switchboards and biscuits

I’m quite fond of tea these days. And biscuits. But the best part of tea and biscuits, is, of course, dipping the biscuit in the tea. Ahh, biscuits and tea . . .one of the highlights of life on this strange little island.

I’m getting settled back in to life at fake home, trying to readjust to life as a “student.” After tomorrow, I have lectures for a mere five weeks more, and I return to real home exactly two months from today (US time). With the end still seemingly far away, I’m trying to enjoy the fun parts of Christchurch . . . like tea, my adopted flat, biking everywhere, mini tramps, and lovely autumn trees. (It’s clearly autumn here now, and all the trees are turning stunning shades of reds and oranges. Sadly, though, the temperatures are dropping. I can’t say exactly how much, because I have yet to master Celsius. But it’s seriously chilly. Seriously.)

It's good to be back in Flat 42, despite the chaos. I rather like my bed, my room, a (relatively) big kitchen, stable water temperature, and not living out of a pack. I'm glad I didn't decide to go with my friends over the break-they were tramping and camping for the better part of the three weeks, which is not my cup of tea, so to speak.

On the other hand, I’m a bit tired of my lectures, my lecturers, my flatmates, constant adventure, instant coffee, and standing out in pink amid a sea of black. (According to my Latin lecturer, New Zealanders wear the most black in the world, second only to Sicily, home of World War II widows who are still wearing black in mourning. I think she was just joking, but they do wear a lot of black. At least it seems that way to me, but of course, when I do laundry, I do a pink load.) Mike, the lecturer of the earlier controversy, continues to make sweeping claims that I find offensive. He speaks with a kind of intellectual arrogance that’s insulting to religion. I might stop by during his office hours sometime soon to try to have a real discussion.

In other news, my adoptee flatmates are ordering flat t-shirts with their nicknames on the backs. I get to be number seven, and my name is “SWITCHBOARD.”

Sweet as! (The photo is of the sign I made for the switchboard. It's bascially my name tag for my mini door. The rest of the flatties have nametags for their real doors.)

I discovered something truly shocking last night: Some of my friends do not know what real biscuits are. Biscuits in the American sense of the word, that is. They thought they were similar to scones, or dinner rolls. Crisis! I’m going to rectify this predicament soon by making them all a true Southern breakfast, complete with grits and eggs. (Beth, you would be proud.) And I had no idea biscuits were a “Southern thing”!!

P.S. Courtesy of Dad, and in the spirit of sheep: http://news.ninemsn.com.au/article.aspx?id=263297