Camp America '18: Camp Life!

Wednesday, 5 September 2018

travel

Camp America '18: Camp Life!

'Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot'.

'Okay guys... Need help. Writing my next blogpost and want all your best moments from Camp. Funny, special - you name it. Go!' - My iMessage shoots halfway across the world to my American sistas.

Seconds pass before hundreds of messages come pinging through on my phone.

'Bounce bounce bounce.'

'When our kid woke everyone up sneezing and farting simultaneously.'

'Our rap battle at Color War.'

Having just finished typing up a thirty-five minute transcription at work experience (more to come about this soon!), my facial muscles were reminded that smiling felt good.

It's real, the Camp blues are hitting me harder than my first alcoholic drink back in England did.

Knowing where to even start with all these snippets is a mission in itself. As I've been recounting various stories to my family and friends, a bewildered expression has spread across their faces. 'What's Pinnacle?', 'Why is Color War such a big deal?', or worse still from my brother: 'Holly, no-one wants to hear your 10,000 tales about your "best summer ever" with all your "new best friends!!"' So, for those unlike my brother and who actually want to hear me rattle on about Camp, read on for (what I hope) is a rundown of some of my most memorable moments.

Camp Life:
Every day, the campers were able to select activities lead by specialists. These ranged from kayaking to high ropes to yoga to ancient arts - the list was endless (lucky kids!). Although the counselors didn't lead these, we had to attend for safety reasons. Feeling a little plump from the carbs on carbs on carbs, I volunteered to go to mountain bikes - which my co-workers seemed a little too grateful for.
Ten minutes into biking and I had the overwhelming sensation that it wasn't just my bike that would be rolling rapidly downhill - my optimism would be plummeting with it. Did I fall off? Yes. Did I throw a tantrum? Yes. Did I make the whole experience even more humiliating by wearing a soaking bikini that turned my top see-through? Absolutely.

Next week I opted for the 'nature' option, thinking it would be a welcomed break for my knackered legs... Which it was, until a wild snake dropped down from the ceiling and the cute rabbit I was holding decided to take a nibble on my boob.

Aside from these dramas, my co-counselor and I had 16 campers to look after in our cabin (the biggest cabin on camp!). But through our everyday struggles a new-found strength emerged in us - the ability to find laughter and joy in the most simple, pure moments. Through this she quickly became my rock and, more importantly, my best friend.

(Our kids stole a giant inflatable unicorn and put it in our cabin one day...)

Of course, we dealt with shit every single day (literally - my camper told me she had an itchy, crusty ass). Yes, I may have nearly been suffocated beneath another of my camper's sleeping bags as she somehow rolled on top of my head during our campout. I may even have had my naked body completely exposed to 16 sets of amused eyes as they ripped the shower curtain open on me. But these were the moments that made us smile.

You can't help but question whether you've made a lasting impact on these kids by the end of the summer.
One day I lost it with my kids when I discovered them writing in my travel journal... Only to realise they were writing 'plane letters' for me. As I stumbled across them a month later on my travels home, my question had been very much answered...

(I'm not crying, you are)

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Camp America '18: Culture shock!

Monday, 27 August 2018

travel

Camp America '18: Culture shock!

'Can you rattle right over here? It's important,' and there was a croak of excitement in his froggy voice.

June 3rd. I'm halfway across the world from home, in an unfamiliar environment with a group of people I have just met in the last 24 hours. We're gathered by a fire-pit and have just finished introducing ourselves as the staff of Blue Star Camps 2018. 

As my brain attempts to put names to faces and faces to accents and accents to places, I thank God that we have the same mother tongue as Americans - I don't think my mediocre foreign language skills would have coped under the circumstances.

My new found American friend hands me a stick with two marshmallows on the end. 

'So this is going to be the test of our friendship. Let's see if you can toast it to perfection and make me the best s'more I've ever had,' she grins and urges me forward; 'Oh, no pressure. I've only been coming to this camp for years'.

As we tuck into my first ever 's'more', she gives me the thumbs up - I've surpassed her expectations. Who would have thought that 10 weeks later I would class her as one of my best friends.

With my ego soaring as chief s'more maker, I had thought I'd nailed that cheesy, American spirit to a T. Naive little me thought I may even get mistaken for your typical yank escaping the hustle and bustle of city life to work a summer job in the mountains.
In typical Holly style, my 'episodes' meant this assumption was soon out the window...

When I first told my campers to 'put on [their] swimming costumes' for the beach party, outrage erupted:
'Swimming COSTUMES! But Holly, it's not a costume!!'
Feeling mortified I had apparently been calling it a costume or 'cozzie' my whole life instead of a 'bathing suit', I cowered back into my bunk. 
'But it's not a suit either,' my meek defensiveness is lost in their giggling screeches.

