My final loveletter to London

Yes, the title of this post probably has an unsettling and slightly morbid finality to it, and yes, I don’t technically leave London until Wednesday morning. But I’m writing my last post now, on Saturday night, because I think that if I put it off any longer, my final night will become the collapse of nostalgia and tears that may be inevitable but I’m still hoping to avoid. It’s already come close to that: it’s been pretty hard for my abroad friends and me to not have full blown discussions about our departures and how much we’ll miss each other, but mostly how much we’ll miss London, and what our lives have been like since we’ve been here. It has been a whirlwind five months of mostly fun and games. But even more than that, it’s the feeling summed up perfectly in this Azar Nafisi quote that I copped from Lisa:

“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place, like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.”

It’s a feeling that I knew was going to come, and was afraid would come, and now has come. It’s the feeling that going home will make us feel like we’re back at square one, like we’ve forgotten how much we’ve grown or that it will all seem like it was a dream. We have to face the realization that, contrary to our feelings otherwise, the American hometown we normally live in has continued on without us and will be pretty much the same as we left it, even though we feel like it should’ve stood still to wait, or maybe that it should have changed with us. My abroad friends from London and I will have to face the fact that our lives here—lives in which we’ve been free to do what we want, and go out on a Tuesday because we feel like it, or hang out at Hyde Park for four hours or meet for a pint because we want to and because we’re young and these are the things young people do—have to end, and that now we have to go back to our old lives which, although are great and fulfilling, just aren’t as magical as London has been for us.

Maybe that’s good: I keep telling my mom (or maybe I’m just trying to convince myself) that this dream-life can’t have continued much longer without losing some of its luster. And I would certainly much rather leave the party at its peak and wish I could’ve stayed than staying long enough to see the champagne run out. But the thought of returning to real life makes me a little afraid: London, and studying abroad, is one of the last things in my life that I was really sure would happen (although I didn’t know what to expect.) Other than graduation next year, I have no idea what course my life will take, and I already know there will be countless days in my future where I’ll call Lisa and Spain and my American study abroaders, or Facebook Ashley or my other British friends, and lament about how great and sparkling and magical our lives here were. I’m pretty sure I’ll sound like an Army vet, recounting his glory days.

I’m not complaining: I’m absolutely grateful. London (and my wonderful, amazing, hugely generous parents) has been good to me, and I wouldn’t want these five months to end any other way: with a sense of loss at leaving, but also with the realization that we’re wildly lucky to have even experienced it. So tomorrow I’ll get up and sit in St Paul’s churchyard and enjoy a morning coffee, and then I’ll go to The Church (a daytime club) with my friends, and, over the next three days, say my goodbyes to London. I know it won’t ever be quite the same again, but I’ll be back, and I know this city won’t disappoint. See ya soon, London.

Proof that at least two people read this blog!

It has been brought to my attention by a concerned citizen (hi Audrey Hudson) that I am neglecting this blog. She is right. It isn't that I haven't been doing blog-worthy activities (I didn't even talk about my whirlwind trip through Italy or Ing's visit to London). It's just that writing blogs would make me have to start to come to terms with the fact that I'm leaving London in less than two weeks, and thinking about that makes me a little sick.

BUT for a quick recap before I start to cry (JOKES, kind of): Yesterday I was supposed to have my last exam, which would have left me home free to enjoy my last couple weeks. But a half hour into the exam, when I was already 1/3 of the way through my essays and feeling good about the grade boost it would give me, the fire alarm went off. Sweet. We all rushed outside, stood for a half hour, and came back into the room to be told by the registrar that the test had to be abandoned and would be rescheduled. It's now this upcoming Monday at 10...exactly when I am boarding a flight to Barcelona. So now I'm headed into Central to turn in paperwork so I don't have to show up to the resit and can instead do a take-home assignment...not exactly what I wanted for my last week, but eh, shit happens.

Last night, Lisa, Spain, Hilary and I went to Belgo, a Belgian restaurant in Covent Garden with BOMB mussels and pomme frites. They were delicious (I had mussels steamed in cream, garlic and celery), especially when accompanied by raspberry beer and followed with creme brulee. (I think I'll be making a pit stop to some chic Belgian restaurant in two weeks on my train layover in Brussels.)

I won't go into detail about why we all met up last night, but suffice it to say it was one of the last nights we would all be in town at the same time. Not that any of us ever need an excuse to nom on everything in sight, but last night's reason was actually kinda valid.

Anywho, tomorrow I'm off for a bound-to-be-hilarious weekend of camping in Brighton for my lovely friend Ashley's birthday. Monday I head to Barcelona, return Friday, and enjoy five glorious days in London before I train it to Holland for six days with the Karsches, then head to America. AHHHH, it's impossible that this has to end.

PS: to any friends from the Valley/anyone who in the off chance would be seeing my dad, DON'T mention my end-of-May return. I'm surprising him for Father's Day; he thinks I'm coming home June 15. Luckily, he is computer illiterate and has no idea how to access this blog.

