I love Paris in the Spring (and probably always)

Bonjour!

This past weekend I had the privilege of exploring  the beautiful city of Paris. I had heard some horror stories about the French and their disdain of American tourists, but luckily for us we were either ignorant enough to have no idea we were being mistreated or charming enough that the French were willing to give our attempts to fit in an 'A' for effort. Even now being back in London for two days, I can't quite break the habit of saying bonjour, merci, and pardon (with the accent on the 'o'). I'm a frightening out-of-control tri-lingual anomaly at the moment. I also had to adjust my pedestrian habits because French drivers actually stop for people crossing the street, while Londoners would rather kill you than be late.

On Friday, we walked to Kings Cross at 4:20 AM (coffee was soon obtained, thank God) and were in Paris by about 9 AM (mind you, France is an hour ahead of England). We proceeded to optimistically proceed with our baggage to walk to the Arc de Triomphe since we couldn't check into our hotel until 2. Unfortunately, we underestimated how the gap on the map translated to real life and with much pain in our backs and uncomfortably full bladders we got some pictures of the Arc and quickly moved on to find seats, food, and toilets. We ate 'The London Breakfast' (so, so, so ironic) outside at a cafe (the weather was gorgeous bt dubs - at least 75 degrees and sunny) where we had our first interaction with the French. Our waiter was beyond nice and seemed to be very excited to say 'cheers' to us on every possible occasion. I was immediately at ease with being an American in Paris.

The Arc de Triomphe

From there we walked to the Eiffel Tower, which was not what I was expecting. Maybe it's because I've only seen it in the movies lit up, but the huge metal structure in the daylight was less glamorous than I expected. Still, the mall full of green grass and the chance to put my bags down and lay in the sun more than made up for any disappointment. I think one of the most important life lessons I'm learning over here is that sometimes rudeness is necessary. It sounds horrible, but with all the hawkers roaming around one moment of kindness can cost you three euro (as I discovered by making eye contact and smiling as I passed a man who then proceeded to force a string bracelet upon me and demand payment).

Then it was time for the most challenging part of the day: learning how to use the French metro system and finding our hotel. The map my flat-mate had lent me proved to be invaluable and I became a metro pro after a bit of trial and error. After much more walking and some directions from a man on the street we found our hotel. We had our own room but shared a toilet for the whole corridor, but overall I have no complaints. Even though it was a bit grimy, it was exactly what I imagined a cheap Paris room to look like - huge windows that opened to a balcony overlooking the street, charming little beds and a bureau, the feeling of comfortable wear and tear in the city. We dropped off our things and then went back towards central Paris to find a place to eat dinner. We found a little cafe/bakery and I ate a chocolate thing with a name I could not pronounce in the mall by the Musee du Louvre in the warm spring air before walking up the Champs Elysees (Shaump ee lee zay). As sleep deprivation and fatigue took its toil and tempers began flaring we called our wandering quits and went home to get a good night's sleep for the next day's adventures.

Saturday we took the metro to the Palace of Versailles, sampled hot chocolate at Angelina's, visited the Louvre, then rushed back to the hotel for a bite to eat and a change of clothes before our bus tour and Moulin Rouge show. At the bakery we stopped at for a quick sandwich an older gentleman engaged us in conversation seeming to want to practice his English and rather than give a bad impression of Americans, I let him ramble on to the point that we were almost late. We made it to the meeting point, sweating and panting in our dresses and heels only to find out that they had only booked us two spots by mistake. Thankfully, they fixed it and we went on an "Illumination Tour" of Paris's major landmarks by night. The Eiffel Tower was much more impressive when it was sparkling. Because they ended up having to wait until the later Moulin Rouge show, we then had a boat tour along the Seine in between which was perfectly awful because it was raining and there were too many people for the seats that were safe from the elements. I ended up sharing a random stairwell with an elderly German couple who redeemed the boat trip with how delightful they were. They only spoke enough English to establish that I was American and they were German and we both knew of Boston (where the husband's sister lived), oh and the wife offered me chewing gum. They were beyond sweet.

