Limey Wannabe

Ready for a summer of scorn

2007-05-28T22:25:00.000+01:00

So I'm "studying" for my last exam right now, and the aforementioned jumbo entry is still forthcoming, but let the records show that: 1. I was told by about 65 people before I left that British peanut butter is crap; 2. I have recently bought my own jar, as I have run out of the parent-supplied Smart Balance; and 3. it does not taste like either poo, damp cardboard or a birthday party craft gone wrong. In fact, it was quite tasty (the use of the past tense being a testament to this). It was surely no Skippy, but that's hydrogenated, sugarific peanut-flavored rubbish anyway. This peanut butter tastes like peanuts. Can you handle it??

(This is where I would sigh and shake my head and grumble about Americans and their sugared, salted vices, but my overall consumption of sugar and salt, as well as my continued efforts to avoid pretentiousness, prevent me from doing so. Plus I already used the word "rubbish" in this entry so the Pseudo-Brit threshold has been reached.)

What you've all been waiting for

2007-05-25T14:19:00.000+01:00

Yeah, I know, I'm a failure as a blogger. I haven't posted in so long, people think I've gone home already, but I'm still here for another two weeks. Two weeks! Cue panic mode! I don't want to goooo!

I've done SO MUCH in the last two months, and I'll catch you up on the interesting bits of all of it. But while I draft that gargantuan post (rather than study for my last exam), here's something to keep you entertained.

---

Check this out, from the mouths of "I don't want to pay sales tax/wear my seat belt/do anything you tell me to do" New Hampshirites: http://www.freestateblogs.net/node/1406

And I expected no less. I'm best described as one of those "flaming liberals" your momma and Fox News warned you about, but being from New Hampshire, I have a soft spot in my heart for my home state and its unique outlook. NH gets really excited about our first-in-the-nation primary every four years, but it has a hard time setting any other kind of example. The RealID concept is frightening at best and I'm proud that my state has the cojones to stand up to it.

NH is a funny state. Not conservative in the Bible-thumping Southern way, not liberal in the hippie Vermont way, but more of a Libertarian "we don't like being told to do stuff, so THERE" kind of mentality. It really seeps into the people, myself included. I can't stand being ordered around. My dad is fairly liberal, and mostly easygoing but one day we were talking about taxes and how they are needed for things like education, etc., and he said "New Hampshire does NOT need a sales tax!!" He went from normal laid-back mode to PAWS OFF MY STATE mode in .07 seconds. I'd say that's pretty characteristic of New Hampshire in general. Taxes = being told what to do = no thanks.

A New Hampshire citizen is an interesting hybrid of a hippie and a lumberjack. Suspicious, stubborn, indignant, liberal when they want to be and conservative when they want to be. As evidenced by our rebirth as a blue state in the last presidential election, there are more liberals these days as people move up from Massachusetts to escape sales and income taxes. This fortunately tempers the conservatism that can hinder things like abortion/gay marriage etc. without messing with the taxes, or lack thereof, which NH would guard with Cerberus if it could.

My ridiculously conservative senator, Judd Gregg (ugh), actually voted against the federal ban on gay marriage, and I was surprised at first but then I realized it was because he didn't want the government telling him what to do, not because he was pro-gay-marriage. So as a subtle jab, I wrote him a letter thanking him for voting against it, it's good to see NH senators standing up for gay rights, etc. and he wrote back with a polite[r] version of "Ha, I don't care about gay rights, I care about states' rights." Cue sound effect: wamp waaaamp.

New Hampshire's got its issues (it would likely declare open season on out-of-staters if it could), and I will admit to jokingly referring to it as "the Texas of the North," but it's definitely got character. Bottom line, It's good to know my state can run itself while I'm away.

Next stop, Liverpool aka the last time I will refer to anything I do as a pilgrimage

2007-03-13T22:52:00.000Z

My apologies for dropping off the planet, I seem to have had a sibling infestation. We're in the clear now though. For now, some notes on the past few weeks:

My brother came for his February break, and then the next week my sister arrived to spend her spring break here. There were a precious few hours in the airport where the three of us hung out and ate and took pictures (because really what else do we do?), as my sister's flight got in at 7am and my brother's flight did not take off until 3. And since we come from farm country none of us really know how airports work so I saw each of them to and from Heathrow.

1. While my sister was here, we saw Equus, or what we have fondly termed "The Naked Harry Potter Play." Unfortunately (fortunately?) we had the nosebleediest of the nosebleed seats, and I didn't want to look pervy so I didn't use the opera glasses provided, even though we paid 50p to use them. Whatever, that's what The Superficial is for. The play itself was really intense, and Daniel Radcliffe gave an impressive performance. And let me just say, the boy has got some... uh... chutzpah for being only 17 and giving the city of London a really good look at those chutzpahs.

2. Being at Heathrow three weekends in a row without actually flying anywhere is not something I'd ordinarily choose to do, but now I can navigate Terminal 3 with my eyes closed.