W&K Obsessed

I’ve had so many amazing moments in London so far this semester, but yesterday lands on the top of the list. To me, the energy in the city was defined by dichotomies: one moment, perhaps when Kate fans reflected on her rise to princess-dom, would be cheerful, and the next wistful, as broadcasters lamented on Diana’s absence; the crowds were loud as David and Victoria Beckham entered the Abbey, then calm and focused as Kate and her father glided down the aisle; police were both on-edge as they kept eyes peeled for unrest and loosened up as they smiled and laughed at the approximately 1 million well-wishers who filled the streets. It was a day of singularity with other members of a city which I’m starting to think of as my own: Will and Kate masks were everywhere. Champagne corks littered Hyde Park. The crowd’s collective breath was taken away when Kate and Will stepped onto the balcony, and they collectively exploded into cheers when they kissed.

I can be pretty cynical, but after much research (I would rather not admit how freaking obsessed I am with W&K, or how many times I’ve already Youtubed their balcony kiss and her walk down the aisle, as well as Charles’ and Diana’s terribly awkward wedding videos for the sake of comparison) I am convinced that Will and Kate are really, actually in love. (Kate would either have to be crazy for him or just plain crazy to subject herself, her family and friends, and her future children to that kind of life.) Will’s murmur of “You look beautiful” when he saw her at the altar and their shared fight not to break into smiles during the ceremony was proof enough. Even now, as I work on my (last!) paper, I can’t help but flip through BBC’s photos of the day. But it’s not just photos of Will and Kate that I’m drawn to—it’s photos of faces painted, flag-wearing, dancing, drunk people who, whether they believe it’s real or not, can't help cheering (and taking a celebratory swig) for a happy ending.

Busybusybusy in London

I haven’t forgotten about this blog. Really, I haven’t. It’s just that I’ve been homework-doing (also known as all the papers I should’ve done throughout the semester but pushed off until the last two weeks), football game-attending (Lisa and I went to Sunday’s Fulham v. Blackpool game, where we had exceptional second-row, behind-the-goal seats, and where I fell in love with my 2-goal-scoring future husband), fashion-blogger-accompanying (my friend Ashley has a fabulous fashion blog—check it out here—and to give him material, we went to a fashion extravaganza at Westfield, where I had my hair and makeup done for free, and got to prance around in a great Reiss dress for about 20 minutes- HEAVEN), and adventure-anticipating (my mom arrives on Thursday, we head to Scotland Saturday and the following Friday my friends and I embark on our 12-day Italian gelato/pasta/pizza extravaganza.)

I think there are more hyphens in the above paragraph than I've ever used in my entire life.

The English and their love affair with strikes, protests, and general unrest

Saturday began as a normal Saturday in London does: I went to Portobello Road with my friend Ashley, got annoyed by the hordes of tourists (as if I wasn’t one myself three short months ago, and probably would still be considered one), and we headed to Oxford Street to search for a maxi dress. There were hordes of people there, too, but instead of wielding cameras and fanny-packs (okay, okay: I didn’t actually see anyone wearing a fanny pack at Portobello), they had signs and chants. We had run into part of the strike.

Londoners (and people from all over England) were protesting about government cuts in the public sector, and they planned to march from Victoria Station through the city, ending in Hyde Park. But the mood at Oxford Circus, where Ashley and I eventually drifted to, was a little tenser. It was mostly younger people, and they weren’t marching—they were standing in a huge clump in the center of Oxford Circus, waving signs that read “We Are Fucking Angry” and “Globalise Resistance.” They were chanting at the police; they were climbing on traffic lights and the entrance to the Tube. Although Ashley and I didn’t witness it, they had also thrown paint and smashed windows at Topshop, who they accused of dodging taxes and therefore contributing to the need to cut public sector jobs.

Eventually, we made our way down Regent Street, and things got a little heavier. A bunch of police vans (at least 12, probably) lined one side of the street; as the vans moved, the mass of people moved to block them from continuing, chanting “Our streets!” When the riot police got out of the vans, the crowd quickly conceded that these were, in fact, the police’s streets too, and the crowd broke up. A scuffle and some cheering broke out outside a shop on the other side of the street; I turned around to see a cop draw his billy club and enter the fray. (I don’t think he probably used it, but it was still surprising to see.) Ashley and I, cameras drawn, continued toward the main march. We saw Fortnum and Mason, a London-owned specialty food store, get its windows smashed, and saw where protesters had earlier smashed windows at the Ritz.

Much later in the night, after I’d met Lisa and her sister, we were coming back into central from Lisa’s flat in south London, and we got off at Charing Cross station. We exited the station via the rail station instead of the usual exit into Trafalgar Square. We were trying to get our bearings when we looked to our left; across the entire street, a line of police with riot shields were standing, ready to hold their ground. A man came up to us and handed us papers that, in intimidating letters, read “BUST CARD”, detailing what rights we had in court and jail. “In case you get arrested tonight,” he said.

Even the most level-headed of ex-pats would’ve been paranoid, especially considering the rumors we all heard about abroad students’ run-ins with police. (“They’ll deport you on sight if you’re caught at a protest!” our overly cautious program coordinators had told us.) I was certainly in a frenzy, and we high-tailed it out of the area. But I went to bed that night with a sense of energy and love for the city I hadn’t had before. Don’t get me wrong: I’m thrilled that I didn’t end up in jail…but I certainly gained a newfound respect for Londoner’s love of civil unrest.

SUNdon

The following is a message to my loyal reader(s?)...hi, Mom.

