Stroke of Luck

I had one of the coolest experiences about four days before I was set to leave for Amsterdam.  It was the weekend before finals, and my friend Loryn was having a birthday celebration at The Oxygen Bar in Leicester Square.  Now I have been extremely economical this trip and have refrained from buying really anything that wasn't absolutely essential (if you don't count cigarettes of course).  So this particular day I thought to myself, "I want to buy a new outfit."  I had been wearing the same clothes for about two and a half months now, and had a sudden urge to wear something new.  

So I figured out how much time I had before I needed to meet back up with everyone, and set off for the store.  That day there was some kind of fire alarm at one of the stations on the Piccadilly Line so there was an inordinate amount of people crowding the tube stations.  Since I quite enjoy walking, I hopped off the tube and decided to tackle the rest of the journey on foot.  Once above ground I power walked all the way to H&M, weaving through the masses of people in front of Harrods, and getting to my destination in good time.  

That's when I noticed something horrible had happened.  At some point between where I stood and the last time I had gotten off the tube my wallet had disappeared.  I checked every inch of my purse, pockets, anywhere that my wallet could have possibly been and after about five minutes had to concede that I had dropped it somewhere.  In a silent state of panic, I slowly started weaving back through the crowds; scanning the ground as much as humanly possible to see if I could spot it.  In desperation I called my friend, just because I felt like I needed to talk to someone or I might start crying.  Luckily I maintained composure, and he helpfully and calmly gave me suggestions of what to do next.  So I headed back the way I came from, made it back to the station, and asked every employee I could find if anyone had turned in a wallet.    After about forty minutes of asking every employee, every news stand, coffee shop, and whoever else I thought might have any information I was still left empty handed.  I walked away from the tube station with the pamphlet telling me what to do if you loose your oyster card in my hand, and my mind whirling with the myriad of predicaments I was about to find myself in.

I moped out onto the sidewalk and pulled out my phone to call my mom.  I was just about to dial her number and ask her to help me cancel all my cards when my phone rang.  It was someone who worked for AIFS, and she was calling to tell me that a British girl named Claire found my wallet on the street and brought it into the V&A museum.  I stopped walking, looked up to the museum that was literally right across the street and almost had to stifle a laugh.  There is just no way that I could have been so lucky.  I hadn't even walked by the museum because I was walking on the opposite side of the street.  I sprinted across the street, picked up my wallet with a huge smile on my face, and called the beautiful Claire to thank her for saving my life.  

Now I have to admit that in that hour and a half long time frame when I had thought my wallet was gone forever, I was starting to feel almost like I deserved for this to happen.  I am attributing this mindset to the remnants of my conservative Christian education.  Even though my views and opinions of God have changed, there are still those moments of doubt where I think that maybe I have become a little bit too liberal and the guilt sets in.  So, during that hour and a half I kept thinking that maybe I deserve this.  The previous week I had ditched school, drank far too much alcohol, smoked copious amounts of marijuana, and participated in several other morally questionable activities.  For that hour and a half, I was sure that this was God's retribution.  "I have just been too happy," I thought to myself.

The most beautiful part of the story though is that my doubt was needless.  I never needed to feel guilt, or to question the activities that I had openly and willingly participated in.  There is no such thing as being "too" happy.  The God that I have faith in creates positive energy, and I truly feel that any time you embrace that positivity that you are embracing God.  You can still live life, make mistakes, get carried away, and embrace God for the positive, loving creator that he is.  I threw out some positive energy, and God threw some back.  

Who knows why I lost my wallet.  Maybe it was because I was careless and left it in my pocket.  Perhaps it was God saving me from spending money on an outfit that I most definitely did not need.  Regardless of why it happened, all I know is that because it did I feel like I have even more faith in God.  Maybe that's a bit dramatic, and maybe I'm reading way too far into the situation, but then on the other hand what could possibly be bad about having more faith in God anyway?  

                     

A Rainy Day by the Sea

About a week before the end of our term, a group of us decided to go to Brighton for the day.  The tickets were pretty cheap, so even though it was going to be a rainy day we decided to go for it.  The train ride there was quick and painless, and the promise of seeing the ocean was very exciting to all of us.  From the moment we got there is was freezing and raining, but it was just one of those times that the weather didn't seem to matter.  We headed directly for the beach, and a few of the boys were even daring enough to get into the water.  The wind was blowing so hard that it destroyed most everyone's umbrella's, my glasses were plagued with speckles from the rain, and by the time we made it back to the train station every article of clothing I had on was soaked.  But not once did anyone complain.  

It was one of those days when none of the uncomfortable stuff mattered.  I think that all of us knew that it was just one of those experiences that's worth any hardship.  We ended up sitting in a pub for a couple of hours waiting for our train, and just enjoying each other's company.  It was then that I realized how hard it was going to be to go home.  I have made so many friends here; met so many cool people.  I started on this journey not knowing a soul and am walking away with friendships that I hope last for years.  That rainy day in Brighton will always be one of the coolest days I have ever spent.  Not because I did anything particularly exciting or different, or because I got to see something one of a kind, but because the whole day just left me with positive vibes.  

