Sippin tea, missin coffee; watchin footie… goodbye hockey

The vibrantly green grass was more intense than ever. The buildings were older than ever. My love for England was greater than it had ever been before.

So when it was time to leave, it wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to say good-bye to my housemates. It was all very hard.

A Thomas Cook airplane was my vehicle back to Canada. Thankfully, this time I wasn’t alone. My girlfriend leaned on my shoulder as she read her magazine. I chatted with the man sitting on my right: a fisherman from Vancouver Island. His words reminded me where I was going.

“It’s some of the greatest fishing anywhere eh?”

My trip came full circle when I saw my parents at the arrivals gate. I will miss England; she was good to me. But Canada has always been my home. For now, the appeal of destination has released its grip on me.

I’d like to stay a while.

Just under a year ago, my girlfriend approached me with an idea. “Let’s bike across England’s Trans Pennine Trail,” she said.

“Sure,” I replied, not thinking she was serious.

A month later, she had all the brochures and information mailed to her. She picked a date and started planning the journey.

Let me start this blog by informing you that we are not bicycle experts by any means. We rented bikes for two hours last summer and pedaled around Stanley Park in Vancouver. I had a bike in high school, but it collected dust as soon as I was old enough to drive. Embarrassingly enough, I didn’t even fully understand the importance of switching gears. My girlfriend is in a similar boat. Bicycling has always interested her, but she wouldn’t list it as one of her hobbies.

But she was sure that we could achieve the task of crossing England by pedaling. Her confidence was convincing, so I also believed that the trek wouldn’t be much of a challenge. At one point, I think we even referred to it as, “a vacation.”

And why wouldn’t we? According to the Trans Pennine Trail official brochure: “People use the Trail for many reasons. You can unwind and get fitter using the Trans Pennine Trail for gentle cycling, walking the dog or a peaceful ride. The route is also a green corridor providing a haven for wildlife and allowing you to get in touch with the nature on your doorstep.”

Brochures can be deceiving.

Day 1: We were up at 8 a.m. and walked over to the shop where we were renting the bicycles from. We wanted to get an earlier start; however, we were told that we couldn’t pick up the bikes any earlier than 9 a.m. After the half-hour walk, we were told that the bikes were, “not accessible,” and we would have to go to Formby Hall Golf Resort to pick up the bikes. We walked back to the bus stop and waited for nearly 40 minutes while constantly worrying that the delay would prevent us from reaching our destination. The bus took us to Formby and we finally got our bikes and helmets by 11:30 a.m. By noon, we were off and heading towards our first check-point: Manchester. We had a good pace, but were worried that we were too far behind to catch up. By the time we reached Liverpool—the half-way mark— it was late afternoon and we were getting discouraged. It also didn’t help that we took the long way around the trail (circling the city of Liverpool instead of bypassing it). We kept on pushing and reached Warrington by 9 p.m. We were still a fair distance from Manchester and it was starting to get dark. We sat on the cement outside of a Spar and debated what to do. On one hand, it would be dangerous to continue on, especially considering that we didn’t have lights on our bikes. On the other hand, we planned to go all the way to Manchester—that’s what we told those who donated to our cause. We decided that safety was the most important factor, so we biked back several miles to the Warrington train station. We didn’t arrive at my room in Manchester until 11:30 p.m. that evening. We ordered pizza and got to bed by 12:30 a.m. Our butts were sore, our backs ached and we were mentally drained. We got four and a half hours of sleep before a buzzing alarm told us to start all over again.