Somehow, I haven't written since March 9th?!? I wish I could say it's because I've been off doing fabulous things and seeing fabulous places, and while that is true to a point (London is pretty dang fabulous, after all) the truth is that I've been plugging away, very slowly, at my mountains and mountains and mountains of homework which are currently plaguing me.
Which brings me to my next point, which is that it is IMPOSSIBLE to do homework, since spring has hit London. I passed yesterday afternoon sitting on the lawn outside our halls, hanging out with my beyond glamorous, mojito-sipping friends (seriously, how does one pull off wearing a floor length, gauzy skirt and blazer while sitting on the ground? I have no idea, but this girl looked utterly chic.) Today, after a morning of renegotiating Tube routes thanks to a flood and fire at Charing Cross, Lisa and I walked to Hyde Park and sat on the grass, watched people, kicked away pigeons and soaked up the sun. (Note: I am no longer Vitamin-D deficient!) We finished the day with dinner and a pint somewhere near Holburn.
Now that I've updated the blogosphere (hi Luke! You know how I love that term!) about my perfect day, I must return, for the majority of the weekend, to my library-dwelling, significantly-less-fabulous self.
One final note: I have been cheating on this blog with a couple others. I guestblogged for Preseli Venture, the lovely bunch who took me coasteering in Wales--read that blog here. I'm also part of a food blog for University of Westminster called The Fat Sausage. Check it out!

London: Pros and Cons

I was Skyping last night with Ingrid (that's us at New Years on the left), and she asked me if I miss anything about home. And so it’s time for the inevitable blog post: things I miss (and don't miss) about America.

-free access to the university gym. Sorry, Health, but I’m not paying 30 quid a month to work out when I could spend it on food. Therefore, I also miss
- muscle tone. See you in June, abs.
-Clean air. My brief foray into extreme outdoor sports in Wales was a blessed break, but still. My lungs curse the day I chose to study in London.
-classes in which grades do not depend solely on a single paper.
-a texting and calling plan where things are just taken care of, instead of the monthly top-up ordeal that one-semester-only students like me use here.
-Jon Stewart. Because I've always been DTF him.

But there are things I certainly do not miss about home, too. That list includes:
-Hershey’s chocolate. Even if Cadbury was purchased by Kraft, the recipe has remained the same. Give me a bag of mini Cadbury buttons, and I will be satisfied for days.
-Boredom. My mom would reprimand me for even using this word (“People who are bored when their time is their own are either lazy or unimaginative!”), but Ohio doesn’t offer too many opportunities for entertainment. It’s forced me and fellow Ohioans to make our own fun, which is a skill I’m thankful to have honed, but London makes life easy. There is always something going on. Always.
-At least 40 minutes in the car to get to something of note. Here, just hop on the Tube, and I’m to my museum/concert venue/restaurant/pub in less than 20 minutes.

On that note, I’m off to class… (Note: It’s been sunny here THREE DAYS IN A ROW.)

Copenhangin' in Copenhagen, and Cliff-jumping in Wales

WHOA. I haven’t blogged since February 22? Time is seriously flying. (And based on other people’s study abroad blogs that I’m stalking, time is flying everywhere else, too.)

A LOT has happened since I was in Ireland. The last weekend in February, my friend Spain and I ventured to Copenhagen to visit several of her close college friends who are studying at Denmark International School. It’s an absolutely lovely city: the pastries are phenomenal (…I may have eaten hundreds in our four days there); the streets are quaint; the people are beautiful.

I’m not saying that people in London aren’t beautiful—I pass by several ‘fit’ guys a day going to and from class. But in Copenhagen, 8 out of 10 are hands-down, all-out beautiful (but in a way that it doesn’t seem like they’re trying; they’re just naturally stunning.) Blonde hair, blue eyes, poreless skin…sigh.

Anyway, we ate and drank coffee and danced. We also went to Christiania-- Wikipedia that if you don't know what it is, because it's worth knowing. Best of all, Gen (one of Spain’s friends) was lucky enough to snag the number of the hottie Italian waiter as we lingered over delicious pasta. (Half of that sentence is sarcastic, and it isn’t the part about the pasta.)

A fun fact/sidenote about Denmark: it doesn’t use the Euro. A good traveler would have looked something like that up before heading somewhere, but not Spain and me. We had our Euros out and ready when Gen told us that the Kroner Denmark’s currency. (Also, to convert to dollars, you have to divide the amount by 5, so a cheap coffee—which is hard to find in Copenhagen, as it is a pretty expensive city—would be 30-35 Kroner. The previously mentioned nice Italian meal cost almost 1,000 Kroner--eek!)

My marathon travel tour continued this past weekend, when I went on an Arcadia (my study abroad program) sponsored trip to Wales. Last Friday, we headed west across England and Wales (a nearly 5 hour trip that included two trains and a van ride), and arrived at Preseli Adventure Lodge near the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park late-ish on Friday night.

On Saturday morning, we rose early, and my group’s first mission of the day was coasteering. Coasteering is basically a combination of swimming, rock climbing up cliffs, and cliff-jumping off of said cliffs. My friend Lisa and I (along with the other members of our group) squeezed ourselves into winter wetsuits (absolutely squeeeeeeezed- it was the tightest thing I’ve ever worn) and hopped in the van that took us to the coast.

The Welsh coast is really stunning in and of itself, and the day we coasteered it was sunny and blue-skied. We trotted into the water and, for the next hour and a half, climbed up cliffs and jumped off them. (The highest we could jump off was about 30 feet high.) We also explored water-filled caves, since it was low tide.

