Made it to England!

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Here I was, with 2000 raving Tottenham fans, surrounded by 72000 jeering Manchester United followers. All adorned in their proper colors. I'm not in America anymore.
But I'll back up. I left America, which was very tearful and depressing. It's hard to imagine how long this year will be, how much will change in this year. How much will stay the same at this time of “transition” for all of us? All my friends will live yet another year without me. I'll come back home and need to be prompted of a whole years happenings in a few meager hang outs and then go back to Purchase, where I'm sure even more of my friends will have dropped out or left. But I have to stop thinking about that. I'm doing awesome things. I'll be back. My true friends will always be around. Blah blah blah.
Anyways.. My flight was alright, Aer Lingus. Well, the flight was great. Not much turbulence and what not. I was kind of a wreck though. I HATE recycled air and sitting down for so long makes me antsy. I also hate take off, and landing. I kind of hate flying, I just take it as a necessary evil. I took my dad's advice and drank a bit while on the flight to calm down. I picked out a nice, strong apple cider and sat back, thinking that I'd get a bit drunk and just zonk out. NOPE. Motion sickness rocked my world and the only reason I didn't puke was because I figured I'd trigger the lady next to me to start puking too, which in my state I believed would start more people puking, and more and more, and then everyone would be puking. And then imagine the recycled air when it's full of pukey people?! Disgusting. So I just sat in as close to a fetal position as I could manage in Economy class and listened to whatever in flight music they had. I'm sure I passed out at some point, but I can't be sure.
I had a layover in Shannon where my suitcase went on a different flight to London then my own. I hadn't taken packing my carry-on seriously. Inside I found some tang tops, too skimpy for England, a full length skirt, with which I had nothing else to wear but a skimpy tank-top, and my sneakers. I'm not sure what I was thinking - well no, I wasn't thinking they'd loose my luggage. And of course being paranoid about the liquids limit I didn't bring any face wash, teeth cleaning apparatus, or shampoos. So for the next day I explored South End, where my Grandmother lives, in the same clothes I had on while traveling for 18 hours (3 hours to NYC, 5 hours to Shannon, 4 hours sitting there, 1 hour to Gatwick and 5 hours for my bus to come/take me to my Grandma's) to and smelling of old people soap (no offense to my Grandma). Because my she couldn't book a guest room for me, I slept on my Grandma's England-size (meaning small) electronic recliner. Made for old people, it doesn't go back quite far enough to be laying down. Or to be comfortable. Needless to say, my first days were a bit miserable.
But my luggage managed to find it's way back to me, zippers cut because apparently the TSA doesn't care if you have that special lock they can unlock anymore and would rather make your life a little more difficult by snipping at your zippers. Also my scrubby gloves, like a loofa but gloves, are missing, and I'm sure someone at the TSA searching my luggage thought they were as cool as I did and took them. Where else could they have gone?
Don't get me wrong, I am happy for the TSA, a fiery explosion is not how I want my life to end, but... seriously. Why cut my zippers? Now I don't know if I could ever lock my suitcase again. Which I guess is just as well because then they'd cut the rest of my zippers out and I'd have to sew my suitcase shut for my next flight. And then they'd just burn it because they couldn't check it for bombs or something stupid. And, my gloves. Why?! I'm sure I packed them, my room was bare when I left. Why?! TSA, keep doing your job, I love making it to my destination in one piece, but stop messing around with law abiding people!
But I digress. I got my luggage back and moved onto my Uncles house. My Uncle is a bachelor and lives like such. Frozen meals fill his freezer. Beer in his fridge. He boasts that he hasn't ever used his oven. But he's completely content with his bachelor life. He's devoted his life to Tottenham Hotspurs, his favorite football (soccer) team. He goes to every home and away game, including the ones all over Europe. When you look at his passport you see an experienced traveler. When you talk to him you see a football fanatic.
He has a close relationship to his cat, some type of pedigree Egyptian cat that he calls Cara. Cara is close to my Uncle, and for all I know no one else. Every time I leave his room I'm greeted by hissing. She sits on the fan above the forgotten stove and swats at me when I enter the kitchen. If ever an animal I wanted to boot it'd be Cara, but she's loving towards my Uncle so I keep going about shaking keys at her so she doesn't scratch me.
There was going to be a Spurs game on Monday in Manchester. Because it's a Monday night and in Manchester, which is over four hours away, not too many of the supporters were going. Because of this my Uncle managed to get an extra ticket for me. We got the ticket from his friend and made our way to his other friends, whom we were getting a ride from. We meant to rush over, but instead got caught in horrible traffic. When there wasn't traffic there were broken down cars clogging the already congested roads. British roads are nuts. I believe it was the M4 that my uncle said had road works, they were building an extra lane onto the tiny 3 lane roads. But to do this they needed to close down all but two lanes, making what would equate to outer NYC traffic fit onto 2 lanes. Madness. But my uncle knew of the roadworks and went on a different road, which I assume everyone else did because the congestion on that road was insane.
