and managed to pose in a less-than-flattering manner. Because I'm gifted at goofy.

Little Eliska became pretty enamored with me for some reason and held my hand for the good portion of our nature walk on Saturday. 

The composition of this photo is not spectacular by any means, but I'm posting it regardless. I think it gives a good illustration of two striking things. One being the exploratory nature of Czech people that is characteristically similar to Coloradans. The other is the state of my figure since I started running longer distances in addition to all the walking I have to do to get places. My mixed genetic make-up dictates that this increase in activity causes thickening rather than thinning. I'll just leave it at that. 

These kids have known each other since they were babies. They're six now and are planning their wedding. Can I get an "awwwww?"

Also, Ondra never stops moving and grooving. He seems to have very focused energy and plenty of it.

"Views"

No telling what this memorial is for.

Pretend that this is an old time photo, and not that I was wielding my camera in an ignorant manner.

Skillz, my people. Skillz. 

After our nature walk, we came back, and snacked, and colored for a while. Petra took this picture.

I swear this soup was the most amazing pumpkin dish I have ever tasted aside from pumpkin pie. Maybe even more so, because it was to die for. Petra is such a good cook.

This cat is adorable. He is incredibly friendly and well-loved. And nameless.

I leave you with this mug to show what can happen when you become family with someone overseas. This mug belonged to my family back in the day, and I found it in Big Eliska's apartment. Apparently Eli got so attached to it that my mom told her to just take it. So she did, and I stumbled across it years later in a different country across the ocean. Go figure. 

In Which Kailey Has a Think About Things

Lately I’ve been enjoying (almost) every minute of London, and I think the key was that I adjusted, or changed my perspective, or something just shifted in my thinking. I don’t remember if I told you, but City University is a terrible school. When I first arrived, I found out that they had changed the class roster and I had to choose classes somewhat at random to avoid being sent home. Then, despite the fact that I was promised a professor from the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, I was placed with a student teacher four weeks after the term started. But it gets better. I was only recently allowed access to the practice rooms about a week and a half ago despite my major and my many requests to have access. Other students I know don’t even have “professors” yet for their voice-type/instrument. I’ve started to think of City University not as a school, but as an arena to take place in an extended summer/fall/winter break, as an excuse to be in London and learn my junior recital repertoire.

            The school situation hasn’t changed, but I find myself genuinely enjoying the days I spend here. I’ve been attending King’s Cross Baptist Church, and they allowed me to practice early in the mornings, effectively solving my practice problem. My buddy Pete who lives there and takes care of students (BTW what is his job title?) shuffles down in the morning only half an hour after he’s woken up to let me in and put on the space heater. This is because he’s awesome.

            Another change of perspective that’s let me enjoy myself more is to never go into any place in London expecting to get anything done. Don’t get your hopes up for anything. It may sound defeatist, but if you’re coming from the US, and more than that, a school that just knows how to get stuff done, this attitude is more like an indifferent coping mechanism. Sure, see if you can print your paper, but if it gets carried away in the pile four times and you end up being late to class, don’t sweat it. Just have a back up plan and try again later. Sure, leave the house with the intention of buying groceries, but if it ends up taking three times longer than it should take because the attendees have to come over and make you sign for your card while you’re using the self-checkout kioks, and then when you pay with cash, the machine eats all your money and someone has to come out and figure out how much you put in before the machine ate all your money, and then someone else has to come and unlock the machine to give you back your money and then you have to do everything all over again, don’t worry about it. (Yes, I know that was a run-on sentence.) You’ll walk out with groceries regardless, just plan time into your schedule for everyone else to figure out what their job is while you wait. If you go into a store planning on returning something, don’t expect the person behind the counter to know what the company’s return policy is. I mean this in all sincerity. It makes your life easier and happier if when you’re living in London, you expect nothing to go in your favor. If you set the expectation bar low, when a few things fall into place at a decent pace, you’ll just find yourself ecstatic.

            But if I’m going to be completely honest, the more I adjust to life in London the farther away home feels. The other night I had a dream that I was back home, and as I drove through the wide, open roads and passed the suburban buildings spaced so far apart, the whole place seemed so strange to me. I woke up and realized that culture shock will be very real for me when I get home.  