Later in the afternoon we kayaked in the Atlantic, which was fun but would have been more appreciated if we all hadn’t been tuckered out from coasteering that morning (and I would’ve liked it much more if I hadn’t been a bit seasick.) Sunday morning we took a 7-mile hike along the Welsh coast, and Lisa and I continued our now-tradition of lifetalks at high altitudes. (She and I climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral together and had an in-depth talk there, too, so it’s become sort of a pattern.) It was exactly the fresh-air weekend I needed, away from the bustle, pollution and noise of London.

So here I am, in month three of my semester, with mountains of homework to do. I have hardly done any homework since my arrival (taking in the culture is learning!), so the next couple of weeks I’m going to try to put my proverbial nose to the grindstone. It’s less than a month until my mom comes (hi Mom!) and we embark on our week of Scottish exploration, and five weeks until I head to Italy for a gelatathon.

Strange to think I’ve literally been looking forward to this semester for years, and I’m almost halfway through. Time goes way too fast.

Ireland: Craic'in me up

Well, it’s almost 1 AM and I still haven’t begun packing for my weekend trip to Copenhagen, for which I leave on Thursday. I just got back yesterday from Dublin, and may I just say this: the Irish are the friendliest people I’ve met, and DAYUM can they cook.

We arrived last Thursday night to Abigail’s Hostel, which is located right on the River Liffey and about a block from the heart of Temple Bar, an area full of restaurants, bars and clubs. We explored a bit that night, but we crashed a couple hours after arrival. The next day, we checked out Trinity College, Ireland’s oldest university (if I’m remembering correctly.) It was only a few blocks from our hostel; Dublin isn’t a huge city, so most of the major sights were within walking distance. We snapped photos, wandered around Parliament and the Museum of Ireland, then grabbed some of the best food I’ve had so far at a pub called O’Neill’s, which a guy at our hostel had recommended. The pub itself was really interesting; vintage Guiness ads and old photos hung all over the wall, and the dark wood floors and walls added to the old-world feel. It was set up buffet-style, so we glanced at a menu and ordered. I got Sheppard’s pie and did not regret it; the corned beef was obviously excellent, too. One of my favorite things about travelling is eating the traditional/local food, so this lunch was a dream come true…although we all immediately headed back to the hostel for a nap, thanks to a food coma.

We awoke and headed back out to Temple Bar, to a bar with a live Irish band and way too many guys in matching plaid shirts. We danced, chatted with Irishmen, and Spain successfully avoided a creepy German in a scarf.

The next day we checked out Christchurch Cathedral (absolutely beautiful) and went to the underwhelming and overpriced Guiness Factory. It’s less of a factory (I was expecting something akin to the Budweiser factory in St. Louis, where you actually go through the areas where the beer is made) and more of a museum, and since I’m not that into the history of brewing (sorry Matt) I wasn’t totally into it. But the Sky bar at the top of the factory gives spectators a view of Dublin and the mountains for miles, so that made it worth it.

The part of the trip that made me utterly fall in love with Ireland came on Sunday, when we took a paddywagon tour to Wicklow, the county just south of Dublin. The six of us piled into a small bus, along with about 7 others and our tour guide/driver, Ed. Ed, a surprisingly mobile at least 80-year-old, knew his shit and was hilarious. Since it was foggy that day, he delayed our venture into the mountains, hoping the fog would clear off. (It didn’t.) He drove us around the coast near Dublin (oldish—and obviously badass—men were swimming in the Irish Sea) and around Dalkey. The view, even on the cloudy, misty day, was absolutely stunning. Ed pointed out Bono’s house and the bar he frequents when he’s home, Enya’s mock castle, and Van Morrison’s residence. Then we continued into the mountains and, throughout the day, went to Glendalough (which used to be a Catholic monastery until Henry VIII ordered it destroyed when he broke from Rome) and the two lakes it’s named for (“Glendalough” means “place of two lakes”, and they are serene and breathtaking.) It made me want to visit Ireland in April, when blooming heather makes the mountains purple. The Craic will undoubtedly, certainly be seeing my face again.

VDay: Eye on the Prize

...I’m really not a hopeless romantic.

It’s just that I’ve always kind of liked Valentine’s Day. It isn’t that I love the commercialization of it, or the roses or sappy cards; in fact, I generally find roses pretty insincere. (I also don’t like the fact that so many couples seem to make a big deal of the occasion but then in everyday existence, they don’t treat each other particularly well…ahem, that’s a topic for a non-travel blog.)

But despite all the cliché declarations of love, I adore the traditional wearing of red, the eating of chocolates, the celebration of amore, and the romantic ride on the London Eye. Wait, you didn’t do that for V-Day? Sorry ‘bout your luck.

My Valentine’s Day agenda began with a train ride to Oxford to meet up with my brother Matt’s friend Nikki, who goes to Denison and is studying at Oxford for the term. Since I didn’t have much time, she showed me the main attraction (Oxford’s Christ Church, the cathedral and surrounding grounds…they were absolutely BEAUTIFUL), and we enjoyed sandwiches (mine was a bacon, Brie and basil panini), Cadbury caramel milkshakes, and Bailey’s lattes. It was the perfect rainy afternoon for a foodie like me, and I definitely intend on going back for more exploring.

