... and since then ... 2015

2015 will forever be a year of mixed reviews.  I finally was ready to hand in my Intent to Complete, a very scary document which meant you are now a grown-up and are ready to defend all your work. As I waited for my Viva date to be announced, Bill returned to the UK and we travelled.

To the left, my Thesis (Novel and Defense) submitted and ready for review. It is a very scary, humbling, and exciting time to actually see your work transformed into a bound copy. This represents three years of hard work, the support of family and friends, new friends and old, research and travel to weave my story, 'Standing Stone', using three time periods, three countries, three women, a murder mystery, a romance (several), myth, legend, and history, and more happy accidents than I can express. Then comes the defense...

London

Aberystwyth

Tregaron, Wales

However, having submitted, we travelled to relieve the stress and prepare for the upcoming Viva. Here is a kaleidoscope of pictures.

Stonehenge, UK

Giant's Causeway, North Ireland

Sheelanagig in Hereford, England

River Avon near Stratford

We traveled to Scotland, Ireland, North Ireland, and throughout the south and midlands of the UK. I wrote a whole chapter while at Stonehenge for my sequel, 'Lament'. We visited the famous but not only Sheelanagig (seen above on a church wall) and left a stone cairn in Exeter Cathedral. We visited Gretna Green in Scotland while I thought of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice and, of course, I traveled with my very own Mr. Darcy.

Exeter Cathedral, England

 June 26th came upon us so quickly and my Viva dawned bright and sunny. Nervous doesn't really do justice to the butterflies which had taken up residence in my stomach. I have very little memory of the actual process (probably a blessing) except that upon conclusion, I was asked if I wanted the good news or the bad. The good, I replied. "Congratulations Dr. Nerenberg." And then I was shaking hands and wondering what the bad would entail. I needed to rewrite my Defense and had six months to do so. The corrections to my 404 page novel took a day to correct. The defense, (99 pages/25 of Bibliography) needed reworking as I was asked to compare, contrast, and place my novel alongside contemporary and classic authors and their works, rather than examine the psychological impact of story on brain function and how that relates to works of classic. Sigh! Never fear, rewriting the defense taught me a great deal and although fraught with angst and the stretching of my brain, I was glad in the end for the additional understanding I gained.

Wisely, especially after viewing the emotional roller coaster I'd been on, my husband whisked me away to Killiane Castle, Ireland, for three days and nights. Pure Heaven! I felt like a real life princess in a very surreal world. Then back to Aberystwyth to complete packing, shipping boxes, giving away food and household goods, tearful goodbyes, and flying home. It seemed as if I was being torn in two, for while eager to get home, I had also developed a second life in the three years I'd spent amongst the Welsh, a world full, rich and filled with both amazing people and self-discovery.

Once home I was zombified (surprised AutoCorrect didn't catch that one!) for a month. Then began my second spate of exhaustive research, reading, writing, feelings of confusion, thoughts of giving up again, insights, and just sitting in a chair and rewriting my defense outline for the gazillioneth time.

 My professor, Dr Rosie Dub, was an angel, who provided a lot of handholding. Thank you, Rosie. Finally, I was facing the holidays and had to submit, print, and deliver my hard bound copies to the English Department for final approval. I made my deadline with near three weeks to spare. 


The New Year began and we waited to see what 2016 would bring. It brought a letter, word that my work had been accepted and that in July the title of Doctor of Philosophy would be bestowed upon me. O frabjous day, calloo, callay!

Killiane Castle, Drinagh, Ireland 

As 2013 Draws to a Close...

Dear Fellow Friends, Readers, Writers, all...

     My last post was over 6 months ago.  I am sorry.  I love writing my posts but life sometimes gets in the way of the best laid plains.

