It’s amazing just how grueling sitting on one’s ass for 15 hours can really be. I went home for the holidays, which was nice. I got to see my family and friends and did all the homey stuff.

I also had the distinct privilege of having a 30-hour 20th birthday on the day I went home, due to the time difference between England and Illinois.

One of my friends from home asked me to say something British when he saw me. I couldn’t really think of anything. He was disappointed.

I guess I was supposed to have caught the accent while I was over here. I took to exclaiming “Crikey” at random intervals throughout the night.

I think that did the trick, though I’ve never actually heard anyone say that here.

I’m back in Exeter now and have just put down my bags. Now, I’ve never been in a war or lived through the Great Depression, but if such things are worse than airports and bus terminals, I want nothing to do with them. I used to hear people complain about traveling here and there and think, “I should be so lucky.”

Well, now I am, and I have to suppress the urge to bitch endlessly about it. I suppose it’s one of those clich‚s that all travelers must fulfill, like complaining about how all drivers from whichever state you just returned from are crazy.

I had a couple bumpy rides turbulence-wise. I think I’m glad. It added a some excitement. Spilled drinks and whimpering children/grown men are always good for a silent chuckle, so long as you don’t wet yourself in the process.

The best is when they make the stewardesses strap in. There was a little boy about five rows back who made a habit of asking, “Are we going to crash now, Mummy?”

I’m pretty certain that this was the same kid who, after our arrival at the gate and 10 minutes of waiting to disembark, asked, “Mummy, what could possibly be so long about opening a door?”

Neat question, I thought. Fifteen minutes and 45 repetitions of the same question later, I was a bit annoyed, though I couldn’t be sure whether it was because of the boy or the people who couldn’t get our door open.

I finally got off the jet and into the foreigners’ line.

The whole passport and customs thing was a breeze this time. Probably just 10 minutes and I was done with the whole thing. It’s kind of sobering to go through that process, though. A lady who worked for the airport asked my nationality, and I told her. She directed me to a line under a sign that read “Other.”

The passport line is one of life’s great equalizers. It doesn’t matter what country you’re from, you’ve all got to stand there and have the man give you a stamp.

Unless you’re famous, of course. Then you get to sneak in the back way. I think Diana Ross got in a fight at the Heathrow customs office a couple months ago, come to think of it.

I didn’t have any problems, though. I even got my two jars of Jif without paying any tariffs on them. I have yet to find any good peanut butter in England.

I made my way to the bus station and stood in the queue. I guess I should start calling it that; I am in England, after all. I’ll sound more cultured when I get home, too, I’m sure.

Anyway, I was toward the front with my suitcase, big ol’ duffel bag and backpack when the guy who checks the baggage tells everyone that they can only take one bag due to lack of space. Nuts.

I get to the front of the line and explain my predicament.

The man’s face contorted itself into the most agonizing grimace I’ve ever seen in real life. One of his eyes was clamped shut, and the other was bulging out. His teeth were bared, and his jaw pulled further left than any man’s ought to be able.

He must have been thinking quite hard. The guy in front of my didn’t have any luggage for under the coach.

My suggestion was going to be that we pretend that one of my big bags was actually his for awhile, and I’d just sit with my backpack on my lap.

I didn’t dare break this man’s concentration, as it seemed like he was going to expel some great profundity or perhaps profanity. Either way, I wanted to hear it.

As it turned out, he came to the same conclusion that I had. I was relieved at first that my precious cargo of peanut butter wouldn’t have to be left behind, but then I was a bit nervous that such a simple decision had the man, who was also our driver, near the point of aneurysm.

What would happen when something a bit more complicated came along, say whether or not to floor it at a yellow light? As it turned out, nothing.

I’m here once again, safe and sound in my snug, little room, denying myself sleep until 9 o’clock so that the jet lag monster won’t keep me down all week.

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Chris Crouch is a sophomore in political science from Rapid City, Ill.