3. I declined the "voluntary donation" that they tack onto your ticket price at the London Zoo, since they were soaking me enough--10.50 student price grumble grumble--but then proceeded to feel really guilty about it for the rest of the afternoon so now I want to go back, find the cashier who sold me my ticket, give her 1.50 and beg her not to think of me as a horrible person. Because even if she doesn't remember who I am, that lion TOTALLY KNEW I didn't give a donation AND I caught a glimpse of his Master Escape Plan before he hastily shoved it under a rock.

4. My brother and I trekked down to Brighton for a day, where there is a building called the Royal Pavilion which could have been featured on an 18th century version of Pimp My Crib.

5. It has been pushing 60 degrees for like 3 or 4 days in a row. I'm not complaining but it really makes me want to go out and buy skirts and sandals which is rough on Mr. Visa, and it also makes me go out midday with no jacket, which, by early evening, becomes a poor choice.

6. Finally, I have made The Pilgrimage Of My Life: I walked across Abbey Road. It's actually a very busy street, and we and other tourists holding up traffic with identical tourist photographs probably managed to make a couple hundred people really hate the Beatles. But if you aren't clever enough to have found an alternative route by now, all you posh people driving around St. John's Wood, maybe you should just stop and wait for me to take my picture, pshhaw.

Then I graffitied on the studio gate. Fandom drives me to criminal behavior.

I have to push the pram a lot

2007-02-24T13:02:00.000Z

So, yeah.

Last week R and I went to Edinburgh where we spent the majority of three days 1) walking up and down hills (mostly up), 2) bickering and 3) taking [non-sketchy] pictures of local children with the added non-sketchy factor of us being female. The novelty of kids with British accents just never wears off. We saw the now stuffed Dolly the Sheep, a full rainbow, the hotel where J K Rowling finished the seventh Harry Potter book, some modern art, and some less than modern art. Also some art that is so modern that R had to tell me it was art. In an attempt to drink in some Scottish countryside, we went hiking and I managed to fall [valiantly in battle] and have left a chunk of my knee on the Salisbury Craigs.

Last night I saw Jean-Luc Picard--uh, Patrick Stewart, doing his Shakespearean thang in a rather Shackletonian adaptation of the Tempest. Which brings my Famous Person Sighting total up to about 5, which is a lot considering that before I came here, Brad Delp and Mark Hudson tied for first in the Most Famous Person I've Met category.

Also, the other day I was introduced to the concept of paying extra for one's doggie bag. I'm sorry, 20p for a little cardboard box in which to store the food that I'm already paying for? At the risk of securing my place in Eternal Spinsterhood, I have half a mind to bring a tupperware next time in abject defiance of their snooty excess charges. What's next? Uncorking fees? An extra charge for freshly ground pepper? 18% gratuity added to parties of 8 or more????

My brother has just arrived and is staying the week, which should be awesome (what, like a hot dog?) and full of conversations consisting entirely of Eddie Izzard quotes. Yesterday I went food shopping and stocked up on the four main food groups of the Limey Brother: Eggs, Milk, Cheese and Pasta. After arriving this morning and making a four-egg cheese omelette with three slices of toast, he is currently having a nap under the airline blanket he swiped. Ahh, almost like being home.

Off to Spamalot, complete with my flesh wound.

I'd better stock up on my non-perishables

2007-02-08T00:44:00.000Z

So rumor (rumour) has it that we are getting snow later this morning, around 6am, which I am excited about. They have dragged me around all winter; I will see snow forecast for later in the week and by the time the day comes, the little snow icon has disappeared, replaced by a rain cloud icon, naturally. But this time will be different, I can smell it. The BBC Weather site is still listing it as "heavy snow," lasting a few hours, and everyone is aflutter about the impending "storm." I got an email from my lecturer with a subject line of "contingency plans in the event of heavy snow on thursday," though upon further investigation I discovered that "heavy snow" really means 5 centimeters, possibly 15 up north. 2-6 inches?? Please. My high school didn't cancel class during raging ice storms. My college has had one snow day while I've been there, and it was only because the waist-high snow prevented our president from leaving his house. But here, you know, two inches--sorry, 5 centimeters--is a big deal, and the Tube will probably shut down completely and the power in my dorm will probably go out again, as well as the power in the three train stations on Euston Road.

I should really lay off on the snark, though, because I realize that even after enduring 21 years of New England winter, I have been completely weakened by London weather. It's been hovering comfortably around 45 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, and when it dipped to 30 the other day I nearly had a hemorrhage. Thirty degrees! Good lord man! Humankind has not endured such meteorological hardship! Whereas back home if it were 30 in January I would be shedding my coat and donning a coconut bra while humming "Mele Kalikimaka."

In true British style, the UK quietly rules the world

2007-01-30T15:16:00.000Z

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

2007-01-26T23:42:00.000Z

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

2007-01-12T20:32:00.000Z

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

2007-01-02T05:32:00.000Z

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.