     April/May I found myself sticking to my resolve to get back some core strength and set myself a course of pilates.  I love pilates and yoga as I can sit on the floor and strengthen and elongate rather than bulk up.  However, a dear friend and neighbour came to visit and we watched in awe as her little 18-month-old Down's Syndrome child displayed his new skill of climbing onto my sofa.  Not so wonderful when he almost "face planted" as he tried to climb back down.  I scooped him mid-fall and felt a slight pop in my shoulder. Believing it was nothing and would just "go away," I continued my exercises, which rapidly devolved into efforts at endurance through the intense pain.  My Welsh doctor sent me home to discover what was wrong.  I had a right, full thickness rotator cuff tear!  My first response was relief, followed by "But I don't have time to do the surgery now, I'm nearly half-way through a degree and have commitments."

I left for Frankfurt, Germany, in August to witness the marriage of a dear friend, privileged to be her surrogate mom for a day, helped get the latest edition of American Athenaeum published, and aligned all the minutiae that forms my life at Aberystwyth University, including completion of the first draft of my historic/fiction/fantasy novel, "Standing Stone."  Life was good but for the daily pain of actually attempting use of my right arm.

Open air Market

November saw me recrossing the Atlantic toward home for the surgery that would return proper function of my arm.  Fortunately, I was six months ahead in my PhD work as November became pretty much of a wash.  I learned total dependance, acceptance that my husband can and will step up to the plate as I directed the how while he cooked our dinners (Brilliant), and his total long-suffering over my complaint, "It's been three weeks post-surgical, how come I can't use my arm yet?"  It's a 3 month process to regain use and a year to fully recover.  Sigh.  But all's well, each challenge has a purpose, and perseverance pays off.

Three and a half weeks post surgical, I can once again type and write then use ice packs to calm the overtaxed and already atrophied muscles. (Please insert Hallelujah Chorus - Handel would approve I'm sure!)

Aberystwyh Meat Market

 But during this 7-month odyssey, I've come to understand just how small the world really is. Yes, beside a 13 hour flight, there are the little connections that soon add up to another 8-10 hours, but wherever I go I find people who are interesting and interested, people who have "life" stories, people that want to help and who respond to a smile and a "Would you please help me?"  People are good at heart and need only be asked to jump into action and bless the lives of others around them. This was true on the plane, in Aberystwyth, and in Astoria and Portland, Oregon, where doors were opened as people shopped or hurried to complete their pre-Christmas tasks.  A smile always accompanied their deeds of kindness.

Yes, it's good to be alive, to see the world, to be safe at home, to watch the snow, to snuggle with your spouse under mounds of quilts and blankets, to hold a conversation with a precocious 19 month old, who speaks 'chipmunk' but does it so convincingly that one wants to answer their ernest, albeit unintelligible, questions and to hold up one's end of the conversation.  I'm on the mend and grateful for the technology that made this possible. Family is precious and time truly stops for no man or woman.

Aberystwyth, Wales, Sunset

May you all enjoy a wonderful holiday season and make memories that will last forever and keep you safe and warm during life's little and big challenges.

January 2013 - Home to Home - Part I

Clock Tower near Birmingham, England

 An epic journey home to the West Coast of America marked the beginning of my holiday hiatus.  Thinking to be quite clever, I spent a bit more on tickets, choosing to fly to Amsterdam and then take a direct 13 hour flight to Portland.  Alas, arriving at Birmingham hours early to accommodate international travel, I was greeted with the news that it was snowing in Amsterdam.  Lovely, I innocently thought.  Not only will I see the country of my forefather's origins but it will be very Christmassy!  This is, however, when I learned that planes do not fly in the snow if they can help it and that one of the things that the Brits do best is "queue."

Used to American efficiency and a certain amount of impatience in being thwarted by one's travel plans (did I say that nicely?), no one else in line seemed to be at all surprised when we had to wait for someone from KLM to show up to reroute us... all 200 plus of us.  I fortunately was in the beginning of the line (early arrival has its perks). The someone from KLM showed up and was just that... one...  someone.  There were actually two but one was shunted off to the side to handle elite ticket holders, class will out!

