Saturday, September 30, 2006



This weekend I attended my first soccer (football) game, Charlton vs. Arsenal. We had been specifically instructed to support Charlton, even if all you brought on this trip were Arsenal jerseys and matching underoos, and warned that if we didn't, we would be ripped limb from limb by rabid Charlton fans. I had no trouble with this, since I follow soccer about as closely as I do Ukrainian ice dancing, but some people in the group were actually Arsenal fans and were admirably subdued. I imagine it would be like having to cheer for the Yankees. I don't think I could bring myself to do that, even risking dismemberment, and I'm not even a huge baseball fan -- it's just something in the unwritten contract you sign by being born in New England. At any rate, it was just as much fun watching the fans as watching the game. I was physically knocked over by two fans sitting next to me when Charlton scored their first (and only) goal, knocked over because I found myself jumping up to cheer also. And we weren't even the rowdy section. Is this a new interest? Probably not; as far as sports are concerned I'm usually a bandwagon fan. But we'll see.

Today after picking up some things at the NEW HUGE GROCERY STORE, I was walking out of the shopping center and I heard a woman's voice. "Hello, Lady!" Nobody ever calls me Lady (though there was a Ma'am incident this summer which I would rather not talk about), so I kept moving. I heard it again, so I turned around in case I had dropped my wallet or something. "Up here!" I looked up, and there was a young woman on the balcony with her toddler, who was waving. "Hi!" said the kid, so naturally I said hi and waved, and the mom thanked me. If there is one thing my hardened, cynical self can't resist, it's saying hello to a baby. That, and butterfly-shaped ginger cookies, if the aforementioned grocery purchase is any indication.

Also, I wish I hadn't missed this.

Friday, September 29, 2006

Can I major in housewifery?

Today I discovered a NORMAL-SIZE GROCERY STORE. It is actually the size of a suburban Shaw's or Market Basket back home. With Waitrose and Tesco equal distances apart, and the discovery of a small whole foods market on the way with a full selection of Linda McCartney frozen meat substitutes, pretty soon I'll be able to tell you where to get the cheaper milk, bread, eggs, and veggie burgers, and I will make a color-coded chart that tells me what days to get what groceries and where. Let the domesticity begin.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Care package makers take note

Today at my department's welcome party, the affiliate tutor (which is just a fancy name for "advisor for confused Americans studying abroad"), who is also American, breezed past me brandishing a cookie from the food table and said, "YOU know what these are!" It looked like a chocolate chip cookie to me; was there something unique about this one that I should have instantly recognized? And having met him twice for about 5 minutes at a time, I wasn't sure how he was so certain of my knowledge of obscure baked goods. But in fact it was just a regular old chocolate chip cookie, and he informed me that Britain does not know the wonders of the Toll House cookie. And lo, one of the British people we were talking to said, as haltingly as if reading the "Learn Chinese" off the back of the fortune cookie, "Toll... House? Is that a special type of... biscuit?" I must do further research to find out if Britain doesn't do the whole chocolate chip thing at all (I have seen chocolate chip muffins so I am doubting this) or if it is just Toll House brand chocolate chips (and that wonderful recipe on the back) that can't be found here. A nation devoid of Toll House is a suffering nation, indeed.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Such emotional upheaval for a regular old Wednesday

Today I walked about 4 miles round trip to go pick up my watch. I was told by the jeweller that the battery was not the problem, but they replaced the band anyway, and that I should take it to Debenham's down the road, which I mistakenly heard as Deb and M's until I saw the giant sign for it. I must have looked like death approaching Debenham's watch repair counter, because not only had I walked two miles to get there, but I was also trying not to think about the possibility that my beloved Beatles watch had died forever or would be terribly expensive to repair. The woman at the counter took it and told me to return in 15 minutes for an estimate, 15 minutes which I spent eyeing the watch repair people suspiciously through a display of £100 handbags. You would have thought I had handed my newborn to a bunch of crack addicts. When I emerged from the shadows to ask what was up, the woman brought me my watch and I braced myself for the bad news. She told me, to my surprise, that the battery WAS the problem, they had replaced it for me, and I now owed them £9. Despite having just paid three more pounds than I would have had to if good old H Samuel had given me a proper prognosis, my expression must have brightened about ten shades because after I had put the watch back on, the woman said, "You look so happy!" It's my Beatles watch, what can I say? (Besides the fact that I am now able to return to my homeostatic level of anxiety about being on time, that is.)

