I imagine it is easy to make study here a full time job: unlike the courses I’ve taken in Australia, which only have one or two essays due a semester, the courses I am taking here will have work due every week. Both the New 18th Century and Dickens will require a weekly response paper of around 1000 words—in addition to a major paper at the end of semester. Approaches to Teaching Writing will have other work due—planning a syllabus in weekly stages for teaching a writing course. There’s something exhilarating about the idea of all this work—but it will also be a test. I assume from what I’ve heard that many undergraduate subjects function in a similar manner: there is a constant workload. This means, I suppose, it is difficult to put things off until the last minute—you can put off the weekly paper until the night before (or, I suppose, the morning of the class), but nevertheless you have to keep working throughout the semester. As an undergraduate I often tried to make this work, but it was only when I got to Honours that I had any kind of working method that would allow me to do this. When I began my research work on Henry James in Melbourne I consolidated a work pattern of daily reading and daily writing—if I hadn’t done so, I don’t know if I would be ready for this undertaking.

I am also beginning to find out more about my role as a Writing Center Associate (reluctantly I’ve begun to spell it the American way—it is, after all, their “center”) attached to Liberal Studies. It is in fact a new role, so it has a lot of responsibility attached to it. I will be facilitating a thesis support group for students undertaking a MA in Liberal Studies. These students are non-traditional—that is, they are by and large adults who work, who may be returning to study, or may be taking on a different field. I’ve been advised many of them may be professional writers, but unfamiliar with the writing requirements of academic work. In the coming weeks I’ll be meeting the teachers who run their initial Thesis Proposal Workshops, as well as Thesis Mentors to find out what areas the feel students may need assistance with, as well as meeting with the students themselves to find out what their main concerns are. I suspect that all I can do is play it by ear, keep careful notes of everything and find out what seems to work by doing it. I’m looking forward to it—I think it will be immensely rewarding, and I always think it is very brave to return to study as an adult—probably even more so here in the US, where college seems to be such a youth-oriented experience. I imagine I will act in some ways as a liaison between staff and students, that I will become a sounding board, and that I will also try to create a group whereby students can discuss work with each other, instead of feeling that the process of writing a thesis leaves them cut off from the rest of the world. Or at least, that's what I hope will happen.

Which is all to say, there is no lack of things going on that will keep me busy.

It seems I’m one of the lucky ones. There are thirty-seven in the starting class for the English Masters Program. We all had to register for classes today, the same classes that second year students also take, which all have a cap of 18 students. Some students were waitlisted on their first two choices and even their third choice for the two classes that they had to take. Because of my (say it with me) immigration status I have to take three classes to qualify as fulltime—but I managed to enrol in all three of my choices. So, starting this Wednesday I will be taking Approaches to Teaching Writing (compulsory for my position as a Writing Centre Associate, and no, I won’t spell Centre the odd American way), The New 18th Century (and don’t ask me what was wrong with the old one) and Dickens. I suppose my choices were unfashionable. Everyone seemed to want the Modernism subject and contemporary theory. But I’m happy.

It’s starting to feel like the period of arrival, and all the messiness that entails, is coming to an end. I’ve had a home for a week, I have a mattress arriving Tuesday, I have some clothes hanging on a clothes rack, a walked six blocks in the stifling heat with my new desk (it’s a card table. I won’t pretend it was some Herculean feat—just a little bit of a work. It’s a heavy card table.) I have a bookshelf, on which I have books stacks. All in all, my new home is starting to resemble a home, and not a temporary stopping place. I feel very lucky in the things I’ve picked up secondhand so far. By the time I get to Ikea next weekend (there is a real sense of relief when you get to a new country and the Ikea catalogue has all the same old items in it… some people might feel this way about a Big Mac, but for me it’s good old build-it-yourself-with-an-Allen-key furniture) I’m not sure there’ll be much left to do. And I finally bought some stamps, so I’ve embarked on my general letter-writing crusade.