Then I headed back into London and, seeing as I don’t exactly have a Valentine, met up with my friends Spain and Hilary at the London Eye. I was running late thanks to a very crowded Bakerloo line, and I told them when I got there that I’d felt like the London version of Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle: It was raining, and I was wearing a (in my mind, very chic) scarf over my hair and running toward the huge, brightly-lit, pulsating wheel that is the Eye, toward my true loves.

A ride in the Eye lasts about 30 minutes, and those who have paid clamber into one of 32 glass capsules, each of which could hold at least a dozen people. The view is really beautiful, especially at night. We took some pictures (the picture included in this post is a very blurry one, taken from the top), took in the amazing scene, and theorized as to whether any of the boyfriends who had rented a private capsule for themselves and their girlfriends had done so with the intention of getting busy 135 meters above London. (We decided that it would be possible but pretty difficult to pull off…so to speak.)

After our pseudo-romantic ride, we walked on the bank of the Thames and discussed our upcoming trip to Dublin over hearty dinners of chicken dumplings, prawn and chicken fried rice, and chocolate cake. It's interesting, though: if a guy had made V-Day plans that included the Eye and a walk by the Thames, I may have declined based on cheesiness. But for the three of us, it was the perfect date.

ADvantageous (ha! ...what a terrible attempt at a joke.)

The way companies advertise to countries tells a lot about the countries themselves, and I’ve seen enough ads in the last few weeks to recognize that British consumers and American consumers appreciate and respond to very different kinds of advertising.
It’s the example I see almost daily that’s my favo(u)rite. eHarmony advertises substantially on the Tube, and theirs is the particular ad that I read each time with fascination and/or disgust. The photo of the successfully-matched couple isn’t bad; an attractive, green-eyed woman leans over a dark-haired, not great- but okay-looking guy. But then there’s the blurb below the picture: “Every day I consider myself so lucky to have joined eHarmony and to have been matched with Matt. I truly believe he is the only man for me and that we will have a long and wonderful life together.”

….excuse me, but have I been launched into some starry-eyed and horribly written Nicolas Sparks novel? Do people actually talk like this in real life? Even if they believe sentiments like this when they themselves are in love, would British singles be convinced to use eHarmony thanks to this kind of rhetoric? Cynicism is a characteristic commonly associated with the Brits, so why have advertisers decided to use this kind of sappy language to lure them into using eHarmony? Maybe I’m speaking too broadly, but I think if something similarly trite was printed on an ad in New York or Chicago, it would warrant constant eye-rolls at the very least. (Then again, maybe the same can’t necessarily be said of middle America.)

Then there’s another ad that I didn’t see directly, but I saw on my British friend Ashley’s Facebook: "It’s the smaller things in life that I love. Like having strawberries and cream with my family in the sunshine. But unfortunately, strawberries have small pips in them that get under my dentures and it can be painful.”

1. There’s absolutely no way that ad can actually be helping boost sales of whatever denture glue it’s trying to sell.
2. I looked up ‘pips’ online and found nothing. This company is just making words up.
3. That was such a pathetic attempt at advertising, I literally can’t think of a way to end this post.

A rant about Americans and how little we know

There are days when it is utterly humiliating to be American.

I’m not really talking about those times when you’re being a tourist and you can’t figure out if this Circle Line train is going to take you to Hammersmith or Edgeware Road and you have to ask the locals. I rather enjoy those moments because I love meeting locals and hearing their stories; they serve as a constant reminder of Londoners’ friendliness.

I’m more referring to the situations in which we, as Americans, know less about our own country than most of Europe. I’m in an International Journalism class, so of course the class would be made up of many news-oriented people; this particular class has students from Greece, Somalia, Wales, Brazil, China, and pretty much every other area of the world. But when we discuss the issue of Israel and Palestine, and a girl from Norway knows the entirety of the U.S.’s position on the conflict (the details of which none of the Americans in the class, myself included, can really identify), I am once again reminded of Americans’ ignorance. I read the news quite a bit, and have done even more now that I’m in a class where it is (rightfully) assumed that students are well-informed.

But even with this increase in my own reading, I know virtually nothing about the political system of Brazil; China’s transition to capitalism; or the whole reason the Greeks caused the value of the Euro to plunge. We hardly know what’s going on in our own neighborhoods, and what news we do get is from a partisan news source; it’s the take on the news we want to hear.

(I’m not intending to take a stand about American versus British journalism, because (as we discussed today in International Journalism), American newspapers like the New York Times are held to higher standards regarding multiple credible sources, whereas many British papers—excepting outlets like the Guardian –don’t hold themselves to those standards. I’m just saying that we Americans form our opinions based on the little news we’ve heard, then seek out additional news that backs up our opinion. Hell, many of us probably don't read or watch the news at all.)

This has become more of my rant about American ignorance (mine as much as anyone else’s.) Please, somebody, just scan BBC, and I’ll be happy as a clam.

Mind the Gap: A Phrase with Particularly Significant Meaning for Me

It’s official: London is starting to feel like home.

It could be because my life is more settled: my bags are wholly unpacked, my classes (and homework) have begun, and I can easily navigate the Tube and (!!!) direct other tourists in the right direction. But another reason I feel at home here, and I think one of the big reasons, is that I’ve acquired a nickname.

