What the Hell was I Thinking?

I'm on the treadmill - Indian Trail, North Carolina, United States, planet Earth, Milky Way. It's going to rain here on Saturday, but that forecast is for another person. I feel sort of adrift - stuck between the fact that I'm jogging alongside a childhood friend's little sister in our neighborhood's gym, and the fact that my passport gets stamped in two days. It feels wrong to try and do anything significant here, to try and make any connections, because next week they'll be broken by the precisely 3829.394 miles separating Bonterra Village and Swansea, Wales. So instead, I run and bike and sleep and shower and stuff my face with some Martha Guy éclairs, Shaun Wallace scones, and Betsy Wallace stir fry. I'm waiting for something I've made inevitable through ticket purchases, passport orders, and admissions processing. I've spent way too much money on sweaters to back out of this one. I don't like that. My departure time has been magnetized and is dragging me towards it - I have so little choice now that my housing contract is signed and my tuition paid. This is the quintessential "WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING" moment.

If you have experienced the "WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING" moment, rejoice. Bragging rights (or at least a good story) probably ensued. Regardless of the afterparty, it remains a pretty shitty moment of trepidation and doubt. But moments are particularly good at passing. And worthwhile things are generally preceded by panicked moments. But as I flail wildly through customs paper work, trying to explain my legality to a disinterested employee with a thick English accent, I try and remember that it's those risks (and the previous failures) that make eventually not looking like an idiot so rewarding.

So, after a broken suitcase, purchase of new suitcase, and repacking adventure in the Marshall's parking lot, I board a plane by myself (with aid of anti-anxiety medication) and enjoy a sunset over Philadelphia. I meet up with Brenna Slingerland (who should definitely take advantage of her name and market lumberjack apparel) in Philly, and after a brief stint of Doctor Who watching, we're somewhere over the Atlantic, pressing ourselves into the corner of our seats, trying to glimpse the sunrise, and some uniquely Irish clouds. Also, British air serves tea twice (because it's British air).

A train (with obligatory platform 9 3/4 picture), bus, and taxi later we arrive (exhausted) at the neioowpkwpqkpkfpekwfpkfmwm (sorry: Hendrefoilan) Student Village, munching on Hobnobs (cookies courtesy of our faculty advisor Professor Bill Atwil) along with fellow UNCW student, Maddie.

We are the last group to be staying in the Student Village, and this is apparent. The cottagecheese-milk, hard tack-pizza, and green bread was a delightful kitchen surprise - both to clean and to smell. We don't have towels, and apparently the provided pillow case is not absorbent enough to substitute (additionally, it smells oddly chemical). The radiators sometimes work, the windows sometimes close, and the spiders are hard to kill. Yes, flat 180 is no concierge level, but it's warm, dry, and filled with happy internationals all checking the rainy forecast, and just getting over their own "what the hell" moments.

P.S. Our building has two cats which we feed - more info to come.

P.P.S. If you're reading this and your name is Kate Quinn, you should start watching Doctor Who.

Cheers!