£350 to ensure that I will, in fact, be home for Christmas
I am currently, as they say, swamped with work (as in, up to my waist in steamy, stinking marshlands of essays and projects) but here are a few bullet points so you know I'm alive:
- Another celebrity sighting last night, this time Kevin Spacey in "A Moon for the Misbegotten" at the Old Vic. I had second-row seats for £5, meaning that for the cost of a sandwich at a pub I was about fifteen feet from The Man I'd Have a Crush On If I Were About Fifteen Years Older. As it is, the man was born in my parents' decade of birth so I refrained from pulling the
celebrity stalking bit again.
- R and I went skating again on Tuesday, this time at Somerset House which is actually featured in Love Actually. In true British form, there was no cheesy poppy skating music but instead classical which, as its name implies, lent a classy air to our hour-long skating time slot. This time the ice was completely frozen which made for a less wobbly, more enjoyable situation. (Friday's adventure was at the Natural History Museum and it was about 60 degrees outside which meant we spent a lot of time holding onto the railing and watching intrepid young men attempt skating moves way out of their skill range and wipe out fantastically in giant puddles.)
- Mold developed
inside my butter, without making an appearance on the outside first. Just a little autonomous sphere of green that I discovered while making my favorite variation on British cuisine, Beans Near Toast. I figure hard butter's kind of like hard cheese so I just scraped it out. No harm done.
- At this time in two weeks I will be sleeping in my very own bed at home. Before that happens I must complete this 2000 word essay (I may shoot for 1700 and call myself concise), write another 3000 word essay (why oh why are these pesky Brits too smart to measure in pages so I can triple space and use size 14 font) and complete my part of a paper/presentation combo. Oh, and I've got another paper due after break but we're not even going to think about that one yet. But in two weeks, I'll be home and it will be Christmas and life will be excellent.
A very British Thanksgiving
Yesterday was my first expatriate Thanksgiving, and our program director very kindly organized a dinner at a local hotel. It was delicious, but in my friend M's words, it was a "Food Network Thanksgiving" where everyone has his or her own individual plate, and everything is topped with thinly grated Asiago cheese and served with sprigs of cilantro on the side. I don't know about other families, but the word "garnish" is not uttered under my roof, and there is also a phenomenon common to family-style dinners known as the "free-for-all" where how far you can reach across the table to get the potatoes is a more valid skill than one's ability to keep elbows off the table or use the correct fork for the salad. Also, to go along with the American theme, they served what I understood to be apple pie, but midway through we realized that the apples tasted an awful lot like pears. And let me just say, there is a reason that pear pie, despite its alliterative appeal, is not as popular as apple pie. But most of the dinner was quite delicious, there was free alcohol to be had, and I was painfully full for the next six hours. Until 9 this morning I swore I would never eat anything ever again.
Choosing the vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner option (red peppers stuffed with rice and vegetables) I knew I wasn't going to get any stuffing, which only came with the turkey entree and is arguably the best part of thanksgiving. Carbs mashed up with spices and butter? Yes, please. With this in mind, I had the brilliant idea to make Mom's stuffing just for myself. This meant a grocery run in which I discovered:
1. England, as far as I can tell, doesn't do saltine crackers. I saw cream crackers, cheese crackers, water crackers, rice crackers, rye crackers, wheat germ crackers, and soy crackers, but nothing resembling good old Premium brand saltines. I settled for cream crackers which land in that gray area between saltines and hardtack but were only 28p. No earwigs for me, thanks.
2. I ran into several Americans doing their own Thanksgiving shopping, and we bonded over our Thanksgiving displacement. Most of them were students, who for the most part aren't really sure how to make or plan Thanksgiving dinner, especially in a dorm kitchen the size of a handicapped bathroom stall, so there was a lot of urgent cross-aisle shouting. "They're out of turkeys!" "Maybe we can do chicken instead!" "What stuffing should we get??" "I FOUND CANNED PUMPKIN!!"
3. The stuffing miracle known as Bell's Seasoning does not exist here, at least not in this store. I think it might even just be a New England thing. So I had to buy all the twenty-seven different spices that go into it. Spices are
expensive, man! No wonder Brits like their food bland.
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Tonight R and I are going ice skating! in London! in a continuing attempt to model our lives after Love Actually. Minus the pervy British frat boy and the pervy office affair between Snape and the wannabe dominatrix.
More interesting than a stick of deodorant
So, a brief recap of the past week or two:
Despite my raging homebodiness I flew to Geneva over reading week to visit my good friend K, who generously allowed me to crash at her place despite the Nazis still stationed in Switzerland who did not allow non-paying overnight visitors. I slept in her stoner roommate's bed, and the roommate slept/smoked elsewhere, meaning I only smelled minimally of pot upon my return home. K had classes during the day, so she let me loose on the city of Geneva armed with four different currencies (did you know Switzerland doesn't use the Euro? I didn't) and a minimal knowledge of French, and it was fabulous. I bought lots of chocolate and did a lot of gesturing and searching for free bathrooms. Geneva was beautiful and clean and quite small. In the evenings K and I hung out and shopped and ate and watched movies, because that's what college kids do in EVERY country.
After that I trekked up to Oxford to visit my other friend M to celebrate her 21st. Let's sum up: weekend in Oxford = touristy photo-taking and looking at pretty buildings + typical 21st birthday debauchery + fries covered in cheese and garlic mayonnaise + crew and other quintessentially Oxonian activities + cookies the size of my head. Also let me just say that Oxford thinks it invented gunpowder and democracy.