We got back to London, put on dry clothes, and I spent the remainder of the day on the couch in the boy's apartment watching YouTube videos.  There could not have been a more perfect ending to the day.  My contentment was complete, and I hope to always be able to recognize those perfect days even back home.  To feel the presence of positivity in even the most trivial of activities.  I just think that if I am able to do that, able to enjoy the people around me, able to get joy out of totally commonplace situations, than I will always be happy with my life.  

  

Staying In

For the past week or so I have been kind of a bum.  I had the most wonderful time with my Mom and my Aunt Marie when they came to visit me, but ever since then I have pretty much barricaded myself indoors.  I have even gone so far as ditching several of my classes, and sleeping in way way too late.  

Now, don't get me wrong, I have been having the best time with friends and making plans to travel with people which is something that I honestly didn't expect to be able to do this trip.  Well, anyway,  after a week long siesta I found myself with the desire to go on an adventure tonight.  So, me and a few of my favorite people on this trip decided to go and see a firework show on the other side of the city.  It was freezing cold outside, and the ground was muddy, but that didn't stop hundreds of people from making their way to this park in London to see some fireworks.  

The show itself wasn't anything particularly special, especially when you are me and have been spoiled by the amazing pyrotechnics of Disneyland for your entire life.  The amazing part though was that there were just so many people coming together to share in this spectacle.  Even the music that the show was set to was old school jazzy kind of stuff, my favorite, and also something that would have never been tolerated in America. So there I stood, watching fireworks light up the sky standing next to two people that were complete strangers to me only about two months ago, but now are truly friends; and I just felt completely content.  

So as I thought back over the past week, instead of feeling regret over not venturing out more, I felt only gratitude, and contentment at having formed new relationships.  Sometimes simply staying in with people, even in London, is an entirely rewarding thing to do.  

Text Messaging

I have never been a big fan of the text messaging craze.  People have always asked me why, and I just couldn't give a satisfactory answer.  "Why Tera, why do you hate texting so much?" 

Well I think that I have figured out exactly why I hate text messaging.  I am a sarcastic person, and face to face that totally works out.  All you have to do is flash a smile, or laugh it off and the other person knows you're kidding.  But over a text, the other half of the conversation is free to interpret your message however they wish.  This doesn't bode well for me because it usually either makes me sound like either a total bitch, or sometimes even slightly stupid.  Since I am neither of these things, I struggle with expressing myself accurately through a message. 

Another problem with texting, is that you can't express noises very well.  For everyone who knows me, this is an obvious problem.  I tend to make the weirdest noises but it works for me.  It gets my point across, and appropriately portrays the sentiment behind what I'm saying. 

Some argue that texting is great because you get to think about what you say before you send that message.  Well, I have this uncanny ability to actually think about what I'm saying before I say it, even in a normal conversation.  (Perfect example of how I may come across as kind of a bitch)  I like the energy of a face to face conversation.  Actually looking into the other person's eyes.  The awkward pauses and mistakes actually fuel me.  It reminds me that I am talking to a real life humanoid.  Someone who doesn't always get to plan out exactly what they are going to say before they say it. 

I know this might be the least significant post that I have ever written, but I felt it was a sort of epiphany and wanted to share it with the few who read this blog.  So... I'm on board with the texting revolution, but I still don't like it... I don't like it at all!

Of a Different Name

So something that I’ve come to find about England, is that sometimes they call familiar things by a different name.  There are the obvious examples such as a lift is an elevator, and a restroom is a toilet (I have yet to hear anyone call it a lou), but then there are a million phrases and names for things that are just different than America’s.  

There have been several phrases that I have fallen in love with.  Like “legless” refers to a drunk person, which is just perfection in phrasing.  Also people say, “cheers” instead of thanks, and it just has a way of making you happy when you hear it.  When something is sketchy or just generally can’t be trusted it’s “dodgy,” which is a phrase I hope to use for the rest of my life. Lastly, I love how a bus is called a “coach” because it makes me feel like I’m going on a journey rather than a field trip, and things are not awesome in London they’re brilliant.      

While I am totally into most British phrasing, there are some things that are just a tad harder to get used to.  I have found this to be especially evident when it comes to food.  Shrimp are prawns, and a baked potato is a jacket potato, and chips are what we would equate to steak fries.  One thing that I have been entirely distressed about, is that they do not have an equivalent for half and half.  In the grocery store they must have fifty different types of cream products.  Double cream, single cream, cream de Francais, and Belgian cream, clotted cream, and soured cream (which for some reason grosses me out even though I know it is just sour cream... which I love.  That extra “ed” really changes things for some reason); all of these different creams yet absolutely no half and half.  

How could this be?  I even searched for something along the lines of “half cream half milk,” because British phrasing tends to be very straight forward, and still came up empty handed.  Even at the countless coffee shops here there isn’t a trace of half and half.  Now I have learned to survive perfectly well with whole milk in my coffee (because another thing that isn’t present on British shelves is flavored coffee creamer... or flavored coffee at all for that matter... sad day) but these little cultural differences are the reasons that I will always love coming home. 