Weeks later, I'm sunbathing with some of the staff. Alas, on comes the summer banger that everyone seems to know... Bar me. You know the situ - smiling, doing the awkward side to side head bob and chancing a few lyrics so you don't look like you've lived under a rock for your entire existence. 
But today? Oh no my friends. Today Holly has remembered to bring her phone along. Feeling smug and savvy at what I think is a discreet 'Shazam', I sink back into my towel and let the music transport me to my imaginary stage. Once I master this all-American anthem my transformation from Brit to American will be complete! Just as my eye-lids go heavy and I envisage my solo guitar piece, my friend's voice booms from above: 'HOLLY. TELL ME YOU ARE NOT SHAZAMING LIFE IS A HIGHWAY!' Again, my ears are met with screams of laughter and disbelief; 'You do realise that this song is from the film Cars don't you?'
 Even my F.O.M.O. excuse couldn't save me from the embarrassment.

Calling 'Chick-fil-A' 'Chick.. a.. fill', saying 'Chipotle' in the most Received Pronunciation possible and arguing a 'biscuit' is not the same thing as a 'scone' also set me apart from my fellow comrades. Drat. At least I wasn't calling flip flops 'thongs' like my Australian friend there and saying 'yum-o' after every meal. Now that would be embarrassing...

Aside from the American culture, I was also immersed into the Jewish side of camp. Although it wasn't orthodox, we were encouraged to participate in Friday and Saturday Sabbath services, as well as singing the prayers before and after meals (those are engrained into me for the rest of my life). 
Although for my thirteen-year-old campers these co-ed services were a chance to get dressed up in their best gear, wear make-up and straighten their hair, a wave of calm tended to sweep across everyone once we were in the Camp Chapel.
(That said, one week I struggled to keep 'zen' as I'd spent 45 minutes straightening my camper's curly, thick hair... Only for her to decide that she preferred it 'au-naturel' as she washed it five minutes later. Good job I'm not a hairdresser really.)

During services our camp focuses on different values each year and sets a theme accordingly. This year they chose 'Choose kindness, share peace'. It was comforting knowing that in a world full of heated politics, gun crimes and injustice, there is a collective culture we can all benefit from. And that culture thrives from love.

(More tales to tell about camp coming soon...! 'This one time, at summer camp...')

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Packing up and shipping out

Thursday, 31 May 2018

Lifestyle

Packing up and shipping out

'He shut the suitcase and produced a letter.'

Packing up, unpacking, repacking. And checking I've repacked the items that were packed in the original haul of items that I unpacked to repack again. Mental as it may seem, this has been my routine for the last couple of weeks. With my second year of Uni over and my summer in America commencing in just a few days, it seems as though the clocks are stealing minutes away from me.

Despite the seemingly never-ending essays, the sun and my fab friends have lightened the last few months of University life. Although this has made saying goodbye to them even harder... Hugging goodbye to my soul sista who is studying abroad next year was tough, as was bidding farewell to my German flatmate who has become one of my close friends. With all these departures, I should be a strong independent woman waving bye to my parents on Saturday - but watch me shed a few tears as I scoot off for three months! 

In keeping with this clinical routine, I feel as though I've been working my way through checklist after checklist recently. VISA appointment in London? Done. Work experience organised with ESQUIRE magazine? Done. 10,000 words worth of essays? Done. Phew. 

Whilst it may appear I have my act together, don't be fooled by appearances. In avid response to my blonde highlights, my mind too has had its share of 'blonde' moments (I blame the bleach). Of course, my blog wouldn't be complete without a few conundrums in the mix, so here's the breakdown of my blonde highlights from the last few months:

Firstly, our fancy dress failures:

1). The Iconic Trio house party:

Mario, Luigi and Princess Peach. Who saved Princess Peach from the Koopaling Clan I hear you say? Well, my fellow readers, we had a bigger challenge on our hands. Princess Peach had kindly cooked up her fellow bros a feast before their quest (the party) but had forgotten that she had to squeeze into a child's size dress later that evening.

Many attempts were made to zip it up. Rubber gloves were involved and a naked excursion outside was made (cold air makes your body shrink right?), before we opted for a more extreme solution: to unpick the stitching. As the pictures reveal, we outsmarted our obstacles. 

I'd say it was not game over for this trio... 

2). That 'cobbled together' outfit that, yes, is just a downright shambles:

Budgeting gets tighter, student attitudes get stronger. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty sure I've got a few bits and bobs for an outfit'. 

