The One With The Boy From Uptown

There we were, a bus full of Butler kids in a strange town, waiting in the dark at what seemed to be the side of the road. We had left Scotland behind an hour ago, and was now in England. The bus driver, without announcing anything, just pulled over at what we assumed to be the spot to meet our host families for the weekend. (Butler being the school that I'm doing Uni of Eddie Bert through and not an Alfred) After a long while, a lady finally stepped on board, "Do you know which one you want?" The bus driver asked her. She wasn't sure, and had to go back to the car to fetch her list. Ah. She wanted a Heather and a David, as if we were fresh meat. And one by one, our hosts came and claimed us, and thus, the homestay weekend began. The idea of the homestay was wonderful, the execution, however, left more to be desired. What more to be desired? Oh, I don't know, a fire? Plague? Death? Anything to break the discomfort of the whole stay.

To be fair, it could have been worse. And the family was very welcoming and very nice. The food was great. We got to try new cheeses. The view was stunning and tranquil and learning about a new place was always interesting. Both Kate, the other Butler girl they were hosting, and I got our own beds and rooms and everything was nicely prepared. We got to sleep in for as long as we wanted. Their pets were adorable. It felt really good to be in a home. And it was great coincidence that Kate was from Colby by way of Ipswich, so we had two ties in common. Unfortunately, the niceties ended there.

I don't know if you recall this wee little sitcom of the bygone era, Friends, but in one episode, Ross is torn between two girlfriends and he says of the one uptown:
I want to give her another chance, you know? She lives so close. And, at the end of the date, the other time, she-she said something that was—if she was kidding was very funny. On the other hand, if she wasn’t kidding, she’s not fun, she’s stupid, and kind of a racist. Then later, talking about the same girl, he says:
No, it turns out that the one from uptown was making a joke. But it was a different joke than I thought—it wasn’t that funny.

The girl from uptown is my host parents' 23-year-old-son, who was a fountain of commentary on America, the French, 'the Arabs,' the Irish, and the Welsh. (That's a picture of him, with the dog Spice.) Most of the time, we think, he was trying to be funny, but no, it just didn't work. And other times, he just said really wrong things.
(Kate and I have shared this a few times with other kids and at this point in the story, everyone always asks, "So he's racist?" And I would always pause, because I seriously hadn't thought of using that label on him, just pompous and ignorant, but then I'd think and say, "Yeah, I guess he is.")

A mild example: Describing how trashy his local pub was, all filled with 14-year-old boys, he said, "Just think Texas trailer park." To which we all replied, his mother included, "What do you know about Texas trailer parks?" "I've seen it in movies and on TV." And no, he wasn't joking.

Sad thing is, he was just one of the many bumps in the homestay, which also included being deprived of a shower, watching the three worst movies ever made (Londinium, Alfie, and The Village), the worst British TV had to offer (the notables being American Idol and an hour of a comedy-sketch show from the late 1950's) and taking the most depressing walk in the history of humanity. Oh, and it was awkward when the host mom confided in us a. that she suspects her dead mother was disappointed in her b. she wishes her son could have studied abroad like us so his could grow up a little and c. explained why she needed to be on a diet. Yes, I was very tempted to use 'hellish' to describe the weekend, but the house was much too cold for the comparison. Wore my fleece around the house most of the time. But indulge in these pictures, they make the weekend seem nice.

The view was beautiful, yes, but the terrain was just miles and miles of nothingness. We just walked over patches and patches of grass and rocks for a really, really, long time, with nothing to look at but more grass. Was so full of melancholy I didn't know what to do with myself.


Yeah- people in the UK have the oddest problems.





Anyone else think that's an odd place for a mail slot? Is the ancient ruin of a castle (where King Arthur's dad may or may not have been born) really receiving that much mail?


PS. I love my friends and hate the rest of you lot.