Day 2: We woke up at 5 a.m. and had a bit of food before biking to the train station. Our plan was to take the train to Stockport, which is the closest city that lies on the Trans Pennine Trail. Once in Stockport, we asked for directions. Asking for directions became a requirement on our journey. We were too cheap to buy the three Trans Pennine Trail maps (which retail for about 7 pounds), so instead we relied on following signs and asking people. The problem with this method is that sometimes people pointed us the wrong way. Sometimes even the signposts themselves were turned in a wrong direction. Worst of all, sometimes the trail seemed to completely end abruptly in the middle of nowhere. We would later learn that Stockport is the most poorly signposted city on the entire Trans Pennine Trail. We got lost countless times and, at one point, even cycled 10 miles in the wrong direction. It is tough to put into words how demoralizing this was. Day two tested our mental toughness, physical endurance and the strength of our relationship. At times I truly believed that day two would be the end of my girlfriend and I, but somehow we made it through and are still together to this date. By 7 p.m. we had been biking for over 10 hours and over 50 miles, but we weren’t anywhere near our destination. Once again, we were required to take a train to reach our second check-point. On the train ride we were ready to give up. We felt like we were cheating, even though we were giving the Trail everything we had. We arrived in Rotherham around 8:30 p.m., but didn’t get to the house we were staying until nearly 11 p.m. Our host’s name was Julie and, in my opinion, she was an angel. She made us tea as soon as we arrived and sent her son to pick us up some chicken chow mein. She listened to the story of our struggles and helped us come up with a plan for day three. After a wonderful shower and sleep, we were actually refreshed and looked forward to the second half of the trip.

Day 3: One of the biggest hindrances in accomplishing our goal each day was getting lost. Physically, my girlfriend and I were able to bike across England; however, navigation uncertainty led to wasted time trying to figure out where to go. Julie decided that she would get one of her workers to drop us and our bikes off directly on the trail near Conisbrough Castle. This saved us the hassle of trying to find our way from her house to the trail (without proper maps or even a compass). Her driver got us to the castle and a few locals helped us find the trail in record time. By 9 a.m., we were on our way and had the peace of mind that we were going the right direction. Day three was, by far, the most enjoyable. The scenery was breathtaking, the weather was calm and the Trail was mostly flat. A highlight of day three was a pit-stop at Three Views Cafe in Didbury. The cafe is dedicated to those who walk or cycle the Trail and is run by a friendly gentleman whose son is a Flames fan. He was very helpful and we ate a bag of crisps while receiving some important information about the trail. By late afternoon the wind started to pick up, but we were determined to get to York: our destination for day three. We accomplished our goal and approached York by 7 p.m. After an hour of walking with our bikes through the city, we arrived at the house we planned to stay at. Our host, Josh, was somebody we met through somebody we met at my girlfriend’s little brother’s girlfriend’s little brother’s birthday party. Needless to say, we didn’t know him very well; however, he was incredibly accommodating and even offered us a bed to sleep on. Our bodies were in pain, but we had a surge of confidence after successfully completing a full day of biking from start to finish.

Day 4: The alarm woke us up at 5:30 a.m.; we were glad it was the last day. We got through York in record time and completed 20 miles of the trail in less than three hours. We hadn’t eaten breakfast, so we decided to pick up something to eat from a corner shop. Unfortunately, we were low on money and the shop was low on options, so we ordered the only option that appealed to us and fit our budget: a pastie. What we didn’t know was that the Cornish Pastie was ice cold. It nearly made me vomit. But my growling stomach eased up, so we got back on the bikes and attempted to continue with our impressive progress. They say when things are too good to be true, they usually are. Just when we thought that we would make it to Hull, our east-coast destination, the wind picked up and started blowing fiercely against us. It took twice as long to bike half the distance and we knew we wouldn’t make it to Hull by the time our train back home was leaving (4 p.m.). We agreed that as long as we made it to the coast, we would have achieved our goal. Just before arriving in Broomfleet, we noticed the body of water that we had been aiming to see for the past four days. We were frustrated, sore, tired and ready to throw in the towel. But England’s east-coast brought us a sense of accomplishment that, somehow, made it all worthwhile.

In total, we biked over 200 miles and over 40 hours in four days. Though our journey didn’t always go as planned, we covered more than enough distance to stretch from the west to the east coast.

