A day of unfortunate reminders

Friday 26th March

Day Three: Sleeping Beauty (or not)

I wake after a world record sleeping attempt at 7:38am and I'm wired. Not wanting to disturb Rebecca who can I just clarify, did not spoon me like she's promised me all of these months (the wench), I move to the living room and lounge across the couch. After checking facebook, it appears that nothing spectacular is riddling the lives of my peers and I tuck into typing up my first blog.

It's funny how what you're reading at the time can influence the way you write. For the past 2 days, my head's been burrowed behind the crinkled pages of The Time Traveler's Wife and I find myself replaying my life in the present tense too. I've missed reading. It's one of those things that I haste to neglect in Uni, as if I can't quite face another word after forcing myself to scan epic volumes of The Oxford Classical Dictionary. Yet every holiday, I fall back in love with reading like a fickle teenager. It is and has been, my only holiday romance.

It's 10:36am before Rebecca rears her head and I'm getting ready in the bathroom. Desperate for some sun, I sling on my sandals, pleading with the sky to let my toes adventure

out and make their Spring debut. Today I'm off to the North Atlanta Rotary meeting. I'm more than willing to visit these generous chappies who doled out a crisp $35,000 for my college tuition last year as well as consistently supplying me with my only good meal a week. My host dad picks me up at 11:45am (from Oglethorpe no less- I sigh and clap as I enter the front gates) and we make our way to the Ravinia hotel on Ashford Dunwoody.

When I arrive, it's another case of feeling like I've never left. I climb out of the car, and gaze up at the colossal building- something I wasn't used to last year but I now find myself comparing to the Hilton Hotel in Manchester. It's much smaller, yet seems sturdy and sound compared to the Hilton which I always perceive as a waif giant amongst the dwarfing city that surrounds it. The Atlanta skyscrapers that pepper the metropolis are like steady needles in a vacant sky, yet nothing compared to the formidable titans of New York and Chicago. However, to me, it's impressive all the same.

Seeing the rotarians again is a treat I'm glad I indulged in. I'm greeted with hugs and queries to my education as I nibble at the food that once served my only wholesome intake. The meeting starts and I find myself drifting off, warm and content after cookies and ice cream. Yet they foolishly push a mic into my hands and I babble about my future plans to them all. After releasing my current course (Ancient History) to their judgement, Tore, the President, heckles 'What you gonna do with that?!' This reminds me of our first meeting when on discovering I no longer studied Maths or Science, he gaped at me and said 'Boy, you're never going to get a job'.

After the meeting, Mike drops me off at Kroger so I can buy some supplies. As I push my 'cart' (how people laugh when I say trolley) around the dairy section I am astounded at the prices. Whoever said America was cheap LIED. I vaguely remember this absurd revelation occurring last year but in the usual way my memory logs important data, I had forgotten all until now. My sweet, sweet President's Brie is shining up at me, mocking me with it's $5 price sticker. I know for a fact that this is £1 in Asda. Damn American inability to supply me with good cheese- there is no way I am settling with the plastic blocks that inhabit the rest of the shelves. Forlorn, I continue on, swaying with fatigue, and finish up my shopping.

Rebecca laughs at my purchases as I crawl through the door. I've bought 8 bread rolls, honey nut cheerios, 3 bananas, milk and pop tarts. I'm not even sure if I like pop tarts but I saw the word cinnamon and grabbed them. We also find out that the milk I've picked up is completely wrong. Not thinking that there could possibly be any difference in our dairy packaging (what's in 3,000 miles eh?), I picked up the red milk only to be told that this is the fullest, fattest, cream-de-la-licious milk you can possibly get- euchhh. How people can pour this thick churn of gluttony over their cereal is something I shall never comprehend. Feeling defeated, I collapse in bed telling Rebecca I'm just going for a nap. I fall asleep instantly.

When I wake, it's dark outside. Surely I can't have slept for that long? I check the time- 8:28pm! Crikey. That brings my total sleeping tokens to 16 for the day, definitely enough to cash in for a good night out. We're going to Emory University's Dooley's Ball. Dooley is one of their school mascots and Rebecca has managed to secure an Emory I.D to let us join in the festivities. I hop in the shower, do my hair and then we're off.

