This Yorkshire Life

Sometimes I wish I was blessed with the gift of spontaneous poetic inspiration. You know, like at the beginning of Beauty and the Beast when Belle gives a musical run-down of the happenings of her small provincial life. "There goes the baker with his tray like always, the same old bread and loaves to sell!"
Lately, I've been listening to Fleet Foxes more than is normal, which means that spring is upon us, and, with it, breathtakingly beautiful days. Don't get me wrong: there are still mornings when I look out the window, see the mist and drizzle, and say, "Britain, you and I are fighting" before jerking back the curtains. This week, however, Britain and I have been getting along swimmingly.
Yesterday was Friday, which means it was one of the busiest days in town. It also happened to be the most beautiful day we have had so far. After class, I was going to go back to my flat and do some homework (a task I am shamelessly putting on the back burner), but I couldn't do it. It had to get out into the fresh air. Walking down Low Petergate and rounding the corner to the Minster Square never fails to amaze me, and yesterday was no different. The sun was shining; the town was bustling with families, tourists, shoppers; there is a street performer who always sings in front of St. Michaels whose repertoire I know by heart; there is noise and excitement and a kind of fervor for life and—!
You see what I mean? Sometimes I want to twirl around with my arms open and start singing "The streets are alive with the sound of busking." I might even be able to garner a few pounds.
After being here a handful of weeks, I have found myself taking York for granted. I know all the streets and shops; I pass by them almost every day. Yesterday, however, I forced myself to look up and take in the town. One thing I've noticed about medieval architects is that they didn't give two straws about symmetry, uniformity, or straight lines. All the buildings slant and curve and eagerly lean forward. I have this theory that the builders did it on purpose. They knew that in about five hundred years, people would find this charming, thereby assuring that the buildings would last as delightful examples of medieval haphazardness.
As I'm halfway through the semester, I'm starting to feel panicky about leaving. I've taken this town on as my own. I'm starting to appreciate York's corners and recesses. Paradoxically, I'm starting to feel a great longing for piling into the car and going to Grand Haven to watch the sunset.
Traveling is confusing.