            If I go home, I will have to say goodbye, and the longer I’m away from home, the harder goodbyes will be. The longer I’m here the more they loom on the horizon. When I left home, I said goodbye to my friends and family. I spent a week preparing myself for my exit with visits and conversations, with kisses and hugs, but I knew I would see them again soon. Now people I hold more and more dear everyday surround me, and I can’t guarantee my exit will be so soft, so easy this time. I can’t guarantee I’ll be back so soon. 

The Questionable Nature of Socialist Medicine

So I have failed you friends and family. I promised to update on Sudays come hell or high water. Neither came and I didn’t update. So I'm updating with a cautionary tale against the follies of socialist medicine. 

Yesterday, I foolishly posted a facebook status outlining the nature of socialist medicine in this country, and concerned my friends and family with the content therein. If you’re wondering, I may have broken my foot a few weeks ago jumping over a fence. Actually I was peeing in the bushes behind the fence when a full family came walking toward me. I was finished, but didn’t want anyone to know where I had been, so I made a break for the fence. Hesitating at the last moment, I plummeted over onto the other side, catching my foot on the top rung on the way down, landing on my knees. Said family witnessed the whole scene, so I picked myself up and started sprinting away in, dare I say it, shame. But because I can’t take myself seriously, this episode will probably make me laugh until I die. Today I went to the A&E clinic to get the foot in question checked out. I didn’t want to. My mother just talked some sense into me over Skype. Because that’s what mothers are good at. The staff didn’t believe that it was broken. I probably wouldn’t either, given how little pain I’m in as of now. And given the fact that I’ve been walking on it several miles a day for three weeks. But that’s just how we roll in my family. Maybe if socialist medicine functioned as an industrial model, I would have seen a doctor soon enough to diagnose the break that I am so certain I had. But they have better things to do with their time then tend to mostly mended feet, so I am crazy. Here’s how my conversations went with the professionals at the clinic:

Man: “What do you think is wrong with you?”

Me: “I think I may have broken my foot.”

Man: “And how did you do that?”

Me: “I was jumping over a fence. But I caught my foot on the top rung on the way down and landed on my knees. I happened about two to three weeks ago.”

Man: “And why do you think it’s broken?”

Me: “BECAUSE IT HURT MAN. AND THEN IT SWELLED MAN. AND IT ALSO BRUISED MAN. AND I COULD FEEL IT RUBBING AGAINST ITSELF MAN!” (Disclaimer: Not my actual words)

Man: “Well, let me have a look at it *pokes and prods* Yeah, I don’t think it’s broken. It’s probably very unlikely that it is, but I’ll send you to the X-ray clinic, just take this form, go out of the A&E clinic, turn yourself left and continue until you run into the Urgent Care clinic.” 

Me: *follows directions, waits fifteen minutes to get x-rays taken, waits a good long while to be seen by anyone*

Female Nurse: “What’s wrong with you? *looks at my form* You think your foot’s broken?”

Me: “Yes, I think maybe it is.”

Female Nurse: “Which foot? Oh, left.”

Me: “Yes, left foot.”

Female Nurse: “Why are you in the UK?”

Me: “(Do you think maybe we should get back to the fact that one of my appendages has been potentially broken for three weeks?) I’m studying at the university.”

Female Nurse: “What are you studying?”

Me: “Piano Performance”

Female Nurse: “Oh, really? Do you have any allergies, prescription medications, have you had any operations, or been diagnosed with any illnesses?”

Me: *answers questions*

Female Nurse: “Well I haven’t actually looked at your x-ray, but I’m going to go ahead and check your feet and compare them side by side, so if you could remove your wellies and socks again…”

Me: *thinks quietly to self about hour long wait for x-ray results in reception, removes socks and rain boots again.”

Female Nurse: “What are your symptoms?”

Me: “Well, it bruised, and swelled, and when I touched one place, I could feel the sensation in another place, and it felt like a creaking door when I moved it, and it has a dull ache along the second phalange, and it really really hurt, but it’s been three weeks and it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Female Nurse: “So it doesn’t hurt anymore? *pokes and prods, feels around, takes other foot , pokes, prods, requests I walk back and forth in front of her* It’s probably just soft tissue damage, but I’ll take a look at the x-ray to make sure it’s not broken. I don’t expect I’ll find anything. If it was broken, you would be reacting very differently. There would be sharp pains and you would probably jump. I’ll have a look.”