There is just nothing better that having the little things around you that you have grown to love.  So, when I get home I will make myself a huge glass of iced coffee, with actual ice in it, and use way to much Coffeemate hazelnut creamer.  I will also take a shower with a sufficient amount of water pressure, and drive my car on the right side of the street.  Because at the end of the day, I like the way some things are done back home, and I’m proud to live in such a brilliant place.        

Cafe in the Crypt

So my friend Lauren found this cool little cafe in the crypt at St. Matins in the Fields church.  We had gone there several weeks ago and had found it to be quite charming.  Well yesterday our Philosophy teacher took us to a lunch time concert in the same church.  It was one of the coolest things I've gotten to do here in London.  The church fills up with people of all sorts who have come to hear the free concert.  It was one of Beethoven's sonatas, played by a violinist and a pianist, and was forty-five minutes of fantasticly soothing music.  There just isn't anything much better than brilliant music, beautiful surroundings, and good people all in the same place.

Well after we had listened to the concert, a few of us decided to check out the cafe in the crypt, maybe grab a spot of tea.  The line was a little too long so we didn't end up eating there, but before we left one of the girls that I was with made an observation about our surroundings.  She said, "It's just kind of sad that they built a restaurant on top of these people's graves."  At the time I just kind of nodded and we moved along, but the more I thought about it the less I agreed with her statement.

I would have to say, that if I were ever buried somewhere, I would be enthralled at the prospect of it one day becoming a restaurant over where I lay.  I think that the departed would feel comfort at the constant warmth brought by the people dining above them.  The kids running around, and the friends drinking tea and sharing in conversation.  What an inviting place to be laid to rest.

Tonight we are going back to the same cafe because on Wednesday nights they have little jazz concerts for the diners.  This fact just cements my opinion even further, that the people buried under this bit of earth have some of the most enviable real estate in the world.  What could be better than to hear laughter, and the sounds of spoons and forks clinking plates, and jazz music fill the air for the rest of eternity?

I know this may be a little bit melancholy to think about, but I just couldn't get her comment out of my head yesterday.  Her feeling sorry for these blessed people now seems to me like the silliest thing in the world.  Historical sites, and graves and such are so important to our heritage, but I believe that each generation needs to make its mark as well.  If that mark takes the form of a cafe built over a crypt, than I see nothing more beautiful and more beneficial to those who remain below.

Walking Down the Street

I have always had this uncanny ability to attract random conversations with complete strangers.  This has happened to me throughout my entire life.  Almost every time I am standing in a line anywhere, or waiting in a doctor's office, someone decides that they want to strike up a conversation with me.  Maybe I just look like someone who likes to listen, who knows.

Well this afternoon as I was walking down the street towards Starbucks, this charming little family walked by with the most perfectly dressed children I have ever seen.  They looked like miniature adults, and I literally did a double take as they passed me on the street.  Just as I was about to resume my journey, I noticed a woman on the opposite side of the sidewalk that had looked back at the little family as well.  We kind of smiled at each other and she said to me, "Are those not the more precious little ones eva?"  to which I honestly replied, "Well they were wearing the most adorable clothes I've ever seen, but I have to admit that I know some pretty cute kids back home."

Maybe it was the honesty in my answer, maybe it was the fact that I answered at all, but before I knew it we had been talking for about twenty minutes.  I stood there and listened as this woman gave me an only slightly condensed version of her life story.  She told me all about her friend's kids, and how much she had wanted kids of her own.  She told me of past loves, and travels, and unrealized hopes and dreams.

I have to admit that I was slightly taken aback at first by this woman's candor.  It has been my experience with British people that they are not generally a very open nation.  I think I exchanged more words with this one woman than I have with all of the other British people I have met combined.  Most Brits wouldn't share some of these things with their closest friends let alone with a complete stranger and I think after about the twenty-five minute mark this very fact finally hit this woman.  She suddenly stopped talking, looked up at me, and said, "Dear Lord!  Why haven't you shut me up?"

I kind of chuckled and told her the most honest thing I could think to say, "You know, sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than it is to someone who knows the whole backstory.  I understand, and it had been my pleasure to listen to everything that you had to say."  She looked moderately shocked, probably more by her own openness than by my response, smiled at me warmly, and thanked me.  I bid her farewell and we then went our separate ways.

Of all the things I have done this weekend, this single moment has stuck out in my mind.  Of all the clubs, the pubs, the monuments, the cathedrals, this was the most significant thing I could think of to write about.  There was no one with me to share the experience.  No pictures were taken, or fuss made.  I didn't have to get ready and put make up on to have this conversation.  It wasn't obscured by alcohol, or sleep deprivation, or even amazement, which is sometimes even more clouding than any substance could be.  It was just a moment of real honesty between two people.  A moment when I was able to be a sort of human diary for a woman that needed somewhere to store her thoughts.  A thirty minute period where I was actually useful to another human spirit, and that is about the most I could ask to be in this crazy world of ours.      

