Ma Petite Maison.

Here is my house! I should clarify -- the red half on the left is my house. The brick half, from what I can tell, is inhabited by two young parents and their newborn, who I can occasionally hear crying at night, as we are seperated by a very thin wall. Actually my flatmate Michael just informed me there's a cat in the neighborhood that sounds like a baby crying, but it's really a cat. So maybe it's a cat and not a baby. Regardless, the mother sings to it when it cries long enough, which is rather nice. (But which would be kind of strange if it were actually a cat..... anyway.)

My flatmates are Michael, from Northern Ireland, Andrew, from Portsmouth, and Sarah, also English, who arrives next week, but who owns a guitar and a record player, so I already like her. Something rather odd is that I know 2 guys in other countries with the exact same first and last name combinations as both Michael and Andrew.

My room is on the top of the 3 floors -- a large loft.

It was just carpeted today; I talked the landlord into going with a neutral colour vs. purple (his choice) and the ancient rose colour that covers most of the house except for the boys' rooms, which have navy blue carpet, naturally. It is fantastic to have my own, big space.

The best part is that to get to the loft, you must ascend what I've started calling The Stairway of Death. Not only is whatever the stairs are made of (under the rose carpet) starting to erode, one of the railings is loose, and when you open the door at the bottom, there's another LARGE unexpected step, which I'm constantly forgetting exists. I've started limiting my water consumption after 7pm so I don't have to risk my life coming down the stairs to pee in the middle of the night. I voiced some concern to the landlord yesterday about the stability of the stairs, and he proceeded to jump on each one several times to ensure their strength (he's a rather entertaining man).

Here are a few funny things I've learned about the house over the last week:

-- there are no electrical outlets in the bathroom. Zero.

-- the entire back of the house is slanted downwards. I put my cup down on a windowsill in the livingroom, and it slowly slid backwards until it was touching the window. It's like living in a gravity-defying orb, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And also makes me wonder how soon the whole house is just going to collapse. Or split in half. Or just tip over sideways.

-- the bathroom is substantially larger than the kitchen.

-- if you turn any of the hot water faucet handles all the way on, you will instantly have a. water so hot you could easily steep tea in it and b. third degree burns on whatever part of your body you had under the faucet.

-- my room has 3 different crawlspaces in it. And another one in the ceiling.

It is old and drafty and creaky and crooked, and I am slowly growing to love it, because, as my landlord likes to point out, 'it has character!'. Especially compared to the university housing high-rises a few blocks away, which are closer to the school but tiny, sterile, and right next to 2 of the busiest [noisiest] roads in the city. Here, I go to sleep to the sounds of cat baby, and wake up to mourning doves cooing. Not unlike being at home, actually.

Church on Sunday.

The Sheffield Cathedral. I won't say I loved the 13 pages of liturgy which made up most of the service, but sitting in a place that's been around since the 12th century easily makes up for it.

The cool part was, about 1/2 a mile from the church I got completely lost, but all I had to do was follow the sound of the bells and I found it. I love it when churches accomodate to directionally-challenged individuals.

I Am in England.

Pinching myself about this because, for a while there (like the whole past 2 weeks), it was looking rather dubious. After housing issues and a fall-through in the programme just a month before departure, I had no idea the biggest hurdle was yet to come: as I fondly refer to it -- The Visa Nightmare:

August 26: Fill out 6,349* required pages of visa application paperwork, but have to wait until..
September 1: ..for my 'biometrics' (aka fingerprinting) appointment in Seattle. Application is sent to the British consulate in New York via overnight delivery.
September 8: Get an e.mail from the consulate saying they've JUST BEGUN processing my visa. (Departure countdown: 5 days.)
September 12: No sign of visa being finished. Call airline about changing ticket. Estimated cost: twice the price of what I paid for original ticket.
September 13: Consulate e.mails: visa is processed. Being shipped next-day delivery... but by 4pm it still has not left New York.
September 14: Bags packed. Ben and I race to Bellingham's UPS hub at 8.45am. Passport and visa are, miraculously, there. Drive to airport. Get in plane. Fly to England. La dee dah.

Actually, fly to Paris, get on very small plane to Manchester, haul 80 lbs of luggage to the train station, take train to Sheffield, haul said luggage to tram station, take tram to Upperthorpe, haul said luggage 1/2 a mile to my house, for the next year. At that point I could've been happy with accomodation resembling a chicken coop, as long as it had a place to sleep and pee.

Ironically there are quite a few ways in which the house could be compared to a chicken coop but.. more on that later. The above photo is the view from my bedroom window, so clearly there are worse chicken coops. It is good to be in England.

*only a slight numerical exaggeration.

And So It Goes.

... and so we go. Taking off early tomorrow morning in a bus for the long trek to Nairobi, killing a few hours in the city, and flying out at 11pm. Hopefully reaching home by Thursday if the Icelandic volcano gods allow. The week has been a bittersweet mix of reunions and goodbyes.


We went to visit Baby Gloria at her new home out in Kapenguria. She's putting on weight and chugs a bottle like a champ!


Too cute to pass up. What a face.



Being a poser with Sharon and Metrine at Nema House.


Chilling with the very expectant Mama Virginia and Regan at the Veronica Home.
(Getting there that day involved a 30-minute walk through muddy roads, a 10-minute ride in a 12-passenger van with 27 people in it, and riding on the back of a motorcycle in a downpour for another few miles to the house. All in an afternoon's work..)

Visiting classy and popular places like the New York Hotel.


Enjoying the 5-10 minutes of sunshine each day.. (yes that's a lone bike parked on the road)..


Spending most of the day waiting for the rain to stop..


And in the meantime, picking enormous ticks off the Veronica Home's pregnant (and practically comatose) dog, Tiger.

Oh boy. Leaving is hard. I'd hoped it might be easier the second time around, but no such luck.

See you all on the other side...

Lina.

Just got back from a weekend sleepover at the new Veronica Home. It was a little surreal, as we used to have sleepovers often out at the old children's home 2 years ago, with twice the amount of kids. But the new place felt amazingly homey and welcoming.

The best part, hands down, was getting to hang out with Lina. She was brought to the old children's home near-death last time we were here (old post on her here, back when we thought her name was Linda) and has not only healed completely from malaria, pneumonia, severe dehydration and malnutrition, she is stumping doctors now by testing negative for HIV, when her body was rampant with it just 2 years ago.



I had to take a picture of her leg, which used to have a bacteria-filled hole in it (photo on the older post). She no longer walks with a limp, but remembers her hospital stay very vividly, down to every meal she ate there! She is healthy and happy, and has this wizened old soul feeling about her, maybe because she is only 8 but has been through more than most of us will in our lifetimes.