Further adventures in displacement

2006-12-29T21:37:00.000Z

My Christmas was lovely, thanks, and courtesy of a very generous Santa Claus I have many excellent new amusements to tide me over till my birthday. I won't bore you with the details but I am now the proud bearer of a certain glorious Eddie Izzard DVD and I have new black pumps to match.

I have surprised myself with my ability to re-adjust to both the time zone and to general American life. London, it must be noted, is not particularly exotic but I wasn't sure I was going to be able to walk into Wal Mart ever again. The draw of cheap Icees was too strong for me to resist, however.

I will be returning very soon to the Land of the Scones but first I have to ~~curl up and die~~ write another paper.

You can take the girl out of London but the only London you can take out of the girl takes the form of black snot

2006-12-15T20:43:00.000Z

So I made it out of my seven hour flight alive, though insanely jealous of the first class elite who had seats that could recline flat while I was packed against the window next to two giant men (though giant in different directions). And have you ever noticed how much men like to sit with their legs as far apart as possible? As if my personal space issues were not being challenged enough, turns out I'm not such a huge fan of having to monitor thigh contact but it's kind of necessary when your seat is about a foot wide. Also, British Airways, would you mind mixing up the veg meal option? All vegetarian plane food seems to involve cheese, tomato sauce, and pasta, and the words "cannelloni" or "tortellini." Karma was watching out for me, however, as I did take special pleasure in receiving and finishing my meal before Splayed Legs Man.

I also find it a bit ridiculous that, having stepped out into the cool Boston night, I took a deep breath and exclaimed "I forgot what clean air smelled like!" Though truth be told, Boston is no Los Angeles, it's certainly no Swiss Alps. I will, at least, enjoy my brief reprieve from sooty eye crispies.

I could probably cite a certain Simon and Garfunkel song but it might be cliche of me to do so

2006-12-13T11:32:00.000Z

Home for Christmas starting today!

I've decided that my trip home is a fantastic opportunity for further culture comparison, despite being fueled by an unfulfilled yearning for phenomena that do not occur here, such as snow, Marshmallow Fluff, and L.L. Bean. And despite the seven-and-a-half-hourness of my flight, I can blame my post-flight tipsiness on jet-lag-induced delirium. What a deal!

It would not be a proper London sendoff without some rain, and that's what it looks like it's about to do so I'd better get my tuchus to the tube station before things get ugly. I'm off to the land of Wal Marts and CharlieCards; wish me luck.

I will spare you the details of my papers which have been occupying far more of my time than any of these things

2006-12-10T12:16:00.000Z

Yesterday at 4 I experienced high tea, in all of its ridiculously British glory. I only had a couple of the little finger sandwiches and one scone (albeit with jam and clotted cream) and I was full until about 9:30 pm. I'm guessing my body just couldn't figure out what to do with all that animal fat. "Is this butter or lard? I need to know, it's a matter of legality! Close the gates! Fullness receptors at full steam!" I will say, however, that I had never been a huge fan of scones until I had this one. Warm, butter(?)y, cranberry deliciousness. Then more fat and sugar on top. The British know how to do scones. I think my weak American stomach can only handle one every two months, though.

---

We saw Evita at the Adelphi on Tuesday and it was quite fabulous. After years of listening to my Andrew Lloyd Webber collection, I was finally able to lend some context to the song "Another Suitcase in Another Hall." I also had a new appreciation for live theatre and the surprising difficulty of followspotting after my adventures last weekend.

---

Months of staring at the demented basketweave of the Tube map make the T map look like a tic tac toe board. Oh, how I miss the simplicity. The lines are named by color. (How quaint.) Zones? What are they? Even the green line looks laughably tame in comparison. The MBTA is, however, upgrading to Charliecards which will be most excellent after being spoiled by my Oystercard, Big Brother aside. I don't think I could have gone back to tokens after this.

I told myself I'd write 1000 words today and I may have if you count this blog entry

2006-12-07T00:31:00.000Z

Today we ate at a sushi restaurant that pretty much sums up the Japanese monopoly on cute. The seating surrounds an open kitchen, and around the kitchen there is a conveyor belt on which the cooks place small dishes of food, color coded by price. You sit down, fill up your water glass with the taps at your table (one for still, one for fizzy, and now I want a tap in my house that dispenses seltzer water), and pluck dishes off the conveyor belt at whim. If you don't see what you want, you press the red [easy] button built into your table and someone comes to take your order. I didn't like sushi going in, so maybe it was the atmosphere or maybe it was because the last sushi I had came from the grocery store, but I tried it again and I actually liked it. I also ate a lot of ginger from the jar at the table because it was free and nibbly and I didn't feel like paying for more sushi.