You expect when you sit in stand still traffic for an hour to drive past a catastrophic accident, one that changes your frustration to an appreciation for life and puts your own problems into perspective; but instead we were in traffic one minute, and somewhat abruptly were out of it. I had to do a double take to make sure that I didn't miss the reason for the traffic, but nope. It was traffic just for traffic's sake.
I know this happens in the states; when all the cars get too close together it causes traffic somewhere down the line, but it shocked me so much because we ran into this twice while just trying to get to my Uncle's friends house, which should have been just an hour away.
But we made it and rushed into his car, which was a compact convertible Audi. He put the top down and told my awe-struck uncle and me to get in. Apparently this was his “courtesy car,” the car that the shop gave him while his was being worked on. We got in and zipped off. It was so glamorous, wind in my hair, being whisked off to a Man United game.
But of course we ran into some more traffic.
Honestly, English roads are a nightmare. Not only are there so many traffic jams there are also a bunch of speed cameras. They take your picture when you enter a designated area and then again when you leave it and average that speed. It's incredibly easy to get a speeding ticket without ever even seeing an officer here.
Once you get your speeding ticket you have to tell your insurance company, which will up the cost by about 50 pounds a month. If you don't and you get into an accident the car insurance can refuse to pay for anything because you “withheld information.”
You also get points on your license. They add up easily; 12 points being how many you need to get your license revoked and you earn 4 points for a speeding ticket. It takes four years before they even consider removing those points, and instead of just getting rid of them you have to go through a driving course to prove you are worthy of having less points.
And you, of course, are fined for your ticket.
Even if I could drive stick (which everyone does here), felt competent enough for these tiny, twisting roads, could remember which side of the road to drive on, and found myself with a license here I would NEVER drive. It's insane.
But all traffic aside, we made it to Manchester. The drive to Manchester (traffic aside) gave me a romanticized idea of what the city would be like. Sprawling fields rolled past my window for miles before the city. Church spires in the distance. Cows, sheep, and horses languidly spot the countryside. I wanted to take pictures, but I knew this type of beauty wasn't that which can be photographed. It was the atmosphere, the easygoing farms and relaxed animals that I wanted to capture, to look back on years later. It looked as if this land hadn't been touched by time, this land being passed down generation to generation, all taking pride in their crops. It was a simple beauty, one that made me wish to be a field worker yet again.
We went through quaint little towns, stone houses and cobblestone no doubt just a layer below the tarmac. Of course, more traffic, and seeing how small and meandering the roads were I wasn't surprised. But I was happy to have to look at these villages for a little longer, trying to imagine how many old-England movies were filmed here.
And then we got to Manchester. My Uncle put it best, “This place is a shithole.”
Maybe it's the beauty surrounding it, or how slowly it creeps up, but you don't recognize the signs at first. We drove further and further in, rundown shops with names like “beauty center,” typed up in a script found on Microsoft word. “Tattitude: Tattos and body piercings.” Desolate delis. The signs of poverty were all around us, telling us how much worse this place fared then that around it. All those loitering were smoking and looking with a wary eye at all those walking towards the stadium.
The stadium holds 75000. Which is a dizzying amount, but what I didn't even think about was how many cars does it's parking lots hold? How long would we be stuck in that jam? For this reason my experienced Uncle and friend knew to look for parking in the town itself, where many dressed in yellow reflective vests try to lure cars into lots for some amount of money. We signal to turn into one behind a large white house. The four attendants hurriedly try to sell their lot. They sold us, 10 pounds and we're fairly close to the pitch, and start to pull in when another yellow vested man runs to my uncle's friend's window. He pokes his head into the car and yells “SECURE PARKING! WE HAVE SECURE PARKING!” His speech is slurred and his hair's everywhere. Bug eyed and missing a couple of front teeth. After we convinced him we heard him he pulls his head out and stands there, hunch backed and smiling a crazed smile at us. One glance could tell you, but he proved himself further. Crackhead. We were just assured of tight security by a crackhead. As if that wasn't enough, once we got to the parking lot we saw how close they were parking all the cars together. Once you were in, there was no getting out. It would be nearly impossible to get to, let alone open your door without bashing up the car next to you. Because this was a rental car of sorts, and it was a fancy Audi convertible, my Uncle's friend saw that this was not a place to park and drove out. Seeing us leave the crackhead came back to our car and yelled something incomprehensible at our cars window while another attendant tried to hold him back. We left as fast as possible.
Manchester. I'm sure that there is a nice area of it as well, but it's slum is very questionable. Who thought it was a good sales pitch to have a crackhead talk about security?