This past week we saw Frost/Nixon at the Gielgud which was excellent despite my embarrassing ignorance regarding Watergate. Afterwards we were passing by the Odeon Theatre in Leicester Square, where the James Bond premiere was taking place, when a cop came up to us and asked us if we wanted to see the queen (the QUEEN! Of ENGLAND!) and all the stars. Um, no thanks, I've had my fill of celebrity for the day. Does he even have to ask that question?? He fed us into the crazy commonfolk fan area and we ended up being about twenty feet from Lizzie herself, as well as Daniel Craig, Paris Hilton, and Sting. Someone in our section shouted "Daniel!" as he walked by, and he waved RIGHT AT US and SAID SOMETHING TO US. I think it was "See the film!" but it was still aimed in our direction. Yep, that's right, now when people ask you about your celebrity connections, instead of saying "My mom's brother's dentist has a client who lives next door to Kathy Griffin's dogwalker" you can just say "Um this awesome girl whose blog I read is pretty much BFFs with James Bond."
I swear I haven't been diagnosed with any sort of anxiety disorder yet
I am back from Geneva and a short trip to Oxford, and while I will post about these very soon, I'd like to note my latest crisis: Britain apparently loves its aerosol deodorant. I, like many Americans, am more of a solid stick kind of girl. My body chemistry being as mercurial as it is, I'd rather stick (heh) to something it's familiar with. I found one stick in the whole Superdrug, and none in Boots. I'm not out yet but it would be nice not to have to
run walk slowly and sweatlessly to the drugstore with my arms pinned to my sides once I
do run out.
And I had been wondering about the side note from my handbook that said "You will be able to find most American toiletries here, aside from deodorant." What did that mean? Did they not wear deodorant? Was it just that the brands were different? Nobody smelled when I got here so I figured it wasn't a big deal. But it is! I'll scour every chemist from here to Surrey if it means I shall find a fresh stick of Dove Invisible Solid in "original clean."
Economy class jetsetter
I'm off to Geneva for a few days. I'll have to brush up on my French, beyond Lady Marmalade lyrics that is. Tah-tah!
What a fox, that Guy Fawkes
The Brits seem to like fireworks round this time of year, and really who doesn't like fireworks? But British hoodlums also seem to like setting them off frighteningly close to my dorm, which makes it feel more like England getting bombed like it's 1941 rather than any sort of celebratory occasion in which one would get bombed like it's 2006.
I just returned from the premiere of Paul McCartney's Ecce Cor Meum at Royal Albert Hall. Let me just say it was AMAZING. If you are as obsessive as I am, you'll watch
this but I won't be insulted if you don't. I even bought a £10 program and collected a few pieces of heart-shaped confetti, that's the brand of fan I am. The video is Paul's appearance at the end (he didn't perform) which everyone went crazy over, because he's PAUL MCCARTNEY OMG RIGHT THERE. Next stop, physical contact.
Further attempts at being cultured
This weekend I finally made it to the British Museum, despite its location of about a yard and a half from where I sleep every night, and its admission price of £ZERO. The British Museum is a riot because it has snatched all sorts of things from less commanding countries and proudly displays them as though they epitomize all that is British. One of its most prized exhibits is of the Parthenon sculptures, which Greece really wants back, naturally. But somehow Britain got its hands on them and refuses to give them back. There is even a pamphlet in the middle of the room outlining the argument, as if to say "Oh, those Greeks. Quite silly, really. Actually I'd love another cup of tea, cheers."
All over the museum there are all sorts of ridiculously famous pieces that just casually appear when you turn corners, without any sort of buildup. Oh, there's the Rosetta stone. Discobolus is hanging out on the stairs over there. And much of it you can just walk up to and touch, though I suspect it's not allowed. I even saw a girl posing with her arm around a Roman statue as though they were girlfriends at a party. The pace of museumgoers just adds to the nonchalance. There's a certain slower pace at which you walk while passing through a museum, even if you are not currently looking at anything. The Museum Mosey, if you will. Just walking to the next room takes entire minutes, and nobody seems to think strangely of this until you leave the building. We barely covered a fraction of the museum, so many more trips (all gloriously FREE) will happen in the coming months.
I have discovered a farmers market nearby and it is wonderful. I bought beets despite not knowing how to prepare them, and also some fabulous SMOKED GARLIC from a very attractive garlic-selling boy. He probably could have sold me many things but he didn't even have to look cute to sell me GARLIC THAT SMELLS LIKE CAMPFIRE. We're talking foodgasm here, folks. I also bought fresh butter that tastes like butter should, not like the Tesco Value crap I bought as an unsuspecting British Grocery Store Virgin. I bought challah today and there will soon be a butter-garlic-challah orgy in my kitchen.
Last night we got all dolled up and went to the opera (La Boheme), and it was quite wonderful, despite being in a language I do not speak. I at least could follow the storyline (it helped that there were subtitles and that I had seen Rent) which is an improvement from the ballet in terms of overall enjoyment. Last night was also one of the coldest nights so far this season, and on the way home there was definitely much schadenfreude to be had as we watched drunk Halloween revelers in skimpy costumes slurring variations of "Oh my! It is quite chilly. Perhaps I should have worn more than my bra and panties with my bunny ears."