(To anyone wondering, that is Minnie Mouse x2 and Pocahontas. Try to guess the theme.) 

3). Oh, shit. No-one else is in fancy dress...

As if I needed it confirming any more, our appearance at a Peaky Blinders themed Fight Night in fancy dress was a true Bridget Jones Tarts and Vicars moment.

My friend DRESSED AS A MALE. No going back - a marker pen moustache and machismo could not be undone.

My other friend and I - we had got the era entirely wrong. Oops.

Amongst other mishaps, I also decided to try out Newcastle's sunbeds. Feeling pale and pasty for the intense heat in North Carolina this summer, I thought a couple of sessions would acclimatise my skin. Now, before anyone says anything, I know. Terrible damage to your skin and just not worth it. Perhaps, then, it was fate's intervention that was trying to ward me off.

Confusion erupted when I stuck the protective sticker goggles over my eyes. How on earth are you supposed to find the blooming door to the sunbed when your eyes are closed?! This must be a health and safety hazard, fumbling your way blinded into this. I did however endure the full 6 minutes - eyes closed, hand firmly on the door handle - cursing under my breath.

As I yapped my friend's ear off about how stupid the goggles were, she only then informed me you're meant to wear them like sunglasses... with your eyes open. Think I'll stick to fake tan.

In typical exam season style, the sun greeted us as deadlines loomed ever closer. It seemed as though the student population in Newcastle gravitated towards the beach. Tynemouth was given a continental vibe as young people cracked open the tinnies, cranked up the speakers and basked in the day's last hues. One of my friends even fooled people she was in Ibiza! Of course, essay writing was squeezed in between these 'breaks' - but sometimes you've just gotta seas the day.

I've also had celebrations such as our annual English Ball, leaving my job and a few fun dates. 

Fortunately, the sun held out a while longer and I've been able to enjoy lunches, cocktails and family time al fresco (thank you Mr Sol). My brother's girlfriend and I hit up Belgrave Music Hall in Leeds, whilst Dad treated my family and I to a celebratory meal and Mum even treated me to lunch at The Ivy in Harrogate... I'm piling on the pounds before I even begin the hotdog diet! 

I've perfected my plaits, packed my case and now all that's left to do is prepare for an emotional goodbye to my precious parents. My nerves may be kicking in, but meeting people from all across the world sounds kind of enticing. 

Sure, we could all do with a few more hours in the day to prepare us for whatever we're working towards, but isn't spontaneity the epitome of what our generation stands for?

After all, 'if we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives' - Lemony Snicket.

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Love: renegotiated

Tuesday, 13 March 2018

Dating

Love: renegotiated

What a celebration of women we had last week. International Women's Day followed by Mother's Day on Sunday saw the country reminiscing the resilience of movements such as The Suffragettes and, the heroes more commonly known to us, our Mums. 

In true diva style, I found no better way to celebrate International Women’s Day than by throwing some shapes to ABBA’s greatest hits in one of Newcastle’s clubs. I even dragged my German flatmate along - she had just received her amazing Master’s degree result - ensuring her hard work was saluted too. Even in the dark, sweaty confines of the club, I felt empowered by the sass heads surrounding me (and perhaps also by my popping pink eyeshadow). 

Just as I was being twirled around to the stirring melodies of Voulez-vous, someone taps me on my back. “Holly,” his drunk eyes await my reaction. 

A few gin and tonics in myself, my polite filter seemed to have evaporated. “God, I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” even as the words leave my lips I'm shocked at the tone of my voice.

But let me explain. In front of me stands a boy who turned nasty after a couple of dates last year whilst simultaneously knocking my confidence for a while (gracias, señor). This is your stereotypical rugby lad; puts on a pretence that he’s hard but deep down drowns out his emotions by degrading others. I don’t even need to tell you about this species - if you’re at Uni they occupy every street corner and entice girls with their good looks (despite their sexist shanter). 

He looks momentarily offended but then initiates textbook complimenting (yuk) and then the best bit, he begins grovelling. Normally I let things like this slide to avoid conflict but for one, he interrupted arguably ABBA’s best banger and for another, I’m a strong independent woman - so I take this as an opportunity to let him know that, yes, he was out of line. When “c’mon, we were such a good team” slurs out of his mouth, I practically scoff in his face before rotating back to my group of gals. Sorry ABBA, but I think I’ll reject this man after midnight. 

 

This small yet satisfying success seems incomparable to the stories of my friends who continue to slay away in their own way. Friends who have for years worked their way up in a profession, friends who are learning new languages abroad and friends who are studying hard to pave their way in the world. What an inspiration. It got me thinking how we’re too often reliant on others recognition for our own gratification. We’re young and thriving on successes unparalleled to love.