Tube Congestion

I never really understood the word crowded until I got to London.  I have never been a particularly "touchy feely" type person, but in the tube, during rush hour, you have no choice but to become extremely comfortable touching those around you.

This morning, I was running about fifteen minutes off schedule and consequently got onto the train platform at about 8:15 rather than 8:00.  Now I'm not sure whether that tiny quarter of an hour is what made the congestion this morning particularly bad, or if there were some darker forces at work, but trying to get on a train this morning was total bedlam.  There were already probably about fifty people waiting on the platform for the next train, which is never a good sign.  Then as the train pulls in, it is clear that there is not room for two more people per car, let alone the fifteen that are trying to shove in.

Now when I say that there was not room in the car, I literally mean that bodies were occupying every inch of free space, standing or sitting.  People are pressed against one another, the windows are fogged over from the body heat, and there is an almost indescribable human made humidity lingering in the air.

                                                                               

I waited there as three trains came and left, not able to get even close to getting on one myself.  In a final effort to make it to school I even tried to take another line, that though out of the way, might have gotten me there...eventually.  I squeezed myself into a small gap between two business men on the first train that pulled up, but at the first stop the train was experiencing "severe delays" and I opted to hop out, and take the train in the opposite direction right back home.  I convinced myself that it just wasn't worth it, that I could miss one class, and since I gave it my best effort, I really felt no guilt about my decision. 

So, about thirty minutes after I stepped into the station, I was back in the exact same spot again, and was about to head back to my apartment when I got this tiny tugging feeling in my stomach.  I was already here, I was already up, and even if I was going to be late I had stuff to do at the student center anyway, so... I decided to try one more time.  I went back down the stairs to the Piccadilly line towards Cockfosters, and like the last time I was there there were far too many people trying to fit in far too little space.

But just a little way down the platform I saw one door that didn't have people queueing up behind it and I also saw a Tera sized spot on the inside of the car.  I sprinted down the platform, squeezed myself into the spot with amazing precision, and the doors closed almost immediately behind me.  I rode the rest of the journey to school, cramped, and hot, but happy to be on the train.  I got to school only about ten minutes late, and convinced that it was a genuine miracle that I had arrived.

Now I am about 99% certain of two things.  One, that even if the tube is crazy, and congested, it also gets you places in a very reasonable amount of time, and two, that I am quite positive that God himself saved me a spot on the tube this morning. 

Some Days

Now I generally try to be an optimistic person, especially in my writing.  I figure that if I am writing something down, that can potentially be passed on and re-read by people, that it should have a positive message.  I would rather spread light than shadow.  That being said however, some days are just dimmer than others. 

Last night and all day today, there is a strike on the tube.  We had been pre-warned about the delays this would surely cause, and I planned accordingly.  I woke up super early (6:30 to be exact), got dressed, made a quick cup of coffee, and headed off to tackle the buses.  As I walked outside, I quickly found it to be raining, which is irksome but not surprising, and made my way to the bus stop.  I stood on the bus for about an hour, trying to finish up the reading for my class.  So I arrived at my school, damp, slightly nauseous, and rather tired but early.  I achieved my goal of not being late to class regardless of the strike, and was rather proud of myself... but not for long.  I climbed the four flights of stairs to my classroom to encounter a note on the door.  "All of Professor Hood's classes will be cancelled today as he is stuck in Majorca (or Spain, or some other place out of this country)." 

Fantastic!  Both of my classes today are taught by Professor Hood.  So... pretty much, I have been awake now for almost three hours, I have battled the buses, I have made it in one piece (and in good time), and I have absolutely no class today.  I could have been in bed for hours.  I could have kept talking to Kass this morning, and my Mom.  Hell I could have went to Starbucks and Skyped the people I love and actually want to see.  But cest la vie I suppose.  Now that I'm up, and no where near my nice warm bed, I may just have to go shopping, or at least treat myself to lunch, even though I was hoping to not spend any money today.  Sometimes I guess you just have to roll with the punches, and some days you just have to take what comes and hope that tomorrow gives you something else to be optimistic about.   

Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

I have noticed that simply smiling at people makes all the difference in the world.  Today I was at this store called Primark, which must be the most economical clothing source in London.  This assumption can be confirmed by the swarming crowds that are constantly filling the store.  Even on a weekday morning, there are more people shopping here than you would ever see in an American store, but on a Saturday morning, even a rainy Saturday morning, it resembles Macy’s on the day after Thanksgiving. 

Well, this was exactly the state of things this fine Saturday morning, as me and two of my friends buffeted our way through the crowds.  I had been there the previous Wednesday and bought a couple of things without trying them on, because even then the line for the fitting room was about 30 women deep and I had neither the time nor the patience to wait, and I now had the task of returning my ill-fitting merchandise.  

As I got into the queue at customer service, I encountered what one would expect in such a situation.  A bunch of really crabby, really hot people standing in line.  I watched as person after person approached the attendants, and I noticed one thing that all of these people had in common: not one of them was smiling.  Now granted I completely understand the lack of excitement, given the conditions, and I was not necessarily in the mood to be jovial myself, but still when looking around the room it was a little disheartening to realize that not one of these people were happy at the moment.  