During the Freshers' Fayre back in September, in which all the clubs come together to trick you into signing up for their email lists with which they will forever spam you with "MOVIE NIGHT THIS WEEKEND" emails, I was innocently squeezing through the crowd when the Christian Society thrust upon me a goodie bag which consisted of a can of baked beans and a Gideon's bible. Okay, beans I can eat but what would I, the lapsedest of the lapsed, do with a bible? I've still got enough Catholic pack rat in me to feel badly recycling it, so it ended up in the back of one of my drawers where the guilt rays might be stopped by the Formica desktop. There was no guilt whatsoever eating the beans (hey, they gave 'em to me), but now I feel really weird because I need to reference the New Testament for my Jewish Studies essay on the Dead Sea Scrolls and what they can tell us about early Christianity (the answer? not much), and of all the sources I could possibly already have in my minimalist overseas bedroom, I already have a bible in my room to look at. I'm no bible expert (clearly) but it feels a bit unscholarly to be referencing a text I essentially got off the street, even if it is the bible. I also feel doubly traitorous for using a version that a) is Protestant and b) doesn't have the Old Testament in it. Is this a reputable translation? I don't know. What if it's the most propagandist of all the possible versions? I wouldn't know, I stopped paying attention in CCD after I learned which hand to pick up the wafer with. And I'm far too lazy to go to the library to get another version. In the Seven Deadly Sins Death Match, sloth wins out every time where college kids are concerned.

Go Team Followspot

2006-12-03T17:48:00.000Z

Just finished teching for a show over the weekend. Let me just say, as a fair to middling member of stage crew as far as overall commitment is concerned, I seem to have a flair for followspotting (spotlighting for you Yanks). I would much rather have been doing stage crew things than a paper but the paper must get done before Friday and unfortunately no one volunteered to write my paper for me in exchange for stage crew duties.

I've also noticed that although the general idea is that the cast and set crew will cooperate, it's not usually so. Actors tend to be the WHAAAA! I'm an ACTOR! LALALALA BOING! type, while the crew looks on with raised eyebrows. At least that was the vibe I got as crew and cast (though the latter not voluntarily) attempted to move giant pieces of set from the workshop to the theatre.

I also got to dress all in black (though in London that's not so unusual) and wear a headset. Followspotting is deceptive; I'm not so high up on the stage crew totem pole but wearing a headset seems like a badge of some importance. On the other hand, the whole audience witnesses my random hand twitches magnified about fifty times so perhaps I have more power over the outcome of the performance than stage crew thinks. Bwahahaa.

£350 to ensure that I will, in fact, be home for Christmas

2006-11-30T13:01:00.000Z

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

2006-11-24T15:38:00.000Z

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.

---

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

2006-11-20T00:24:00.000Z

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

2006-11-16T12:07:00.000Z

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

2006-11-07T01:25:00.000Z

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

2006-11-06T01:10:00.000Z

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.

One step closer to goal number five

2006-11-04T01:32:00.001Z

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

2006-11-01T23:07:00.000Z

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."

I'm amazed that I function in society at all

2006-10-26T22:06:00.000+01:00

Today I rode on the top floor of a double-decker bus for the first time. What's more amazing is that I did it all by myself and managed to get off at the correct stop; I had only ridden a city bus here once, and that was in a haze of post-Eddie giddiness. For some reason I can't handle above-ground public transportation, here or in Boston. Bus maps terrify me. They even call them spider maps on the tube website; way to make them even scarier! But no, I figured out which bus I needed to get on, I found a bus stop at which this bus stops, and I knew where to get off. Sitting on the top floor also means that you have to hoof it downstairs before the bus actually stops so you can get off in time, and it is no easy feat to walk down stairs while the stairs are moving. I'm happy to report that I did not fall on my face (though that might have made for a more interesting post).

The entire reason I took a bus was to pick up my ticket to the performance of Paul McCartney's new classical album, Ecce Cor Meum at the one and only ROYAL ALBERT HALL! Seeing a performance in this building is another pilgrimage for me since it's mentioned in "A Day in the Life" and is the venue where the Concert for George took place. Yes, I'm a Beatles fan of ~~pathetic~~ epic proportions, and although I haven't been to Abbey Road yet, I do have a white jacket to wear if I want to pretend to be John. And don't think I didn't spot a poster for this bad boy.

Anyway, this could be my big opportunity to actually meet Paul. They say he is not performing but perhaps he will be there anyway, and dateless at that! Despite my seat in the nosebleed section, there is always the hope that I will run into in the foyer or, more likely, spot him sitting in the front row and rush down to casually mosey up to him as everyone is filing out. Besides, this is a classical concert, so the hordes of crazy fans will be sophisticated and won't mob him before I do.