Last week I FaceTimed my flatmate studying in Australia who humbly reeled off her travel triumphs. She tells me, yea there are some fit Aussies, but the majority still don’t celebrate her for her. She’s instead focusing on choosing which part to take in the two plays she’s been offered.

As if we even needed reminding, Mother’s Day commemorated our everyday champions. To the mothers who have raised us, to the mothers and children who have lost one another and to those yearning to be mothers - every one of them holds a special place in our hearts. I’m lucky enough to have a best friend, best critic (she always gets a preview of my blogs) and best Mum all combined into one. 

Sometimes we're so busy getting old that we forget our parents are getting old too. We forget to thank them for teaching us qualities that the education system never could - how to hold your knife and fork, how to hold your head high, how to hold on to your passions. We forget to thank them for pushing us into that insanely embarrassing twenty seconds of courage, where something great came of it. We forget to thank them for teaching us no matter how much the truth hurts, it's better than being lied to. We forget to thank them for encouraging us to travel, to write that book, to finding a house where the light is always right. We forget to thank them for turning up at our bedroom door, with a cup of tea in hand, in an effort to say 'I love you'.

In a world which questions if the power of love will ever overcome the love for power, I encourage you to celebrate the kind of love that we take for granted. Stop seeking out someone to fill a void, and instead appreciate the people who make us what we are.

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Bridget Jones: Reincarnated

Monday, 5 March 2018

Dating

Bridget Jones: Reincarnated

In the same week that the Beast from The East hit the UK, my Karma decided to hit me with a gust of (not so natural) disasters. 

Whilst visiting one of my friends in sunny Salamanca, my friends and I encountered a nightmare situation with the hotel we were staying in - almost getting scammed into paying a €600 fine for a window that was probably broken before we arrived. Police were involved and passports were checked, and I doubt anyone has ever packed their case and pegged it in such a record time before. (This was our first big lesson of adulthood. Never book a cheap hotel in a foreign country.) 

(More to come about Salamanca soon.)

Back in the UK, I decided to treat myself to some funky new garments of clothing. Slinky palazzo trousers? Essential. Black high waist flares? Straight in my basket. I even treat myself to next day delivery. 

Unfortunately, I was out when my parcel was delivered - but not to worry, they'd been delivered next-door. 

'This will be nice,' my friend says to me as we ring my neighbours doorbell. 'A way of getting to know the other students on the street.'

Lovely, there it is. He hands me my plastic pink delivery before I head back to mine. I can't wait to rip it op--

Hang on. There's a big tear in it. I empty the contents, and low and behold, the black flares are awol. Just the plastic bag they were supposed to be in remains. 

Back we bounce to my neighbours, inquisitive as to where the trousers are. Their story changed and made us suspicious - but they insisted the package had been delivered like this. There was only one girl living there, and unless one of the boys gets a thrill from shimmying around to Le Freak in these figure hugging flares, I placed my bets on her having them.

When the conversation wasn't getting anywhere, we returned home, trying to work out if it could have been a fault on the retailer's behalf. The next day I walk home from a gruelling 10 hour shift, and as I cross the road I see my neighbours lurking outside their house. Great, just the awkward encounter I want today. But as I unlock my door, something catches my eye. I turn and look at the girl. No, surely she wouldn't. She catches me looking at her, I stare harder. There they are. Two and a quarter hours worth of my wage. On her legs. She is wearing my black high-waist flares. 

Then, at the end of the week, the cherry on top of the cake. I rock up to a party feeling like absolute fire in a Gerri Halliwell outfit, only to match Union Jack costumes with a boy I had seen a few times last year, and who I did not want to bump into again. As my friend leaned in and whispered 'you're matching, it's meant to be', I struggled to find the humour in a situation only our nation's fave, Bridget Jones, would've found herself in. 

I'd half-heartedly joked about it before, but after my usual conundrums condensed into just one week, I really started thinking about who I was becoming. We all applauded as the credits of Bridget Jones Baby rolled and the nation felt some sort of relief when Bridge finally ends up with Mr Darcy and a super cute babba (at least, in the film version).

But dear Helen Fielding, I think you're forgetting something. The dating world is now more complicated than ever, with social media, iMessage and Tinder intervening with anything genuine. Not to mention the fact that everything must now have a label on it - exclusive? Dating? Polyamorous?  

So here I am. Merging my inner Carrie Bradshaw anthropologist, with my less discreet Bridget Jones, to deliver to you the dating problem that is sweeping across the nation, and reincarnating in a new form for our generation.

So Helen, I write back to you with the real Beast that has just been unleashed. Boy do I have some tasty tales for you all.

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