 When all was said and done agreed on two things. The first was that the bike trip was something we were proud of. In total we raised 570 pounds for SOS Children Villages in Chile. The second thing we decided on was that neither of us plans to sit on a bicycle for a very long time.

My trip to the Middle East began by going back to Amsterdam for a five hour layover. My girlfriend, her brother and I passed the time by playing Dutch Blitz. Then we boarded a KLM airplane and I watched Up in the Air while up in the air. Then there was an hour delay in Kuwait. Then we finally arrived at Bahrain International Airport.

My palms were sweaty as I rolled my suitcase toward my girlfriend’s father. We had never met before; I didn’t know what to expect. I knew what to say though: “Salam bu Reyadh.” It meant, “Hello father of Reyadh,” in Arabic, and I was assured by my girlfriend and her brother that it would impress their father. I’d spent a large portion of the flight repeating the line to make sure I said it correctly. At one point, while rehearsing to my girlfriend, I accidently said, “Shalom bu Reyadh.” She looked concerned and told me to keep practicing.

I wiped the perspiration onto my shorts and extended my hand while saying the line I had been working on for nearly nine hours. I managed to correctly pronounce the sentence and it got a smile out of my girlfriend’s father: a promising start to my Easter vacation.

It’s difficult to chronicle the entire Bahrain trip because I was there for a month. There were also a few days throughout the journey when I forgot to update my travel journal. So, I will give the Cole’s Notes version of my travels.

Day 1: Felt jetlagged. Got a haircut and head massage for less than $5 CAD.
Day 2: Went to the Grand Mosque. Wore a thawb. Laid by the pool at the Coral Beach Club. Played football at the Brit Club. Went to a poolside party at a compound that evening. Decided that Bahrain is a hidden gem.
Day 3: Went to Bahrain City Centre mall. Ate at Chilli’s (which led to a week of stomach problems). Went to Wrangler’s nightclub and drank a bullfrog.
Day 4: Was plagued by stomach problems (the previous night of drinking probably didn’t help the cause). Watched three premier league games on telly.
Day 5: Began barbeque season in traditional fashion. Got welcomed to Bahrain on the radio by a DJ named Crazy Kevin. Watched Liverpool draw to Birmingham.
Day 6: Spent the day inside, working and applying for jobs.
Day 7: Went to the souq—a downtown market—and bought some gifts for my family. Was introduced to tikka that evening and fell in love with it.

Day 8: Went to the Dilmun Club and then went and hung out at my girlfriend’s brother’s girlfriend’s compound.
Day 9: Took it easy during the day and then played footie that evening at the Brit Club. Showered after football and then watched Liverpool play in the Europa League.
Day 10: Was treated to Fuddrucker’s breakfast. Relaxed for most of the day.
Day 11: Went to the Yacht Club and laid on the beach next to the ocean. The serenity of it all was threatened by multiple obese Americans sitting about 20 feet away. They spoke of Oprah and Bill Clinton. They also shared dieting tips.
Day 12: Finally recovered from a bad stomach. Watched Liverpool draw against Fulham. Did circuit training at the Brit Club. Finished the night at a Sheesha Cafe.
Day 13: Spent the entire day at Lost Paradise: an enormous water park. This was a definite highlight of the trip.
Day 14: Experienced one of Bahrain’s famous power cuts. Went to the Seef Mall (a baby city centre), which is my girlfriend’s former hangout spot.

Day 15 – Day 30: During this time I: got lazy and didn’t finish my travel journal, kissed my girlfriend and didn’t get arrested, got delayed by a volcano in Iceland, laid by various swimming pools, scored my first goal at a Brit Club football match, explored the Bahrain Fort, was given a woven gift by Salah at the Bahrain Traditional Handicrafts Centre, bought pottery from Bahrain’s oldest pottery village: Al Aali, ate all I could eat at my girlfriend’s father’s birthday brunch, chased 30 kids around at my girlfriend’s little brother’s girlfriend’s little brother’s birthday party, played over 20 games of Killer Bunnies, got fast food delivered, got told off for having my girlfriend sit on my lap at a bar, smoked more sheesha, ate more shawarmas and saw a camel.

