Pick me up. I’ve landed.

I’ve been going through the box from the “London Semester” program in the archives. It has been around since 1971 and has allowed 8-25 students a semester abroad focusing on British Culture, visiting sites from famous books, and a research project of their own.

Going though folder after folder reading transcripts, tutorials, and correspondence between the director and the school has been fascinating. Did you know that people once communicated by MAIL?!

It has caused me to find myself back in Belgium again. I actually had a moment where I stepped outside into the crisp fall air, stone buildings shading my walk, in which I forgot that I was a graduate student living in America. My bike. The beer. The churches. The seminarians.  De Werf.  The chocolate.  Het sigh.

The sweetest lunch.

It was the first warm day of the year.  Gym class.  Junior year.  Not a good combination.  Everyone was antsy.  It was so rough to be in school when it was so beautiful outside.  I’d become close with two other girls in the course as a result of lack of athletic ability.

“We should go out for lunch today.”  “We could get some fast-food or something.  There is that door in the back of the locker room that leads to the parking lot.”

Another chicken basket day  seemed nothing in comparison to a soft-serve cone to compliment a bit of hooky.  I was in.  I was a bad girl too, dammit!

After changing out of our uniforms we slipped out the back door of the girls’ locker room and made our way to the car.  We promptly drove across the street to the local ice cream joint.  It faced the opposite way so we were hidden from view of the high school.  And in the spring air the food tasted oh soo good.

Of course, that was also the day the dean also decided it was the right temperature for ice cream.

“I’ve got some detentions for you in my office when you’re finished with your lunch.”

Slumbering Somewhere Else

I should have known that the world wasn’t right when I decided to sleep on the couch that night.  But it was one of the first warm nights of the year, and I was desperate for a change of scenery.  I awoke suddenly around 1 or 2 am and went to the bathroom.  When I returned to the living room, windows open and the cool breeze drifting in and out of the apartment, Lynn was standing next to the couch.  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“That noise.  A loud…popping.  And then screaming.”  I realized what had caused me to wake so suddenly and now that she mentioned it, recalled the screaming as well.  My half-awake mind had processed it as being the normal college party screams that seem to come out after dark on the weekend. “The scream–” she continued “–it was terrible.  Something must have been terribly wrong.”  Recollecting the sounds in my mind I remember placing the popping to the east, at the entrance, and the scream to the west, a few buildings away.

Just then sirens became audible and we could see the red and blue lights flashing at the apartment complex’s entrance.  We craned our necks for a better view from the front window, but could see nothing.  A man ran in front of the field-house and down the other side of the complex.  A single police man followed in hot pursuit.  We heard nothing more.

A few buildings down we could hear a large group of people.  Their loud voices were speculating what had happened.  “Was there a gun?”  “I heard a gun!”  “Where did he go?”  “What is going on?”

Cars started to form a back-up at the complex’s exit, now completely blocked with Urbana police.  Why were so many people trying to leave at 2 am?  I suggested to Lynn that we go outside and stand on the walkway of our apartment three floors up.  Dressed in hoodies, glasses, and  our pajama pants we leaned over the railing hoping for a better view.  Nothing.  A car was sitting with its lights on, backed into the handicapped space, below us with 4-5 passengers.   A  black man  walked over the the car, greeting his friends.

Lynn’s timid voice: “Um, excuse me.  Do you know what is going on?”

“Lynn NO!”  I pulled her down under the wall that we’d been peering over.

“What?”

“Lynn.  Gunshots?  Two little white girls.  A car full of black men.  A man who appeared to be flashing gang signs at the car.  We’re trying to look like we’re not here!  Don’t give us away!”

“Oh, jeeze.  Sorry!  I can hardly see with these glasses.”

We watched the police blotter for weeks.  Nothing.  My speculation is that a man left a party, possibly in anger.  When a gunshot occured a few moments later a female, still at the party screamed–awakening the entire complex.  OoooUrbana.  You’re so cute.

I no longer slept on the couch.