I continued to watch each person in line as they approached the associate that was going to be assisting them, and still not one smile broke the lips of either customer or employee.  So, as I came to the front of the queue, and the sign flashed for me to step up to register 5, I looked the girl behind the counter in the eye, and gave her my most winning smile.  She kind of looked at me for a second, probably not sure whether I was totally right in the head, and gave me a smile back.  

As she returned my merchandise, I happily talked to her about something or other, and she graciously joked and laughed in return.  She completed the transaction, told me to have a wonderful day, and also gave me a great tip about where to have lunch in the area.  

As I re-entered the fray to find my friends, I couldn’t help wondering what that room would have been like if everyone would have just put on a smile.  Even though we were all hot and sweaty, tired, and slightly damp from the rain, the whole atmosphere would have been different.  People would have been chatting in line, and the sales associates would not have given them attitude.  The line probably would have moved quicker too because everything just seems to go more smoothly when ego and irritation are kept to a minimum.  You can’t be upset with a stranger who is smiling, it just makes no sense.  So, at least for me, I shall always try to remember to adorn my face with a bright smile, because there are just so many things to be happy about, and a smile shows that this girl is determined to find them.    

    

Picture Imperfect

Most of the really amazing historical places in London don't let you take pictures inside.  Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, all the palaces, Shakespeare's birthplace, and countless others have a very strict no picture policy.  This greatly distressed me at first.  I found myself taking as many pictures as possible of the exterior to try and make up for it, taking final snapshots through the doorway until the guards start giving me dirty looks.

But today my class went on a tour of Parliament.  We met underneath Big Ben (which is actually the name of the bell inside the tower, not the clock or the tower itself, which is actually called The London Tower) and had to go through security checks more severe than those at an airport.  They lead you into Westminster Hall, which is the oldest part of the building dating all the way back to the early 1300's, and this is the last place they allow you to take pictures.  Once again I begrudgingly put away my little camera, I didn't even bring my nice one because I know the rules by now, and followed the tour guide out of the hall.  

The next room quite literally took my breath away.  It was the House of Lords, and was gilded from top to bottom.  At one end was an elaborately carved alcove for the even more elaborate throne where the queen gives her yearly address.  The carving on the walls was equally ornate, and painted either bright, royal red, or covered in glittering gold leaf.  This outstanding room was followed by another, then another, then another.  We walked through hall after hall of gorgeous statues, and uber bright paintings, while hearing our tour guide tell us all about the histories of the room and what they are used for.  

As we progressed deeper and deeper into England's Capitol, I thought about the camera in my bag, and did not have the slightest desire to try and take a picture.  There is just no way that the lens of that machine could reproduce the effect of those rooms.  They couldn't catch the shimmer of the gold leaf, or the way the light comes through the stained glass.  The intensity of the faces in the paintings and on the statues would just looked washed out in most photos and there would be absolutely no point in trying to describe the feeling of knowing that you are surrounded by a building that has seen so much history that it is hard to even imagine.  

Though I love to take pictures, sometimes they just can't even begin to do justice to the real thing.  Sometimes, there is just no substitute for a memory, for the experience that simply couldn't be translated to film.         

London Weather

The weather in London certainly takes some getting used to.  Let's just take today for example.  I woke up this morning to a freezing mist that encirled me the second I walked out the door.  It was so cold as I walked the block and a half to the tube station that I seriously considered turning around and getting another jacket.  All that changed however the moment I walked into the station.  The chill abated, and I made it down the lifts and onto my train in comfort.  After about five minutes on the train though, I start getting a little too warm.  First the scarf went, then the gloves, then the jacket, and even after peeling off as many layers as was possible without causing a scandal, I was still sweating by the time I reached my destination.  After the lift ride to the exit, I was positively on fire.  Not for long though, because once I swiped my oyster card, and was swept by the torrent of people back outside, I was frozen in a matter of seconds.  I re-applied all of my layers for the five minute walk to school.

Now, by the time I got to our campus, my blood started pumping and off came the scarf again.  I sat outside for a moment, letting my temperature regulate a bit, and then set off to class.  I took the stairs to my classroom on the third floor, which is my normal custom, and by the time I got to the top I was so blasted hot that I had to go into the bathroom and take off my undershirt.  The classrooms are pretty stable in regards to temperature, and once seated I was quite comfortable again.

Now this routine is to be expected everyday here.  The tricky part however, is that there is no way to really know how cold it is outside without actually going and standing out there for a minute.  Some days it's rainy, and still as you walk down the street there is no way that anyone could call it cold.  While other days the sky is a clear crystal blue, the sun shining, and the air is bitingly cold. 

So while here, I have adopted the boy scout motto; Be prepared.  Layering is definitely best, and with all those layers best to add a layer of patience as well.  There is no point getting frustrated, because then you will literally always feel that way here.  So... just suck it up, wear your hair so that the sweat won't ruin you, and slap on a smile, because in London, and anywhere else for that matter, it is insanity to expect perfect weather.   

