Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Post-Apocolypse Street Lights

On the box I threw away, there is a clearly diagrammed, 4-step instruction on how to use my Bodum Original French Press.

I navigated the labyrinth of Tesco--think Wal-mart with mod furniture--only to pay 5p for a plastic bag. Wales is very environmentally conscious. Either you bring your own bags or pay for plastic.

Brown soot swirls in my coffee. I didn't wait the suggested 4 minutes before pressing it, presumably because I didn't read the directions. Still, I am fiercely proud of my coffee, which I made myself. The soot is my signature.

When my coffee is reduced to a lumpy residue, I contact Ollie--editor of Gair Rhydd ("Gay Read" if you're English), a subversive, student run paper nothing like The Penn--and get a job that will get me free tickets to art shows and post-apocolypic adaptations of King Lear:

Ollie is my only Welsh contact so far. Most students I meet are American, except a guy from Kuwait, a "high risk" country according to English flight regulations. He wears Brooks Brothers, drinks Dr. Pepper, and speaks better English than I do. Naturally, it took him four times as long to get through customs.

I sent 3 letters today, and felt appropriately hip for arranging the stamps in accordance with The Elements of Design. I also felt home sick.

"It's not easy, having a good time."

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