But we find a place that wasn't seedy and made our way over to the field. I was lost in a sea of red. Thousands upon thousands of people were in the streets, looking over ManU trinkets and waiting in long lines for food. People bellowing sales pitches for the latest ManU fanzines, scarfs, and pins. I looked around for at least one Spurs follower and found none. Red, everywhere. I can't remember the last time I saw streets as full as this was. We waited in a long line and got “chips, peas and gravy,” which was french fries covered in gravy and this light green mush that was actually mashed up peas. The peas were good, a little odd but good. My Uncle told me it was “Northerner” food.
We made our way into the stadium. Climbing up the stairs I heard some chanting. My Uncle smiles and tells me it's the Spurs. We get to the Tunnel below our seats and a chorus of “When the Spurs Go Marching In” assaults my ears. A thousand Spurs supporters, all dressed in blue and yellow, sing at the top of their lungs this adapted version of the old song. So this was where all the Spurs fans were. We make our way to our seats, maybe 10 rows away from the pitch, and I take it all in. We're no longer alone in our support, maybe 1000 blue shirts surround us. I look out at the rest of this massive stadium and take in all the red. I never thought about how being a supporter for the underdog was so daunting. The teams are on the field, warming up.
Before I knew it the game starts. The first half looked like the Spurs actually stood a chance. They took more shots on goal then Manchester did. The ball seemed to be on their half of the field more often then not. I got caught up in the chants and soon see just how many they have. Our mere 1000 most definitely out-chanted the Manchester fans. My Uncle told me before hand that they don't have much atmosphere in Manchester because most of their seats are given to corporate people, various suits, and “fans” from all over the world that know of Manchester and have enough money to go to a game here and there. They're fans, but not in the same sense as my Uncle is a fan. They don't know the chants, they don't follow the players. They follow the trend that is ManU. I thought he was joking, but when I got there I could tell there was a difference. While the Spurs supporters chanted every time the ball changed halves, yelled at the ref every time they called a questionable call, and booed a particular ManU ball-hungry player every time he motioned for the ball, ManU only really cheered when they scored. Spurs supporters would “shhhhhh” and then chant “Just like a library,” making fun of how quiet all the Manchester fans were. When especially angry they would chant “Your support is shit!” It was hard not to get wrapped up in it. Screaming at the refs. Yelling SHOOOOOOT! as if the players were just waiting for you to tell them to take a chance. It was loads of fun. Before I knew it it was over.
In the end Tottenham lost. 3-0. The first half was really close, the second half the Spurs just seemed to crumble. They had much more chances on goal, and I heard everyone lament that if only they had a good striker, if only Lennon took his chance on goal, if only, if only. As much as Spurs supporters were upset they knew this would happen. None of them expected to win. It's weird, this supporter mindset. If anyone knew how slim the Spurs chances were they did. They saw that their team would most certainly loose, by a good amount, and yet they still went. It's not just your team loosing that sucks, it's the 74000 other people in the stadium that are happy that you're loosing which make it worse. I'm not even invested in the Spurs, yet I felt the sting when the mass of red cheered. The ones sitting near us would actual turn to us and wave goodbye. It takes a lot of heart and dedication to go to your team, every game, even when you expect them to loose.
I can see now why there are brawls at these things. The police stood in a line almost on top of each other between the ManU and Spurs supporters.
We left with no incident. Drove home with no hold ups. Even the cat didn't bother me when we got back to my Uncles. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was out.
I'm trying to figure it out. The English are known to be unemotional, but whoever came up with this stereotype hadn't seen any English at a football game. There you can see people with more heart for something as intangible as a sports team then anywhere else. Screw American football or baseball, as a fan would you go to every game? It's a select few of football fans that do, but it is a few that are vocal and to be reckoned with. Or maybe they are bottled up and take release in strange forms, like a football game?
Well, who knows. I've been typing this all out for a bit too long now. I'm off to discover a bit more in the homeland.


EDIT::: I found my scrubby gloves!! They were packed in a bag in my bag. Sorry, TSA. I take that back.

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Photos

Last Sunset
My last sunset over the USA I'll see for a while. The camera doesn't give the bright red/orange justice. It was like lava and a Herbal essence bright pink bottle. In the sky. I sound crazy but it was really beautiful, and not just cause it'll be my last one for a while

ireland
my only view of Ireland, from the airplane

Kids playing in the Sea
I'm a creep but they were cute

Manchester United Stadium Front
19 as in they've won the last 19 seasons. Show offs.

Cara
how I'm greeted

Go Spurs!
In my Uncle's "vintage" Spurs shirt

Soo many people!
All in red

Spurs supporters
all in blue, only a 1000 strong

Chips, Peas, and gravy
basically mashed peas, which were that odd Pea soup color but thick like mashed potatoes served over french fries and gravy

Comments

[charmante]

Your article is really a nice reward for our work. Thank you so much! Voyance serieuse

[Keith Gurgui]

journey on!
Rayko, awesome blog. My condolences for your luggage zippers. Manchester United sounds like one crazy place, hope that you're finding you have back the proper clothing. Say hello to your family over there for me!