Those Rare Moments

So last night I actually went out to a club for the first time since coming to England.  Clubs really aren't my favorite places, and this club was quite a doozie.  The temperature was about thirty degrees hotter than anyone in their right mind would desire and by the time you walk out the front door you feel like you are covered in other people's sweat.  Gross.  Though there was a moment last night that made the entire excursion worth while and naturally took place before we even entered the club.  

So all of us met up in the apartment lobby to take the tube together.  So there we were, a group of 20+ really loud Americans, most of whom were already drunk, walking down the quiet streets of London.  We got everyone onto a packed tube car, and took the train to the appropriate stop.  As we emerged into the main part of the station, there was a guy paying guitar as all the people made their way up the escalators.  

Suddenly a very familiar tune filled the air, the beginning bass line for the song "Stand By Me."  A few of us started to kind of hum the tune of the song as the guitarist played on, and then, one of the more intoxicated members of our party, started to really belt out the song with true gusto.  Instead of getting irritated looks, a whole bunch of British guys on the escalator next to us thought singing was a great idea, and started to join in.  Within seconds, the entire station was echoing with the voices of most everyone in the room singing a song that transcended time and countries.  It was amazing, like one of those scenes you see in a movie.  The kind of moment that makes you feel like every person in the vicinity had the same inspiration at the same moment.  It was a beautiful thing.

We all got off the escalator, and went out of the station with the residual voices lingering in the background.  We all kind of looked at each other, and no one had to say a word because we all knew how awesome that just was.  

So today when I woke up, slightly queasy, kind of achy, I ran over the previous night in my head.  Though maybe I wasn't really into the club, or the taking care of drunk people afterward, I got to experience one of those divine moments.  The kind that remind me of God because it just feels like everything and everyone is in sync.  So although I'm sure God would not look down at that club, appropriately named The Zoo Bar by the way, and be happy with what he saw.  I know that he was with us last night, in that moment of perfect unity in a tube station.              

Communication Skills

The British people are much more silent in nature than Americans.  Whether on the tube, or walking down the street, or even sitting with a friend in the park, they tend to not make nearly as much noise.  This even carries over into the way that they show their frustrations.  If you are standing in their way, or taking longer to move then they think is right, they will simply stand very close to you and sort of glare until you get the point.  This is the most evident when taking the tube.  

There is an unspoken rule when entering or leaving a tube station that you are supposed to have your ticket / oyster card ready to go so that you can enter the station in one fluid motion.  If you hold up the entire queue because you forgot to take your card out of your bag, you will definitely receive several filthy looks, no one will actually say anything, but their glares speak a thousand words.

Well, sometimes there is just nothing to be done about holding up the line.  As you enter or exit a station, there is a row of little gates and each one has a pad to the right hand side where you tap your oyster card.  Ninety-five percent of the time, this motion goes off without a hitch, but that other five percent is the problem.  Whenever the machines are feeling particularly touchy they decide to bar you from entering and flash “Seek Assistance” in bright red letters.  One day, I was in the queue to exit, my card ready, and  low and behold I got the fateful “Seek Assistance” message.  The British man behind me let out a small grunt of irritation, and my outspoken American nature kicked in.  I turned around, looked him in the eye, and said, “Really?  Do you think I wanted this to happen?”  He stared at me blankly for a few seconds, in which I was fully expecting a searing look to be shot my way.  

But instead, he gave me one of those crooked smiles and said, “I Suppose not.  Well, carry on then.”  On the second attempt it let me through, and I emerged onto the street with my head held high.  I, the loud American, proved that sometimes verbal communication is quite beneficial and that maybe angrily tapping your foot in silent protest is just silly.   

Shoes

As I was packing for this trip I had a mental conflict over what shoes to bring.  "Boots," I thought, most Londoners must wear boots all the time since it rains here so much.  Well, now that I have been in London for over a week, I can positively say that I was absolutely wrong.  Most women in London wear heels.  Not the safe kind either, the kitten heeled varieties that are just a step up from a nice comfortable pair of flats.  Women in London wear the staggeringly high, super narrow stiletto death traps that I can barely hobble around in.  These astounding women tackle stairs, and tube cars, and cobble stoned streets with apparent ease in these tricky shoes. 

For my Women in Literature class, we are going to a huge store that has recently opened up a The Shoe Galleries.  This gallery contains over 4,000 pairs of shoes by every notable designer that you could think of.  My teacher proceeded to read an article about the new gallery, in which they were describing this seasons hottest pair of shoes.  They were a very edgy looking pair of heels, that cost roughly about £1500.  I guess they have been just flying off of the shelves. 

As my teacher told us about these shoes, he explained why it is he was taking us to these galleries.  His theory is that women buy shoes like these, not because they want to attract men, but actually because they want to assert their dominance over other women.  As he was saying this I looked down at my feet, and encountered my simple pair of leather moccasins, that literally not even an hour before had made me applaud myself because they were so comfortable. 

