Fly to London, take a bus to Reading and catch a train to Exeter. I’ve been over it so many times since I first decided to spend a year abroad at the University of Exeter in England that it seemed as if I had known the plan since birth. And I made it, too, though a little behind schedule.

The jet from O’Hare to London Heathrow was brand-new. It even had little TV screens built into every seat. This may not be an exclusive property of the newer jets, but I’ve never seen it before. I crammed myself into my little seat and busied myself looking at the movie selection for the flight.

We took off after awhile and I donned my headphones and switched to the channel showing “Election.” I was disappointed to find that some of the best lines in the movie had been edited out, but not entirely surprised. After a documentary on the Alamo, another watered down movie (“The Spy Who Shagged Me” minus the naughty bits) and too many viewings of the same seven minute long CNN Airline Channel clip, we were almost there.

Upon landing, we were informed that the terminal gate we were to dock at was ablaze, and we would have wait until they could send busses onto the tarmac to get us. In the meantime, for our “listening enjoyment” the crew switched the overhead speakers to the “light hits” station on the audio program offered on just about every flight. The set list consisted of a continuous loop of “The Hustle” and “Dancing Queen.”

Two hours later, we were loaded onto a handful of coaches and released at a gate, presumably a safe distance from the flames, with the entire population of the airplane singing Abba under its breath.

I missed my bus at the airport. Having caught the next one a half-hour later, I arrived at Reading too late to get to the train I was supposed to board. I had a couple of hours to kill at the station until the next one would arrive.

As I sat and waited, a little boy, maybe 8 years old, was wandering around asking everyone, “Have you got a ciggy?” Eventually, someone gave him one, and he promptly lit it and started puffing away. I was both disgusted and delighted at the same time. Disgusted that this kid was already addicted to something that would make him smell so bad, but delighted for some sinister reason I couldn’t quite understand.

It was probably a combination of my cynicism towards those in the United States who would ban anything and everything they themselves didn’t enjoy and a vicarious sense of getting away with something.

After two days of zombie-like existence in a hotel, I had adjusted myself to the time zone. Unfortunately, my sleep patterns prevented me from getting any food for this time (stores close at 5:00, and restaurants aren’t always open much later). I realized I was starving and headed to the grocery store shortly after dropping off my luggage at the flat in which I am staying.

I bought a week’s worth of food: a loaf of bread, some peanut butter and some jelly. I stopped to look at the spotted dick but decided against it.

After shopping here, I will never complain about prices at home again. When I first made my way through the store here, I thought, “No problem, these prices look the same as Hy-Vee,” and they did. Then I started thinking about the fact that these prices were in pounds and not dollars.

A pound comes to about $1.75 by the time all the transfer fees are paid. Fortunately, PB&J is economical as well as easy.

There are certainly some things to get used to here. Things that are second nature at home require a seemingly unreasonable amount of forethought in England.

Take crossing the road. This fundamental skill we mastered as children has become useless to me here.

Every time I step into the street, I take my life into my hands. It is surprisingly easy to forget that cars travel in the opposite lanes here. Being reminded isn’t a pleasant prospect either, as it usually comes in the form of a large bus or other vehicle bearing down on me as I wonder what it’s doing in the wrong lane. Then I remember and dart back onto the curb.

The city of Exeter has painted little arrows on the street, designating the proper direction to look in the more touristy parts of town, but they have left the hapless American students to their own wits to survive on High Street.

Another unexpected facet of English life I have only recently come to understand is that coins are worth spending. There are no bills smaller than a five pound note here. Everything else is in coin.

At home, I made a habit of throwing all my change in a drawer and turning it back into real money every month or so. After two days of letting my change collect, I realized that sum of the change I had in my drawer nearly equaled the GDP of some Third World nations. I’ve started to carry the one and two pound coins with me.

I’m slowly getting the hang of living here, at least in the most basic terms. Classes have just started and when they get going, I’ll have a new set of differences to get used to; hopefully nothing as life threatening as crossing the road.

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