 I met the loveliest people in line: a young blond, blue-eyed student going home to Finland and three British South Africans journeying to visit family.  The nearly three hours in queue passed pleasantly.  I was rerouted to Dublin, a four hour layover, then Boston, and finally home.  Flight time was up 50%.  So much for expensive tickets.  But at least I was going home or so I thought.

Flight into the morning

Arriving in Boston, I was told to take the shuttle to the ticket counter.  Being inexperienced, I did.  "I'm sorry, madam, but your gate is closed."  "Yes," I replied hopefully.  "Call them and tell them I'm here and have them hold it please."  "That is not possible.  The gate is closed."  "My luggage is on that flight.  I've been in these clothes for 24 hours.  I have no American money with me. Can I speak with your supervisor?" My American impatience was beginning to crack. Failing to impact Boston, I began to cry (didn't work!).  "I don't even have a toothbrush," I exclaimed.  Boston mumbled something about not scheduling adequate time between international and domestic flights, arranged to put me in a hotel overnight, gave me a toothbrush and a small packet of sundries, and a $6 meal voucher for dinner and another for breakfast.  I walked to the hotel, dropped what little I had in my room and went downstairs to eat.  $6 voucher + Boston prices = a very nice dinner salad and since they didn't take pounds Sterling, I now have $1.42 on my American Express card.  The next day I was rerouted to Atlanta, Georgia, before being sent homeward.  Fourty-six hours all totaled!

And the hours traveling faded like dew on a sunny morning when my little three-year-old grandson rounded the corner of the kitchen and saw his Nana sitting on the kitchen floor playing with his cousin.  He looked like a young fawn startled in a thicket.  I raised my arms.  He ran and buried himself in my lap.  The journey... what journey?  That moment filled my heart, healed my aching body, and brought me fully home.

Please join me next week for Part II of "Home to Home" or "What I Did On My Christmas Vacation."  See you then.

Week 9/10 - Pulling Out the Stops

Manor House, Godstone, England

Week Nine and part way through Week Ten.  Hectic, stress, frenetic, and overwhelm seem to be the uppermost words that spring to mind.

Although today is a glorious blue with a biting cold in Aber, I sit inside after a hasty bus trip into town to get more ink for the printer.  I've finally run out of ink!

As the semester slides toward the holiday break, I've just completed a 2497 word essay (Do NOT exceed 2500 or you will be marked down) for my PGM0120 module on Research.  Although only 15 workshops were necessary, I attended thirty and listened to another that was recorded earlier.  Still a glutton for punishment and over-achiever.

Stairway to the theatre in the School of Art

I also sent in my Abstract of 180 words (Not to exceed 200 word count) on my novel and planned analysis, which is part Critical Theory and part Self-Analysis of my writing process and will hopefully challenge how Classic is defined in literature.

Then there was PGM0410, Ways of Reading, a study in the various theories of deconstruction.  I chose to write on Narratology as it is theory of the narrative.  Relatively new as theories go, I completed 3497 words just three words short of the max thereby preventing me again from losing points.  The UK take their word counts very seriously.  As I compared Bleak House by Charles Dickens, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, and Sepulchre by Kate Mosse, I began to get the hang of foreshadowing and backshadowing, framing a story, genre, as well as verbal patterning and motifs used.

I eventually took the plunge and did an analysis of the opening paragraphs in my novel, Standing Stone.  I read the words as a reader coming fresh to the page rather than a writer, who has toiled with each word, trying to make sense of the story that likes to peek-a-boo around corners, show itself as I drift off to sleep, or present itself in the chance remark of another student, professor, or perfect stranger.  I was pleased for these few paragraphs, 215 words, passed the litmus test.  I could see motifs, a frame, foreshadowing of events... and, of course, knowing the end, I could see that I had backshadowed the eventual outcome.  Happy Dance!

Theatre or Classroom in School of Art.
(Rich and Ash in front row)

 Then, of course, was the fine tuning of just over 4000 words of the novel to hand in to my second-reader.  That will happen shortly, possibly tomorrow, just one more review.  The assignments (over 10,000 words) are ticked off my rather lengthy list and I can now hopefully settle into a daily writing pattern, getting to know my characters and telling their interwoven story as they whisper to me.  Another author, Pete Fromm, said once that he had the best job in the world because he got to go to the basement and play with his imaginary friends each day.  Lovely.  I so understand.