While walking home from my watch-related adventures, the watch-homecoming high was wearing off and I was too exhausted to realize I was walking straight into two guys who were obviously trying to sell me something.

"Can I ask you a question about your hair?" he inquired. I decided to play along. He continued. "Where do you get it cut?" Ha, ever hear of the Sears Hair Studio? I must sound like a walking commercial for Sears but haircuts and watch repairs are seriously the only two services I rely on it for. He asked me how much I paid, and I said "About twenty bucks." Then he tried to sell me a £500 value on hairstyling of some variety for "only 50 quid!" Um, as that translates to about $100, and given what I have told you so far, does that sound like something I would be interested in? As a last resort, he asked me if I went to nightclubs and I held back the temptation to laugh in his face, because really, maybe I don't look like a total hermit with no rhythym or desire to grind against sweaty, drunk men. At this point he knew he had lost and submitted with an outstretched hand. I shook it, checked to make sure no co-conspirator had somehow snatched my wallet, and left.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Still a little fish

The thing about big city life without a car or chauffeur or even so much as a skateboard is that not only do you have to walk everywhere, but there are also fewer one-stop shopping opportunities. I come from a town where nearly all my day-to-day needs can be satisfied by a 15-minute drive. Even without a car at college, a bus can take you to a Target pretty easily. Here, there is no Target, no Sears, and even the supermarkets tack words onto their names, like "Sainsbury's Local" or "Tesco Metro," to mean "Just the same as our suburban stores, except one eighth the size and we also don't carry mayonnaise." (And don't get me started about grocery shopping; I'm faced with the grim prospect of having to buy a Nana-style rolling grocery cart just because I happen to go through milk like a binge-eating calf.) I needed to get my watch battery and strap replaced, and while I would have known just what to do in the States (Sears Jewelry Counter, 10 minute drive), it was an all-day affair finding a pharmacy that sells watch batteries, learning that they don't open your watch for you, trying to pry open the watch, failing, and then tracking down a jeweler (or "jeweller" as they are known here). 40-minute walk (or £1.50 tube fare) each way. On the way, though, I did find all sorts of furniture stores, camera shops, and cell phone places, and at least 20 shoe stores that merit second and third visits later if I can figure out my British shoe size.

The good thing about big cities, especially foreign ones, is that there are generally no Wal Marts. I have heard that there is a version of Wal Mart here, but I have not seen it yet and so much the better.

Update on the Quaker coffee shop: perhaps not the place to hang out if one is averse to being surrounded by QUAKERMANIA, but the coffee was decent, takeaway, and only 80p, so I consider it a definite contender in the Coffeelympics 2006.

Monday, September 25, 2006

They will have more than 200 Facebook friends if it kills them

Since February, all I've been told about the British is that they like tea and warm beer (perhaps not together) and that they are "more reserved" than Americans. And that's always the word they use: "reserved," as if the British are smirking inside at loud, shameless, wide-eyed Americans but keep a polite, articulate veneer. And I suppose, collectively, that's all a country can really do when faced with the collective population and accompanying governing body of the United States, but so far this hasn't proved true on an individual basis. The British students began moving in this weekend, and it wasn't long before someone knocked on my door. When I opened it, at least ten 18-year-old boys stood before me.

"Hi," I said. One of the boys began knocking on more doors in my hallway.

