The move-in
I last left you as I was boarding a van which would transport me from the airport to my flat. The high we had all been experiencing during orientation and even the trip down from Rotorua was starting to fade and the nervous anticipation of meeting future "domestic partners" (that one's for you Janie) was starting to kick in. A friend of mine and I were the last two to be delivered to our flat. Coincidentally, we both had apparently pleased the right people and paid homage to the right deities in order to have had the fortune of having our bags with us when we moved in. We were dropped off in front of a white stucco house with a red roof. In front of the house there was painted 167A, 167B, 3/167, and 4/167. As if it weren't enough that the person who designated each house was too spastic to stick with one system of dividing 167 into parts (by this I mean either A,B,C,D or 1,2,3,4), it was completely befuddling to attempt to discern which number -- all of which were painted on the same pillar -- corresponded to which of the numerous small dwellings perched on the side of the hill overlooking a park. Somehow we figured out the building we were looking at contained 3/167 and 4/167. My friend headed down to the front door and tried her key, it worked. Thus we concluded that the flat she had just opened must be 3/167, her place of residence for the semester according to the paper issued to us. Correctly assuming that 3/167 and 4/167 were not the same place, I went around to inspect the neighboring flats. By looking at the numbers painted on the recycling bins in front of the houses on either side of 3/167, i discerned that neither of them were mine. Moving on. I returned to 3/167 and decided that I must be missing something. After walking around the building multiple times and finding nothing that I would deem a "front door" apart from the one corresponding to my friend's flat, I knocked on the window of a room I could tell was inhabited. When the curtain was parted to reveal a semi-surprised female face, i mouthed "where is the front door," to which she responded audibly (apparently the window was wide open) "up on the deck," and she gave a point. I had inspected this porch/deck earlier and found nothing but a sliding glass door. Well, long story short, apparently that is the front door of 4/167. Awesome. My helpful female flatmates name is Suz, who I will call Drinking Suz (because she is ALWAYS drinking something, never alcohol but usually tea... typical Brit) from Birmingham. Apparently the other flatters of 4/167 Dundas were not around so I found my room, unpacked my junk, and napped it out until I was supposed to meet the Arcadia group back at some place called the "Clocktower."
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| The Clocktower and Waters of Leith, also not on this day |
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| My flat to the right and Logan Park in the distance |
Making the journey to the Clocktower was easier said than done given that I didn't know where I was going. On my ambling trek over a hill which was quickly to become the bane of my existence I encountered a truly "college" sight: four "bro's" walking in a perfect square, each with beer in hand and 5 mattresses stacked on top of their heads who insisted that instead of walking around then that I tunnel it between them. While I did draw amusement from this encounter, the main impact that it left with me was how awesome it was going to be living in a college town for the first time. I arrived at the Clocktower, and judging by the fact that it was slightly past our designated meeting time and that I had less company than I would have expected, others had similar trouble finding this "unmissable" building which conjures up what I imagine Oxford to be like. Once assembled, we moved across a beautifully manicured lawn to a ped-bridge, down a sidewalk following the Waters of Leith, the river which bisects campus, and into a lecture room for a "welcome session." Yawn. Free pizza followed the yawn-fest at a place called Philadelphio's -- a place so prohibitive in cost that I will probably never see the inside of the building again. Scruffy Ethan, Kiwi Justin and I decided to reconvene at Scrufman E's around 9ish to make moves on the evening. Returning to my flat around 7:00 PM I decided it was necessary to nap again. When I awoke at 5:20 AM I was less than upset that I had missed our scheduled rendezvous. When I first met Quirky Suz one of the first, if not the first thing she told me was that the flat was going to the farmers market at 10:00 AM. While retrospectively this brought back memories of my first encounter with my freshman year roommate who's first message to me of any kind was that he was "bringing the ironing board," (this unfortunately was not a euphemism for something exciting. He was merely, in fact, bringing an ironing board. Very important), I did not immediately think anything of it. Waking up in time for this flat trip to the farmer's market I met three more people, Bustling Tom (because every time I see him he is rush coming back from or heading off to do something), Quiet Callum (the name says it all), and Quirky Betina (not quirky in an enjoyable/amusing-to-be-around way, but in a... you'll just have to wait and see), my Kiwi-host. The 20 minute walk to the farmer's market was my first taste of the painfully awkward quietness of my flatmates. Conversation was, to be generous, strained. Thinking nothing of it and foolishly attributing their quietness to a general shyness, I happily observed the city as we walked down street and avenue finally arriving at the farmer's market. Smells smells smells. I bought a couple loafs of bread, four kilograms of apples, and a pie, for about 10 dollars. My pie, not to be confused with the desert items we serve in the US, was delicious. Who knew that tomato, bacon, and cheese inside a pastry would be so delicious. Food in hand, we headed back to the flat in more or less silence. Upon returning to the flat, I made the ambitious proclamation that I would be making that journey every Saturday morning and then headed over to Scrufferson E's to figure out a gameplan. Rolling up to Scruffy Ethan's flat I immediately sensed that it was RADICALLY different from mine. While the houses surrounding mine are inhabited by people I rarely see, Scruffy E's street was littered with people tossing rugby balls, drinking, and generally having a grand old time. I found Kiwi J in the living room and we decided that obligation numbero uno was finding cell phones so that we could stop living in the 19th century when coordination required forethought. Scruffy's Kiwi-host Mel offered to give us a ride to a place to get cheap phones. (Stunningly to me, she actually used WORDS when conveying her offer.) Phones in hand, we did stuff. I'm abbreviating a day of errands and non-entertaining activities.
[As the reader you must be confused. I promised at the beginning of this post that I wouldn't be detailing the intricacies of my day anymore. Well, I guess I just haven't perfected the art of summation yet. Stay tuned.]
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