Maybe I can do this, I said to myself, referring to my great undertaking.  For cheek-by-jowl with the euphoria of handing in assignments early and tickets for home taped just above my computer, the PhD is a solitary process.  Incoming students are warned that this honing of skill, this laser focus on becoming an expert in one's chosen discipline, can consume both life and the art of living.  Choices must be made and consequences faced.

Thanksgiving this past week dawned without fanfare and sans turkey.  I had leftover stir fry before which I presented my Visa to the proper campus authority which will enable me to return home next month.  However, despite feeling sorry for myself that I was going to be alone, I was grateful for modern technology and the chance to see everyone via Skype.  My daughter held her iPhone with me on video chat from Wales, while my son-in-law held a second smart phone connecting my husband from Oregon so that we could join the sixty gathered in Utah.  After going round the room and giving each a chance to say what they were grateful for... a new baby coming, religious freedom, being together, "my smokin' hot wife," family, country, and, of course, the food, which threatened to collapse several tables, the two phones were held together for a Thanksgiving kiss across the miles.  It made me smile, lessened the ache caused by distance, and made me ever so much more grateful as I listened to and was included in our joint and heartfelt family prayer.  Thank you sweetheart, children, grandchildren, extended family, and friends for your love and support.  Families are truly forever.

Aberystwyth Bay/the Irish Sea.  View from the cafeteria.

Sunset over the campus on my walk home tonight.

Dear Readers:  I plan on a bit of a hiatus while I return home to enjoy the Christmas season with family.  See you in the New Year.  May your holidays be joyous and 2013 filled with blessings.

Week 7 & 8 - Remembering

November 4th - It snowed during our early afternoon visit to the Rollright Stones in Long Compton, which is about halfway between Stratford Upon Avon and Oxford.  When visiting here in 2008 with a college class, it was just a little side trip, a blip in a well-planned theatre tour itinerary, a gift from a bus driver who thought we ought to see standing stones.  Yet it sparked an idea for a novel, which formed part of my application to Aberystwyth and is currently being completed for my PhD Thesis.  Our journey through life form a complex tapestry.

As I walked around the stones and counted them - the legend states that they cannot be counted three times with the same number - I was drawn to the magic of being in Wales and in England.  The very ground of the United Kingdom breathes myth, mystery, and magic.  NOTE:  These are two separate countries that form part of the UK!  As well as Scotland and Northern Ireland and there IS a great deal of national pride.  Do not refer to Wales as part of England - It's like saying Oregon is part of Texas!)

King Stone

 

Whispering Knights

Greeted with snow, rain, sodden ground, and a cold that penetrated our winter jackets, we retreated to the Crown and Cushion in Long Compton for lunch by the fireside. Again I was struck by the very British tradition of visiting.  One eats and then one sits and shares their life, thoughts, dreams, news, family, and self.  A table near us was filled with a collection of locals, raising a pint as they laughed and talked.   We in America rush through life with instant this and that.  What shall we remember at journey's end?  I take more time now to see, to listen, and to enjoy.  

After lunch, a warm sit within the cozy atmosphere of C & C's pub, and clearing skies, we journeyed back and visited The King Stone and were delighted to find David Gosling’s newly placed art installation, the witch who tradition says turned the king and his men to stone.  Our photo fairy was working overtime as we got just the right angle to see the witch look eerily out of the branches that compose her body.  

The Whispering Knights are across the road from the King Stone and a field away from the King's Men stone circle.  It is said that you can hear your future if you listen quietly to the whispers of the Knights.  Evidently the legend holds, as the fallen stone in front was liberally peppered with coin of the realm from pence to pound.