The Palace of Versailles

Then after waiting in line for ages, we took our (cramped) seats in Moulin Rouge with two English couples celebrating one of their 70th birthdays. We shared a couple bottles of Champagne and watched the most intriguing show I've ever seen. So. Many. Boobs. The French really are all about nudity. There was also a juggler, acrobats, and a really hilarious ventriloquist (all fully clothed), so overall it was pretty awesome. Afterwards, our tour bus took us back to our hotel and we passed out from an exhausting but epic day.

Sunday we started off with visiting the Musee D'Orsay, personally one of my favorite parts about the trip. I've recently become quite enamored of Van Gogh (cough, after watching the Doctor Who episode 'Vincent and the Doctor.' Don't judge me.) and D'Orsay had a pretty good-sized collection, along with some other really amazing pieces. It was much better than at the Louvre where everyone just wanted to see the Mona Lisa and therefore I was unable to appreciate it as a work of art because all I could see were peoples' heads as they jostled me in the ribs. The experience sparked a really interesting conversation between Kait and I about what makes art good. It seems to me the crowd around the Mona Lisa was only there because they knew of it, but there were tons of other paintings that I would saw were just as intriguing as a woman without eyebrows. Of course I realize it's completely subjective and people could say I only like Van Gogh because I know of him, but I actually was drawn into his work whereas the mass swarming the Mona Lisa made it seem like a cheap tourist attraction in my opinion. But perhaps this is a topic for a different blog post.

D'Orsay

The Louvre

After the museum we walked along the river towards Notre Dame, admiring the little street venders along the way. We popped in the Cathedral for a bit, did some souvenir shopping, and ended our adventures with sandwiches, cheese, and wine sitting outside at the Cafe de Notre Dame before making our way back to the train station.

On a scale of 1 to 'perfect,' I'd give the trip a solid 'pretty fricken fan-tastic.' Merci, Paris. Au revoir!

Air, Austen, Aliens, and Ale: Further Adventures to Acknowledge

Hey gang! It's been awhile hasn't it? In my defense, I think I'm in some sort of time warp where things go faster and slower at the same time. It doesn't feel like that much time has passed over all, but when I look back the gaps between weeks seem much longer than weeks. It's weird, I know. For both our sakes I'll just do a brief roll of the highlights:

1) Oxford University - gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. If I could go anywhere for postgrad studies, Oxford it would be. To add to the architectural beauty is the fun facts of how much Harry Potter was filmed there. I'm not going to go into details because there is the possibility (and by possibility I mean definite chance, but I want you all to still be surprised) of a Harry Potter special after I get a few more key photos. Check out this old time feel:

2) Hyde Park - the largest park I have ever been in. One of these days, I have to go running there. Alas, I forgot to take my camera when Nikki and I ventured there. Just picture a really pretty park that goes on for miles.

3) Edinburgh, Scotland - My study abroad group and I got to spend a weekend there. It was fabitty fab fab to the max. I thought bagpipes and kilts were just a stereotype, but I saw at least ten bagpipe players out on the street and countless kilts...even in the bar we went to. They rock it there, and I 100% approve. It was also a nice change from the fast-paced living of London, and there was a beautiful view from atop the Edinburgh castle:

Other perks of the trip included a visit with Sarah Albert, my University of Iowa friend who has been studying abroad in Edinburgh since September, a spiffy hotel room with real beds! (as compared to my student housing ones), and a surprise discovery of a store with Doctor Who merchandise. Needless to say, I now wake up every morning to David Tennant's foxy good looks sticky tacked to my wall.

4) This past Saturday was a bus trip to Stonehenge and the city of Bath. I literally had the perfect day. Not only did I get to absorb fresh air and sunshine and walk around in GRASS!!! (good God I didn't realize how much I missed it until I saw it stretching out in a gentle wave of green...this is how excited it made Meghan and I:

oh and this is Stonehenge:

)




but I also got to see a town where Jane Austen (author of Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion -- two of my all time favorite books) lived for some of her life. After seeing the namesake of the town (the Roman bath, a natural hot spring with supposed healing powers although now it's more harmful than helpful with all the lead and stuff in it 

) we visited the Jane Austen Centre and had tea in a room decorated in the Regency style with a portrait of Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy on the wall. I had tea and crumpets. For real.