One thing that always makes me chuckle is when people from back home cry out 'How did you get by in America with no alcohol for a year?!' I normally retort swiftly with 'At what age did you start drinking at parties?' The answers I normally get back are 14, 15. I remember being 12, locked in a drafty garage, turning down knock off WKDs that someone had sneaked into their Quiksilver bag. In America it's just the same. No college party is exempt from alcohol (unless you're attending a bible reading bash. And yes, they do have these) and as we stroll up to the field which the ball is on, Rebecca's friend Leah exclaims 'Chelsea! You're wearing pantyhose!'.

It takes me a second to grasp what the hell she's going on about before she holds up 2 coke bottles (yes, definitely 'coke') and slots them down my tights. Oh lord. Not only do I look like I've got hips wide enough to birth 6 babies at a time, the cold bottles are threatening to sexually harass me with every stride I take. I end up clutching them to the side of me in an abstract hands on hip pose as I waddle past the guys at the front gate. They don't look twice (what absolute wallys/does this look natural on me?) and we're in.

We battle towards the front stage and the party's in full swing. A guy by the stage name of 'Girl Talk' is DJing, apparently quite big in these regions and he is amazing. Using mashups and digital sampling, he throws in tunes old and new and its no time that we're swaying with the stewed mass. People are dressed up and a man with monkeys (not real, goodness!) slung over his hands begins trying to grind on one of Rebecca's friends. Oh blimey oh Reily- like expensive cheese prices, I'd gone and wiped out the other American stinker: grinding. I remember going to my first club in Atlanta last year and not knowing what to do. Guys come up, ask you to dance (I still laugh at this archaic club formality) before basically dry humping you on the dancefloor- no thank you very much. Yet, its not out of the ordinary. People don't cast enraged eyes upon you, condoning you to a life of sin and debauchery- its just the way it is out here and here it was before me, spreading like a fever. After nearly getting booted out of the way by a girl shaking her ass in the style of a raunchy r'n'b video, I tastefully re-enact it with a friend. Judging eyes stifle me now- how dare I make fun of this refined style of dancing! My bad guys, my bad.

The fun continues. I find a man wearing lederhosen in the queue for the portaloo and I give him a European high five (similar to the general high-five used worldwide, but just a bit more special). Another geezer is wearing just pants (and that's British pants, not American) and I refrain from giving him a wedgie, choosing to instead pose for a sneaky shot in front of him. A guy blows smoke that certainly isn't just tobacco in my face and I cough and splutter. The party rages on but by 1am, Girl Talk is shutting down for the evening and it's over.

Needing to dance some more, we go in search of another party, but first stop for a late night power reload. Sat in a foodhall, we order pasta. I imagine Ali serving up pasta in Gemini Takeaway back home and laugh, but enjoy my carby splurge all the same. We end up at a tiny Korean Karaoke bar 20 minutes away and go in. The unearthly sounds of people screeching their favourite tunes into battered microphones hit my ears and I'm overcome with giggles. Rebecca and I are feeling somewhat white in this Asian hub but her friends from Emory (Korean and Vietnamese) know some people here already and usher us into their private room. We're sat in there for just 2 minutes before Leah instructs us out. In the corridor, she explains that the girls already in the room were sat bitching about us, unbeknown that Leah is fluent in Korean too. I sigh as the mundane monotony of catty girls strikes me- it appears to be a day of remembering the unfortunates. I can honestly say that I have not once had to deal with petty girls in Manchester. I hadn't even realised until now how drama free my life back home is but I'll treasure it now.

We spend the next hour slumped in the hallway, bartering with workers for another karaoke room but end up leaving, unsuccessful and abashed. We speed back to Rebecca's for 3:40am, pour ourselves into bed and snatch up some z's whilst in the distance on Buford Highway, our friendly comrades destroy yet another top 10 Korean hit.