"Hi," said their ringleader. I'm guessing the expression on my face invited further explanation as to why a gaggle of British "freshers" were suddenly crowded around my door, though I could guess. "We're just trying to meet all the people in our building. I'm Will." The other boys introduced themselves too, though I can't recall any of their names or faces and I also made up the name Will. A couple of boys asked my major, and then the group moved on to my neighbors, who were just responding to the summons.

Later that night, a frantic knock on my door, followed shortly by shouts, caused me to make use of my peephole. A single blonde boy was peering down the hallway. I opened the door and when he saw me, he introduced himself and invited me to a giant, impromptu, dorm-wide party at a local pub. Not being one for large parties, smoky pubs, or drunk people, I lamented my unfortunate need to draft a schedule for the start of term the next day, but he refused to take no for an answer so I said "Maybe," which he promptly took to mean "Absolutely, and I might make out with you later too," so he left, shouting to another boy to "Go, go, go! The stairs are that way! Keep knocking on doors!"

Even later that night, I was about to go to bed when someone ELSE knocked on my door. Before I could bother myself to get up, I heard knocks on several other doors and someone saying, with a slurred but genuine British accent, "Party in the kitchen on the first floor!" I'll leave you to guess whether I opened it this time. I can appreciate friendliness but I gotta go to bed!

I can conclude, then, that:

1) British students are proving themselves to be less "reserved" than I thought; nobody at my American university traveled in packs in an effort to meet every single person in the dorm, (though I can't vouch for the all-freshman dorms which are a breed unto themselves).

and

2) I'm a crotchety old lady at the ripe old age of 21. But I already knew this.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Wacky people are a universal standard

The other day a friend and I were giving directions to a building on campus to a fellow American who had only been here a day. As we were doing so, an old man with stereotypically British teeth lumbered up to us and shouted in the Cockneyest of accents, "D'ye need 'elp? I'm a native 'ere." Then he noticed we were Americans and asked us how we liked it here, but didn't allow us to answer before observing that Americans tend to think that Great Britain is some sort of Dickensian black hole of industrial progress, perpetually stuck in the 19th century. We had still not gotten more than a nod into the conversation before he went on to tell us that he was a songwriter and he writes sea shanties. It was while he was singing one of his shanties for us that I realized he was standing unnaturally close to my face, and was also the type of person to whom you might have said "say it, don't spray it" in grade school. He wasn't much help with directions but he was off as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving us to mop the spit off of our faces in bewilderment.

This brings my tally of places I could have contracted a disease to four: two internet cafes, the Tube in general, and getting spit on. Though if I can ride the T back home without catching anything, I've probably built up sufficient immunity.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Behold! My heart still beateth

So I have arrived! Due to an unfortunate lack of internet in my dorm until today, I haven't been able to update you on my first week of being a little fish in a large, smoggy, beer-drinking pond, but I shall do so now.

Things I like about London so far:

- Sinks seem to come standard in the dorm rooms here. I am grateful to any building designer who takes into account my dislike of stumbling bleary-eyed into a communal bathroom and making small talk through my toothpaste about how sleep deprived I am. Abating awkwardness is always a plus.

- I have my own bathroom. I don't think I need to elaborate on this.

- The toilet holes are HUGE and properly accomodating the occasional bout of constipation is crucial to my appreciation for a place.

- I found a cute little Quaker coffeeshop with free wi-fi which I am hoping to frequent if they have decent coffee. I have never achieved that elusive title of "a regular" in any establishment other than my college dining hall, so I have made it my mission to discover London's Central Perk and hang out there all the time.

- Obviously people have accents and obviously I am obsessed with these accents so obviously even the most ordinary errands become Adventures in I'm Sorry, Would You Say That Again Please?

- The Gangs of London Posters in the Tube. I'm sorry, the old dude just cracks me up.

Things I have to get used to:

- No internet for a week = internet cafes = possible disease contracted from keyboard.

