Street 3: Why I Now Hate Bees

"I would punch every bee in the face! Bees are not taking me out." -Dane Cook

I never expected that coming to England would give me a newfound fear. However, because of the visit to Stowe garden last week, I am positive that I have been traumatized by my interactions with bees. The little pests kept crawling on my hair, my sunglasses, my face, and even my lips over and over again. These bees were brazen, aggressive, and by the third time of feeling a stupid bee's legs on my lips, I wanted to get on the bus and leave the English countryside forever.
And now, the psychological trauma has followed me to Oxford. Every time I see a flying thing, whether it is a bee, fly, butterfly, or piece of fuzz, I jump and emit and embarrassing yelp, a reaction I simply cannot control. When a bee flew into my room today and I ran away
into the hall, I had to ask myself: Did I ever expect to go to England and return with a bee phobia?
Of course not. It is strange---when we travel, many unexpected things occur, some delightful and some horrifying. As a tourist, we spend countless hours packing and planning for all different situations, events, weather, emergencies to avoid being caught off guard when these surprises happen. Indeed, packing is sort of like trying to predict the future, and the more we pack, the more secure we feel. Our luggage and our plans give us a snug sense of protection from the unknown. Therefore, we carry the perfect amount of cash, bandaids, the right kind of clothes, shoes, and extra this or that, just in case. After all, we have heard countless horror stories of lost passports, muggings, being stranded, etc. However, when something strange and quirky occurs while abroad, what do we do with the experiences? Do they make us feel like failures for not predicting them? Of course, bees, spiders, and bedbugs were the last thing on my mind when coming to Oxford. If I did think of that, I would be worried about myself. Trips and life are the same in that one cannot predict the future in either instance. Personally, I have come to the conclusion that horror stories of the road are part of the beauty of travel. Just like life, the unknown can be scary or exciting, and in the end, either one makes a good story. This is what really matters, although I fear that moments of flailing, yelping, and grimacing at random times throughout the day will continue until I leave Oxford.