When I finally made it to the city of Wilming, I had only spoken to two other people. There was the border guard, who asked a few questions (very impolitely), and the taxi driver, who I couldn't get to stop talking, even though I couldn’t understand a word he said. Was he even speaking English? I tried replying to him making noncommittal noises, but ended up desperately staring at my phone, trying to give him a clear hint that I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I needn't have bothered; he just seemed to like the sound of his own voice, and it didn’t seem to matter whether I responded or not.
The next person I met was the secretary at the admissions office, who brusquely gave me a huge pile of papers, brochures and forms to fill out and return the next day, ‘Don’t lose them’, she admonished, and topped it all with a map with a big red X showing me where my ‘digs’ were. Before I could ask any questions she was speaking to the next student. I tried to figure out where I was, and realised with a sinking heart my accommodation was miles away. I took a wrong turn several times, avoiding eye contact with anyone I met, and dragging my rather noisy and wobbly suitcase behind me, it felt as if one of the wheels was about to come off, maybe it was a sign of things to come.
The first ‘real’ people I would meet in the UK would be my two new flatmates. I had been late getting an offer of accommodation from the university due to a delayed application; everything seemed to get lost in the post, or swallowed up on the internet. They had placed me in student halls, in a shared apartment with two other students, and I’ll admit, I was really nervous: Would they be nice? Would they like me? And worse: Would I be able to understand them?
The stereotype always goes that English people are gentlemanly and polite. That wasn't entirely true of my first impressions of Craig, the first new housemate I met: He opened the door as I fumbled for the key, which was in an envelope tucked in amongst all the paperwork. With rising horror I thought, how am I going to tell my parents I am sharing with an English man? They would be scandalised. Oh well, what they didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them.
He was wearing a dressing gown, and introduced himself in a friendly yet groggy way, having just woken up at what was now midday, and I don’t think he noticed the look of shock on my face. I calmed myself, and politely asked him if he was unwell, but he just grinned. I could have kicked myself, I didn't feel the need to ask why he was up so late, and why he looked so tired, I could guess, I had read all about binge drinking, but hadn't expected to meet a victim quite so soon. We had a brief, slightly timid conversation to introduce ourselves, with it turning towards where I was from.
'Ah, Indonesia’, said Craig, ‘I've heard of it but I’ve never been...’, adding with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, ‘I went to Thailand once though...'
I wanted to respond sarcastically, something like 'You're from England? Well, I know someone from Finland!', but I didn't. Explanations could wait a while, until he knew me well enough to not take offence.
'Thailand is nice,' I replied, simply.
As the conversation faded away, he stumbled back to the kitchen. So far so good, I thought. I mean, the conversation wasn't actually that good, but I hadn't embarrassed myself too much, and at least I had understood him, so hey, you take what you can get!
For a few minutes, I stood in the living room alone, but it was a welcome chance for me to gather my thoughts. Craig shuffled off to what I presume was the kitchen, but I didn't want to follow him, it might seem a little needy. After the flight, and buses and taxis, all the moving around and the new settings, it was just too much ‘newness’, and to be alone with my thoughts for a while was nice. Besides which, I didn’t know where my room was. But, I’d made it! I was here! In England!