What does my choice of shoes say about me I wonder?  Is that why all the women of London were these terrifying looking heels?  Is it a statement of their power and dominance? 

They longer I pontificated over this point, I realized that regardless of what it says about me, I would much rather be wearing these moccasins than a pair of heels that would surely make my feet bleed from all the walking that is demanded in this city.  So maybe, on just this one topic at least, I have an edge over the Brits.  Because when push comes to shove, I certainly don't need a pair of heels to prove that I am intelligent, and strong, and can kick pretty much any of these lady's asses.  If I do wear a pair of heels, I hope it's simply because I like them.  



A Moment of Peace

Before I left for London I was seriously anxious that I would spend the next two and a half months as a total loner.  I figured I would be way older than most people in the program, which is sort of true, and that I would have a hard time making friends.  On the contrary however, I can't seem to get a moment of peace around here.  Not that I'm seriously upset about having made friends, I'm actually relieved to have a more active social life.  But I was just expecting to have more time to read, maybe play a little ukulele, perhaps wander around the city unaccompanied.  Instead of alone time though I have been constantly surrounded by people.  At school I literally can't sit for more than a minute in silence without someone coming up and talking my ear off.  I get a continuous stream of text message invitations to various activities ranging from going to the pub, to joining the Harry Potter Club (which yes, actually exists). 

On Saturday I made up my mind to go to Knotting Hill by myself for at least a couple hours in the morning.  As I was sneaking out the front door, I was caught by the entire apartment full of guys on the first floor whose window overlooks the street.  Completely dumbfounded as to why I would want to go to a street fair alone rather than spend the morning drinking beer in their apartment, one of them convinced me to meet him later to walk around Buckingham Palace.  I accepted graciously, though secretly a little bitter to have yet another demand on my time.  That morning is when I met Lane in the antique market who told me all about the skeleton keys.  I also had the most lovely walk through the entirety of Kensington and Hyde Parks.  After I spent the afternoon meandering around and taking pictures, I met up with my friend outside of the tube station for Buckingham Palace.

That was when the coolest thing happened.  As we approached the courtyard in front of the Palace, we noticed an unusually large gathering of people.  After inquiring about the crowd from some very pleasant   Bobbies, we learnt that in just about a half an hour the Pope was scheduled to drive by there on his way to make a speech in Hyde Park.  Though there was already a very sizable crowd lining the streets, apparently none of them noticed the vacant stone column behind them.  So we climbed up on top of it, and had a perfect view of the street beyond where the Pope was expected to drive by.  We sat and chatted away the half hour, and finally got to see the Pope drive by in his bullet proof vehicle dubbed "the pope-mobile".  How fortunate I felt as I sat on top of that stone wall taking pictures of the pope-mobile.  The night ended with a few pints at the pub with some of my new friends, and I went to bed happy, and slightly tipsy.

When I woke up the next morning I was so glad that I hadn't blown off meeting my friend at Buckingham Palace.  I was also glad that I took the morning for myself, and had the most amazing time in the process.  I guess it all comes down to balance.  Making friends, while spending time with myself as well is healthy.  I never want to be the kind of person that fears being alone, but even more than that, I really never want to be the person who doesn't have any friends.  So, every time I get frustrated with the constant texting, or the incessant talking during my breaks, I will just try to remember that without friends I would have never seen the Pope, and that was pretty damn cool.  

Keys

Yesterday I went to Notting Hill to check out the famous street fair that takes place there every Saturday.  The streets were packed with people of every nationality, and there were countless stores and stalls selling every kind of antique.  I went up to this one stall to inquire about a particular key that caught my eye.  It was amazing.  It had these ornate swirls at the top, and was only about three inches in length and the kind of metal that reminds you that it has been places.  When I asked the man behind the counter what it's price was, he smiled and said, "Well it's a bit more expensive then your average key."  At this point he started telling me about the key, and pointing out characteristics that my untrained eye had missed altogether.  He finally told me that this particular key was priced at about two hundred and fifty pounds.  At this I laughed and admitted that that was just a bit out of my price range.  Now at this point, he could have stopped talking to me.  Realizing that he definitely wasn't going to make a sale, he could have just told me to have a nice day and I would have left.  But instead, he started pulling out all of his most valuable keys, and telling me about them.  He showed me a medieval key that someone had found preserved in the mud of the Thames.  An elaborate French key that probably belonged to a church.  He told me the difference between just an old key, and a skeleton key and what they were each used for.  This man, whose name is Lane, spent at least fifteen minutes just giving me information for no other reason than that he knew that I was interested.  Once he had shown me all of his best treasures, I picked up the little key which had first drawn my attention, and which I now knew was an Italian made key from sometime in the late 1600's, and looked at is carefully one more time.  When I set it down he said to me, "Ah yes.  I completely understand.  Keys are very provocative, especially when you have no way of knowing what it is they were made to open."  I simply nodded, asked if he was there every weekend, thanked him, and walked away holding his card in my hand.  It was just one of those chance encounters that I'll never forget.  He wasn't particularly handsome, or charismatic.  He was just a lovely man who saw how interested this young girl was in something that he was interested in too.  As I walked back down the street towards the subway station, I swore that if I happen to have two hundred and fifty extra pounds by the end of my trip, I'm going back for that key.  Even though it's unlikely that it will ever belong to me, I will never forget that little Italian key that opens something mysterious, and how a man named Lane completely understood, and was able to put into words, what it is that I have always loved about keys.  

