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.)