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.

Wales? Isn't that by Dubai?

Thursday 25th March

Day Two: Hop on a plane

'Good morning Miss Dickenson, here is your 5:30am wake up call'.

Urgh. How is it that even when you're really, really, twitchingly excited to get going somewhere, early mornings are still a cosmic struggle? I roll out of bed, fumbling about in the dark to find a light switch and clamber for the kettle. 2 cups of tea, 30 seconds of power showering, 1 banana and I'm off.

By the time I've hauled my suitcase to the airport (or the plane station as I referred to it whilst grappling about for the real term the other day) I'm all hot and bothered- not the ideal condition for someone with a 10 hour flight looming ahead of them. I squeeze onto the shuttle to North Terminal and count bum bags to keep me awake. The guy at the Delta desk perks me up a little with his cheeky banter and I join in asking him to bump me up to business class. He places me in the middle seat of the middle aisle in economy- the hateful trout. That's the last time I flirt with a man over the age of 50 to get what I want (what a terrific lie this is).

I walk into departures, relieved to not have 22kg trawling behind me anymore, buy a sandwich from Boots and find my gate. The waiting lounge is dark and deserted but an impressive glass window spans the right wall, detailing planes rampaging about

in the sullen morning with little men running about like ants to a coke can. A good 30 minutes pass as I watch the rain sweep across the runway, puncturing planes as they shuttle into the sky and disappear into the bleak swell of clouds. People start to meander down to the lounge, holiday excitement clipping the air but my splintered sleep from the night before rages about in my head and pulls me into a desperate sleep. The announcement for my flight wakes me up and I see people moving towards the doors. I heave myself up, retrieve my passport (my vacant picture seems quite fitting right now) and make my way onto the plane.

The man at the desk wasn't lying. Here I am, sandwiched between 2 men who are both commandeering the arm rests. Neither, though possibly wonderful examples of their red-blooded race, resemble anything that could equate to a 10 hour plane romance. I still resolve that one day I shall be placed next to a Gael Garcia Bernal lookalike with the somber intonations of Alan Rickman and he'll look into my eyes and go 'fancy a game of travel Scrabble?' and I will be sold. Yet as I get settled in, I find that the man to my left is flying back home to California after a business trip and the man to my right is visiting friends in Asheville, North Carolina. I feel a little grateful as the plane thunders across the runway that my one and only stop is Atlanta and that I can escape this vacuum of anticipation much sooner than them.

Perhaps I should have blessed my rickety night's sleep as I wake 5 hours into the flight with a crick in my neck as a souvenir. I did try collapsing against the desk in front of me but modern logistics and a lack of flexibility refrained me. That, and man 1 and man 2 seemed to be paying close attention to my frantic fidgeting with great amusement. As I straighten myself up, I start chatting to man 1. He's an ex-navy sailor, John McCain supporter with a penchant for pretzels. He questions if I have a boyfriend at home before asking if I want to be set up with his 27 year old airforce pilot son who's currently serving in Afghanistan. I chuckle and tell him if his son is willing to pick me up in his private jet, I'd be more than up for it. More so, this would definitely reach the credentials my Mum pretends to adhere to: manly, well paid job and intelligent. Man 2 is a newly divorced manager of an international consultancy business who enjoys entertaining the old biddys in the home across the road with early morning 'au naturale' stretches. He tells me how he's constantly being frisked in airports because he smiles too much and I vow to keep a drab visage as I pass through immigration.

I love how you can tell and find out so much about a person on a flight yet never know their name. It's like that forced situation forms a bond encapsulated in that small space which melts with the crowds as they waft into the airport.

Once off the plane, I scatter through the throng and bustle into immigration. I'm starting to get really excited now but the long wait is starting to ween against my energy again. A screen above flashes images of Georgia and I'm wracked with nostalgia as pictures of the University of Georgia, Emory and the Coca-Cola building spin across the screen. Oglethorpe, my old University would never make it onto these screens with it's peewee population of 1,000 but these places form the rowdy background to my idyllic suburban college. Translators are called from booth to booth and finally, its me. How they always manage to make you feel guilty is unbeknown to me, but I escape the searching eyes of 'Ms. Rivera' unscathed with a bold stamp bolstering about my new passport.

I pick up my luggage before dropping it off again (I always found this a bizarre system) before meeting my first true Georgian. The man at the bag drop off asks me where I'm flying from. After answering he quips in 'What, gorgeousville?'. I laugh and give him a high five. I've missed this brazen yet benevolent attitude. There really is such a thing as Southern hospitality and they're eager to dole it out. I make my way through security, slink through the closing doors of the transit train and leap up the escalator to the swarms of friends and family that strain against the arrivals barrier.

However, since I've whipped around immigration and security in a mere 30 minutes, my friends haven't arrived yet so I pick up my suitcase again and trundle off to find some food. Within 10 seconds I can hear the bold bellowing of the Wendy's staff, their accents dripping in a Southern drawl and purchase a Sprite and some fries. Sitting down, I take in the scenes of families clambering into eachothers arms, kisses exchanged between tight, smitten hugs and signs being dropped to the floor.

An hour later and feeling I might have been forgotten, I feel a tap on my shoulder to find Erik's gleaming face staring back at me. It scares the life out of me and I squeal out loud in a mixture of excitement and terror. I grasp for him over the barrier before scurrying around and properly greeting him and Rebecca who take my case off me and wheel me to the car. On the way out, a woman stops us and asks where I'm from. I answer accordingly to which she replies 'Wales? Isn't that by Dubai?'. I suppress a giggle before kindly informing her 'Yes, that's it' and heading out the exit. I got a lot of 'Did you know Princess Diana?' comments last year, but this one is certainly the best I've heard by far.