 The crumpets are these bread things in the corner. They're English muffins with honey basically. Only better because they're not American English muffins.

And my latest adventures have been with the wonderful Kelsey Dallas and Adam Winters (roommate and replacement in #3 Ridgeland) who have traveled across the pond on their spring break. We spent yesterday roaming around Westminster after a St. Patty's Day parade and then indulging on a truly British pub experience at the Compass where I had roast chicken, mash, roast veg, Yorkshire pudding, treacle tart, and a nice mug o' ale.

During our Westminster adventures we wandered to Westminster Abby where we somehow got in even though it was closed. And we found Britain's oldest door. Can you spell E-P-I-C?

o

Ooh and this is the view from St. James' Park. One of my favorites. It's right near Buckingham Palace.

Today we woke up for a meander to the British Museum and ended up staying there for six hours. I don't think I've ever stayed in a single museum that long before. They had maps that led you to around the museum to find 100 objects that summed up the history of the world and we hit a good 70 of them at least. I got to see Olduvi handaxes aka the first human stone tools (I learned about them last term in Human Origins so that was especially cool), mummies, statues from the Parthenon in Greece, giant horse statues,

etc, etc, etc x 6 hours. Whew, I'm collapsing into bed as soon as I finish this post. Kels and Adam are off to Dublin until Thursday, but I can't wait to see what this weekend brings!
And with that, I...ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I Put the 'Study' in Study Abroad

Hi guyz!!

My Staying-In-Guilt has decreased to level "pretty much non-existent." I feel like getting lost in London on purpose, exploring Covent Garden, and visiting Windsor Castle have all been very crucial to my recovery. However, a new facet of the balancing act has come into the spotlight. Please welcome "Studying?" to the stage.

That's right, folks. I actually do other things besides roaming the world like a wild woman.

It's been a bit of an adjustment due to quite a different school system. I have each class once a week, and my homework is reading that I can choose to do or not. The only things I'm graded on are two maybe three essays that are due throughout the semester. No reading quizzes, no busy work. For Publishing Creative Writing we were supposed to discuss a topic in groups outside of class, but when I frantically tried to e-mail my group-mates, they all responded "just get to class five minutes early. We'll do it then. Caroline (the tutor) doesn't care." Aye, aye, aye! My school-work orientated self didn't know how to handle such blatant disregard for homework. But as my classmates repeatedly stressed that I needed to stop worrying about it, I did. And then I started worrying because I wasn't doing anything outside of class.

Now before you freak out (especially you, Mom and Dad), let me inform you that I'm happy to report that I have a system. Or at least the outline of a system. It helps that my classes consist of everything I love: writing, reading, and watching movies. All I need to do is make sure I do a little writing, reading, and movie watching in between adventuring. This week I'm doing a much better job, especially on working on my writing for Creative Writing and Place. So good in fact, that I am proud to share the product with you. The non-compulsory assignment was to write a description of a place in automatic writing, and then to write about the same place in a piece of realist fiction. Automatic writing is when you keep your hand to the page and just write without thinking or editing, and realist fiction is a made up story that is realistic. Pretty simple.

Now the way I went about this was to take a trip to the British Library and did my automatic writing in the lobby. I then proceeded to take all my squiggles and type them up and arrange them into a poem. Wa-lah! Art. (P.S. It looks way cooler on Word, but Blogspot denied me the same formatting freedom.)

Ear (/eye) Ration, All a Tease—Observations in Automatic at the British Library, February 16, 2011

First:

Stop thinking.

Let’s go sailing.

The broad cloth is already billowed towards us.

Marshmallow banisters, up , up,

poles of marble wood.