There’s something special about visiting a new land while being hosted by an old friend. My best friend’s older brother, Henry, lives in Nijmegen, where he plays professional basketball. He invited us to stay at his place while we explored Holland.

Henry and his fiancé, Jo, met us at the Nijmegen train station. I was able to detect him because he was yelling, “Vayner.” Vayne is a nickname I adopted from his oma: an adorable little woman with a thick Dutch accent. Every time she attempted to pronounce Wade, she would end up saying, “Vayne.” “That Vayne’s a nice boy, isn’t he?” she would ask my best-friend’s mom at times. The addition of the letter r was my best friend’s doing.

We piled into Henry’s tiny car, which he named Olga, with our suitcases on top of us.

Henry and Jo introduced us to The Duke on our night of arrival. Hertog Jan is a popular Dutch beer named after John I, Duke of Brabant. My girlfriend and I kissed The Duke five or six times each before going to bed.

Our hosts woke us up the next morning with a traditional Dutch breakfast. We headed out after eating to explore the heart of Nijmegen. One of my favourite things about the city is the lack of tourists. Nijmegen is the oldest city in Holland and has an abundance of history to its name; however, most who visit the Netherlands never make it past Amsterdam.

Henry led us to a giant market that is set up twice a week in the downtown streets. He convinced me to eat raw herring, which, surprisingly, I loved the taste of. He also introduced my girlfriend and I to stroopwafels: a delicious caramel wafer treat.

That evening Jo, my girlfriend and I went to the gymnasium of the Matrixx Magixx: Henry’s basketball team. The game resulted in a heart-breaking loss to the first-ranked team in the league. But Henry didn’t let this spoil our night. We shared some pints in the team lounge before heading off to Matrixx, the largest nightclub in Nijmegen.

A friend back in Canada once told me something that I didn’t instantly believe. “You have no idea what a true nightclub is,” he said, while we stood on the half-empty dance floor at the Roadhouse in Calgary. “Just wait until you go to Europe, you’ll understand what I mean.”

After my night at Matrixx, I figured out what he was saying. Since the club is the official sponsor of Henry’s team, we were treated like VIP’s all evening. Our roped-off area upstairs provided a great view of over 2,500 people dancing to a live DJ down below.

The next few days were spent relaxing and preparing for our trek back to England. We visited a windmill, went for a few walks and I even got to drive Olga.

For me, Nijmegen was the highlight of the trip.

My trip to the Netherlands was one that snuck up on me. My girlfriend and I had been planning the journey for months. She was anxious at the very start of the planning stage. But my excitement didn’t sink in until I was on the Easyjet flight to Schipol Airport.

It sounds silly, but I didn’t anticipate any language problems. Perhaps it was ignorance, but I thought that English would be found on every sign that Dutch lingered. This was not the case. We quickly relied on other people to help us navigate through the foreign land. Thankfully, an incredibly high percentage of the Dutch speak English as well.

My girlfriend met a girl from Malta a while ago, through a friend, and at that time probably didn’t imagine that she would see her again. But when traveling the globe, acquaintances can become best friends. This near-stranger just moved to Amsterdam and was glad to save us from paying for a hostel. She provided us with cushions to sleep on, a kitchen to eat in and a shower to freshen up under.

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I’ve always admired the work of Bret Easton Ellis. In his second novel, The Rules of Attraction, a character’s European travels are told in a unique style of writing. I thought I’d borrow Mr. Ellis’ technique to help explain Amsterdam.