I got my hair cut yesterday, despite my best efforts to hold off until I returned to a country in which I can count on the presence of a Sears Hair Studio. I'm pleased with the results (as well I should, for £31 aka SIXTY-TWO GEORGE WASHINGTONS) but man, it was looking bleak for a while. I asked for something that would accentuate the waves in my hair, rather than just my standard few layers. The stylist asked if I ever scrunched my hair, and I said no, and then after she cut it she blow-dried it with a diffuser with my head between my legs WHILE SCRUNCHING. Anyone who knows me also knows that with this fabulous package comes a head of hair that could possibly rival the total amount of hair on Robin Williams' body plus a couple of yetis. Needless to say, the result approximately resembled what Hermione Granger's hair woud look like, if she was a real person and if she stuck her finger into an electrical socket first. Calmly, politely (despite the panic mode setting in), I requested the style be somewhat less enormous, and it turned out fine. I think she just wanted to freak me out. Those crazy Brits and their crazy sense of humor.

Pass the Kool-Aid

2006-10-22T15:07:00.000+01:00

I've had Windows Media Player on shuffle most of the time, and out of 2500 possible song choices, it seems to really like landing on the Who's 'Rael 1' or 'Rael 2.' I think my computer has joined a cult and hasn't told me about it. I'll probably start getting error messages that say 'This program has performed an illegal operation and will soon be dealt with by the Elohim. Watch your back or we won't clone you.'

Just because I talk about poop sometimes does not mean I am devoid of culture

2006-10-21T19:10:00.000+01:00

Today, in an effort to appear more sophisticated than I actually am, I went to see the ballet Coppelia with the other kids on the program. I still have no idea what the plot was, but I was vaguely aware of giant mechanical dolls coming to life, an old man that I suspect was somewhat misunderstood, and a wedding at the end. And lots of dancing, naturally. Next stop: the opera. And naturally that means shopping for opera-appropriate clothing sometime this week. I'm sure you all can guess how annoyed I am that I have to go buy clothes. God. Next time why don't you just force me to eat my vegetables or something.

Also, for those interested, the weight loss program I recommend is the 'I'm a student in a foreign country and I'm too cheap to pay £1.50 (aka THREE DOLLARS) for the tube so I walk everywhere and I am SO SICK OF EATING PASTA' diet. Throw in a bowl of granola each morning and you've even got regularity covered.

Oh, and counting the one that occurred only moments ago, this dorm has had four fire alarms in one month. Four! The alarms do excellent impressions of feral cats and will startle at anything -- burnt popcorn, cigarette smoke, warm breath -- so when you factor in the inexperience of budding young chefs (or more likely those who can't make beans on toast without burning the toast), plus the fact that the kitchen has exactly zero ventilation, without forgetting the general idiots who let out their sexual frustrations by pulling the alarm for fun, your result is a fire alarm at least once a week. The fire brigade always sends at least two trucks, too, which baffles me because they've gotta know that when they get an alarm from a college dorm that it's not likely to be anything that can't be taken care of with a glass of water. I'm impressed they even come at all anymore. They need one of those easy buttons from Staples that will shut off the alarm and relocate the culprit to Abu Dhabi. I'll bring one back from Christmas break.

Obviously my sense of humor hasn't come very far

2006-10-17T17:37:00.000+01:00

When I was in high school, I wrote a column in the school paper for which I researched bizarre facts of dubious factuality and wrote snide comments about each one. It's what I do best in life (shoddy research and snark, that is). One of my very first columns contained a fact that went something like, "Americans are more likely to crumple their toilet paper before using it, while the British tend to fold theirs." Fast forward to October 2006: I still don't know if that's true, but if it is, I can believe it. British toilet paper, even the cheapy Tesco brand, is about twenty-five times thicker than any American toilet paper. I can use one (one!) sheet at a time without even laughing at myself. You can't even get enough paper together to crumple without clogging the toilet. American toilet paper just begs to be crumpled; otherwise you sit there forever trying to arrange ten feet of paper in order to make your folded wad thick enough to use.

Um, am I the only one who puts this much thought into cross-cultural TP comparisons? Clearly I need something else to occupy my time.

In other news, it's [finally] becoming chillier, though the gods seem reluctant to let the temperature drop below 60 degrees. But to this downward trend I say it's about time! I might be in the minority on this one but I'd be perfectly happy if the outside temperature never rose above 65 degrees ever again. And so it's been lately, but that means I have to keep the window shut more often, and to get the oxygen/CO₂ cycling I bought an aloe plant which in a fit of silliness I named Mabel. In addition to keeping my lungs happy, it will also be handy if (when) I burn myself cooking, and I think aloe is hard to kill so I won't be convicted for yet another count of plantslaughter due to my brown, wilted thumb. Naming it was probably a poor choice, though, because now if (when) I do kill it it's going to be like that time when I named all my Oregon Trail characters after my family and then Oregon Trail Dad died of dysentery. The guilt! It nearly killed my 9-year-old soul.

Oh, and someone told me today that wintertime in London means this:

Sunrise: 8:30 am
Sunset: 3:30 pm

Seasonal Affective Disorder, thy name is Britain.