Late that night, we watched the Cotswold Druids perform their Samhain Ceremony, circling the stone with drum and rattles.  Calling for the four portals to be opened, they honored their kindred dead, shared refreshment, and danced beneath the cloud covered sky.  Researching, I sat unobtrusively on a fallen stone and watched three female Druids dance with fairy lights to what sounded like a medieval rendition of "My Lady Sleeps."  Eerie, haunting and beautiful.

British Sky

Week 8 was taken up in intense classes back on campus, while I tried to unpack the impressions of the Druidic celebration and to convert emotion into text, imbuing words with the magical setting I had witnessed, and trying to remember, to capture, and to give form to the gift of this experience.

The colors are changing and this past week-end was spent just outside of London with new friends, a road trip of colors and comraderie.  I was introspective as I thought of the passing of life, remembering my loved ones who have passed the portals of mortality, combined with the joy of the present as I see my two newest grands learn to crawl and my first grandchild accept a mission call to Brazil... at 4 AM... on Skype.  Life is good.  

London LDS Temple Grounds

Remember to live, to love, to witness life.  One of my daughters gave me the gift of a song years ago.  It is by Leeann Womack, "I Hope You Dance."  I'd like to recommend the lyrics to you... "... and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."  See you on the dance floor.

 

Week 6 - In Being Different, We Are The Same

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by

demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die,

it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other,

we may even become friends.

Maya Angelou 

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/travel.html#HyCYYFCOvILyizgV.99  

Mile Post

Aberystwyth Train Depot

Travel, it is said, expands one horizons.  It does.  The train station at Aberystwyth transports one not only to parts north and then across the UK but it also pleases the eye and enlivens the imagination.  Yet those who live here, just see it as Aber with the glass-sided building being merely a second hand shop or Charity Shop as it is called here, rather than a repository of human stories.  I feel I've stepped back in time and would be unsurprised by a horse and buggy clip-clopping down the street.  It is becoming more than quaint.  It is becoming comfortable.  The sign post above, I pass by on my way to classes.

Language can be a bit of a barrier.  The neighbor referred the other day to a person being "turfed out."  Immediately golf course came to mind.  Must have been the look on my face as an explanation quickly followed that they had been evicted.  Teaching "your grannie to suck eggs" is to try to do the impossible.  I felt, however, that this expression translated pretty straight across when asked by a professor in class if I knew to what he was referring.  We all laughed.

What perhaps doesn't translate is distance.  In the US, at least in Oregon, we think nothing of visiting Portland and returning in the same day.  Approximately 90 miles away, it takes an hour fifty minutes to two hours each way.  This past Sunday found me on the way to Merthyr Tidfyl (Mur tha Tid vil), a journey of under 50 miles as the crow flies; however, crows did not design the roads.  Sheep did.  It was just over two hours when we arrived and it was said that we made excellent time.  There are A roads and B roads and motor ways.  It is difficult to upgrade to wider roads as porch steps often front the existing roads.  From Aber one must travel east for an hour so that one can travel north and south.  It is one of the prices for living in another place in time.  I for one enjoyed the ride and provided great entertainment to the others by exclaiming over hedgerows, sheep, and general terrain; and the fact that, when we arrived, there was actually a water cooler.  "Jan, you are hilarious."  "Well, it's the first one I've seen in Wales."  It was.  The Welsh do not have water coolers in their buildings.  The water comes in separate faucets sporting either frigid or scalding water (it actually steams coming out) and never the taps shall meet.  I can now wash my face but it is a process involving great timing.  When I asked about this, the estate keeper explained that having a joined faucet was a bit unsanitary; but that in the newer, posh homes, it appeared to be catching on.

 The first time I went to the market to get eggs, I couldn't find them.  When I asked, I was told to turn around for the eggs were right there on the shelf.  "Oh," I continued.  "I mean the real ones.  The refrigerated ones."  I consider myself moderately intelligent but that is not the look I received.  "Eggs are not refrigerated," I was told.  I wondered how all of the UK was not dead.  They don't refrigerate them when they get them home either.  They vaccinate their chickens against salmonella.  Clever.  After two weeks, the eggs were still quite good.  However, old habits won out and the new batch are now safely stored in the refrigerator.