A few days ago I went to the National Portrait Gallery—it felt like I was really taking a bit of a sprint through it. I was finding out what was there permanently to come back to later, and also taking a bit more time with a couple of temporary exhibitions ending very soon—including an exhibition of works from the British National Portrait Gallery. I found myself face-to-face with the John Singer Sargent portrait of Henry James that I’ve seen reproduced so often in my books. It’s always strangely moving when I have those experiences, finding myself suddenly in front of a painting I’ve known but never seen, and didn’t expect to here. In Firenze, it was the Bronzino portrait of Lucretia Panciatichi that James scholars have identified as that which Milly Theale encounters at Matcham. Here it was the master himself. I suppose it would be churlish in this instance to be disappointed that the Bronte portrait wasn’t also in DC—I’ve wanted to see that painting (that’s been through so much…) in person for years.

I have ventured out to a few farmers’ markets in the past few days—bought locally grown green tomatoes in Wednesday at Rose Park, and today I went to the larger Eastern Market. I plan to go to Dupont tomorrow—once I’ve had a chance to see them all, I can decide which will be the best to shop at.

Last night had a few people over—an impromptu evening where, no-one will be surprised to learn, I fed a few of my “orphans.” Gia, another Australian girl, came around with some cheese and crackers, as I’d bought a bottle of wine at Trader Joe’s earlier. Then Aga, a Polish girl here for a PhD in Economics, arrived and announced she was hungry. I was glad of a chance to get to feel more at home in the kitchen, and as I’ve already made a pesto a few days before, I made ravioli with pesto, cherry tomatoes, eggplant and spinach for us three. Soon after that Maryléne, a French exchange student who’s been staying with me while looking for a place, arrived home and joined in the cheese eating. Finally Sheena and Jeannine showed up as well. It was a nice, though relatively quiet, night. Gia, Aga and Jeannine went onto a party that was starting up at 10.30, while I went to do a little reading and then crashed.

I have a home, and a new network of friends.

I have a secret society, the Kennedy Orphans.

I have a permanent phone number. And a swanky new cell phone.

I have begun to compile a list of American journals to send work to, and have found work by a few very new poets who I’d like to contact.

I have subscribed to five magazines, and think I’m going to balance one more on top of that pile. (A couple are only bi-monthly or quarterly… I can manage!)

I have sat through long sessions informing me of all the ways I could violate my immigration status.

I have nine long-distance Scrabble matches on the boil care of Facebook and Scrabulous.

I have a plan to meet a couple of girls from the English program tomorrow at The Tombs.

I have real food in the cupboard, after a trip to Trader Joe’s. I bought organic strawberries. Cheap.

*

I don’t yet have a Social Security Number. That’s four hours of my life I’m yet to go through.

I don’t yet have a bed. I’m sleeping on my housemate’s futon, which will become our couch as soon as I find something to sleep on permanently.

I don’t yet have textbooks. But I’ve hardly had any time to read either. Next week.

I have not yet received any mail. But I only moved into a real address last Saturday.

I have not been to a single museum yet. I plan to remedy this today. National portrait gallery anyone?

*

I probably will never have stamps. I swear, post offices are scarce in this part of town.

My first surreal-celebrity experience. I was in “Creamcheese Annie”—a vintage store I couldn’t resist, looking at 50s dresses and designer jeans when I turned around and there was a girl who I thought was the spitting image of Nicole Richie. I just smiled and wandered to another rack, and then suddenly the store manager, the owner and the owner’s husband were all there, pulling out Pucci scarves and designer sunglasses, asking “Do you like YSL?” in amongst gushing “Thankyou for coming!” and “I’m such a fan!” (I have to admit, I’ve never really found out what she does, other than feuding with Paris Hilton. But I was heartened to see that “size zero” in the flesh wasn’t, in fact, scary looking .)

I’ve had something of a taste of being an international student since arriving in DC, though I’m not sure it is really comparable to the experiences of other international students, because English is my first language—even if I don’t quite speak (or spell) American. Still, it’s been a constant challenge that I’ve arrived at apartments, at houses, at basements and had to explain that I’m Australian, and figure cultural translations as I go. I assume that because I am Caucasian and speak English fluently I must have a much, much easier time than some of the other students I’ve met—but then, everyone I’ve met has been incredibly helpful. People are interested, ready with advice. I find it ironic that from the stories I have heard the Off-Campus Housing Department seem to have been the least friendly, least helpful people the students who’ve been looking for housing this week have met. In my part, these are only stories—I suppose I had already figured out that there was no magic equation to make finding a place easier. Everyone looking has access to the same resources—everyone has been sharing war stories of Craigslist for the past week. Dreary, expensive basements, ritzy condos, shared bedrooms, and, too, the rare bargain. It’s been quite a week.