- Black snots are something I had only experienced after breathing exhaust directly from the back of a diesel pickup, i.e. never. Until now.

- As fabulous as my British accent is, I keep saying "dollar" instead of "pound" which rats me out every time.

- I have yet to find a decent cup of coffee, which is understandable in a nation of tea drinkers. But I'm really suffering here. How come there can be five Dunkin Donuts within a half-mile radius of any point on campus at home, but none here? There are plenty of Starbucks, however, which kills me because Starbucks' coffee is, in a word, disgusting. All I want is my medium french vanilla coffee regular!

- Does the British school system hand out cigarettes with afternoon snack? Because I'm pretty sure the average Brit's fondness for smoking in all manner of enclosed and outdoor spaces rivals my fondness for juice boxes and oreo cookies. There's this thing, and it's called secondhand smoke, and it's kind of a drag on this end (ha), so why don't we call it a win-win situation and swap out the cancer sticks for a nice pack of nicorette?

- Drunk British students yelling in the streets on Saturday night are just as obnoxious as drunk American students yelling in the streets, but the British manage to sound a lot classier while doing so.

Things that confuse me about London:

- My UK cell phone plan is 5p per minute to the US, but 15p per minute to any UK number. Also 7p to text a UK number. Coming off of Verizon, I'm also completely thrown that I don't pay for calls or texts I receive. The cell phone salesman declared my insanity for having had a contract plan in the US and I'm beginning to agree with him.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

I will check for my first gray hairs tonight

I'm nearly done packing and by some miracle, I've managed to deposit my life into two 29-inch suitcases, weighing less than 50 lbs each. This afternoon was mostly spent hauling luggage on and off the bathroom scale and muttering expletives at the readout. My carry-on, as it stands, can only be 13 lbs, which is remarkably little when a girl refuses to part with her most prized possessions (laptop, camera, teddy, etc). It has come down to having to wear my extra sweatshirt because its addition to my bag will put me over the weight limit. Apparently nothing is sacred, least of all snuggly sweatshirts to sleep in on the plane. This may all be for nothing; they may not even bother to weigh my carry-on, in which case I will probably have to kill someone because I SPENT PRECIOUS HOURS OF MY LIFE FRETTING ABOUT YOUR STUPID WEIGHT LIMIT AND IF YOU HAD WEIGHED MY BAG, YOU WOULD HAVE SEEN THAT IT IS PRECISELY 12.9 POUNDS BECAUSE I HAD TO TAKE OUT MY SPARE UNDERPANTS WHICH WEIGHED .2 POUNDS AND NOW IF YOU LOSE MY LUGGAGE YOU HAD BETTER BUY ME SOME NEW SPARE UNDERPANTS.

The next time you hear from me, I will have touched down in the motherland. Wish me luck.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

I probably shouldn't be left home alone for any great length of time

As I allotted myself two weeks off of work to "pack" (read: mope around the house like the filthy layabout that I am), I have engaged in a week of doing absolutely nothing but lamenting the new time slot for Ellen and getting to the point where the further existence of the carpets in their current state of dog-hairiness would probably cause me to commit suicide, so needless to say I spent some time vacuuming this afternoon, in between daytime TV shows. Fortunately for my mental health I have an unusually eventful weekend, meaning I have plans with two separate people on two separate days. Can I handle such unmitigated socialization?

As further evidence of my direct descendence from Susie Homemaker, this is what I've been doing while the Cosby Show isn't on. Assuming I finish the second, it will be the first knitting project I've had the patience to complete, because, even as a beginning knitter, there's only so much stockinette stitch scarf one can knit. Plus the thought of fuschia hobo gloves gives me visions of crisp fall afternoons strolling through Regent's Park with hot cocoa and a scarf, so there is some motivation to finish them. I think I burnt myself out in high school because now food must enter the picture in order for me to do anything remotely productive. Awesome.