I'm making my way up in the world

2006-10-15T00:39:00.000+01:00

So. Thursday night (or early Friday morning), I met the man, the genius, the god that is Eddie Izzard. R and I went to his work in progress show at the Soho Theatre, which was small and intimate (we were in the fourth row and still only about 15 feet from him). He did his show in man-gear, and without heels he's actually quite small, only about two inches taller than I am. He was amazing of course, and I nearly peed myself laughing but didn't out of respect for the nice employees of the theatre. They had enough on their hands with all the drunk people and their random mid-show shoutouts. Maybe I have to go to AA meetings to understand Drunkese but all I could make out were "silverfish" and something about a cat in a puddle. Eddie did his show with an "Intelligent Design" theme and the presence of these folks probably did nothing to improve his opinion of it. So I suppose that's a good thing.

After the show, R and I decided on a whim to try to find the elusive stage door, through which, we assumed, Eddie would exit to avoid crazed fans like ourselves. We rounded the block searching for unimportant-looking doors, to no avail, and were regrouping on a streetcorner, trying not to look like confused tourists or modestly dressed prostitutes, when who walks out the regular old front doors of the theatre but Eddie! To whom we spoke! We apologized for hailing from the country with the highest percentage of general idiots and asked him to sign our tickets, which he did WITH MY HEALTH SERVICES PEN WHICH I WILL TREASURE FOREVER AND WHICH PROBABLY STILL HAS HIS FINGERPRINTS ON IT AHHHHHH! For about two minutes, the little dots that say "Christina" and "Eddie" on the Marauder's Map of the world were only THIIIIIIIS far apart. We're like, total BFFs now.

Then waiting for the bus home, after several hundred "OH MY GOD"s and a slightly delirious phone call to my equally-Eddie-obsessed brother, we discovered a window decal on the inside of the bus shelter that said "Is Justin doing Christina?" which of course topped off the night with just the right amount of absurdity. (And the answer is "not to my knowledge" if you were wondering.)

I can go home now

2006-10-13T01:19:00.000+01:00

OH MY GOD I MET EDDIE IZZARD!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CAN'T...THINK...STRAIGHT....OXYGEN...DEFICIT....

(Better post when I can form complete sentences)

Hand me that screwdriver, wink wink

2006-10-11T11:34:00.000+01:00

In an effort to be social and to try something new with the built-in escape route of "if it doesn't work out, I'm leaving in a year anyway," I joined the backstage theatre crew here. These last few days have been taken up with hours of training in sound, lighting, and, naturally, the general backstage workings of a theatre. The fact that I, Commitmentphobius Clubflakeus, have gone to more than two meetings of any one society is reason to wonder about the tap water here. On the other hand, the people running the meetings have accents that make me want to sit there all evening, even if I have not understood a word about amps or which knobs do what on the sound board. I paid attention today, though, because being taught to climb a vertical ladder several times the height of my house requires a bit more concentration and a bit less guesswork as to the geographic origins of the speaker's accent.

So I fully plan to return to the States* a Techie Goddess, with calloused hands and a working knowledge of a sound board and lights and other electrical things, though my lexicon of construction-related words will be mostly comprised of British tool names, so I can't even brag without consulting Wikipedia for the American translation.

In other news, tomorrow is EDDIE! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

* Let me just say that my frequent and unthinking use of the ~~somewhat~~ pretentious term "the States" both amuses and disgusts me.

My own worldliness astounds me

2006-10-08T23:21:00.000+01:00

Today our group went to Salisbury and Stonehenge, which was a triple pilgrimage for me: besides the obvious touristy reasons for wanting to see Stonehenge, Eddie Izzard does a bit about it and the Beatles perform there in the movie Help!, of which I held a screening in my room this evening to celebrate our new perspective on the world. I even [rather pretentiously] tried to figure out the angle at which it was filmed, with little success. I'm not sure the highway had been built in 1965.

We also lunched on Cornish pasties and I am curious as to how to pronounce this word. The woman who gave me my pasty said "PASS-ty" so I imagine I ought to trust the locals. Pasties, at any rate, are egg-glazed, hand-held pies with usually savory filling and usually all kinds of delicious. Given that I don't eat fish and I hate beer, so far this has been my favorite British food. And who wouldn't love what is essentially a Hot Pocket that has been elevated to deity status?

In the states, it's Columbus Day weekend and I'm missing out on our annual camping trip in the White Mountains. This kills me a little bit inside because I love me some Lincoln Craft Fair and Cannon Mountain tram ride. And so far I haven't seen any leaves turn colors here so these British leaves had better get crankin'.

Oh, also, while being awesome all over the south of England, I ran across a medieval toilet and was appropriately thrilled. Here is photographic evidence of my obsession with bathroom humor in all its manifestations.