We caught a train Thursday morning to Amsterdam Central. Couldn’t be bothered buying tickets. Would later learn that dodging tickets results in higher fines than we had money for. Walked by dozens of coffee shops, which aren’t really coffee shops. Somehow ended up on the Red Light District at 9 a.m. Ventured off the Red Light District to a museum called Our Lord in the Attic: some guy turned three adjacent houses into a sanctuary when practicing Catholicism was prohibited. Figured the XXX sign outside the third-story window was a contrast to the whole thing. Ate at a McDonalds that actually sold a McKroket. Wandered south towards the Van Gogh museum. Got lost. Argued who was right as we stared at our ripped map. Finally found the Van Gogh museum. Spent 10 minutes trying to figure out how to get inside. Flashed our museum cards—which our host gave us—for free entry. Mine claimed my surname was Wong. Stared at paintings and critiqued them without really knowing anything about art. Didn’t find Starry Night because, according to the museum worker, it was currently “on tour.” Wandered around some more. Got followed by some guy who kept asking to look at our map. Found our way to the Rembrandt House Museum. Were surprised by how many flights of stairs the man had in his house. Admired Rembrandt’s work but were worn out from observing things. Walked back to the train station. Didn’t buy tickets. Asked some lady where our stop was. Fell asleep on the train. Got woken up by the lady who told us our stop was the next one. Arrived at our temporary residence. Made supper. Went to sleep.

Woke up incredibly early the next morning. Took another train; avoided another ticket. Navigated through Amsterdam with far less arguments. Stopped at a number of markets, which seemed to get cheaper as we got further away from the train station. Found our way to the Heineken Experience. Got confused when told that we were about to become beer. Became less confused after the simulation ride. Approached the bartender at the end of the tour and ordered a Guiness. She did not find it funny. Got a small buzz after a few pints and continued walking throughout the city. I had to urinate; therefore, found the outdoor urinals extremely convenient. My girlfriend had to wait. Ventured on to the Red Light District. Held hands. Tried to convince a girl in the window to take her picture. She shook her head. Got bored and decided that the Red Light District isn’t for couples. Concluded that few things about Amsterdam are for couples. Headed back to the train station. Got our bags from a giant locker. Sat on the bench at Track #5 and prepared to board our train to Nijmegen.

Ninety-nine per cent of my friends in Canada probably have better stories than this. Many of them were in Vancouver when it happened; some were in Canada Hockey Place.

But I made the most of my surroundings. I convinced a large number of my (intoxicated) housemates to stay up until 3 a.m. to watch the Canada v.s. Norway opening game. I was shocked when eight people crammed themselves into my dorm room to watch the match on my laptop. They were excited to see the sport I had been raving about since I arrived.

Towards the end of the first period nearly everyone in the room had asked, “Where’s the puck?” at least once. The majority tried to stay up, but decided that sleep was a better option. But there were a select few who showed a genuine interest in the sport. They got excited when Canada scored. They grunted when Pronger got sent to the penalty box. They even figured out the icing rule.

These fine young lads, my girlfriend and I made up The Salford Maple Leafs.

Every game we would meet in my room, flip the laptop open and believe. I would usually commentate—the BBC commentator was horrible . . . at one point, during the round-robin stage, he actually said, “I reckon if the United States had 10 Brian Rafalskis on the ice, I’d fancy their chances for the gold.”—and explain the rules as the game went on. Early morning classes the next day did not faze the Maple Leafs. Their priority was ice hockey; studying sat in the backseat.

The Salford squad felt defeat in the last game of the group stage. The Americans thinned Canada’s hopes of winning gold on home soil. The Leafs were shaken up, but they still trusted Yzerman’s boys.

A convincing win against Germany gave Canada a date with the Russians. As team captain of the Leafs, I was nervous for my team-mates. They had never before witnessed the magic of Ovechkin. They didn’t know Malkin had a Stanley Cup under his belt. They were unaware that Markov was one of the top defencemen in the league.

Perhaps it was better that they did not know. Their lack of fear gave me a boost of confidence, and somehow, I knew the story would have a happy ending.

I had to be away from the Maple Leafs for the gold medal match. My girlfriend and I travelled to Ainsdale, so we could visit the Nan. This was good and bad. Good, because I had the luxury of watching the final game on a television instead of my laptop. Bad, because I am superstitious, and I was worried that my departure from the rest of the Maple Leafs would bring bad luck.

