In true British style, the UK quietly rules the world
Contrary to what Paul told us in '82, the pound is, in fact, not sinking. My general rule when it comes to financial dealings in this country is to calmly and rationally say to myself, "Don't think about that price in American dollars. You live in a small New England town. This is a large British city. That small coffee is not three dollars, it's a pound fifty. Don't torture yourself over an exchange rate you have no control over, even if it could make the most hardened New York stock broker cry." Yes, that's right--as of today, each and every British pound can buy you 1.96 US dollars. I wince just typing it. When I was in Switzerland, it was harder to convert, as the Swiss Franc is equal to about $.80 American. Quatre francs pour un cafe au lait? Pas de probleme! Who even knows what I'm paying! I'm in a foreign country! 80% of 4.00 CHF? Too hard to figure out, no worries, won't think about it. But doubling is such an ingrained mathematical skill that I can't help but convert. Football tickets seem like a bargain at 15 pounds, and a little voice in your head says, "Wait.. that's not-- no! no! STOPSTOPSTOP DON'T CONVERT DON'T CONVERT AHHHHHHHH! THIRTY DOLLARS! You don't even LIKE sports! What is wrong with you???" Yesterday, in an effort to sample all the little shops and cafes I pass every day, I stopped by the whole foods store, which has a hot lunch bar. Load up your styrofoam tray for 89p per 100g. I have a very limited idea of what 100 grams of anything looks like, nevermind yummy vegetable curry that is calling my name, and throw in the deceptively powerful foreign currency and my sense of frugality goes down the toilet completely. My lunch, while tasty, cost me five pounds/ten dollars, which puts even the salad bar at Shaw's to shame.
And what's a whole foods shop doing using styrofoam trays anyway?? They give me a special biodegradable wooden fork which gives me splinters in my tongue (definitely not friendly to MY environment) but styrofoam? A-OK by them! So 'scuse me while I take out my recycling to make up for their glaring hypocrisy.
Bread and alcohol never cease to please
So I've returned to something remotely resembling a routine, though I'm fairly sure that getting up at 11:30 am, consuming ridiculous amounts of pasta with butter and occasionally attending class is not a routine I should expect to maintain past the age of 21.
However luck has been conspicuously absent lately, in the form of last week's power outages and the ensuing madness. The day that King's Cross Station and a half-mile of major roadway (including the residence of yours truly) lost electricity was also the day it was windy enough to blow me over, the day I had to get up before the sun rose, the day my phone company decided to forget about the 30 pounds I had previously topped up my phone with, and the day that we were evacuated from our building due to the aforementioned power outage. The wardens of our dorm sagely advised us: "It is not safe here. Pack thy bags and impose upon thy neighbor." And while they indicated that if
absolutely necessary they could grudgingly accommodate some evacuated students by setting them up with a basement floor somewhere, they essentially declared us all homeless for the night. Naturally we took this opportunity to stay in a cute British hotel and demand that the college pay for it.
Oh, and it was also the day I forgot deodorant. Of course.
R and I took off for Bath the next day, in the first of several planned day trips to small British cities. We channeled our inner Classics majors--admittedly a very small part of my psyche--and toured the Roman baths, we ate pasties (which, in addition to being my new favorite food, are definitely PASS-ties, as PAY-sties are something else entirely), we tried on corsets in the Museum of Costume (after eating the pasties which was a poor choice), and we breezed through the Jane Austen museum, as I have appreciated her work since I was old enough to watch Wishbone (which I would totally still watch if it were still on television). I think we also broke some sort of record for greatest number of audioguides encountered in one day. I heartily maintain that there is nothing so warm and fuzzy as prerecorded historical fact piped straight to your ears by way of a giant telephone receiver.
We then ate dinner in the
Sally Lunn House which, in addition to being really really proud of its enormous hamburger buns, is also the oldest house in Bath, being over 500 years old. Forget the history, though, 10 pounds for two courses (both centering around very large pieces of bread) and wine? Yes please!
And tomorrow? Further lessons in sophistication for boorish American college students. That is, Les Mis tickets for 15 pounds. I love this country.
Episode VI: Return of the Pseudo-Londoner
So I'm back, having brought with me: 1. a much fuller suitcase than I landed in Boston with, 2. a friend, A, and 3. a slightly inflated ego.
I can navigate the tube in my
sleep.
I can eat the spiciest Indian food the city has to offer, ten days in a row, without any unfortunate digestive repercussions,
ha!
I know I had better not wear my "New Hampshire clothes" (read: giant down parkas and sneakers) in London or I may as well wear a neon sign on my head declaring my American citizenship. This egotism will come back to bite me in my dark wash jeans-clad rear, but until it does, I am enjoying my time as a Faux Brit Extraordinaire with some clue about British city life.
A few days ago we ventured to the Freud Museum, and by "ventured" I mean hiked four miles. "It's good for us," we said, and to demonstrate just how good for us this was, we stopped at a street vendor to eat chickpea curry, nan, and baklava, instantly negating all burned calories. The Freud museum, host to some of Freud's belongings in addition to a separate exhibit that had little to do with Freud, was what one would politely call "enlightening," impolitely call "effing weird," but undoubtedly an experience, from the infamous sofa to the alarm clock filled with cigarette butts to the computer screensaver that I'm not sure should have been displaying all the pornography in the user's My Pictures file. Or perhaps that was part of the exhibit. At any rate I really wanted a pair of Freudian slippers but I held out in the name of minimalism. While in the area, I also did not see Paul McCartney lurking about St. John's Wood, but future stalking is certainly not out of the question.
Today we watched Charlton lose spectacularly to Middlesborough, but losing spectacularly is what Charlton does best so really the league should at least recognize them for this achievement. I've gone to three games now, three more than the number of Sox games I've attended, so I suppose I could consider myself a [mild] fan by now. The underdog teams just seem to wend their way into my
heart tolerance of organized sport. I mean--and you Bostonians can back me up on this one--it's not as much fun when they
always win, is it? Seriously?
The continuing story of the spoiled brat
Yes, I have a domain name now. Still fiddling with, or rather having my brother fiddle with the technical aspects. I can handle defragging, moderate Photoshopping and the occasional dip into the registry for spyware-busting (living on the edge, I know!), but website maintenance beyond the Blogger interface is an entirely new animal for me. I totally gave him the best name for his computer company though, so he pretty much owes me forever.
Shameless plug:
Andy makes websites, sets up networks, and does a mean Pebbles Flintstone impression. At the time of this posting, his website isn't up yet, but keep it bookmarked in case your current Pebbles impersonator flakes on you.