Creamsicles creeping downwards,

                

              melty

              melty                                                  

                                                                           

The vent leaks.                                                     

The vent pours out                                         

words that blend up
                   and swims                                                                                                                                                                                               to spaghetti sauce that's indistinguishable                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Look:                                                                                                                                      There is an old man

with green rain boots halfway up his calves.

His pants are tucked into said boots and said boots match his sweater.

I could die from the cuteness.

I like the way he walks.

I like the way my shoe taps to my own beat.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Now:

Does anyone notice that I’m writing like a fiend?

Do fiends even write or do they have fire fingers

 that burn their #2’s to a crispy treat for fiendish sizzlers?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  See:

Two friends talk, laugh, one speaks so fast –

is it English? I can’t even tell. I love the way it vibes

Up

and down.

                                                                                           Vibrations in a tin can,

a fruit syrup,

a peach fuzz yellow jell-o on Grandma’s table,

a red and white squared cloth,

a heart,

a doily valentine cut-out with a smiley cartoon face.

                                               

                                                 What                             if our           

                                                                    

                                                                     faces

                                                               

                                                        were on our hearts?

                                                                  

No one would have a nose.

The eyes would see just red and inhale ketchup without the fries.

 No crispy chips, no laughing halibut.

 No tap tap.

Walk faster, Hands-in-Pockets-Boy.

 Tip         tap,     tap,                             tip,

                no                 unison,

 out of                 sync.

                   Nsync =

                                 non sync =  

                                                     lip-syncing pilgrims.

What:

A white haired wig, plaid flower.

Clean halls and a plant.

I wonder if they’re real.

A bag with gingerbread men and flowers painted on.

A girl standing and putting on her coat.

Don’t mind me watching.

Don’t mind the cracks of break your mother’s back

and blue tiles with pink sunsets starting to creep from the edges like sand off the dune.

The green boot man has returned.

He walks forward, back, back slow.

Walk slow, walk and talk and tell telephone missus you love her.

I hope she has the same rain boots in yellow.

I hope they are dry with a little dirt from the garden.

Mud and a slug squelching and slimy on the windowsill.

Hold her, hold her. It is warm.

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And, if you're up for it, here's a story set in the same place:

MAZES

            Sam wishes coffees were cheaper, because he’s checked twice now and the single quid in his pocket remains un-multiplied, even after a closed-eye plea to any higher power trapezing between the marble staircases above his head. It’s such a maze up there, almost experimental, but of course no rat would require a collection of books in a sky-reaching glass tomb like the one in the library. It touches the top of the seven story building, and a marble trail of staircases and open-top corridors frame it, forming a square at each floor with staircases at two ends to keep the ramp uninterrupted.

            Sam leans against his third floor railing and takes in the glass column of books in front of him. Shelves and shelves of titles he cannot make out bare their naked spines to the eyes of everyone who enters. Sam wishes he could smooth his hand over their pages, but they are out of reach – a dissected tree version of Rapunzel. What a shame.

            He supposes there are books he can look through, but he is just a visitor here. He doesn’t know which way to go or which door to enter. Besides, he might get lost in someplace he’s not meant to be, so he stays in this open middle, the heart of the library and watches humanity stream through its white veins.

            A gray-haired man paces down below. He is miniature and perhaps glass, though it is impossible to tell without plucking him up from his musings and holding him to the light. Sam watches as the man switches his mobile to the other ear. Yes, of course, he is not walking alone. He is powering his voice with repetitive movement, like the wind-up of a pocket watch. Sam wonders who is on the other line. Perhaps a gray-haired wife? Perhaps she is reminding him what to pick up from Sainsbury’s on his way home. Perhaps milk. Perhaps bread. It will be a long, slow walk. Sam realizes even his own legs are tired. He takes his eyes off the man and searches for a bench.

            There is one in Sam’s corridor, but two young blokes have already claimed it and sit laughing over something on the screens of their laptops. Sam moves towards a staircase in hopes of better luck on the next floor. A tall girl in a billowy dress is descending.