It’s not a completely original nickname; really, it began when my mom’s good friend Lynn recognized my mother’s facial features as not fat, but simply big. And she was spot on: my mom’s cheekbones are high, forehead not abnormally but proportionally wide, with full cheeks and deep dimples. I’ve inherited the same BigFace (minus the high cheekbones) and have embraced it. (My friends at home recognize my BigFace jokes—at least I hope—as sort of a point of pride. But I think my new friends here, when I joke about my BigFace, think that I’m being unconfident and continue to reassure that it’s “not really that big.” Note: It is that big, and I’ve come to actually love it.) Anyway, very late the other night, when I was hanging out with my hallmate Darren and his friend Gavin, I happened to affectionately refer to my BigFace. Gavin, a charming and completely un-PC Brit (Christina can attest to that), jumped on it. “BigFace? I think it rather looks like a moon! MoonFace!” And there it was.

I’ve always loved nicknames and found that if someone calls you a nickname, 99% of the time, they do it because they like you. With that very drunkenly-assigned moniker, my friendship with my British flatmates was made official.

The friendliness of the Brits doesn’t stop with drunken nicknaming. All big cities have some unfriendly residents, but as with New York (which I think gets a bad rap—I very rarely encountered unfriendly New Yorkers) Londoners are generally a helpful and friendly bunch. I was reminded of that today at Baker Street station: I was a few steps from an escalator when a pale bespectacled fellow stepped in front of me to get on, and his friend, a late twenty-something man in a turban, stepped to follow him. The turbaned guy looked back at me and apologized; I smiled and said it was fine.

London Twenty-Something: “Hi!”
Me: “uh…Hi!” (You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t really take the Midwest out of the girl…and so I smile rather widely.)
LTS: “You have a gap in your teeth!” (Turns to friend.) “She’s got a gap in her teeth!” He then grins and shows off the space between his own two front teeth. “It’s a blessing from God, I always say.” (Points upward.)
(LTS’s friend laughs and embarrassingly shushes him; I laugh and agree that yes, it’s lucky.)
LTS: “And you’re American, too!”
Me: “I certainly am, my friend.”
LTS: “Glorious. A beautiful American with a gap tooth.” (Reading this, it may sound creepy, but there were absolutely zero creeper vibes. He was just genuinely thrilled to be chatting.)
LTS: “What is your name?”
Me: “Kate. What is yours?”
LTS: “Dean.” (We reach end of escalator.) “It’s lovely to meet you, Kate. Please enjoy your stay in London. And keep smiling!

I did keep smiling, all the way to Lambeth North, because of that guy’s cheerfulness. I had great reason to smile, because before that encounter at the Tube stop, I’d had a pretty great day. Thursday mornings require an early start, because I have a 9 a.m. class in central London, and it’s a 30-minute Tube ride from home. But my class, Art and Society, is well worth it: it focuses on, well, art and its impact of London society. It’s fascinating because each week we go to a different place of art or architechture and discuss its cultural impact of London’s development. Today was our day to go to one of my favorite London icons: St. Paul’s Cathedral. Christina and I attended mass there when she visited, but we hadn’t been keen on paying the hefty entrance fee for access to the entire grounds. But today we got it, and 500+ steps later, Lisa and I were standing at the very top of the cathedral. As in, the golden cross on top was maybe 30 feet above our heads. The view of the city was astounding—not beautiful, exactly, because London on gray hazy days isn’t necessarily pretty. But certainly it was awesome, in the original sense of the word. We stayed there, on top of the world, for at least a half hour, and the view and feeling that came with it could’ve made me stay months there. (It also didn’t hurt that a handsome, youngish British teacher was leading his class of 5-year-olds around the top… I loudly commented to Lisa: “That is mighty ballsy of this guy to take children up here. I respect that.” He laughed. At least being American provides a bit of an excuse for loudly proclaiming kinda-inappropriate things.)

After winter winds forced us back downstairs, I ran errands in the city (only looked at my map once!), then headed to the Imperial War Museum on Lambeth Road…it was really amazing, and I’m sure I’ll go back to spend more time there. London’s wealth of free museums is easily one of its greatest attributes, making it easy to enjoy parts of a museum for a couple hours and not feel guilty that you haven’t gotten your money’s worth. I headed from there to sangria with Lisa and Co. at a Cuban bar (it only went to further my obsession with Cuba…stupid outdated travel ban), then to a Thai restaurant, then to the Tube for the long-ish journey home. During that ride, I didn’t run into any friendly locals with a gap in their teeth, but the memory was enough to keep me showing mine all the way home.

The tale of a week, two weeks too late

Let me begin by saying that I don’t know how Perez Hilton and the millions of other daily bloggers have lives outside cyberspace. (I guess it’s easier to blog about other people’s lives, because writing about your own requires that you actually do something yourself first…but now is not the time to launch into my anti-Perez rant.) I haven’t blogged in a couple of weeks, but I’m going to try to catch up now.

