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.