"Down, down, down"

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next.

In the end I was glad I could finally leave. Parting was beginning to occupy me more than the reason I was parting for - things might have been getting out of proportion. So there it finally was: the big day. There has probably not been a day in my life which I had seen approaching for so long: for the last one and a half year I have been trying to organise an exchange to England. Spontaan is anders. However, that does not mean everything was well-planned. Many things still had to be arranged at that moment, or in Exeter itself. But I assume you all know the mechanisms of the Deadline... However, the journey went smoothly - with many thanks to papah.

To come back to the citation that introduces this post: have you ever noticed how the first few days in a new place seem to be very long (even if you're having fun), with plenty of opportunity to do many, many things; and to notice many, many peculiarities of your new home; and that, as time goes on, days seem to shrink back to their everyday proportions, i.e. too short to execute even a fraction of the plans you had for it? Of course there is some perfectly sensible explanation for it (for example the same explanation as for the phenomenon that people seem to remember their adolescent years best: because that's when they did everything for the first time... well... of course it's just a theory...), but it does make those first days especially memorable.

But to come back to the subject of this entry: finally we were on our way. We spent a lovely day in our car ("I like driving in my car/It's not quite a Jaguar"). We saw the sun rise over the glorious polders. I think by eight we had already left our country, and a couple of hours later we were surrounded by British vehicles, finding their way back to their safe island (some notes on safety later).

On and on we drove, my father once in a while feeding the car with petrol, me feeding my dad with Stophoest-mints and other sweets, and our car feeding me with The Police. Until my father turned it down.

It was good to be in France again. The airs along the motorway were remarkably clean. It was not so good to leave France, so soon. That was the only moment I regretted having chosen for a studies in the UK (well, there was one other occasion. But more about the topic of "food" later on).

To leave France was simple, practically (not emotionally). Entering England is an entirely different story. Although a member of the European Union (I am referring both to the UK and to ourselves) we had to pass as many as three passport checkpoints. But at least this time we were lucky enough not to have our luggage scrutinised.

We entered the boat - actually, we entered another boat, namely the one before our own (thanks to J's advice). As hardly anyone wants to go to England apparently, and as the car deck was loaded skillfully economically, the deck sloped interestingly to the left. However, I supposed counterweights would be taking care of matters like that, so I didn't worry much longer. We were heading for the VIPlounges and the cocktailbars!