Bacon is called rashers.  American bacon is called streaky bacon because it has so much fat in it.  The students, who have spent time in the US, love our crispy bacon and wish it was easier to purchase here.  I, however, love rashers.  Less fat and the flavor is amazing.  I've used it as a base for a bean stew as well as for potato soup and in a sudo-German potato salad.  Lovely.  Just lovely.

Tonight I try to make a lamb stew.  Wish me luck for I've never done it before.


Outside my window there is a cacophony of gwacks each morning.  I've been trying to figure out how to reproduce/spell the sound of these birds and that is the closest I've come so far.  I've been told that they are crows but they don't really look like and certainly don't sound like American crows.  Can crows have accents?

Further research reveals that they are actually Rooks, a member of the crow family.  Many have left the area but when I arrived there were swarms  which worked like a perfect alarm clock each morning.  I was sorry to see their numbers diminish with the departing leaves.

Fall color, drifting leaves, wind singing in the eaves comfort and lull me to sleep each night.  I do miss my laundry at home but, in spite, of sore muscles, I'm beginning to enjoy the pace, the walking to do laundry, check out a book at the library, learning to read a bus schedule; but mostly finding that people are kind.  They want your stay at Aber to be enjoyable and go out of their way to help a stranger.  The bus driver is Barry.  The librarian is Joy.  I'm beginning to fit, to breathe, and to mentally unpack... which is a good thing.
 

“Not all those who wander are lost.” — J. R. R. Tolkien http://exploreforayear.com/inspiration/55-quotes-travel

Week One - Journey to Hogwarts

Hello Family, Friends, Readers, et al:  

I'm here finally in Aberystwyth, Wales.  If there had been a teleportation button upon arrival, I am ashamed to say I would willingly have hit it and returned to the United States. Culture shock not to mention that the ₤1=$1.60 ratio I’d been expecting was actually ₤1=nearly $2.  Alas, I didn’t have a pair of ruby slippers. 

Travel was a bit nerve wracking to say the least.  I arrived in Chicago from Portland with an hour and a half layover.  Unfortunately the plane circled the runway seeking a spot to park for thirty minutes.  Arriving inside, I was told it was 40+ minutes to Terminal 5.  I was in Terminal 1.  A wild ride (my husband had prearranged wheelchair assistance if I felt I needed it) included multiple elevator rides and mad dashes past startled people.  However, with a call ahead to keep the plane, we found Aer Lingus waiting for my arrival.

Next stop Dublin.  The Immigration Officer, tucked carefully in his glass booth, didn't ask any questions when I proffered my Passport/Visa; and after a cursory glance, slid it back through the small window opening - unstamped.  I slid it back in and requested it be stamped so I could prove legal entrance into the country.  The guide, his accent lovely, spoke over my shoulder, “Yes, sir.  She definitely wants it stamped.”  It was and I was official.  I realized I wasn’t in Kansas or anywhere in the US anymore.  I’d stepped back in time to a place riddled with religious unrest but for whom 9-11 was foreign.

Cardiff, Wales, was my next port-of-call.  Cardiff International is not... 

let's leave it at that.  If you've been to Astoria Airport and if it actually had two floors, it would qualify as Cardiff International.  It is not in Cardiff proper.  You take a bus at breakneck speeds to a quiet neighborhood and then have to decide which way to go to get to Cardiff proper.  I had struck up a conversation with a passenger and was following her to a small platform on the left when the bus driver got off and said I was going the wrong way.  Then 3 pedestrians chimed in, including one gentleman in a plaid shirt who just happened to be sitting on some concrete nearby.  They confirmed that I was indeed going the wrong way.  I just need to get to Aberystwyth, I explained.  I decided to trust the masses, hauled my oversized pink suitcases across the street and down to the platform on the right.

