Day 1: "Life moves pretty fast...."

I arrived very late on September 8th having just enough time before bed to have a great conversation with one of my new flatmates (Dorine from Holland!), unpack a little (I lined up all of my shoes in my closet) and dodge the question on Dorine's face ("Why do you get the largest bedroom?"). Thems the break, sweetheart.

On the morning of September 9th, I was roused from sleep by the gentle clomping of the French students above me ("French students" = people from the country of France not individuals studying the French language). One of them must spend all of his concentration on making sure he walks on his heels as much as possible. Grrr. I am debating whether to say something to them or simply leave some slippers on their doorstep with a dead frog splayed across the toes. Hmmm...

Seeing as I have no friends as of yet in Evanston and a few days before Orientation, I decided to walk the 3 1/2 miles to the nearest Target for some apartment necessity shopping and taxi back. My journey begins with a series of wrong turns that lead me through the truly beautiful neighborhoods of this college town. Every John Hughes movie I have ever seen now makes even more sense. At every turn I expect to see Long Duck Dong fall from a tree; Ferris Bueller run past; Molly Ringwald standing in a pink dress and peering cautiously at me through her deep brown eyes.

Each house is completely unique from the one that stands next to it. Some have a Tudor feel to them. Others have plantation house kinds of detail. Many have a large, expansive, airy look to them like a barn. I neglected to bring my camera but I will post some shots in my next entry (I just hope I am not arrested for being a Peeping Tom).

The walk was shock to my system. My legs have not walked so much since my days of living in Ireland. I considered it a necessary baptism by fire to let my body know we were back to student life. It was a very long yet very successful trek to Target. The rest of my night was spent cleaning my new dishes and silverware along with some of the family donated kitchen items brought by my other flatmate, Sara from IL, I have yet to meet. Some of the items must have been wedding presents at an Aunt's wedding in 1975. I was cleaning food from appliances that originally went in for a dinner when Reagan was in the White House. Gross.

Conclusion: I am now living in the Midwest. When I arrived in Ireland in 2002, I expected a shock to the system and was immediately aware of being in a foreign place from the moment I stepped off the plane. Moving to another part of America is more tricky. You are not given that immediate jolt so the inconsistencies sneak up on you and stare out eerily until you notice them. Example: What the Hell is a Jewel-Osco? Apparently it is a grocery store. There it was tucked into the same plaza with Target and Best Buy.

Moving to another region in America is like using left-handed scissors. I am American. I live in America. Scissors are not new to me. I understand the concept of scissors. But moving to the Midwest means rediscovering what I thought I knew so well and perhaps even took for granted.