Me: *thinks to self* Yeah, kind of like the pains I had a week and a half ago that I was trying to tell you about? Maybe kind of like those ones.” *waits another 15 minutes in urgent care hospital room while security guards and nurses peek in to see if more room can be procured for other patients*

Female Nurse: “ So I can’t find anything on your x-rays. They look clear to me. Your foot isn’t broken. It could be soft tissue damage, but we can’t help you with that here. Normally soft-tissue damage is diagnosed six weeks after the incident, so I would wait another week before you call your doctor and then see about whether you should get that checked out with an ultrasound.

Me: “Thank you.” *walks out*

This whole interaction front to back aside from the lovely x-ray technician left me wondering if that diagnosis was preemptive. And whether they were even listening at all. What I do know is that between the symptoms the professionals thought I should be exhibiting and the symptoms I told them I had exhibited, it’s pretty safe to say that my foot was indeed broken. Whether it was a hairline fracture that healed itself, or whether I’m going to find out that actually I need medical attention when I go home, I’m plenty happy to take this somewhat controversial diagnosis and live with my injuries if it means I never have to set foot in a socialist medical practice again. I refuse. If it’s the death of me, I will die outside of a socialist medical practice rather than wait three hours for them to diagnose me with hypochondria. 

In Which Kailey's Father Comes to Town

Tuesday I went with my “Historic London” class to see the Globe Theatre, a working, open-air theater built as a replica of the original globe theater. But since the original globe theater caught fire and burnt to the ground, leaving no blueprints or models behind, the Globe Theatre today is really just a good guess.

Wednesday I went to see a modern adaptation of “Titus Andronicus” by Shakespeare at the Arcola Theatre with my “Performing Arts in London” class. I’m going to try my best to keep my description of this family-friendly. This play is one of William Shakespeare’s bloodiest plays. In the story people kill each other and do things to each other that are worse than killing each other and then some other stuff that is equally horrendous. At the end of the play you find yourself cheering for the bad guys, who were seeking revenge against the bad guys, and because our dear friend Bill Shakespeare is such an excellent writer, the whole thing feels very triumphant. But when the curtain rolls you end up feeling manipulated for siding with evil. Except that you’re so exhilarated by the sound of Shakespeare ringing in your ears that you’re glad you saw the play. At the same time you want to wash your eyes out. * Disclaimer : Inappropriate for Children * If you’re a well seasoned human well accustomed to death and depravity, you could definitely look up the plot on your own and then imagine seeing this play adapted for rival gangs of skinheads and goths in the 1980s replete with plenty of fake blood, some nudity, and gore.

Nothing more exciting really happened until the weekend, but then my father came to town. He was on his way to India for a business trip and stopped by to visit. I showed him around my stomping grounds, and we acted like tourists, seeing the Tower of London, taking an open bus tour, and experiencing the London Eye firsthand. It was great to get to spend that much one-on-one time with my father, a luxury we usually don’t have. 

We took a Yeoman warder tour of the Tower of London. You have to serve in the military for twenty-two years to begin to qualify for the position of Yeoman warder. The Yeoman warder live on the Tower of London grounds and guard the crown jewels. 

School field trip! 

The faces. 

The British are big into blood and gore and brutality.

Friday night, we set up a make-shift bed for my dad to sleep on because his luggage was still in transit only to be woken up just before falling asleep to the sound of the delivery guy calling to set matters right.

On Saturday morning, we walked down Regent's Canal and around Victoria park, the place where I go running.

You see that red structure? It's a slide. 

I popped popcorn the night before and we fed the waterfowl. It's something he taught me to love as a young child, taking me every weekend to feed the ducks when we lived in Oregon.

Swans are more willing to accept popcorn than the geese. Turns out British birds are picky eaters.

I know this is a dragon, but, "What does the fox say?!

This is a South American house-boat vendor named Pablo. My life is awesome.

Saturday afternoon we went on an open bus tour around the city.

There are signs up for the NFL all down Oxford Street and there was an NFL rally in Trafalgar square. AMERICA!

This photo is not spectacular except for the engraving above the door of that building. It says, "Westmorland House." Westmorland was the multi-family housing unit we lived in when my dad was finishing his degree and where we lived when some of my earliest memories begin.

This somehow has something to do with Punch and Judy and they serve fish and chips for six pounds on Tuesdays.

Because I am so mature. NAKED BABY! 

My mother's name.

Then there was the ferry ride. The tour guide was actually not a tour guide but a waterman by trade. He was the best one we had all weekend.