All Children Grow Up

There's a housekeeper, Trudy, who cleans the common areas of our house twice a week, and our rooms once a week, on Thursdays. As this was the first of these Thursday cleanings, I was a little anxious about my room not being a total mess. The great thing about not having much here is that it's easy to clean, although this also makes me wonder just what was so heavy in the bags I've lugged halfway across the world. She's very chatty, Trudy, and fulfills another harmless stereotype: that of the nattering English housewife who won't stop once she gets going. What I thought was really interesting was that she warned Kenji (my neighbor in 10A) and I to make sure to lock our windows because "there's gypsies about." This really piqued my curiosity, because I'd already commented on the travellers I've seen camped not far away. She said they'll come up here sometimes for a bit of thieving, but whether that's true or idle gossipy speculation I have no idea. It does confirm my initial impression, though, that people in general are concerned about them.

While we were talking, she told me, "You seem a bit more maturish." (At first I thought she said "Jewish.")

"Yeah, well--"

"Older, I mean."

"Yes. I'm a nontraditional student."

We smiled at my evasive answer, and then she asked, "How old are you, then?"

Now, when I say "nontraditional student" it usually means "Don't bother asking again," but she couldn't know that, I guess. "Thirty-three."

"Thirty-three!" Kenji was shocked. "Wow, you don't look it. I thought you were, like, in your twenties." So did Trudy.

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

Trudy tried to chalk this up to taking good care of myself, which we all know is patently untrue, but I'll take what I can get. For those of you who may be ascribing ulterior motives to Trudy's line of inquiry, I'll have you know she's a grandmother.

Anyway.

Not much else to report today, actually, because I've been spending all my time reading. I will say this: read Peter Pan. It's really very good. If you haven't read it, or if you read it as a child, read it again. I wasn't expecting much beyond a quick read, but I was wrong. Very funny, too, in a way and on a level that most children probably wouldn't get. I hesitate to say that, because there are people out there who take every opportunity to tell you they read Foundation when they were five.

I did take the opportunity on the way to class to get a few pictures of campus, or that part of campus which lies between Park Village and Arts A. On the way, I pass York House, which is home to a 24-hour computer lab (a "cluster") and a little convenience/grocery store, Norwich House, which is the other housing (the slums, from what I've heard), and Bramber House, which contains the bookstore and the cafe where I was fool enough to buy a panini that one time.


Bramber House is just off to the left in this last picture, for those of you drawing a map. Nice and leafy green, isn't it? The university is in an area of, as I recall, "outstanding natural beauty," something like the equivalent of a protected wildlife area or national park. So it's greenery all around.

I got to class early and sat outside to read excerpts from Nicola Brown's fascinating book on fairies in 19th century art and literature (I believe its full title is Fairies in 19th Century Art and Literature). While I did so, a bird did a bundle on my course packet. I'm starting to feel like I shouldn't sit outside anymore. And I wouldn't, if the campus weren't so outstandingly beautiful.

One of the UC students in my class dropped (the one from Berkley), but the one who wasn't here on Monday showed up yesterday, so we're still at seven. Turns out he's from Wash U in St. Louis too. What are the odds that three out of seven students in my class are from the same arts college in St. Louis? Somewhat greater than this other coincidence.

As we were going into class, Jonathan (new guy) and Annie (English/Italian major at Wash U) were talking about their school. She asked him where he went to high school, and he returned the question.

"I went to Calabasas High School," she said. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

"No way. I went to Calabasas too!"

We agreed that no one had heard of our school, and what were the odds, etc.

"When did you graduate?" she asked.

"When you were four," I told her. When she asked again, I told her the exact year: 1990.

"You're right," she said a minute later. "I was four."

Then we discussed Peter Pan for two hours. All children grow up, indeed.