The conclusion of the Divine Mercy Chaplet

I always tend to think of you at the same spot during my drive.  It is the part where the highways seem to bleed into each other–beginning and ending and intertwining.  If one wasn’t watching the road signs you’d end up completely lost.  And even though I think of you as I drive under the bridge, into the narrowing lanes, and emerge on the home stretch, you would not remember any of it because you were asleep.  I was so proud of myself for navigating the roadways without your assistance, getting us both home safely–exhausted, but safe.

It was a good night.  And a peaceful memory.  And it makes me so glad to have you as my friend.

it’s gett’n hot in here

It was somewhere in the wee hours of the morning.  The fire alarm went off.  It took me a while to realize what was going on (it always does).   I distinctly remember trying to lazily find pants and shoes rather than exiting the building–as one should do during a fire.

There were only three of us in the apartment that night and we stood outside with the rest of 1347 looking back at the building with the knowledge that it had been a false alarm.  There just happened to be a fire station next door to the complex, but about seven minutes after the alarm had begun a firetruck strolled in from campus, obviously not in any sort of hurry.  In fact, I don’t even recall any sirens.

Eventually we went and sat in Lynn’s car rather than in the open air.  It took a number of minutes for the building to be given the all-clear.  Mimicking the fire-men’s efforts we rolled out of the car long after everyone else had gone back into their apartments.  When we reached the second landing on our ascent to our apartment a college-dude stepped out of his place and stood only a few feet in front of us.  He was shirtless.  The obvious attire required when surveying the non-fire.  I held in my giggles.  I looked at Lynn who was doing the same.  When we reached the third floor we burst into laughter at the complete and total awkwardness that guy had created.  “Oh,” Lynn said, in a timid quasar-voice, “so there’s where the fire is!”

your call

I was busy watching the lone episode of American Idol I have ever seen in an attempt to be social and make the most of my visit.  It was not until I excused myself and lay upon the lonely bottom bunk of a bed somewhere in Brooklyn that I realized I’d missed your call.  “Hi.  It’s me,” the message proclaimed.  I will never forget your tone.  Half laughing, half worried.  “We’re, ah, leaving first thing in the morning.  So, if, ah, I don’t talk to you, have a good rest of your break.”

I desperately wanted to tell you about my day and worried I wouldn’t have access to your voice for well over a week.  I saved the message, knowing that I could always return to it.  I dialed your number, hoping that you were still awake.  Part of me objected to the digits I touched upon the keypad–for I so wanted to be independent.  To not need you.  Even if I was alone.  And in Brooklyn.  You were never a part of this life, and as much as I missed you, were you a part of it now?

the Half-Blood Prince

I had been waiting for a transfer at the 59th Street Circle for what seemed like hours.  Check watch.  Another five minutes has gone by.  Check tunnel.  Still no train.  There was something about this particular stop in the middle of the night that took forever.

When a train finally arrived, bringing a gushing wind and a jolting stop, the doors opened and I pushed aside fellow commuters to ensure I, too, could board.  Why were there so many people?  It was seemingly unusual for that hour.

Most faces were stuck in books.  Normal.  No one ever wants to make eye-contact on a subway.  Most faces also wore large black-framed classes.  Not normal.  The same black-framed glasses.  The faces were all buried in the same book.

Ms. Rowling had kept the city out late that night.  And I had a feeling no one would be getting much sleep anytime soon.

July 4th

The Fourth of July was always a coveted day that I looked forward to as a little girl.  Being that I had no concept of time, it usually snuck up on me.  Every year my family would join our neighbors from across the street in an all-day pool party followed by an evening of fireworks.

I remember crossing the street multiple times throughout the day, usually soaking wet from playing water games.  There was always some reason that would merit going back to my own house.  The trek was a great challenge as I often set out without shoes.  The hot pavement and cinders forced me to be lightening-fast.

All day I would munch on chips, reaching into the bowl with raisinie chlorine-soaked hands.  Chris, Kara and I would play marco-polo and I would pretend I could swim as fast as a dolphin.

Come night-fall the two families would launch illegal fireworks from the driveway.  It was also an annual tradition to purchase said fireworks before crossing back into Illinois after the Missouri canoe trip.  I would plug my ears at the loud booms and attempt to light snakes between launches.  The snakes left marks on the driveway that are probably still there.  Some of the fireworks were worth the money we paid.  Some were lame.  Duds.  But it was about the experience.  Not the cost.