These Brighton-ites are nearly as crazy as Minnesotans.

Today it was bright and sunny out, but darn chilly – or at least I thought. Apparently, it doesn’t matter that I was wearing long pants and a sweater and was cold. If it is sunny out, people will walk around town in tank tops, shorts, sandals – showing off their summer wardrobe that hasn’t seen the light for the past 6 months. They even flock to the beach, and strip down to their bikinis and even bras if they’re desperate for some sun on their pasty white skin. Some fools even brave the water! Mmm, not me. Maybe I’ve been spoiled by the South African weather on my recent trip down there. Or maybe my blood has thinned from my time in the ridiculously hot Sudan. But I’m sticking to my sweaters for now.

People tell me how lucky I am to have been allocated my room in the University-run apartment complex where I live. Most days I’d agree. It’s a bit bigger than the other 5 rooms in my flat. I have a great sea view – I can sit at my desk and stare out at the waves and watch the seagulls float past. We’re up on the 6^th floor so we get less of the considerable street noise. I’ve decorated it a bit, so it feels kind of homey.

But some days it feels more like a prison cell than anything. While it is larger than most, it is still tiny – I can sit on one side of the room at my desk and prop my feet on the bed. On tantalizingly sunny days like today it is brutal to sit inside and feel the sun on you, wishing you were outside enjoying it. And hearing people out partying on a Saturday night while you’re in reading yet another article on empowering society can be so depressing. Outside of my two days a week I am on campus for classes, I spend most of the rest of my time here in my little room, working (or at least thinking about how I should be working). It’senough to drive a girl mad.

Literally.

This is what passes for a ‘beach’ in the UK. Not so nice to sit on, but at least it doesn’t get between your toes and into your bedsheets.

Walking home late on a Saturday night recently, I couldn’t help laugh. I was coming back from a late night at school, and was the pathetic girl wearing tennis shoes and a backpack instead of a hot pink mini-skirt, shiny pleather stilettos and other oh-so-80s accessories (the dress code of Brighton on a weekend). The electronic display on one of the double decker buses heading into the town center carrying a load of party-goers flashed something unusual. I had to look twice – yep, it was for real. After showing the buses final destination, it changed to say ‘Disco Decker’. I wonder if the passengers knew they were on a true party-mobile. And did the driver’s boss know he was having so much fun at work?

Though I am a slave to public transport (no car), I have recently had more than my share of road rage episodes…

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve lived in the US, but am I crazy in remembering that pedestrians usually walk on the right hand side of the road? There are sometimes those near-collision moments, but the default is always to the right, so you mostly avoid hitting each other.

I assumed that in the UK, as they drive on the left, that they would also walk on the left. Wrong. Ok, so I revised my hypothesis, and started walking on the right. Just as many run-ins. And they’re not the friendly “shall we dance” moments when you jump back and forth trying to pass each other. People get mean. I got sworn at by a little old grandpa the other day for not getting out of the way. And this is a regular occurrence.

I started noticing the swerving patterns I have to take on my walks – dodging strollers, bikes, shopping carts, joggers, and the oldsters. There is simply no method to their madness. It must take me twice as long as it would if I were walking in a straight line. So just getting from A to B becomes an obstacle course, and it’s amazing if you can do it without being shouted at for being in someone’s way.

Drives me mad. I think my expectations of ‘order’ in the UK were way too high. I am trying not to let road rage get the best of me – I don’t want to become one of those enraged pedestrians.

I see the oddest things here in Brighton. A few days ago I was out for a jog along the waterfront. I was running past a very swank looking guy (very, very slowly…if it could even be called running!). He had spiked black hair, wore a very Euro turtleneck sweater, and had a cell phone that appeard to surgically connect his right hand and ear. And under his left arm was…a tambourine.

Minis- the car. I didn’t know that there were also Mini pick-up trucks, and station wagons. True. I’ve seen them with my own eyes.

And today, on my normally mundane bus ride to campus, we passed one of the many funeral homes that line London Road. In front of one was a horse drawn hearse. The horses were wearing black cloaks, and the whole carriage was decorated in fairly gaudy carnation-like flowers. And then I saw the leopard print casket buried in all the flowers. And the photo of the woman who, I presume, lay in the coffin. I didn’t even know leopard print was an option. I’ll have to remember that.

Ok, so I jumped on the bandwagon…then fell asleep. I think it’s that old problem of looking at a blank page – you just don’t know where to start! So I’ll start with something that’s taking up all my time lately – academia.

I’m smack-dab in the middle of my ‘advanced’ degree, probably the most advanced one I’ll ever get. I can’t imagine doing a PhD. I think I’d be one of those ‘ABDs’ who could just never finish their dissertation. It’s such an open-ended process, and I have realized over my 16 years of formal education that I am a serious deadline person (read: procrastinator). No matter how hard I try or how early I start, I just can’t turn in a paper more than an hour (max) before it is due. I am always so envious of my classmates who turn their work in a week early and then just sit back and relax as the rest of us panic. But how do they know that they’ve made it the best they can? Here’s my usual scenario: the day before it is due I am still frantically finding new sources, looking for just the right quote or idea. Then the morning it is due, I am tearing out my hair to figure out how to fit all that info into my word limit. I think somewhere subconsciously I must love the adrenaline rush that last few hours gives, but at the time it is pure hell.

Grad school isn’t really what I expected. I am spending much less time learning ‘how to’ do things, and spending much more time deconstructing what I learned in undergrad. Part of that is the difference between the US and UK traditions. I am only now realizing that my BA was really a very one sided view of International Relations and Politics. I can’t at all remember learning anything about ‘critical theory’, or some of the more radical views of IR. Of course, I went to school in Washington DC, and then worked for USAID projects for 5 years, so I was completely indoctrinated. Not that I disagree with everything, it’s just that now, at Sussex (notorious for its radical nature) I am realizing that I have to learn a new language of critique. It’s fascinating, but my cynical side asks how much I will be able to use these new ideas when I go back to the field…so much of development is ruled by these norms and ideas associated with ‘neoliberalism’. I am just trying to enjoy the learning and thinking…I know I won’t be able to have this luxury when it’s back to the crazy life of jumping through hoops for donors