Those Americans, they think they're so entitled

2006-10-06T12:55:00.000+01:00

Yesterday morning at precisely 7:41 am, the staff of my residence hall decided it was high time they gave these American wusses something to complain about. All the [intentional] fire drills I've ever experienced at my home university came around 10 at night while people were studying or otherwise futzing around the dorm. They'd yawn, mosey out in their flip flops and then the RD would get mad that it took longer than x number of minutes for everyone to exit the building. Well, let me tell you, do the Brits ever know how to do a fire drill. Being thrust into quasi-alertness in the wee hours to that uniquely urgent British alarm sound (WEEEEE OOOOOOO WEEEEE OOOOOOO as opposed to the flat American ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnn) causes one to wonder if perhaps this fire drill isn't a drill at all. My floormates and I were appropriately flustered, running down the stairs in our slippers at a pretty good clip for having been fast asleep about 90 seconds ago. We were so groggy, in fact, that we paused at the fire exit at the bottom of the stairs because it said it was alarmed. Of course, once we hit daylight and the 45-degree gust of air, the groggy urgency immediately vanished and was replaced by groggy crankiness.

And that, my friends, is how you make college kids care about a fire drill.

---

Allegedly we are also not allowed to have posters in our rooms except as affixed to the tiny bulletin board provided, a rule which baffles me (yet again with the bafflement) because stickytack doesn't pull off the paint or hurt anyone or stink the place up, like SMOKING IN YOUR ROOM does (which IS allowed). I am actively disregarding this rule (the posters, not the smoking), and as they have recently posted signs indicating that room inspections will be taking place soon, I am torn between sneakiness and defiance. Should I hide them for two weeks while the inspections occur, or leave them up and possibly get charged? Someone also said that they heard that we weren't allowed to have bedside lamps, which is ridiculous considering the room's fabulous dungeon impression, but the poster I read just said no nightlights, which fortunately isn't a problem for me (though we were cutting it close for a few years there). I have till Thursday to decide whether I spring for cowardice or rebellion.

Wherever I go, the word "baffled" always seems to apply

2006-10-04T23:37:00.000+01:00

This weekend I encountered a Tube employee who, upon learning that my group and I were "from Boston" (as we say to most people who ask, despite not actually being from Boston itself), broke out into a rousing rendition of "Massachusetts" by the Bee Gees. He then did impressions of Louis Armstrong, Neil Diamond and Johnny Cash. Employees of public transportation seem to be rather polar in their attitudes toward the public; they tend to be either comatose or REALLY EXCITED TO BE AT WORK OMG YAY!, both at home and abroad. So thank you, Peter at Mansion House station; you rival the likes of The Occasional Wiseacre Conductors on the Green Line, and those are some tough shoes to fill.

Today I learned that you can't get hydrogen peroxide here without asking for it from the pharmacy counter. I'm not sure why the UK likes to take this precaution. What has H₂O₂ ever done to you guys? It just wants to have a little fun, you know, fizz a little, disinfect a little. I will say, though, I learned in the same trip that one thing England totally has on America is its veggie chicken nuggets. I bought some on sale today and they were the Nuggets of the Gods (subtitled If Zeus Ate Soy Products). I am looking forward to buying out this whole foods place.

Embarrassing Moment of the Day: I went to the bank to deposit some money for the first time, and I was completely stumped by the deposit envelope. The sticky part was on the envelope rather than on the flap, and the flap was detachable but shouldn't have been detached, though I didn't realize this until I had sacrificed several envelopes and apparently looked pathetic enough to merit a visit by an inquiring bank employee, bless his helpful soul. I mean, I don't speak Bank Language in the US, nevermind here, but one would think I could figure out how to seal an envelope on both sides of the Atlantic. I seriously don't deserve a degree anymore.

My work here is done

2006-10-03T23:30:00.000+01:00

AHHHH I GOT EDDIE IZZARD TICKETS!!!

In a stroke of luck, the magnitude of which I have never seen and will never see again, not only did I get tickets to see Eddie Izzard, but less than 24 hours later I snagged myself a seat at the performance of Paul McCartney's classical album at Royal Albert Hall. I'm willing to bet Paul will be there so I'll try to be classy and contain my Beatlemaniacal tendencies.

Eddie and Paul in the same month. My life is complete. Now I can go home.

2006-09-30T23:20:00.000+01:00

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.

Can I major in housewifery?

2006-09-29T23:39:00.000+01:00

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.

Care package makers take note

2006-09-28T21:30:00.000+01:00

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.

Such emotional upheaval for a regular old Wednesday

2006-09-27T21:48:00.000+01:00

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.

Still a little fish

2006-09-26T23:07:00.000+01:00

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.

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

2006-09-25T19:40:00.000+01:00

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.

Wacky people are a universal standard

2006-09-24T11:31:00.000+01:00

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.

Behold! My heart still beateth

2006-09-23T00:24:00.000+01:00

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.

I will check for my first gray hairs tonight

2006-09-13T23:37:00.000+01:00

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.

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

2006-09-09T03:10:00.000+01:00

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.