But my absence from Castle Irwell didn’t stop the Leafs from joining together and watching the gold medal game. I like to believe that their commitment secretly sparked Crosby during the overtime intermission.

As 87’s equipment flew into the air, a tear welled up in my eye. It would have been easy to feel homesick at that moment. But instead, I felt privileged: I got to share a part of my beautiful nation with her Commonwealth cousin.

“That’d be my reason for going,” my dad told me before I left Canada. He was referring to The Beatles Story in Liverpool. When I mentioned that I was planning on checking it out, his eyes lit up.

I haven’t always respected my dad’s taste in music. This isn’t to say my father has a poor taste in music; in fact, it means quite the opposite. While I was listening to the terrible noise on Much Music, my old man was listening to The Beatles (set at a reasonable volume) as he cruised in his GMC pick-up truck. 

When I heard about The Beatles Story, I was interested in going, but not passionate about going. In other words, my eyes didn’t light up. I enjoy the songs I know: Let It Be, I Want to Hold Your Hand, Blackbird, Can’t Buy Me Love, etc. But—unlike my father—I can’t name every individual on the Sergeant Pepper Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover.

I found the museum informative; however, it was also disappointing. The entire tour depends on an audio headset, which viewers are given at the beginning. Halfway through the tour, my headset stopped working. My claustrophobic girlfriend wasn’t fond of the crowded flow of people in a very small area. I did learn some interesting facts, but nothing I couldn’t have found out very quickly in a Google search.

With that said, perhaps The Beatles Story wasn’t made for the amateurs. The story of Liverpool’s greatest band is a long one, so perhaps the museum didn’t have time for the uninformed. If they had buttered it up for the Beatles-virgins, the veterans may have felt cheated.

Sorry dad, I felt The Beatles Story was disappointing. But hey, maybe I just need to grow up; I’ll give it another try in 10 years.

I’ve always been one to plan out special days. Those lads who forget to treat their ladies just end up doing more work in the end. I’ve never been one for more work.

But impressing a girl on her own turf isn’t easy. Originality was out of the question, so I aimed for extravagance. I utilized Google to find the most posh restaurant in all of Manchester. I figured that this would impress her.

Google told me to take her to Room, located on King Street in Manchester. I e-mailed my reservation well in advance and patted myself on the back. Wade: 1, England: 0.

But England didn’t appreciate my cockiness. She threw me a curveball on Feb. 14, 2010, when I phoned Room to check on my reservation.

“Hello,” I said, in the cheeriest of moods.

“Alright mate?” asked a 20-something male on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, I’m just phoning to make sure that you received my reservation request for this evening. It’s under the name, Paterson.”

“Yes Mr. Paterson, we have you lined up for the Valentine’s Day special.”

Everything was going according to plan.

“Now, the set menu is fine with you, correct?”

I wasn’t aware of a set menu.

“What’s the set menu?”

“It’s a lovely five-course Valentine’s Day special. It comes with a bottle of wine. Do you fancy red or white?”

I wasn’t fancying how expensive this all was sounding. But, I was still optimistic.

“How much does the lovely five-course special cost?”

The 20-something waiter informed me that the meal would be nearly $300.00 CAD.

I was standing outside of my bedroom window. Inside, I could see my girlfriend doing her hair in front of the mirror. She looked absolutely stunning.

Thank goodness I’ve already impressed her, I thought to myself.

“I’d like to cancel the reservation,” I told the waiter before hanging up the phone.

**I know what some readers may be thinking: my girlfriend made a billboard for me, and I couldn’t cough up 300 bucks! I would defend my position to those readers by saying, “You spend too much money on food.”**

I decided to spread my Valentine’s Day budget on more than just a meal. I took my girlfriend to a beautiful (and more student-friendly-priced) restaurant called Papa G’s at The Printworks in Manchester. We ate, drank (more than just a bottle of wine) and then strolled over to watch a film at a nearby cinema.

