This is England

After arriving to a gloomy city which seemed to specialise in a particular type of architecture called 'rows of utilitarian and depressing looking houses', I have to admit I was a little worried about Leeds. It seemed more This is England than Harry Potter, if you know what I mean. I hate it when reality impinges on my dreamy idea of Britain, formed during 3 impossibly sunny weeks in 2006.

After traipsing about Leeds for a couple of days looking for a place to live and trying to convince myself that my threshold for tolerating disgusting carpet is really quite high, I got off the bus in an area I hadn't yet been in and saw this:

It may just look like a flowerbed but for me it was a sign from the universe saying: ‘Zoe, this is where you need to live’ (not specifically in the flowerbed, but in the general vicinity of the flowerbed).

So as of Friday I am now living in Headingley. It’s apparently a bit of a student area not unlike Newtown, except instead of faded shopfronts and too many frozen yoghurt stores, there are old stone buildings all along the street and a preponderance of op shops (50p will get you a charming hand painted mug that doesn’t quite sit on the level).

 

Op shop necessities

So far there hasn’t been too much in the way of culture shock except I walked past a sign today that said ‘Smile – it’s not going to rain until Thursday!’ and I did a horrified double take when I saw this advertised in a shop window:

 

This nightmare is titled 'cheeseburger pizza'

I am also coming to terms with the university campus being populated with people born in the 90s’ – I know this, because they tease their hair and wear scrunchies without any sense of irony.

Other highlights include three days in a row of sunshine, discovering a cute local cafe and a visit to the Kirkstall Abbey market with new friends, followed by drinking tea and eating homemade apple pie in a sunny backyard. There has also been lots of reading of Pedagogy and getting frustrated by English bureaucracy, but let's focus on the positives:

Scones and dogs

Before leaving I joked about renaming this blog ‘Scones and Dogs’ in anticipation of the type of adventure I’m hoping to have in the Motherland over the next 10ish months. Little did I know how quickly my dreams would come true.

After a predictably tedious plane trip followed by a two-hour tussle with my oversized baggage to the hostel (who knew a few cardigans weighed that much?) I was reunited with a friend from Timor to embark on a week of English/Irish/hubbly-jubbly adventures.

Just as a monarchist’s trip of London will centre on various royal attractions, as people with a refined taste for the ridiculous, we focused our London itinerary on dress-ups. In sprawling museums devoted to showcasing masterpieces of art, at some point one’s interest in 17th century wrought iron and Korean tableware wanes. This is when you find yourself inevitably drawn towards the ‘interactive’ areas, where you can try on stage costumes and attire from bygone centuries. In doing this, you’re tapping into an underground community of people who also love dress-ups and will give you tips on where to find the next crinoline skirt or satin cape amongst all that art.

Trench coat and crinoline

Satin cape and velvet coat

Cravat and pannier

Although we weren't able to find many dress-ups in Ireland, we were subjected to many many renditions of Galway Girl and Whiskey in the Jar in traditional Irish pubs, where musicians are a dime a dozen. We also visited the infamous Kilmainham Gaol and frequented a lovely café called Queen of Tarts where of course scones made an appearance on my plate. And with scones crossed off the list, that brings us to dogs.

The Temple Bar in Temple Bar, Dublin

Powerscourt Estate, Ireland

A day trip to a charming village outside of Dublin included a visit to an impressive estate built in the 18th century. There were fountains and flowers aplenty, but what really caught my imagination was a cemetery, detailing the lives and loves (yes, romantic interests) of a host of family pets from about 1900. It seems pet sentimentality started very early in this part of the world. 

Good ol' Modge

Terriers and daschunds, Shetland ponies and their wives (who were also, incidentally, Shetland ponies) were all commemorated. My personal favourite was a heartfelt dedication to Eugenie the Jersey cow, who by all accounts lived a prodigiously productive life.

In just 19 years, Eugenie produced 17 calves and 100,000 gallons of milk.
What have you achieved today? 

After a night back in London featuring some cabaret in Soho, I’m now on a train to Leeds drinking bad coffee (which disturbingly I seem to have developed a taste for). My first textbook to be read, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, is eyeing me belligerently from my backpack.

Cabaret complete with beehive, sequins and keytar

Angel at Powerscourt, Ireland

Hadomi Timor

My last day in Timor was like a microcosm of the year that led up to it. It had everything, from Catholicism (half an hour spent looking over Dili from the vantage point of Jesus, early in the morning and on my own) to chaos (getting stuck in Dili lunchtime traffic. And afternoon traffic. And 5pm traffic), cultural miscommunication (trying to buy a bicycle for a Timorese kid from Japanese guys who spoke no Tetun… or English) to being completely overrun by children (a final farewell complete with popcorn, photos and tears).

Dili from Jesus

Timor airbag

And like so many days I’ve had in Timor, it ended in happy, confused exhaustion. And a messy house.

After much deliberation, we had decided to buy one of the kids a bike. Not because he was our favourite (although he probably is), but because he is older and different and he’s never had a bike, despite it being the thing du jour in Dili at the moment. We were worried about how the other kids would react, but a huge cheer went up when they realised he was getting a bicycle of his own – they all scurried away with it and through our thin kitchen walls we could hear the excitement continuing next door.

And so now the mosaic tree is as finished as it will ever be and our house is strewn with half-packed bags and the remnants of a last dinner party.

Even though Timor has given me floods and landslides and giant rats and blackouts and gropings and tears of frustration, it has given me much else besides. Timor is a place where goats and cattle roam the countryside freely and strangers parked next to you at the traffic lights say hello and ‘diak ka lae?’ It’s a place where neighbours will bail floodwater out of your house before you get a chance to ask for help and colleagues will tell you about the time they saw the Santa Cruz massacre from their schoolyard. After a year here I haven’t come close to figuring the place out, but I do have a feeling it will stay with me forever.

And now, reluctantly, I have to sign off (what do bloggers call it? Clearly I don’t know the lingo). From the bottom of my sarcastic heart, thanks for reading. Every comment I’ve got about this blog has been shockingly gratifying for someone accustomed to drafting plays in garret towers (metaphorically speaking anyway) for months on end.

If next time you see me, I look a little dazed and confused please remind me – ‘it’s okay. You just had one of the best years of your life. Bele hamnasa.’