Stop for a Pint

In the British culture it is quite normal to drink before 5pm.  Actually I think it's quite normal to drink pretty much anytime of the day.  After my first class today I decided to get some fish and chips because I really hadn't eaten out since I got here.  As I walked into the school's cafeteria/cafe, I was surprised to see the amount of alcohol being consumed before noon.  Students and teachers alike were sitting around having a pint with their lunch.  Now I figured since the school found it fitting to sell beer at this time of the day, that I should find it fitting to consume some.  I also felt that since the teachers were partaking as well, that I should just get used to the idea.  What I didn't think about, was that I had a film as literature class next where 90% of the class is conducted in the dark, watching movies.  Needless to say I was struggling with every ounce of my strength to stay awake during Laurence of Arabia, until I finally decided to give in, turn my scarf into a pillow, and take a nap.  It was just an introductory lesson so I did not miss anything vital, and I also learned a very valuable lesson.  Drinking beer at school is ok, just don't do it on Mondays or Wednesdays.

A Change of Pace

I have made a significant observation about the British people.  From what I can tell they are not nearly as uptight as we Americans.  They may not be quite as affectionate, or certainly not as loud, but they are also much less tense than people from back home.  While all of us "yanks" worry about germs, and deadly bacteria in our food, and traffic jams, and pretty much everything else in our lives, the Brits take all of this in their stride.    I mean once a country has survived a plague, multiple enormous fires, direct bombings, and every other kind of devastation, these trivial dangers are put into perspective.  There are no seat covers in the bathrooms, no obsessive use of hand sanitizer.  The milk and eggs are not pasteurized to kill all the bacteria (and consequently they tend to me much more delicious).  On the "tube" they sit and read quietly to themselves rather than curse and swear and honk their horns in frustration.  As a matter of fact, all over the subway stations there are advertisements for books and theater plastered all over the walls.  Can you imagine driving down the freeway and seeing an expensive add space taken up by a book add?  Not very likely in the good old US of A.  The most obvious example of this laid back mentality, is seen in the countless souvenirs labeled with their motto, "Keep Calm and Carry On."  From what I figure, this society, which is our senior in so many ways, has realized something that America has overlooked.  That stress is a real killer.  They have survived for thousands of years even without toilet seat covers and pasteurization, and are still going strong.  So... I've made a decision to adopt this particular British motto into my life.  "Keep Calm and Carry On."  What a beautiful little piece of advice.         

Nigel

Today I think I’ve suffered some sort of mental whiplash.  Our group was taken on a bus tour of London, led by an extremely knowledgeable man named Nigel.  He is a retired policeman who now is a certified, blue badge, tour guide.  This man has forgotten more about London’s history than I may ever learn, and the beautiful thing is that he still loves his country.  He talked with pride about all the different war heros and politicians whose memorial statues are scattered throughout the city, and entreated us to examine and appreciate the architecture of the surrounding buildings.  His zeal and excitement was absolutely contagious, and has made me even more determined to traverse this town and find all its secrets.  So... thanks Nigel!     

Upon Arrival

The last 24 hours I have spent in almost constant motion.  First the drive to the airport, then the flight, then all those moving sidewalks in the airport, then the bus ride to our apartment.  When I finally climbed the five flights of stairs up to my door, opened all the windows and stopped to look around, I felt for a second like I couldn't really be in another country.  I looked around at the thoroughly standard apartment and could have sworn I've been in an identical one back in LA.  The first time I noticed a difference was when I leaned out the window.  Instead of the normal concrete buildings, or parking lots that I'm used to encountering when looking out a fifth floor window, I saw brick buildings with so much character that they brought an involuntary smile to my lips.  THIS is why London is so special.  You can practically feel the presence of this wonderful town's immense history.  On every block, around every corner, there pops up some ancient treasure that is so steeped in history and happenings that you can feel it like a physical force.  So... I have decided to soak up as much of this ancient energy as I possibly can, and perhaps to leave my own energy lingering around foggy London town.

Countdown to Departure.

It is Tuesday afternoon, and I leave on Thursday.  It's just hitting me now that I am actually leaving.  The preparations I have left are minimal, and I am quite literally sitting and watching the clock tick away the minutes until I get on the plane.  I have an almost constant case of the butterflies as of recent, and it's not because of a boy, or a new job, it's because I get to do something amazing.  I get to go to another country, one that I love and respect, and learn hundreds of new things.  I get to have two and a half months worth of self discovery and adventure.  I just decided to start this blog so that maybe if anyone wondered what I'm up to over there, they can take a glimpse into my life through my writing.  I just want to share a few precious spots of time with anyone who would find them interesting.