            There is nothing remarkable about her face, but her blue dress is so bright in contrast to the black and denim his eyes are accustomed to, that he pauses at the bottom of the stairs to watch her pass. She looks like spring, and it is both refreshing in its promise and agonizing in its impossibility, for outside is damp and chill as cement. Yet she wears her dress, and she smiles a slight smile although she is alone. There is a messenger bag slung across her chest, and she keeps one hand near the hem of her dress where the bag leans against her thigh, as if she fears letting go will mean an accidental revelation of what is underneath. She moves away down the corridor, passing the boys on the bench and continuing around towards the opposite staircase.

            Sam returns to his watch-post at the railing and sees her walking the square below. She slows as she nears a bench, but a woman with a baby approaches from the opposite direction and the girl passes by, her stride quicker but the reminder of a smile still in place on the corners of her mouth. Sam realizes she too has tired legs. She is searching for somewhere she can claim as hers to rest, a place unshared and maybe even hidden.

            She descends another flight of stairs and reaches the ground floor. It contains a lobby, an indent in the marble, with long rows of benches like teeth. It is here that he loses sight of her. Her spring blends with the planted ferns spreading large leaves over the benches behind them.

            Are the leaves real or wax? He will find out.

            He follows the girl’s path downstairs and pauses in front of the plants. The leaves are plastic-shiny, but the soil beneath is genuine. He tears a leaf between his thumb and forefinger. It is a leaf through and through. He moves down the row, a hand rustling the fronds as he does so. When he rounds the corner and looks down the long bench, it is empty. He searches the lobby for a glimpse of blue, but spring has gone in search of sunlight. The gray-haired man passes by, his mobile still pressed against his ear. “See you soon, darling,” he says.

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Thanks for bearing with me, peeps. The first thing I want to do when I write something is show it to people. It might have something to do with my constant need for praise and attention. And anyway, isn't this what a blog is for? Instant publication of one's writing? Ooh, speaking of which, I should do some research on self-publishing for my Publishing Creative Writing class tomorrow.

Yours studiously,

S

Let's Talk About Life and Stuff

'Ello mates,

It's 6:42 PM here and rather cold and drizzly outside. Thankfully my classes are done until Friday, and I have an evening of watching old films planned, thanks to my film history class. I am finally going to watch Rebel Without a Cause (courtesy of London Met Library and Meghan Hartley's computer).

This past week I've begun to suffer from Staying-In-Guilt. Every day that I spend in the Nido complex makes me feel like I've wasted a day in London. This, of course, is not entirely true. If I had a crazy adventure every single day, I would be a) limp, irritable, and exhausted and b) broke. Not exactly a happy state, eh? I believe it was Meghan who pointed out that we have only been here for two and half weeks. She's absolutely right, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm being lame. The one constant piece of advice I heard from everyone was "make the most of your time in London," and when I spend my evenings watching Harry Potter in my polar bear pajama pants instead of actively stalking the cast, I feel like I've failed in some inexplicable way.

What I need is to maintain a balance, and I think even though my Staying-In-Guilt says otherwise, I'm not doing as shabbily as I imagine.

Yes, I watched a lot of movies and perused Facebook instead of London at points, but I also spent all of Saturday wandering The National Gallery and Tate Modern, soaking in art from the past and the present. And that night, I danced like a crazy American at Miller's Pub. Sure, the next day, I did errands and studied, but I did come here to go to school as hard as it is to get that through my head after my extensive Christmas holiday.

All in all, I need to stop worrying that I'm not living it up, because that's the very thing that's going to keep me from having an incredible experience. I need to recognize that this is real life and not a travel brochure where everyone is in a perpetual state of whirlwind excitement. I'm still having adventures even if it's just bonding with a brand new group of awesome people in our dorm rooms. Plus, I do have to admit how much my social schedule has opened up since I had to stop my Doctor Who addiction cold turkey (but if anyone has Season 5 and will let me watch it, I will repay you in everlasting love and riches).