Christina arrived last Monday to visit before she headed to Spainfor her own study abroad, and we celebrated our reunion with a meal of bread, cheese and wine. (Luckily for our tastebuds but unfortunately for at least my waistline, we continued this food trend throughout her stay.) We started off her visit by hanging out in the kitchen with my flatmates Freddie, Hannah and Daniel, as well as a couple of their friends. (We played ‘fuzzy duck’, a drinking game where the participants go round in a circle and, depending on various factors, say either ‘fuzzy duck’ or ‘ducky fuzz’, but never ‘fucky duzz’. I was not particularly good at this game.) Over the course of the week, we completed (another) scavenger hunt (this time for my other orientation) and met Hanneke (a Dutch girl whose hometown is Groningen, the city in which Sas and Ing go to university) and Marielene, who is German. We went to a pub after the scavenger hunt for drinks; I’m loving more and more how it’s acceptable to begin drinking at any time of day.

University of Westminster threw a party for study abroad students on the Dutch Master, a boat that sailed up and down the Thames. One of the girls on my scavenger hunt wasn’t planning on going to the party, so she gave Christina her ticket. Drinks were exorbitantly priced on the boat, and the weather was rainy, but dancing, meeting new people, and making fun of the 60-something on-boat DJ made the three hour party entertaining. Once we docked, a few of us grabbed the Tube to the New Globe (a bar near the Queen Mary campus where some of my Arcadia friends go) and…well, Christina tried to dance on one of the tables, so that tells you what kind of night it was. We chatted up Brits (one of whom looked like a lumberjack; I asked if he would make me pancakes.) Despite a few frantic moments where I thought we’d lost Christina, it was a successful evening.

The next day, we dragged ourselves to Portobello Road Market (in the Notting Hill area) to meet Marielene and Hanneke’s friend Frenci. (Hanneke was planning to come too, but was unfortunately sick.) Although Saturday is the market’s biggest day, there were still stalls upon stalls of vintage clothes, jewelry, food, shoes, fabric, books and more. We bought only food (as usual) and checked out blocks-worth of goods.

The rest of that weekend, we visited more landmarks, took a highly discussed series of O-H-I-O pictures, went out with my flatmates, and, on Christina’s last day, finally had fish and chips. (We got them near Covent Garden at a place called Rock and Sole , which sells the traditional greasy fish and chips and mushy peas…seriously, what is not to love about that menu?)

On Tuesday afternoon, Christina and her massive backpack left for Spain, where she’s spending time with her uncle before her study begins. (It’s crazy to think that her program hasn’t even started, while I feel like I’ve been here ages—in a really good way.)

I’ve got to run to meet people for the Circle Line Pub Crawl (27 subway stops, 27 pubs; but don't worry, Mom, I'm sharing a half pint at each stop.) I’ll report on how that goes once I’ve recovered. Until then, cheerio!

Woking, Windsor, and some weally weird breakfast spread

The last few days have been a bit of a blur: we’ve been to the pub several nights (but with pints at 3.50£ each, we more just play snooker [Britain’s version of billiards] and nurse our one drink the whole night.) I really love the atmosphere of going-out in Britain because it’s generally more laid-back; pub patrons drink, certainly, but don’t seem to share the American college goal of drinking solely to get trashed. Instead, they play snooker, shoot darts, and watch football. (The other day when we went into a pub down the street from our hotel, the first thing I heard was a Brit’s reaction to a poor pass in a game he was watching in TV. “Fucking wankers!” So quaint.) Also, the expectations of what to wear when going out are rather different. In America, girls often put on tight/short/somewhat slutty outfits before going out for the night; here, ladies just wear cardigans and T-shirts (to the pubs, at least; the dress code is certainly different for clubs, which are obviously also popular in London and which I haven’t been to yet.)

On Friday, we checked out of our hotel and headed to Woking for a weekend homestay in order to experience a “real British home.” We’d been informed earlier this week whose home we’d been assigned to, and I (as well as two girls in my program, Lisa and Kim) was assigned to stay with a woman named Jenny Smith. The biography form said that Jenny had several grown children and one cat, and that she worked as a hairdresser. We imagined her as a cool, hip, late forty-something woman with a penchant for torn jeans and chunky highlights. (I’d been planning to nonchalantly mention how grown-out my bangs were in hopes of a free trim.) But when we arrived at the bus station in Woking (a town about an hour and a half outside London,) there was no one resembling our imagined Jenny. The real, sixty-something Jenny is quite short and rather rotund, with gray hair and a thick London accent. To me, she looks a bit like Winston Churchill in a wig, but then again, many older Brits remind me of Churchill. Jenny is quite friendly, and is quick to tell about her vast travel experiences, including trips to Singapore, Iceland, Hong Kong, New Zealand, Australia, and Canada.

On Saturday, we headed for Windsor Castle, the residence where Her Majesty the Queen lives for about a month out of the year. Windsor is absolutely beautiful: the castle itself rests on the top of a hill, and the town sits around the hill and is full of quaint shops. We began by taking the tour of the grounds as our guide Colin (a good old Englishman) told us about the castle.

Windsor Castle was one of 11 (if I recall correctly) fortresses that William the Conqueror erected to defend against the English after he defeated them in 1066’s Battle of Hastings. Of the castles William the Conqueror built, only two remain: Windsor,and the Tower of London. The view from the castle is astonishing, since the rest of the surrounding landscape is flat. You can see for miles and miles; within view is Eton College(the high school that Princes William and Harry and PM David Cameron attended) and the River Thames. It was really amazing to be standing in the same room that Henry VIII, Edward the Black Prince of Wales, and countless other royals once stood.

After the castle tour, we went into the village to eat and look at shops. Soon enough, we were headed back to Woking for the night…which leads me to a sidecomment.