An older couple and a fresh graduate of Aberystwyth told me I was indeed in the right spot.  I took a train to what I presume was the Cardiff station and felt that if I’d had more faith and been less tired, I could have walked through the wall and entered Hogwarts.  The conductor, taking pity on her poor demented American passenger, helped me to another location instructing two assistants to help me onto yet another train to Shrewsbury, which according to the map is far north of Aberystwyth.  Just as the sun burns off sea fog, so, too, did thirty seconds magic away my future assistants.  They rounded the corner never to be seen again.  Maybe they went though the wall?  A train pulled in and the woman sitting next to me informed me that this was my ride.  A bit wild eyed, I again shouldered my backpack and raced toward the open door first stopping and asking an official looking man in a suit and tie if indeed this was the proper transport to Aberystwyth.  It was.  I climbed aboard, stowed my luggage and collapsed in the first available seat.  I was now at seventeen hours and counting in my travels.

“Ticket, please.”  I reached into my pocket and handed my pricey little white and orange card.

“This isn’t a ticket.  It’s a schedule.” 

“But it’s what the conductor gave me at the last station.”  At this point, I was near brain dead and frantically searched what little memory I had of the ₤19 I had spent.  Suddenly remembering that the first conductor had asked, “Would it be cheeky to ask if you are 55?” and had gone on to explain that there was a special discount for a free return trip, I searched my wallet and found what actually turned out to be my ticket.  I rather liked that first conductor and her question.  Perhaps I didn’t look as bad as I felt. 

Situation solved, I settled back to enjoy the countryside.  It felt like home again.  With the exception of smaller houses and architectural differences, I could be passing through Oregon coastal countryside.  Then a steeple appeared on the horizon followed by a medieval church.  I felt myself slide through time.  A castle casually perched on a hillside clinched the unreality and further disordered my travel weary brain.  I was, indeed, time travelling.  I mean, no signs.  It was just part of the local landscape, just as a Walmart or Rite Aid in the US.  No one even glanced up or pointed.

“Shrewsbury Station next stop.”

I stepped down from the carriage and to my dismay saw the train I was to board at the end of a rather lengthy platform.  Welsh trains run on suggested schedules rather than regimented ones.  I ran when I heard the conductor blast two calls on his whistle, dragging my suitcases, trying to reach the first two cars to get to Aber (as they call it here.)  The luggage would not cooperate as the gap between train and platform was too wide.  No amount of pulling could get it inside the car.  Hopefully the conductor could see a large pink suitcase looking very like a tongue giving raspberries protruding from the side of his train.  Surely he wouldn’t leave, I thought. But did he see me?  Finally a prayer and a final yank got my oversized luggage as far as the compartment between cars. I was quite surprised to find that my heart was still beating.

I, quite thankfully, found myself in the second car while the luggage remained in the hall.  I sat and found that the carriage was full of Aber students.  I’d been warned in an email to get into the first two compartments as the train divides at the stop before Aber and continues on while the other half goes heaven knows where else.  I had an enjoyable conversation with Melissa, who was a second year student and studying biology.  At every stop, I got up to check that my luggage didn’t grow legs and toddle off the train.

Arriving in the tiny coastal Aber station, Melissa kindly agreed to take photographic evidence that I had made it. 

A sign down the platform caught my eye – “Welcome International Students.”  This won’t be so bad, I thought.  Obviously they thought I was joking about being a student, maybe it was the pink suitcases or my age or, perhaps, they were waiting for someone else as they merely pointed to a taxi que and left me to my own devices.

Stepping out of the station, I was struck by how quaint and Dickensonian the town was, which impression was quickly overcome by how I would I be able to find 1 Lon Hendre.  Cabs stood in a que on the wrong side of the street.  The cheap "OW" cabs are ₤3 anywhere. The next cab in the que wasn't.  We set off with me pointing to the directions on my printed email and arrived at the Accommodations office and were told that everything had moved to the Porter’s.  Back down the hill, I waited at the Porter’s only to have the woman from Accommodations arrive behind me and hand the porter my flat key.  Getting back into the cab, we drove up the hill to Lon Hendre finding that #1 Lon Hendre had an enormous 2 on the front of the building.  The next building was #1; the curtain was open and young men and multiple beer bottles were in evidence. 

