There are perks to being a geography student. You get to travel and call it research. And there are perks to being a foreign student; every field site represents a new area to indulge in tourism. So when I came across the English town, Cockermouth, as part of my dissertation on Slow Cities, it was the perfect combination: a place to document towns which prided themselves on the artisan way of life, at the same time near enough to the famed Lake District to have a tourist’s field day. But there are downsides to being a student too, and in a country where currency exchange rates do not favour yours. You’re poor, downright broke and having to squeeze every pound and penny, literally, to make travelling work. And so it was that I went on my way to Cockermouth. Armed with a snigger at the spelling of the name but knowing better to keep a stiff upper lip (the British shortened the pronunciation of these things anyways) I was to get into "cou-ker-mirth" by train and bus, a good half day's trip from London. The first day was uneventful. Following methodologies prescribed by the textbook, I proceeded to create a photojournal: taking pictures and conducting interviews to tell the lived experience through sight and sound. Cockermouth was a generic enough small town. It was compact and organised along a main thoroughfare and weekly farmers’ market. There was a Sainsbury’s, the ubiquitous orange lettering dismaying my Slow City sensibilities, but secretly delighting the cosmopolitan self to see that globalisation had extended its reach to even areas branding themselves as its antithesis. The next day I planned a visit to Keswick, “cass-ic”, one of the larger towns where the action was at. There was only one connecting bus route – the X4/5, running on the half hour or one hour during off-peak periods and Sundays. In a place where everyone drove, I dreaded the prospect of waiting for a half-empty bus to turn up, and was relieved when the bus actually appeared on time and upon my clamber onboard, rumbled along its way. Surprisingly, the bus started to fill up. I eventually found myself bus companions with an elderly gentleman, a carbon copy of the grandpas in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” I turned my attention to outside the window. To be honest, for a bus cutting through the Lake District, no glimpse of the legendary scenery was to be had. The bus had taken the path of least resistance which was a straight road through the flattest part of the terrain. I considered getting off to make a detour, but the reluctance of having to wait for a missed bus at a non-bus stop (they were more street posts with the bus schedule), and in the chilly English air, prevented this. The cold. It even threatened to rain, and I sighed at the thought of having to explore a town in inclement weather. A bit too loudly apparently, for my bus companion looked at me quizzically, and I blurted, “It looks like rain”. His reply was almost instantaneous: “Yes. Are you local?” A mix of emotions ensued: bewilderment and the sweet pleasure of success – success at blending in. His reply so swift, so earnest, did not seem sarcastic or patronising. Here was the quintessential definition of a middle-class, white old man, talking to the walking definition of exotic Asian girl. And asking if I was local? “No, I’m from Singapore.” At that moment, something in his face shifted. Gone was any hope of striking up a conversation. “Oh.” Ten years on, I don’t remember much of the rest of the ride, or the textbook prescribed photojournal, or if those were the exact words that I spoke. Perhaps it was just a blip in an old man’s morning routine, in a foreign geography student’s field work (it certainly didn’t make a difference to my dissertation grade). But it stuck. Facebook resurfaces my post on this bus ride on its anniversary each year, a small celebration of a local connection made, and all because I talked about the weather. Now, they say, avoid clichés, but aren’t clichés just the textbooks of life?