In which I reveal about half of my personal flaws

2006-08-31T16:25:00.000+01:00

I realized this morning, while groggily pulling clumps of mascara from those tricky lower lashes, that today, two weeks before departure, is the day I had arbitrarily decided to begin packing. And yet somehow, when I set out to do it after supper, I had -- get this -- absolutely no desire to drag out suitcases and put things in them! Is the world imploding?? Has George W. Bush just ministered a gay wedding? Am I no longer interested in hopelessly boring things (reading, loafing, blogging, aspiring to become a librarian)? I suspect I am not suddenly much more interesting but rather just lazy. When anal-retentiveness jousts with sloth, you know the nap is going to win out.

My sister, meanwhile, is packing to leave for her first year of college, though I don't remember this being a hand-holding sort of process, nor am I aware of a divine entity having presented me with prophet status and a set of stone tablets outlining The Unbreakable Rules of Packing for College. But due to the as-yet-undiagnosed OCD, I have a four-page packing checklist that has accidentally convinced my sister that I am the Patron Saint of Putting Crap in Boxes. This is a title I would gladly accept if it were not for the Endless Questions of Dubious Answerability, the first and best being, "Um, how do I pack?"

She has also decided that she actually owns most of my belongings and has expressed an interest in the following items: my floor lamp, my straightening iron, my CD tower, my refrigerator, my whiteboard and my down comforter (apparently hers doesn't match). Granted, most of these things I'm not taking with me, and it's not like I'm going to need a blanket in the sunny, tropical British Isles. Duh.

Things I think I know

2006-08-21T16:51:00.000+01:00

24 days till departure. It's still far too early to pack, so I get my kicks from obsessive travel research. I've loaded up on minute details of British culture, but I haven't experienced any of it firsthand, so I'm feeling kind of like a virgin sex columnist lately. Here are some tidbits I've picked up, though to what extent they are true, I won't know till I get there:

1) The vast majority of Britons hate peanut butter, because somehow their peanut butter is nearly inedible while peanut butter in the US is regarded as a veritable food of the gods. I am warned not to even buy things that are labeled "American Peanut Butter" if I would like to live to see the sun rise again. This is the reason that I am setting aside 1 pound of my 100-pound luggage allotment for a jar of my hippy-dippy all-natural peanut butter.

2) It rains. A lot.

3) It gets cold. Though as a hardened New Englander, I'm fairly certain that I can take anything they throw at me. Ice storm of 1998, anyone?

4) I received a piece of literature in my study abroad packet that gave a brief history of the UK, climate information, geography, etc. In so many words it also said that the British people are a rather private sort and you should not do things like touch them or talk about personal things like politics or religion or bowel movements. I'm okay on the personal space requirements, but I'm going to have to control my verbal diarrhea (ha!) when it comes to TMI.

If Heaven were a website

2006-08-16T04:37:00.000+01:00

This is quite possibly the best thing ever. At the very least, it's up there with grilled cheese sandwiches and Eddie Izzard.

Adventures in Airport Frustration, Part 1 of 57

2006-08-14T14:39:00.000+01:00

The study abroad program director just emailed us with information on the new "tweaked" security measures, and praise Zeus for tweaking because I was certainly not going to bring all my business in a clear plastic bag. I mean, it's a given that people traveling to the UK will have a passport or other theft-prone items, but I'd rather not put it out there as "I AM DISTRACTED AT THE TICKET COUNTER, SO PLEASE NOTICE MY AMERICAN PASSPORT, £50.12 IN CASH AND SUPER-ABSORBENCY TAMPON!"

So because I must feed my inner researchasaurus, I immediately googled "carry-on baggage US UK" and found that although I can now bring solid lip balm, I will have to remove the gel inserts from the boots I bring on board. Also, all water bottles must be empty, but it would kill me to waste all that empty space in my luggage with my giant nalgene, so I'll probably stuff it with things like hankies or underpants or something. Although now that I think of it, I don't have a good reason for packing ahead of time if I'm not going to be able to avoid having my life spread out in front of a few dozen co-travelers and a couple of armed security personnel. I should just haul all my stuff to the airport in a crate and pack in the terminal.

This is too much! As it is, I am just coming to terms with the thought of spending a year without my mattress topper. Oh, the horror! (We're going to overlook the fact that I just googled "UK university mattresses" in a hopeful attempt to find the blog of a prior traveler announcing the superiority of British dormitory bedding to American.)

Reasons I am going to London

2006-08-12T03:16:00.000+01:00

1. Cute boys with cute accents

2. I conveniently have a handle on all the national languages

3. To develop a sense of style by osmosis

4. To explore the British countryside, pretending I am a country vet in the 1930s, without the inconvenience of having to violate cows with bowel problems on wintry nights

5. To meet the following people: any member of the royal family, Ewan McGregor, Paul McCartney, any man who has played the role of Mr. Darcy

6. Learning stuff, I guess (that's what I tell my university)

7. To unwittingly suspend my accent between Bostonian and British so that Brits still know I am American, but my family will think I am just being pretentious and inform me that they have had quite enough with the affected accent, thank you