Today I signed a lease. This in itself was a difficult process: I’ve found a home (a lovely, and too-expensive home—as far as I’m concerned it will be like living in the Hilton long term…) with a new flatmate, Annie. I met the landlord today, and provided every scrap of financial information I had with me. Because I’ve never had a US bank account before, or a credit card or social security number either, I have no credit history. Some international students haven’t had to go through that, while I was told that along with the letters and references I have provided, the landlord will also run a background check on me, and see if he can get an Australian credit report as well. Nonetheless, I’ve signed on for 12 months, and move in Saturday morning. Tomorrow I’ve got to go searching for a mattress, so I will at least have something to sleep on, and Annie is helping me with some basic furnishings—bookshelf, desk, chair—and bedding.

Tonight I went out with new friends. I met Sheena (a Londoner, and a linguistics grad student) a few nights ago in the bathroom while brushing my teeth, and chatted to her for a few hours again last night. This afternoon I dropped in to say hello to her and met Janine (from Luxembourg, studying German literature) who was starting to get distressed because she hadn’t found a place yet. We all talked it out, and reassured her that no matter what, on Saturday when we leave the Georgetown dorms, she would be able to stay with one of us until she found her home here too. After this conversation she got an email about a shared basement, and we walked her up to 37th and T: after a haphazard tour, it looks like she’ll be taking the place there, in a furnished student sharehouse. Knowing that we were all taken care of, we went to The Tombs and shared a plate of hummus (delicious) and had some drinks. Anna (Colombian, studying Foreign Service) regaled us with stories of her earlier American College experiences when she’d attended a college in Massachusetts. “You will see people turn up to classes half an hour late in their pyjamas. No pens, just a coffee. Wearing pyjamas is allowed. It’s considered free speech.” I suppose, when undergraduate students have to live on campus for their first two years, sometimes it must seem easier than getting dressed. But you won’t catch me doing it.

I never want to see this bed again.

When I was in Italy studying the language a few years ago, I met an American judge who was a friend of my flatmate’s mother. She told me that when she was young she’d joined the peace corps, and she still considered their method the best one for teaching a foreign tongue: when she had arrived in whichever South American country she was sent to, they threw her straight into the middle of it. Find a place to live, and find a way to communicate—the only rule was that you couldn’t live with other Americans. In that situation she learned Spanish pretty quickly. I feel like I’m learning DC just as quickly: so here I am, in the deep end. And it turns out American isn’t really a language I speak, though I’m getting there.

When I got up Saturday morning I just had this task in front of me: get to know the city, find a place to live. Well, I don’t think I’ve penetrated far into DC, but I’ve at least learned the bus system, visited quite a few different areas, found a few spots that provide drinkable coffee. I’ve been within 3 blocks of the White House and had no idea that that was the case, though, so I suppose being a tourist comes later. Or as a friend said to me: you’ve got your priorities—you’ve found vintage clothes, good books and fresh food. And when I’ve got two years ahead of me, and not two weeks, I suppose that it’s the everyday comforts which come first.

So here it is: the deep end. I’ve looked at three apartments. One lovely (but not available for another few weeks), one awful and one somewhere in between. I’m looking at two more shared apartments tomorrow, and waiting to hear back from a real estate agent about some new one bedroom places in Mt Pleasant that fit in my price range. I suppose house hunting is just as awful no matter where you do it, but I suppose it’s this feeling of potential freefall that goes alongside it: I have to be out of the dorms here in another five days.

Walking down the streets of Georgetown today, I feel like I’ve only just started to understand what affluence is: and no matter how materialistic I may be, I admit I find it quite disturbing. The row houses are beautiful, the cobbled streets poetic, but among other things, Georgetown feels like a particularly white enclave in the city. I went to Adams Morgan today, and found a much more vibrant mix of cultures—it felt more natural. And I got served the single biggest cup of coffee (and a proper caffe latte, too) I have ever drunk. It’s not all Starbucks.