Speaking of love, let's shift gears for a moment and talk about that topic that we can't get enough of. You all know how much I talked about meeting my British soul mate when I got here, and I don't know if you thought I was joking or not, but I wasn't. I truly believed that stepping off that plane would put me on the path to that guy who I've been searching my whole life for. I think it was the potential that a new country offered, a potential that rekindled that never-ending hope of a Prince Charming and fairy tale ending (also, there are real princes here...so yeah). But I had an epiphany walking home alone from King's Cross station after class last night on that horrible day that some people call a holiday.

It doesn't work like that.

Now don't get me wrong, I still have faith in true love, and even though I recognize that romantic movies like P.S. I Love You (which I watched last night for better or for worse) are unrealistic and gaggingly perfect, there's too many stories like that for me to be convinced that that type of love is impossible. What I need to stop doing is putting a time limit on it. That stupid quote that it happens when you least expect it is relevant to mention at this point. I hate it, but it's gotta be true. So I'm going to stop expecting and start accepting. Whether my true love is British, American, Irish, Time Lord, etc. he'll get here eventually. In the mean time, I'm not going to miss out on the now by scanning around the corners up ahead. I'll just keep waiting for the collision when life as we know it ends.
 

Yours sappily,
S

Miss Interpretation

As much as I dislike playing the role of "the innocent one" in the group, I have to admit last night I definitely deserved to wear the Naive Nebraskan sash.

I had two classes yesterday, Creative Writing and Place and Publishing Creative Writing. I actually bonded with British people, and I was unbelievably pumped.. The cherry on the cake was when my new friend Nat invited me to come out to Soho and hit up some bars. Fully convinced Nat would be friends with the charming British man destined to be my true love, I got ready and rounded up the gang (aka Kait, Meghan, Nikki, and Mike -- pay attention to these names as they are going to be main characters in my London adventures) for a trip to Leicester Square.

In hindsight, I should have put together that Nat would be taking us to a girl bar. Everyone else knew as soon as they saw her. But alas, clueless little me thought she was just a cool Londoner with really short hair and piercings and a tomboy look. Oops.

As flattering as it is to have someone interested in oneself, I hope next time the person will be male.

Other than that little mishap, things have been going splendidly. My tutors (professors) all seem really nice so far, and the classes seem like they will be super interesting. Yesterday I had a two hour gap between my classes, so I wandered in the 50 degree sunshine until I found a little Italian Deli where I ate soup I can't pronounce the name of and sipped a cup of coffee while I people watched out the window. I also succeeded in finding the school library, but am embarrassed to admit I reinforced the stereotype of the loud American and was shushed for talking too loudly in the quiet study area. Actually, the more I think about it, the less I think it's a stereotype. We as Americans are seriously louder than the rest of the world. Except for at the pub during a rugby match. Or when the live band plays "Don't Stop Believing" at closing time (No joke! I don't feel far from home at all!)

And I heard someone say "phwoar" in real life. Excellent.

XOXO
S

In London

Wow, remember how I was freaking out and stuff? That was so completely unnecessary. The flights went smoothly, my luggage was not lost, I peed without incident, and arrived in London rather exhausted but otherwise in good shape. And let me tell you something about London....it is everything I wanted it to be and more. And I'm saying that without even seeing the central city! My flat is in a place called Nido Housing in the neighborhood of Islington. I looked up the wrong place online, so it was a wee bit disappointing when my room was not the penthouse style arrangement I thought it was going to be, but I'll be out and about enough anyway, so it doesn't really matter all that much. Plus my roomie Carrie is super cool and nice and has been here since August so she has a wealth of info to offer for my seemingly endless questioning.

Here's a brief tour of my room, if you're interested:

There's only six people in my specific program, but there's a bunch more Americans attending London Metropolitan University, so although some of my trips and outings are just the six people, there's more variety in people to hang out with than I expected, which is nice (although my GSE group is pretty kick ass, I must say).

I know I talked extensively about how I was going to eat fish and chips ASAP, but unfortunately I still have not been able to make that dream a reality. In fact, I have yet to have a proper British meal. My first day here I had lunch at a French restaurant and dinner at an Italian place, the next day my plans for take away (take out) after the pubs somehow turned into McDonald's (I am so ashamed, but I couldn't fight the majority vote), and this afternoon my need for caffeine drove me to Starbuck's. To redeem myself, I did have a pound crossaint (cost, not weight) and a cup of coffee from a little outside food stand called Cafe Benjamin in Camden. And fish and chips WILL HAPPEN soon. I will make sure of it.