In the car, Erik, Rebecca and I slip straight back into the usual banter that rendered our lives last year. Erik updates me on the latest Ogle gossip and Rebecca calls me demeaning names (whorebaby) which only makes me long for living at Oglethorpe full time even more. We head back to Rebecca's where I grab a shower (at last! Freshness!) and we drive to R. Thomas's for food. It's a little place down Peachtree that does the most fantastic wholesome food. Sat inside a psychedelic tent, parrots squawking at us from the outside, we order. I choose Veggie Sloppy Joes with cinnamon sweet potatoes and red slaw and god its wonderful. However, my desperate need for sleep is starting to ebb in and after stabbing myself in the chin with a straw, headbutting the table and falling into the backseat of the car, I subside into a coma like state as we drive home.

There's nothing harder than getting up when you're riddled with fatigue, but I climb the stairs to Rebecca's apartment, brush my teeth and collapse into the blue mass of quilt, finally letting sleep engulf me and drag me into its hot, fervent abyss.

The journey begins...

Wednesday 24th March

Day One: All aboard the choo choo train

At last, the day has arrived. However, this substantial amount of anticipation has not equipped me with the motivation to actually pack. I finally hoist the zips around my suitcase at 11:45am- enough time to run to my last lecture of the Semester (I spend it playing hangman and trying to remember what I've forgotten), return to my halls, lug my suitcase down the stairs, collide into the general public on the bus and scramble into Manchester Piccadilly for 2pm. Phew.

As I stroll up to my train, I smile at the sleek yellow and red face of the Virgin Train. This is certainly no Arriva Wales gaol wagon where a woman once accosted me and sang an operatic version of Holly Valance's 'Kiss, Kiss' into my shoulder. This, my friends, is train class.

How very wrong I was.

I slip into my designated seat and one thing out of the ordinary catches my eye: children. It's not that I don't know they exist but did I ever think they existed on trains before? In my mind, trains are reserved for determined business men who slump back in their seats, savouring the syruped churn of the engine, and students battling with laundry bags on their mission back home. Yet here they are, smiling sweetly from prams, and I think nothing more to their presence on the train as I nestle into my seat and bring out my book.

Next, a couple amble on guiding a small dog worthy of Paris Hilton's handbag and sit across the way from me. The toddlers are in awe as they start swiping at the dog who retreats under the seat, scurrying away from their mauling arms. I've never seen a dog on a train before, yet his docile nature endears me to indulge in a tickle behind his ears before returning back to my reading.

Ten minutes in and they start. One of the toddlers starts cawing out to his Mother, brandishing a yoghurt spoon about and screeching as he drops it. 'Shhhh' his Mum lazily asserts as she flicks the page of her more magazine. I scoop out my ipod to find the headphones are broken- pants. The kid's screech turns into a constant wail which sets off the dog who starts yapping at the other toddler who in turn thinks 'I can definitely do better than that' and starts bellowing as the train rumbles into the next station. We're only in Stockport.

The onslaught goes on and I'm wondering if anyone else's head is starting to churn. The dog owners phone goes off, pumping out dance tunes and I slump against the seat in front. Yet, after a minute, I lift my head as I scrabble with the realisation that it's not a ringtone at all. Yes, they are in fact playing Cascada amongst the din. Good God. As the acid rhythms peter out, on comes the next song yet alas! The toddlers still as the sound of the Glee Cast sing out 'Don't Stop Believing'. I make a mental note to remember this when I eventually have kids of my own and enjoy a 3 minute break from the rowdiness. Yet, oblivious to the power they wield amongst the ambience of the carriage, the couple move on to another helium endorsed dance song and its back to the orchestra of yowls.

30 minutes later, the chavvy crew leave the train and I celebrate by updating my facebook status. I realise that I'm being a train snob but my head is pounding by this point and I hate it when people have no qualms about disrupting people around them. What's more, it wasn't even as if they were teenagers. Why on earth do 30 year olds even have Cascada on their phone? Sad bastards.

There's peace amongst the train for about an hour yet toddler #2 brings in a coughing fit in the last 20 minutes that sounds like an inebriated chewbacca impression with extra gargling and passionate leg flailing to boot. Her Mum carts her off into the outer section yet I can still hear her. Lord, she reminds me of the little girl from the Spanish Horror film Rec, who looked very sweet, yet continued to infect the whole building and turn them into rampaging zombies with a lust for gruesome murder. Hope she doesn't do that.

As the train pulls into Euston I let a 'hurrah' escape me and I battle towards the underground. Though this was the part I was most afraid of, I find it quick, easy and I'm at London Victoria within 10 minutes. I stroll about outside for a few moments, taking in the sights of the Victoria Theatre (Wicked is still playing and I'd love to see it again). Then it's off to catch the Gatwick Express and before I know it, I'm at the airport.

My struggle isn't quite over yet as after wheeling out of the train station, I find I'm lost in a maze of WHSmiths and check in desks. I cart about for 20 minutes trying to find ways to log into a natural sense of direction. Note to everybody: GPS does not work inside buildings and I finally give in and ask at the information desk where he instructs me towards my hotel. I check in, bounce on my Kingsize bed (phwoaaar), get dinner (brie and red onion chutney on ciabatta- mmm), shower, watch gossip girl before switching off my light. I'm dropping into a hazy state of sleep when an alarm shrieks out. I snap up in my bed, terrified by the epic sound and the darkness that swells around me and haste to get out of my room. The corridor starts

to fill up with half dressed people, confused by the din and I slip past, down the stairs to find out what's going on.

'Somebody accidentally opened a fire door' claims the man at the desk and with that, I plod back to my room, burrow into my bed and finally slide into a peaceful sleep.