I think I've found the deal of the century - at Firehook bakery I've gotten a lovely lunch of Chickpea Lemon Salad for $2.07 with tax, and, what's more, am able to pick up some open wireless network or other for free. The salad is good - and healthy - and its only a stone's throw away from Kramerbooks. I'm planning a visit there next. But no buying! Well, not today at least.

I got into a long conversation yesterday at Starbucks by a lady who is 76 and living at a shelter. She had studied music at the University of Indiana when she was young (when I was doing music, that was my dream school - I fell in love with Donald Freund's music and wanted to study with him) and then Theology at the Catholic University in DC. She lived with the nuns at the Catholic U, and worked for years typing up theses and manuscripts. She was an interesting lady - we talked about John Donne and Herrick. It was disheartening to see her sitting there with all her belongings, not sure when she would find a permanent place to live.

The first house interview today: with a divorced Algerian epic poet. He seemed very gentle - and looked, I must admit, like an Algerian Woody Allen. I think he's not used to people knowing where Algeria is - he took some time describing its position. We chatted about poetic forms and rhythm, as well as despotic rulers.

I made it downtown - very briefly - today. First went to Chapters, in its new location. It was shut. Stared inside, and thought it looked pretty, but I like any book shop that displays novels and not diet books in the window. Kramerbooks will do nicely for now anyway. After staring forlornly into Chapters I wandered down to the mall, which wasn't like I'd imagined it. I suppose it'll need a bit of rain to stop looking so parched, and then I'll get in some more time there.

ITomorrow I've got to try to tackle some more of the administrative side of things - to pay Georgetown fees and set up a bank account. I still haven't decided on a bank.

I am not jetlagged. This is a minor miracle - I managed to sleep enough on the plane(s) to survive the journey, but no so much that I had any problem going straight to sleep when I hit the pillow last night at 11pm. Woke to my travel alarm at 10am and made my way to Dean & Deluca where, sadly, Scott Speedman was not making the coffee.

My list of things to do today was not terribly strenuous: eat some food, get a cell phone, check some more housing ads and ring home to say I've arrived safely. I think the call home must have been about 4am Melbourne time, so I can only apologise for that, but I've achieved all the above. I'm blown away by the size of a "small" caffe latte, but they're drinkable, and not as expensive as I'd dreaded.

Walking along M street I encountered lots of fancy dress shops I plan to investigate further in the future. I also spied a vintage shop that was called (wait for it!) Creamcheese Annie. Now I'm definitely checking that out. I have largely managed to avoid tourist sites so far - I saw Georgetown's Old Stone House, but haven't been near the Mall or the Capitol or the White House yet. But I did entertain the guy who helped me with my cell phone (hey, I've got the lingo, straight up!) by showing him the pictures on Australia coins. He liked the echidna.

I was feeling a bit at sea - especially when I got to the old address for Chapters bookshop only to find it had moved - until I got to Kramerbooks. Oh! My new home! Feeling I should get into a Washingtonian spirit, I'm now the proud owner of "The Education of Henry Adams." I have to finish my Lionel Shriver - "The Post-Birthday World" care of Kevin and Jennifer, but after that I expect some serious reading to take place. And at some point I'll go check out this city. Right now, though, I'm happy with a few healthy, sensibly sized meals and sleep.

I've chosen my books. There will be heartache when I realise certain things aren't with me, and I'm sure there'll be an Amazon wishlist, requests for suddenly necessary books to be sent over and a truckload of new purchases. But it's done.

I am reading Lionel Shriver's new novel on the plane. I am taking the first volume of Peter Porter's collected poems and the complete Zbigniew Herbert, and buying new poetry to read upon arrival. I'm taking my comfort-zone stack of Anne Carson's.

I find it hard to realise that I'm taking perhaps one percent of my collection, and that the rest are sitting in boxes under my parents' house, or on shelves inside. I'm sure I'll collect a few books when I'm home at the end of the year, but in the mean time, I feel like I'm grieving my collection.