On the bright side, I did succeed in some parts of my self-designated scavenger hunt (see previous blog).
The first day here, I was riding the elevator with a couple other people, and a man with a walkie talkie was sort of laughing to himself and mumbled something along the lines of "bloody rum trumpy" to no one in particular. It's not "bloody hell," but it was still pretty hilarious, and he was bald so he could have been potenially ginger. Therefore, I award myself ten points. Additionally, this same man proceeded to engage in the following conversation with another man who entered the elevator soon after the bloody rum incident:
New man looking at hair straightner that Potential Ginger is holding in his hand: "Are you using that on your hair?"
Potential Ginger: "Only on my chest hair" and gets out of elevator.
I think that's worth a good twenty points if I do say so myself.

Also, I get 8 points for going to a pub! Or I guess 16 for going to two? Last night, we went to Camden and visited The Leaky Cauldron.....gotcha! Just kidding. Actually, we went to the Elephant's Head and somewhere else nearby (I forget the name). I drank a pint of London Pride

and a tequila shot (visible shudder) but it was a nice and mellow (which you wouldn't think would happen where tequila was involved, but stranger things have happened), and I look forward to more of the pub scene, especially where accented men are involved.

Speaking of accented men, American boys, listen up.Why can't you flatter American girls as much as Europeans do? When I was having key troubles (and locked my key in my room, surprise, surprise) both security guards I talked to fixed my problem and added a "There you are, my lovely." And to top it off, my second day in London and first trip to Camden market resulted in a wedding proposal as the answer to my dilema about which dress to buy ("Marry me, and you can have them all.")

I love flattery. And Europe. And I sort of miss you stateside suckers too.

<3
Sarah

Pre-Departure Thoughts

Yep. That's it. Four months and four days packed into three bags. And yes, I know I said I was going to fit it all in one bag and a carry-on, but come on, let's be realistic. This is packing pretty darn light for the girl who takes a carload going from Iowa City to Lincoln for ten days.

I'll be driving up to Omaha with the fam in approximately t minus 9 1/2 hours. From there Chicago, and from there, well, London. In about 24 hours I will be a foreigner. Weird right? Tell me about it. I still don't really have a grip on it. To be quite honest, I've been so stressed trying to organize last minute things, pack my suitcases, and make sure I have the necessary paperwork to get into England that I haven't really been able to dwell on the reality of what is about to happen. I'm going to plop myself in the middle of complete and utter unknown. Holy. Crap.

Color me terrified.

What if my plane crashes? What if I get suctioned to the airplane toilet when I take a whiz during the 7 hour flight? What if they don't let me into England? What if I lose all my hard-packed luggage? What if I get lost on the tube? What if I get pick-pocketed? What if I lose my passport? What if no one likes me?

Whew. Breathe.

I'm going to London. At this point, I've worried so much, stressed so much, worked my bum off, and what it comes down to is it's going to happen, good and bad, and I'm going to deal with it as it comes. And considering I'll be in Europe, how bad can bad be? It's all going to be an adventure and a story to tell the grand kids (and you, of course, dear readers).

Alright, on that note, let's have a scavenger hunt. And by "let's" I mean me. Starting from Monday January 31 at 6:25 AM (if all goes smoothly) and going until the next blog post (or in other words, who the heck knows) --
1. Find a chippy and sample fish and chips -- 5 points
2. Ask where the loo is -- 5 points
3. Ride a double-decker bus -- 7 points
4. Visit a pub -- 8 points
5. Hear someone say "bloody hell" - 10 points (bonus points if they are ginger)
6. Find Platform Nine and Three Quarters - a million points

And with that, I bid you adieu to watch one last episode of Doctor Who and have sweet dreams of my marriage to David Tennant.

Peace, love, and more love,
Sarah