English food gets a bad wrap, but while I would never assert that it’s the tastiest thing I’ve eaten, it isn’t so awful. Jenny Smith cooked several meals for us, and meat (sausages a couple times) and potatoes (both regular and sweet) were staples. Breakfast was mostly tea, cereal and toast. But along with the usual toast toppings of jam and peanut butter, the English also often eat their toast with marmite, a thick, dark spread that’s made from yeast extract (and is, according to Wikipedia, a by-product of beer brewing.) Some Americans I met made the unfortunate mistake of spreading the marmite on their toast like they would jam; marmite is very intensely salty and tastes kind of like congealed soy sauce, so it should be only minimally dotted onto toast. I liked it, but according to Jenny, it’s something people either love or they hate.

Anyway, today we headed back to London, and I am now settled and sitting in my room. I’ve met and befriended my flatmates; they’re all British—yahoo! Christina is coming in tomorrow to see the town, and Westminster orientation is also this week. As part of our orientation, we are going on a boat ride on Thursday down the Thames. (!!!!!) Until then, cheers!

Londontown, Day 1 (and a bit more)

Today was my first full day in London, and it was, at the risk of sounding like a wannabe, jolly feckin’ good. But bear with me; I’m going to recap the first few days of the trip before moving on to London:

I started out on Dec. 29th, meeting Christina (who is literally my lifelong friend, in the very off-chance you’ve never heard me talk about her) at a very crowded Newark airport. We flew overnight to Frankfurt and headed to Amsterdam from there, where Ing and Sas met us at the airport. With our typical innuendo-laced brand of humor, the four of us made our way to Stadskanaal, where Ing and Sas live. Julia/Hulio, who came with Sas over the summer to the States, met us there. Over the next four days, we visited Prisca’s (Ing’s and Sas’s mom) soap and lotion shop, ate oliebollen and appelflappen (two traditional Dutch New Years treats), enjoyed a party with the Karsches and their extended family, watched some glorious fireworks in the streets—and, yes, we also partook of some legal (and, I might add, kind of strong) Dutch goodies. (For a more complete and informative summary of the first few days in Holland, check out Christina’s blog here) Being with four of my best friends was the absolute best way to start the trip, although it made my departure Sunday night a little rough. The girls took me to the train station in Assen, where Hulio met me, and we made our way to her hometown of Haarlem, a suburb of Amsterdam. I certainly want to spend more time in Haarlem when I can, because it’s really beautiful (as is much of Holland, my adopted homeland.) Hulio’s parents are really sweet people, and we discussed topics ranging like the American vs. Dutch education system, Four Lokos, and the fact that “that’s what s/he said” jokes just don’t work in Dutch. They kindly let me crash at their place, and Hulio’s dad took us to Schiphol in the morning so I could catch my flight to London and so Hul could head back to Groningen.

The flight to London and my arrival at Heathrow were uneventful. As I was heading to find the Arcadia representative who was supposed to be waiting for us (but wasn’t), I met Lizzie, a Mount Holyoke student who grew up in Brooklyn and whose mom, it turns out, grew up in Mansfield, Ohio. We rode the Heathrow express to Paddington station and grabbed a cab from there to the hotel. (Fun fact: Cabdrivers in London have to study for 2-3 years and must pass a test called “the Knowledge” in order to become a licensed cab driver—they literally know every street in the city and take great pride in their jobs.)

We began orientation Monday afternoon, and there I met several girls who I went to a pub with for dinner. (First fish and chip bowl so far-- whaddup London!)

Tuesday, after several hours of orientation/introduction with the Arcadia staff, we embarked on a scavenger hunt throughout the city. What was initially a group of three girls morphed to six, then 10 when we ran into four Arcadia students we kind of knew at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Our posse of ten (several kids from New York City and others from Jersey, L.A, Boston, Virginia, and Bulgaria) roamed the city looking for the scavenger hunt clues, which led us from St. Paul’s to Covent Garden, Charing Cross/Trafalgar Square, Westminster/Parliament and finally ended up in South Kensington, where we met the rest of the Arcadia group for dinner at Imperial College of London. It was a fantastic way to get to know the other kids, many of whom are going to other schools throughout the city. (I swore not to hang out solely with Americans, but since we’re all eager to meet Brits, I think it’ll become more of a British friend-hunting network.)

When we got back from Kensington (again, with our crew of 10) we headed to a pub, which unfortunately was swarming with Americans, but was also serving some Brits thanks to a ManU game on TV. After a pint and some pool with the scavenger hunt people, and a renewed faith that not all Brits have bad teeth (A message to Tom, the guy in the white V-neck sweater: if you’re reading this, please know that your accent allows you to charm the pants off any American woman who crosses your path) I headed back to the hotel.

Sorry for such a long post—hope you could stand to read it through. I move into my Westminster housing on Friday, so I’ll post about the move later in the week.
Until then, cheers!

'Ello!

Hey, all!
I should’ve done an introduction ages ago, but I figure if you’re reading this, you know me and know that I’m studying in London this semester. A blog is the easiest way to keep everyone updated on my comings and goings, so here we go! I’m going to try to update this every few days, and will include pictures and stories from my trip. I’m off to the pub now (!!!) but I’ll post an update on my trip so far when I get a chance.
Cheers!