Dinner and a movie is hardly an award-winning Valentine’s Day effort; however, I got to spend a lovely evening with a girl I care about immensely. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters.

I plan on viewing a match from the Kop. Some day I will hold my Liverpool scarf with pride and sing You’ll Never Walk Alone. At that time, I will breathe the same air as Fernando Torres and Steven Gerrard.

But I couldn’t save my Premier League virginity until then. The hype given off by this football-crazed nation was getting to me, so when I was offered a chance to see an actual contest between two of the top 20 teams in England (the prior statement is debatable), I didn’t refuse.

The first time isn’t always what you dream it will be–this game wasn’t an exception. My mate–who I met in Canada while he was studying abroad–picked my girlfriend and I up outside of Castle Irwell and drove us to Wigan. The match between Wigan and Stoke City at DW stadium had nothing–except, perhaps, relegation–on the line. We showed up 15 minutes late, but I think it’s safe to say, we didn’t miss much. The final whistle indicated a lousy 1-1 result. Both goals were scored at the opposite end from where I was seated.    

But I enjoyed the evening. Walking into the stadium–even if it was Wigan’s stadium–gave me chills. The atmosphere was nothing I had ever experienced before. I was impressed by the passionate fans who supported teams that had little to compete for. I appreciated the players’ skill and didn’t take for granted that it was the best football I had ever witnessed live.

I think I was smart by walking down the steps into the shallow end of the Premier League. Had I jumped into the deepest waters, I may have drowned in Anfield’s atmosphere.

Life was a vacation. December and January were spent relaxing with my girlfriend and exploring England’s north. I nearly forgot that I had to pass courses while living abroad.

My first week of classes had its highs and lows. All of my courses are taught at a remote area of the campus, which is a 50 minute walk from my accommodation. Luckily, there is a blue bus that takes students there for free. There are pros and cons that come with taking the bus. It is warmer and it is usually quicker. But it is also extremely crowded and I have seen the driver nod off, twice.

Monday: I walked into my magazine design class and sat behind a computer. I wasn’t feeling particularly sociable, so I wasn’t thrilled when the instructor came over and introduced himself. He’s a six-foot-something Manchester City fanatic with a respectable amount of experience in the magazine industry. He was excited when he found out that I was from Canada and told me that he had just been to Banff over the Christmas holiday.

“You know the one bad thing about you Canadians?” he asked/said. “You’re too nice. It started to annoy the bloody hell out of me, after a while.”

Tuesday: I spent 20 minutes trying to find my classroom, but was relieved when I learned that I wasn’t the only one. The classroom–more hidden than Narnia–has no computers. I found this to be a refreshing change. An Irish lady came in and introduced the war reporting course. The session was quite discussion-based. Despite my lack of history knowledge, I felt that I contributed my fair  share and added a foreign viewpoint to the debate.

Thursday: I sat down and was surrounded by students majoring in international relations. Most of them seemed to know each other, but more importantly, most of them seemed to know a lot about international relations. I soon realized that this made sense after being handed a course outline that explained the class was a level six module. To put this in perspective, my other courses are either level two or level three modules, and they are journalism modules, a subject I know a lot about. A part of me wanted to give this course–which I was clearly unequipped for–a try; that part of me died when I noticed that there was an average of 500 pages of reading per week.

The next Tuesday: Fortunately, I was able to jump ship. I left international relations behind and joined an introduction to reviewing class. The first class I attended was spent reviewing an art exhibit and writing a 450-word summary. I was back in my element.

I was surprised at how similar the journalism schools at the University of Salford and my home university are. Thompson Rivers University in Kamloops, Canada, experiences many of the same things that I am noticing here: qualified teachers with odd personalities, healthy classroom discussions, students who look at Facebook instead of the lecturer, complaints about the program, complaints about journalism in general and, perhaps most unfortunately, a profound knowledge of celebrity gossip.