At this point, I was ready to get back in the cab and return home only I didn’t want to face an additional 24 hours travelling, I had no tickets, the money was running low due to the exchange rate, and some last vestige of grit just didn’t want to quit.  It appeared that #1 Lon Hendre didn’t exist as far as the keys I’d be issued were concerned; and when all seemed lost, we discovered #2 Lon Hendre IS #1 Lon Hendre (one being my flat number) and in spite of being family housing, it is actually an eight-plex!  The key unfortunately worked (no mistake had been made – this was my flat). I paid the very confused cab driver ₤7, telling him to keep the change (only to find later that the Brits don't normally tip).  His smile was enormous.

I entered the frigid space and immediately broke into tears at the size (minuscule), scorching hot water with separate taps so a combination of pleasingly warm is just not an option to the user, and peeling paint.  However, I'd had angels surround me throughout the trip to that point - kind people appearing just when I needed them, willing to answer my questions and assist me on and off trains, etc.  The Lord didn't fail me now.  

My next-door neighbor came out and offered to help me settle.  I would have thought that one look at me and she would have closed her door and double bolted it.  Tao is from the Caribbean and has a one-year-old boy, Kai, with Downs Syndrome.  When I found that the promised WiFi didn't exist and I couldn't call my family, I very nearly lost it.  Again… and permanently!  I really wanted ruby slippers at this point… just click them three times.  Oh, Dorothy, we are so not in Kansas anymore.

Again angels. Tao invited me in to use her computer.  I downloaded some money into my Skype account and held back my tears, trying to sound as cheerful as I could when my husband answered.  I had arrived.  His voice never sounded sweeter to my ear.

I returned to my apartment/flat/miniscule living space – remember, I was very tired as twenty-four hours had elapsed without sleep, minor food and mostly nut bars to eat.  Opening the door to the bedroom, I inhaled sharply.  Some dear person had made up the bed with a duvet, pillows, and two towels but no other household goods had arrived. Between the adrenaline rush of my on-again/off-again, surreal travel experiences, I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep.  I unpacked and felt a bit better with some family pics up to see and keep me company, then slept till 3 AM, ate pistachios, played Soduko, and went back to sleep - not waking blessedly until 1 PM on Thursday.

The next days became a blur of Tao escorting me to get my Aber card, Internet set up (the promised WiFi did not exist), making an appointment at Barclay’s to set up a bank account (yes, you need an appointment!), and gathering some groceries from a local shop.  I was invited to dinner at a lovely little stone cottage in the countryside.  Never has real food tasted so good and to be surrounded by a family only added to the reassurance that I would be okay. Happenstance?  Coincidence?  Miracle?  Half of a miracle is recognizing it when it hits you in the face.

Checking with Accommodations, my "Premier Package" of household goods has not yet arrived.  I was told they did not make up the bed with the lovely duvet so it must have been a kindly but ever anonymous angel on the last cleaning team who provided the bedding and made up a place for me to sleep.  Bless you, whoever you are… and thank you to all those who loaned or gave crockery, flatware, and cooking supplies.  I even have a glass to drink out of as I wait for my still missing packet.  It’s amazing how the simplest things bring the greatest pleasure.

The campus is all uphill, odd but unfortunately true, and I shall be quite fit in a month.  No matter where you stand, it is uphill – reminds me of the moving stairwells at Hogwarts. So life is better and I'm calming.  Soon I’ll be registered and will report on my first week of school.  How can it be that I only started this odyssey 6 days ago?

Thank you all for your prayers and good thoughts.  I didn't think I could do this and I couldn't have done so but the Lord has supported me by strewing angels in my path and I am so grateful, very homesick but grateful.  God bless you.

me, mom, Aunt Jan, Nana, Gramma, student, writer, and now, world-traveller…