Day One: Jo Arrives

So, it is Friday, September 25. The Higbees have bought out most major department stores and half of the supply of Amazon.com in prep for Jo's departure. Papa Higs, having just driven from an overnight work trip in Cumberland, is asleep in a living room chair. Little Sis Beth is having some pasta in peanut sauce she just cooked, a small respite amidst the demands that have been made on her over the past few days, such tasks as waking up at 8am in case any mail was possibly going to be delivered, and finding every white long sleeved shirt in the women's, junior's, and children's department of Target that might fit Jo. And Mama Higs is snapping pictures of Jo, who is begrudgingly posed amidst her luggage. Yes, indeed, "First Day Of School" pictures. Of a 23 year old.

This sort of pictures were last taken on my first day of freshman year five years ago. I wore a green tank top, my hair was tied back with a scarf, and I had an ankle brace (thankfully just a day or so before I was allowed to lose the crutches I had been sporting). I moved into Bel Air hall at UMD, and I loved it there. I nearly went there for grad school too, however....

This year was a little different. All the Higbees drove to Dulles Airport. Mama Higs, Papa Higs, and Jo pulled the luggage (which, combined, outweighed Jo), and Little Sis Beth was instructed to use both her free hands to pray that the airline accepted the overweight luggage. Must have worked, because they did. Then dinner at an airport restaurant, which someone had gone to great lengths to decorate so as to look like it was outside... Nice try Dulles, nice try. I made certain my last meal in America was very American, so I had a burger with, yes, American cheese. Between my picky taste in food and the blah/gross-factor of British food, I am concerned that when I come home I will resemble a stick insect, so I needed all the fat I could get. French fries instead of fruit with my burger? Yes please.

Then it was time to hop on the plane, and hop I did. No trouble getting through security checkpoints. Remember when the most dangerous thing one could take on a plane was a nail file? Now that that threat has been replaced by a greater threat, a water bottle, I had no worries, as I was only carrying a nail file... The scary security man made fun of me for wearing red and yellow plaid socks, and then I was off. Got my window seat and hit the sky. I was bummed we flew between DC and Baltimore and not over them, I wanted to wave goodbye to both one more time. The ride was about 7 hours long. Every time a person with an accent talked, I smiled. Every time two people with accents talk to each other, I giggled out loud. I read, picked at some salad (no thank you, airline chicken!) listened to Sufjan, and tried to sleep. Yeah, failed at that last one. It was bumpy, and the only way I can ever sleep on airlines is to fold in half and lay on the trey table, and that tends to be painful when your face smacks into it repeatedly.

Landed! Off the plane, a nice tall man got my suitcase out of the overhead compartment without my even having to ask or look pathetic, thanks British Hero #1! I stopped to use the ladies room, so I was one of the last ones to get to border control. Got through, no problems, on to baggage. My flight's luggage was already pulled, so my stuff was in a nice pile, didn't have to pull it from the belt myself, thanks British Hero #2! Now, the problem with all this luggage, I can't pull it myself for more than a few feet. It is literally bruising my hand and pulling my arms out of my sides a la Stretch Armstrong. I am anxious, sweaty, stressing out, seriously considering leaving one of the bags... until British Hero #3! A security guard sees me looking lost, picks up my bags, and loads them on a little hand cart for me, then pushes me in the direction of my bus. Hooray!

You may have noticed I didn't mention customs. I think I accidentally dodged them. When I went through the room there was no line, no attendants, nada, so I just walked through. Nice work, Britain.

Waited for the bus, nerves building because I had too much luggage, which was all too heavy for the bus restrictions. Bus driver shows up, loads my overweight luggage and my extra bag, no questions asked, thanks British Hero #4! There was a TON of traffic so my 2 hour bus ride took 3 hours, but I get to Coventry. Start panicking again, how am I going to move this luggage without breaking my hand and looking like a foreign loser? I cross the street and encounter British Hero #5, who takes one of my bags and wheels it to the cab line, puts me in the cab, and I'm off. Short ride to University of Warwick, bus driver takes me right to the building so I don't have to wander like a lost idiot, we'll call that British Hero #5.5. The creeping panic returns as I gear up for the walk down to the building where I check in. Enter British Hero #6. The man appears from no where, says I look like I need help, takes my heaviest bag, and walks me to the exact line to check in. I get my keys, and as I'm contemplating how I will make the 20min walk to my dorm, re-enter British Hero #6. Oh, he is a campus security guard, now dressed for duty. He doesn't skip a beat to grab my bag and walk me to another guard who he puts in charge of getting me to my dorm, they load me in my own shuttle, and this new British Hero (#7) drives me not only to my side of campus, not only to my complex, but to my actual door. I think he even drove on the sidewalk to get me as close as possible.

Well, this all has been amazingly helpful. I have hardly had to move my 120lbs of hand breaking luggage more than a combined 10 minutes on my own. But, however will I get them up the stairs to my apartment? British Hero #8, that's how. As I am staring blankly at the door trying to figure out how to open it, a man comes down and asks if I need help. I assure him I don't, but he still gets my things in the door and asks where I'm going. I tell him my room number, he tells me to wait where I am. He runs up the stairs and returns momentarily with his son, British Hero #9, who, conveniently, lives in my apartment. They each grab a bag and carry it right to my door, point me to the kitchen and common room, and ask me if I need a ride anywhere or any help unpacking. I assure them again that I don't, and they head out, with Hero #9 inviting me to "pop by later if you fancy a chat." Amazing.

I brush my teeth (hallelujah) and proceed to unpack. My room is modest but nice, and delightfully purple. There is a pond in my front yard, helping to earn my apartment's name, "Heronbank." No herons, but lots and lots of ducks. If you know me at all, you'll understand how excited I am by this). I am the corner room on the second level. I have my own bathroom, a view of the pond and the recycling bin, a moderately comfortable bed, and a comfy fuchsia chair (from which I am writing this). When I am done I pop over to Hero #9 (let's call him Andy) for a chat. We chat, Andy tells me about the university (he is a second year post-grad in Chem) and a little about living in Heronbank (he had the same room last year) and he draws me a map to the building I need to go to for my ethernet cable. Off I go, to get lost for several hours and explore campus. Well, I found all the buildings I could want except the two I need... but that's ok, I had fun. I picked up essentials at the little store on campus, and am now the proud owner of a bowl, a tea cup, a spoon, some crappy thing pretending to be peanut butter, the worst tasting cherry coke in existence, and some cereal which is actually ok (because is it made by Kellogg's). Know what is scary? The first time you have to make a purchase from a store in pounds.

There is still much to do. Get over jet lag (I stayed up late enough to get on their time table, but ruined it by sleeping 15 hours last night (hey, I was sick and had had a long day and if I had been in America I would have been waking up at 10am so don't judge me)), finish my last summer reading assignment, get a phone and a bank account, obtain real food, make friends and cultivate a social life, find my building for orientation tomorrow, adopt a British accent to fit in like a local, and find and befriend fashionable but elusive men named Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. An American in Britain's work is never done. But I'm here, and it only took months of planning, a day and a half of travel, and 9.5 British Heroes. But I'm here.


In very important news, in the shout out category, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BETSY B!! My sister is 22 today. I'm sorry I'm not there.